WACKY WEDNESDAY.....A "certified" what?

Current listen: Good Girls Go Bad courtesy of "Cobra Starship"

Survived a wedding this past weekend. Beautiful event. My son was handsome, his bride breathtaking, his mother…slipped into a coma Sunday from exhaustion. Things were in control until the last week. Little "events" plagued my otherwise smooth path, starting with what to wear. A little black dress. Not too hard, right? After all, it's only August. People are always cloaked in black when the temperature threatens to boil the skin off your bones. I ended up with three: two expensive, never-to-be-worn-again frocks, and an elegant but simple dress my girlfriend graciously offered.

Shoes next. I meandered into the shoe department, immediately under attack by a salesgirl who definitely worked for commission, or who had suddenly fallen deeply in love with me. She followed me close enough to qualify as my shadow. I picked some killer shiny red spikes. She gazed at my feet, slightly smaller than Sasquatch, and legs as swollen as the Mississippi in flood stage, due to being on my feet all day. "These," I proudly pronounced, realizing I'd given her a quite a challenge.

Oddly, they felt comfortable, in a bone-crushing sort of way. Of course when I saw them in the magic mirror they borrowed from "Snow White," my swollen legs smoothed out, my calves defined, my skin suddenly taking on a sun-kissed golden tan rivaling any California beach beauty. The purple veins and unsightly lumps seem to disappear in these shoes. I had to have them. When I found out they were 40% off if I opened a charge account, how could I resist? I love the smell of new plastic and relish the adrenalin rush, waiting for my credit to be "approved."

Floating on a cloud of confidence, I inhaled a deep breath and crossed the threshold of the lingerie department. "Lingerie." You can't even pronounce the word without sounding breathy. Quickly, I passed through the rows of minuscule lace strips pumped with secret foam to "lift and launch," wishing I'd taken better care of "Thelma and Louise" in my earlier years. "Tuck and roll" takes on new meaning now.

Trying to hide behind plastic torsos clad in thong underwear the mannequins seemed uncomfortable wearing, with matching lace offering covering their sanded off nipples, (wouldn't want to encourage "lost" pubescent boys to linger), I slipped into the "sturdy foundations." My hand barely touched a color coded tab when a voice seemed to echo throughout the department store in digital stereo quality.

 "Honey, that size won't fit you." Immediately, I turned to see who "Honey" was, but found myself alone and eye-to-eye with a stern looking woman. Her arms crossed in a formal manner and a thin line where lips may have been several decades ago, stretched over an unnaturally taught face. I fought back the urge to say "blink, I dare you," just to see if her eyelids could touch.

Not wanting to attract attention, I quietly stood my ground, insisting I had the right "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder" size. She escorted me to a dressing room, handing me the couple of dozen she plucked along the way. Her next comment became today's blog.

"If you have any problems, please ring the bell and I'll assist you. I'm a certified bra fitter." Pause.

Have you ever wanted to go back to high school for an inkling with the knowledge you have now? What I'd give to be seated in the cheap naugahyde couch across from my high school counselor when he smugly asks in a condescending tone, "What do you want to become once you leave our fine institution?" Free. I'd have the perfect smart ass answer now.

"Why, I like to become a certified bra fitter. It's been a lifelong dream since my first Barbie doll." Hear the lead bust off the end of the pencil? Picture the pinked cheeks or the flared nostrils? There was an old movie called "Peggy Sue Got Married" in which this scenario plays out, only in math class. When the teacher chastises Peggy for not paying attention, she's got the comeback ready…"I know for a fact I'll never use this in my life." Come to think of it, I've never actually diagrammed a sentence since I flipped the tassel on my cap.

Standing in front of the cruel, full length "evil mirror of truth," I study my physique. (Try and say that word without smiling. Impossible). Wish I could sell a "pound of flesh." I'd not only be wealthy, but also able to wear a support garment with one hook-n-eye, instead of steel girder with a train track running up the back.

Imagine Damien, my coffee-colored wavy haired fantasy hunk in a moment of passion, flicking one "latch" with practiced finesse, merely enhancing the scene…but give him something to work on and the "moment" passes in a flash as he curses under his breath, taking the skin off his fingertips trying to undo what took 30 minutes to hook in the first place. It's a bad reality show in the making.

Meanwhile, my "certified fitter" paces outside the door, questioning if I'm still alive. She's chomping at the bit to prove she's right, but I won't give her the satisfaction…because she is. I shove, squeeze, lift, and shake (a dangerous move, knocking me off balance) my "gal pals" into the cute polka dot pockets of satin, as they try to slither out the sides. I hold my arms tight against my side, forcing "excess baggage" into place and creating a line of cleavage rivaling the Continental Divide. It fits.

I hand off the fabric barricades she so smugly offered and prance off to pay for my "thank-heavens-no-one-will-ever-know" piece of lingerie. Later, when hubby gets a glance of what I spent my well earned money on, his life is almost cut short when he bursts into laughter.

Good thing I have a sense of humor, because some days…that's the only thing that fits!

As always, thanks for stopping to share a moment from my crazy life. I thank the Lord I have one. On a somber note, I'd like to share a poem for those who'd give anything to have something as simple as "what to wear" to be their only worry. I meant to post it earlier, but was caught up in my own whirlwind of emotions. I placed it on my Facebook page, but thought I'd share it here as well.

I don't write poetry often, but sometimes, the mood strikes. It started with a posting that passed on over several of my friend's pages, and my reply started as simply "31 teardrops in a pond, sending enough ripples from each one to create a tsunami."

Later that night, I imagined the rush in Heaven as they prepared for their unexpected guests and the families who received the same via a phone call, a knock on the door, or God forbid, a cold news story sensationalized over cyberspace. This is how I completed my thought:

God chose 31 angels today,

To help 31 brave soldiers find their way.

He sent them again to guard those adored,

When 31 knocks came at the door.

31 caskets to be prepared,

31 flags folded and shared.

31 graves will be dug,

31 Mothers and Fathers hugged.

31 echoes of salutes will resound,

As 31 soldiers are placed in the ground.

31 Medals of Honor to give,

For 31 soldiers who no longer live.

But 31 new angels now serve as a shield,

To 31 soldiers still left in the field.

God rest their souls…God bless their families…God bless this country.

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Where Anything Goes

Today's subject:  SKINNY JEANS...when you're not

Just so you know, it's 6:00 in the morning and already a balmy 82 degrees. By the time I leave for work, it will be 90 and by the time the noon whistle blows (this really existed a one point in time), it will be around 105 degrees. Summer has found my little "neck in the woods." And, its just begun.

I invested in a pair of "skinny jeans" ... the latest, greatest designer flair with pockets that say "touch me here," and a price tag that ensures my family is on an involuntary diet until my next paycheck. Time to start cracking the wheat in the food storage and call that dehydrated mystery meat "delicious" because the cupboards are going to be bare...but I am going to look fantabulous, baby!

Bless the sweet salesgirl, she found a pair to "fit" me. Now I love shopping for clothes, but having designer jeans "fit" means I have not eaten all day, taken a water pill or two, and have on several layers of lycra. Almost as bad as shoe shopping, only I can forgo the standing on my head for thirty minutes to make sure my ankles have shrunk and I can wiggle my toes. I have a twenty minute window after that to find the shoes that feel like they will be somewhat comfortable when my feet swell to normal again.

I wriggle into the denim, containing just enough stretch to allow my thighs entrance. Granted, I can suck furniture across the room when I hold my stomach in to zip them up, and the "muffin top" is hardly noticeable...when worn with a parachute. I admire my reflection, thinking I am one hot mama, and will have no trouble losing 5 pounds before actually wearing them in public. I didn't want to stress out my sales person by asking for a size bigger, because her eyes went wild when I told her to find me a pair in the first place and she took inventory of my lower regions. "No problem," was her confident statement when she staggered to the back room. I thought her breath held a hint of alcohol when she came back, but she had my size (or the one I was fitting into come hell or high waters). 

I proudly strutted in my skinny jeans several times before the inevitable happened. I washed them. 

Note:  It is a scientific phenomena that something unexplainable happens when clothing is laundered. It shrinks. The label can promise you anything, but it's going to happen. Unless its underwear. That "grows." Shrinkage in the washer follows the same mystery as missing socks. Put two in, one comes out. The other has sought freedom in "sockland."

I don't dry my fabulouso denim wonders to insure only the minuscule of shrinkage. I wait for what seems like "forty days and forty nights" for those embellished pockets to dry, then excitedly slide, or tried to anyway, my jeans on. Something happens part way up my leg. The denim fuses to my skin, refusing to budge. Well hell. 

I tug, jump, and go through various stages of my old ballet routine,fist position, squat, plie, squat deeper, lift one leg and yank, lift second leg and yank. Finally, over the knee caps. I'm almost there! Feeling triumphant and exhausted, I drop to my stool to gather strength. We are going up the thighs! At this point I decide in the future, to put jeans on "wet" and let them dry on my body.  After several minutes of repeating my new calisthenics program and checking for a pulse, not to mention needing to towel off from working up a sweat, I'm ready to lay flat on the floor and zip the jeans shut. I lay there for several minutes, pulling oxygen back into my flattened lungs, before deciding to sit up. I feel my internal organs readjust at that point. Somewhere near my shoulder is my spleen.

But I'm back in my skinny jeans! Granted, I need to wear them around the house for a while until I can walk upright and those pockets that say "touch me here" are back on my derriere instead of behind my knees, but they are plastered on my body by damn! I search my closet for a top that will strategically cover my backside "smile" and billow slightly to make my thunder thighs appear smaller. My mirror has that little warning label in the corner..."all objects are actually bigger than they appear." 

I pay particular attention to my makeup so my beauty will distract from the fact I'm walking like something is terribly wrong, even applying a touch of glitter around my eyes to make sure whoever I talk to will keep eye contact, if for no other reason than to say, "really? glitter?" Out of the five pairs of new shoes I purchased, I'm down to two that last longer than an hour on my feet, which I slip on and head out the door.

Later that night, when I peel the denim off my legs, rub the red indentation out of my waist and pry my shoes off my swollen feet, I decide to soak my abused body in my hot tub. The temperature is a perfect 102 degrees, the light set at a soft lavender hue under the swirling bubbles, and a candle is lit to insure ultimate relaxation. I pull my swimsuit out to put on.

My new "miracle suit." You with me? That's right. It's six inches by six inches, but guaranteed to make me look like a Victoria Secret Angel. Fitting into my skinny jeans is a walk in the park, compared to inching my way into industrial strength lycra, only to have my torso appear slim and trim...however...the "excess" has to go somewhere. Hello mega legs and arms...I think my eyes are bulging out of the sockets and my lips have disappeared into my new puffy cheeks. I am definitely a "secret angel" .... one to be kept hidden!

How about you? Got a "skinny jean" story? Ever try to fit into something that's really not you. Become someone you're not? A "secret angel?" We all have different faces we try on depending on circumstance. Just remember, if it's not you, it's not going to fit comfortably. Here's to elastic waistbands and being "real."

Thanks for stopping by and sharing a laugh. Still keeping the skinny jeans. Still dieting. Just looking for a different mirror!  See you on the weekend!

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Where Anything Goes

Today's twisted topic:  Those little horror fables we call "nursery rhymes" - Brain teasers or easers?

I'm stretched out on a leather couch, my shoes kicked off so my toes can wiggle, hoping my feet don't stink or my stomach doesn't growl. Or worse…(refer to earlier posts). Across from me, a gentleman sits, pad resting on his crossed knee, and his pen tapping ever so slightly and annoying against the paper.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" he asks, as if scripted.

"Life sucks." Mature…to the point.

"And why is that?"

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be lying here, picturing you naked to ease my nervousness, and paying you $100 an hour. For that price, the least you could do is work out. Hell, you can afford a gym pass. And splurge on a tan, too, would ya? My fantasy isn't working with you flabby and pasty white. Would it kill you to get hair plugs and contacts? Honestly, the glare from your oversized wire rims is competing with your enormous forehead."

At this point, the counselor hands me the pad of paper and pen. He eases back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's my parents' fault," he starts. "I must have been dropped on my head."

That might explain the premature baldness on his frontal lobe.

It all boils down to the follies of parents.

I believe my parents were brain damaged from riding in the back window of the family car on long road trips. They "baked." My mother is the hyper type, so she probably only hit medium rare, but my dad's pension for "naps" leads me to believe he may have not been turned enough to heat evenly.

If there wasn't room in the back window, they were placed in a pile of blankets on the floorboards in the back seat and their siblings were threatened with corporal punishment if they touched the baby. I believe my uncle held his stinky bare feet over my dad's nose until he cried. He's had a feet fetish his whole life.

Personally, I think issues start in infancy, when the subconscious is damaged by dark twisted nursery rhymes, stories, and lullabies. Think about it. What's the most famous (and I might add, dark) lullaby a baby is cooed to sleep with?

Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Oh hel-lo. I picture a mother suffering from post-partum depression, having given birth to her twenty-eighth child, all under twelve. They're running, screaming, jumping on the furniture and teasing each other relentlessly. The baby can't sleep, probably suffering from colic, and mommy dearest is at her wits end. Of course she's nearing the end of her six-week reprieve and daddy's getting all hot and bothered again. She's rocking the baby to sleep for the hundredth time to avoid amorous dad, and this lovely tune pops in her head.

Bewitched by the melody, the unsuspecting child craves the song night after night, his brain soaking in the lyrics which are embedded in the core of his mind. He grows up thinking mommy fantasized about putting him in a tree, praying for a windstorm, or tornado, blowing him out the branches and crashing him to earth.

Dropping him on his head.

My kids thought "Green Eggs and Ham" would be a fantasy come true, and I'm sure a couple of babysitters re-enacted the book.



And the nursery rhymes? Our infamous ""Jack and Jill?"  Sending two small children to traverse a hill for pails of water? What the hell did they do to deserve that punishment? Talk about child slave labor!

I picture myself using this threat on my cocky teenager:

"Son, if you sluff school one more time to play WarCraft, you will be dragging your sorry ass up that mountain with a bucket to search for water. Got that?" 

Of course Junior has heard the nursery rhyme countless times, and scoffs. His horny teenage brain knows he won't go alone. He'll take "Jill." 

What about "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on a Bed?" Think about it. "One fell off and broke his head?" Apparently, the chimp suffered severe brain trauma as the result of a massive skull fracture. The doctor, who we all told our little ones could heal all "boo-boos" can't do anything to save a poor monkey? How can he fix a broken arm or leg? He just left the semi-ape to die! And what of the other monkeys? It's obvious we have bully no one dares to stop until all his minions are eliminated. Then, it's a suicidal jump to avoid prosecution. (Wait? Is this symbolic of our schools?)





"Three Blind Mice?" Why isn't PETA all over this one? Cruelty to animals rates pretty high here. The wee ones singing this little rhyme have yet to process the words that account for a violent, premeditated murder. Carving knife? What frame of mind was this author in? A broom must have seemed weak and metal traps springing over nibbling rodents didn't seem cruel enough?

Is this where creative mastermind Stephen King goes when he needs to picture a gruesome scene to write? He just closes his eyes and starts singing an old childhood nursery rhyme. (Note: these "horror fables" were defined as "nursery" rhymes).

Next time you cradle a frightened or upset little one in your arms, think about the words you're going to use to soothe him or her. Little minds paint big pictures.

Be careful crossing London Bridge….



Thanks for letting me twist your brain a bit. Now you know why I think with a "limp!"   Joelene

REFLECTION...

Tonight's musical toast:  "Please Remember Me" courtesy of Tim McGraw

In case you didn't notice, I've changed my blog look. If you truly didn't notice, I suggest a doctor appointment be made first thing in the morning!  It's summertime (although someone needs to let the "man upstairs" know, because in my state today, it snowed in the North and the South end dropped 20 degrees) and I wanted something bright and cheery - whimsical and fun like summer should be. May keep it, may not. Takes me three plus hours to redo a blog, so this may stick, at least for a few days. Give me your thoughts.

Today's Memorial Day. A day of reflection and remembrance. I grew up with it being called "Decoration Day." My grandmother was big on decorating the graves. It was one of her many "celebrations" when the family would pack the station wagons with picnics and children and head for the little cemetery located in the then tiny town of Midway, Utah. The cemetery sits on a hill, overlooking the valley. The roads were barely covered in asphalt, with chuck holes large enough to consume a Volkswagen bug.

Grandpa spent the day before Decoration Day cutting wire hangers for hooks and gathering empty mason jars. My grandmother and aunts stripped their lilac bushes (and maybe their neighbors after dark, too) and clipped all the irises, packing them in buckets of water, we children were in charge of keeping from sloshing all the way up Parley's Canyon. When we pulled away, there wasn't a blooming flower left in the yard.

Once at the cemetery, Grandma gathered the grandchildren, forming a hand chain (that lasted about ten minutes) and she took us on a field trip to each grave marker of relatives that had passed. She shared the stories of their lives, their family lineage, and any other juicy tidbits she could share to help us remember. My great-great-great grandmother was a Cherokee Indian and the stories my grandmother told of how she served as an ambassador to the tribes the pioneers encountered as they crossed the plains westward.

Now that I'm a couple of years older and wiser, I regret not recording my grandmother retelling the stories from those days on our personal graveyard tour. My own memory can only recall bits and pieces, and after my mother had her stroke, taking her voice, the stories have sadly been lost or confused. For this reason, my friends, "journal" your thoughts while you have them to pass on to those generations that will go on without you.

It's been years since I've been back to the little cemetery, but I try every year to place flowers on as many graves where I live now, as I have family members who have passed. Sadly, we have a few friends here who have died, but the rest are reserved for those gravesites where nothing sits in remembrance. If it's a government issued brass plaque with a military insignia, all the better...or sadder.

"Memorial Day" was first observed on May 30, 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers in Arlington National Cemetery. In 1971, Congress made it an official federal holiday, placing it officially on the last Monday in May.

I hate war, but I realize it's necessary. Unfortunately, it never seems to end, just changes countries and boundaries. The flag draped coffins never end, and families bid tearful goodbyes to their soldiers at airports, while other families bid goodbye at graveyards. My husband served in the National Guard. When my grandfather died, my daughter was small but stood beside us when the gunfire salute was sounded and the flag folded and handed to my aunt. She whispered to me, "When Daddy dies, does he get a flag?" A sobering thought. Yes, he will.

Three movies dealing with war have left an indelible mark in my memory, none of which I could watch a second time, but will never forget. Saving Private Ryan with Tom Hanks hit me because when it showed the troops meeting violent deaths when landing on the shores of France, I realized my daughter (the same from above) was living in France, two miles from Normandy Beach.



The Hurt Locker probably the most intense movie I've ever watched, drops you in the middle of the Iraqi War, with an elite three member Army bomb squad, walking the streets where anybody and anything is a potential bomb. Not even the street itself is safe (significant scene).



But the most moving war movie I've ever seen and challenge you to watch if you haven't, is Taking Chance, with Kevin Bacon. Maybe because it's based on true story or that my son was nineteen when it came out, that it settled inside my soul. You travel with a volunteer escort officer as he accompanies the body of nineteen year old fallen soldier on his trek across country to his hometown. You will be taken aback by the respect shown our soldiers in the smallest, unknown ways. At the end, you see the real solder, meet his real life friends portrayed by actors, and his family who lives on without him. A wonderful, heart wrenching story.

Okay, now my water works are malfunctioning. I love my country, my freedoms, and those who fight for me to keep it. My heart goes out to mothers and wives, especially, whose husbands, sons and daughters are away in service to our country, on my behalf. This is also the first time I've witnessed mothers leaving families behind when called to duty. Thank you.

Life goes on, but let's not forget or take a moment before this day comes to a close, to find some personal way to "reflect and remember."  Thanks for stopping by friends. Have a safe holiday. 

RECIPE FOR A STORY

Listening to "True Faith" courtesy of Anberlin

Attended a birthday party today at a local park and when an old ice cream truck rolled in front of the bowery, someone yelled out, "Hey, is that the 'Rapture Wagon'?" I know, bad joke, but you smiled. In any event, I for one, am glad the world is still intact with all its imperfections.



Moving on slowly and with toothpicks propping my eyelids open, I ask how important is using the right ingredients in making a recipe successful? If you don't have all the ingredients, will the cake rise, the souffle sink, or the soup taste bland? Nothing's yummier than a chicken casserole...without chicken, right?

The same holds true to a story. If all the ingredients aren't included, your book lacks the substance it needs to hold your readers' attention, or hook them enough to want to buy your next one. Is there a recipe for a good book? Well, I'm not as seasoned as some and have done some major tweaking to get my story recipe correct, but through trial and error (and very patient editors and beta readers), my "creative casserole" is worthy of public tasting.



Like most recipes, there are "key ingredients." I've chosen "Jack and Jill" as my unsuspecting victims to use as visual aids. Their story is simple...or is it? Does it "lack" the right ingredients to make it rise to the expectations of its readers? Well, considering the readers it's aimed at can't read, I guess it does. But now that we're all grown up, what questions do we have for Jack and Jill? Let's get out their "story recipe."



GOAL:  Your character has to have something they're striving to achieve. Something that makes your readers want to be their cheerleaders. When Jack and Jill start up the hill, they have a goal. To get water. We picture the well at the top of the hill, or the stream of fresh water tumbling over rocks, or a clear spring nestled under the shade of leafy tree branches. We see their "goal."



MOTIVATION:  Your characters must be driven to achieve their goals. Something makes them want to succeed. Your readers should become emotionally vested in seeing your hero/heroine reach their goal. What could motivate Jack and Jill to traverse a mountain to fill pails of water? Thirst would be the obvious answer, but good writers don't write the "obvious." We present a puzzle, minus a few key pieces. Maybe there is a terrible drought plaguing the small village where Jack and Jill live? Maybe Jack just wants to get Jill alone on top of the hill and is using the "pail of water" as his pick-up line.

"Hey baby, want to climb a hill with me and fill a pail of water? We could pack a picnic, take a blanket, and make a day of it. Maybe stay and watch the moon rise? Maybe...."

Now we have "motivation." Jack wants to jump Jill's bones.




CONFLICT:  Something has to get in the way and keep our heroes/heroines from racing up the hill and filling their buckets. This is where the plot thickens and authors create the twists and turns that keep their readers frantically turning the pages.

Perhaps a love triangle forms. Jill gets some competition. Maybe little Bo Peep is tired of tending sheep alone and has her eye on Jack. She lures him to the pasture by crying "wolf" and when he shows up to save her, she's shed her frilly bonnet and is only wearing her eyelet edged knickers. Hooking the shepherd crook around Jack's neck, she pulls him far away from any thoughts of climbing a stupid hill.



Jill's left standing at the bottom of the grassy knoll with a picnic basket and patchwork quilt, but Jack never shows with the water pail. Is she early, or is Jack late? Maybe he's already at the top of the hill waiting and they just got their signals crossed? When Jack explains his absence, does he confess or concoct a lie? Does he escape the cagey clutches of Bo Peep and rush to the hill, only to find his true love has dumped the picnic in the dirt and scrawled a death threat on a napkin?

There's the three main ingredients to a story recipe. Now you get to add the rest of the ingredients that flavor the story and create the finished product. The chocolate chips to a cookie, the icing on a cupcake. Your perfect ending. Jack and Jill must resolve their issues and bring their story to a satisfying ending.

Maybe Jill has second thoughts and turns back toward the hill. She sees Jack's silhouette against a fiery sunset, pacing at the well. She rushes up the trail, all the while imagining the worse so when she arrives at the crest she's so damn angry that when Jack opens his mouth with the all familiar male preface "let me explain," she whacks him, knocking him off balance. Jack tumbles down the rocky slope ("fell down and broke his crown" is taking on a new meaning), and when he hits his head on a rock and is knocked unconscious, Jill feels horrible. She rushes down the hill feeling guilty and trips over the stupid petticoat the author placed her in, and rolls to his side. He takes her in his arms, professes his undying love and ..... happily-ever-after. Or he dies and Jill skips off into the sunset to meet Johnny Depp (my idea of "happily-ever-after"). Either way, its a happy ending. The icing on the cake.



In Romance there must be a happy ending. Jill will believe in Jack and all will be forgiven.

In Young Adult, there must be an element of hope written into the happy ending. While Jack has been in a coma for six months, Jill finds out the bitch Bo-Peep is to blame and Jill remains at Jack's bedside until the tiny signs of life appear - the finger twitch, her name being the first word he speaks. Hope emerges.




In a Mystery, the puzzle must be solved. Jack's lifeless body is found next to the abandoned picnic, the napkin with the death threat scribbled on, fluttering from beneath a fried chicken leg. Grease spots taint the hand writing sample, but the lipstick mark to the side of his mouth carries the DNA the CSI team will need to solve the murder. Is it Bo-Peep's kiss goodbye, or Jill's kiss of death? Jill will be found and Bo-Peep will tearfully testify to being abandoned and Jill will pay for the crime. Mystery solved.



A reader going to bed with your book and not being able to sleep until it's finished is an author's goal. We want you to love our stories and characters as much as we do. They are such a big part of our lives while we create their world, that we are anxious for you, the reader, to feel the same thrill we did in writing the book.



The same is true when we serve something special to our famished family, close friends, or a congregation of people of a civic function. We want to take away the empty bowl or platter, knowing what we served was satisfying to the partaker. Someone asking for our recipe is a compliment in much the same way as our readers express their excitement in wanting to know when our next book will be released. We've satisfied the "partaker." Our "recipe" turned out successful.



Memorial Day is rounding the corner! (Hell, I've got to start Christmas shopping! This year is flying by.) If you are hosting or attending with a request to bring something "satisfying" (preferable for a large crowd), I'm sharing a favorite recipe that feeds 15 people, or 20, if you add marshmallows. It's refreshing, fruity, and the leftovers will keep for several days with a freshening of cool whip.  Here's to the next round of "holidays!" Enjoy, and as always, thanks for stopping by and supporting me. 


Joelene - Harley's off chasing Johnny Depp wearing Bo-Peep's knickers - he's in pirate mode again! 

Frog-Eye Salad

Ingredients:

Box acini-de-pepe (found in pasta aisle)

1 lg can pineapple tidbits (drained - juice reserved)

1 lg can crushed pineapple (drained - juice reserved)

1 lg can mandarin oranges

1 lg container Cool Whip

*maraschino cherries (optional)

*1 - 2 cups miniature marshmallows (optional)

1 cup sugar

1/2 tsp salt

1 TBL flour

1 & 3/4 cup pineapple juice (from fruit - can add water if not quite enough)

1 TBL lemon juice

2 eggs (slightly beaten)

Cook one box of acini-de-pepe 20 minutes. Drain & rinse. While macaroni is cooking, prepare sauce (2 qt saucepan).

First:  Combine dry ingredients

Second: Mix wet ingredients, then add to dry mixture and heat over medium heat, stirring frequently to keep from scorching. The mixture should thicken (takes 15-20 minutes)

Third:  IN LARGE BOWL - Pour sauce over cooked macaroni and place in refrigerator to cool (4 hrs to overnight - I have rushed it by placing the bowl in the freezer for 30 minutes after a couple of hours, but works better the longer the flavors can meld).

Add drained fruit, marshmallows*, 2/3 - 3/4 of large container of Cool Whip or all of regular size Cool Whip (depending on how creamy you want) and mix well. Garnish with maraschino cherries* (*if desired.)  Note: There supposedly used to be an easier recipe on box of acini-de-pepe using pudding, but I have found the homemade sauce to be sweeter (the other leaves a tangy aftertaste).

See you for "Wacky Wednesday" where anything goes!

WACKY WEDNESDAYS...Where Anything Goes

Today's wacky topic:  "What the Hell?" Moments.

My life is a series of "what the hell?" Yes, I could say something else, but that's a word I write, not use...well rarely use. I admit, there may have been a time or two when I "short-circuited" and frick could have rhymed more with truck. I'm only human...for the most part.


Today, I decided to start exercising...again. This is a ritual I ceremoniously indulge in every two or three months, when I brave the bathroom scales. Mind you, this is after I have appropriately prepared myself by downing water pills, undergoing colonic cleansing treatments, and consuming no food for a period of three days. If I still have strength to step up the half inch incline, I remove all clothing, jewelry, and metal dental work, hold my breath and stand firmly on the jiggly platform. I feel like the wicked witch in Snow White, minus her clothes, standing before the magic mirror (obviously an "R-rated" version, if not a horror flick) .

Scales, scales, on the floor...

Could I be smaller than before?

The dial spins wildly like a roulette wheel until it finds the mystery number. Somewhere inside the techological wonder my imaginary tiny body rests upon, lives a mean and vicious troll. Laughter resonates through the thick callouses of my flattened feet.

Only a miracle can mask the truth,

Sorry to say, there's "more" of you.

So I removed the laundry hanging off my NordicTrac and lowered the rubber road to nowhere. I placed my Kindle on its perch, changing the size of text so I could read it, resulting in only three words per page. My earbuds rest tightly in the only small orifices on my body, my inner ears, and I crank my workout tunes, starting with Fireworks by Katy Perry. I set the speed at a brisk 2.0, feeling my heart pound against my ribs shortly thereafter. Thirty minutes is my goal. Five minutes into my "no sweat" workout, and I'm ready to get serious. I crank the incline to .5 (I know, risky) and edge the speed to 3.0 (beyond dangerous...for a toddler).

I start to run...large heavy thumps from my oh-so-not coordinated steps. (Reasons why I do not run outside where someone could see me. I run like a knock-kneed chicken.) My ponytail is swishing back and forth, my boobs coming dangerously close to blinding me, but I'm running! I can feel the weight melting off, my breaths somewhat forced, but no foam has formed in the corners of my mouth yet. Air blows out my nostrils sounding like a bull charging the streets of Barcelona. My heart pushes harder, the rate on the monitor increasing. I notice the minutes cranking by. Two minutes and I'm pushing a stroke! But I keep going. Then it happens. My "what the hell" moment. Pause the frame.


I get distracted easily. I don't have to actually see a shiny object to lose concentration, I just have to think about the possibility one might exist.


Confession time. I have tried many "how to lose a 100 lbs in 30 minutes" exercise gimmicks. All they do is make me hungry afterward. One of my most comical, and could probably win the $10,000 prize on America's Funniest Home Videos, is my short stint with the "kettle ball." Picture the squat, heels pressed to the floor, and me flinging a weight between my legs and up to my chin, several times. I've had four children, two as a "tag-team." Internal organs were re-arranged with each "blessed event." After about eight "squat -thrusts" (sorry, there just wasn't another way to say it), the "weightloss idea" behind the kettle ball routine becomes obvious, and my twenty-minute workout is cut short.


Another attempt at reshaping my body, or performing a miracle, whichever way you want to look at it, was my attempt at Yoga. I consider "sit-ups" a contortionist act, so Yoga, with all its wonderful stretches, twists and flamingo poses (which never worked for me sober) turned out to be a flop. But I still have the mat.

Fastforward again. My Yoga mat I keep rolled up and tucked between the wall and my NordicTrack platform. However, somehow, through another one of God's need-for-humor-at-Joelene's-expense moments, I forgot to move it, and kicked the mat loose. Without knowing. So I'm jogging my way to death, almost at the five minute mark, when the purple rubber "roll of death" breaks free from the front of my treadmill, and shoots between my feet...which are moving...sort of.


Now God loves me enough to give me a hint of warning before his joke is cast (some call it "common sense"). Because I feared I'd faint at any given moment, I had reached out and was holding the side rails just before the corrugated rubber headed my direction (it is coming lenthwise mind you, without unrolling, just like a large log). However, back to the "shiny object" lesson, the lanyard was not attached to me. I cannot stress the importance of following this simple rule - attach the lanyard to your body! Alas, I had not.

My feet twisted into the rubber mass, my arms snapped into unnatural angles, trying to hold onto my body attempting to wrench itself at the armpits, and my knees crossed somewhere behind me. All in a split second dance to Engrique's Iglesias's new tune Dirty Dancing. Somehow, I grabbed the dangling lifeline and pulled the lanyard off the machine. Why I thought the constant moving ground beneath me would just calmly, slowly ease to a stop is still a mystery. Everything came to an abrupt halt, except my feet, still trying to run a marathon and push my Yoga mat away. It shot off the end of the treadmill and slammed the nightstand. I became a suspended human pretzel.


Remember the game Twister you played at parties? That was me without the colored spots or the cute boy tangled up with me. Now mix that in with my earlier side story about the kettle ball, and there you have it. My "what the hell" moment.

Here's to always being able to laugh at yourself. Check back Saturday night when I'll blog about the ingredients needed for a story recipe, and share a favorite of my own for the Memorial Day barbeque. 

Joelene, or another version of "snap, crackle, pop!"

WHERE DID THAT IDEA COME FROM?

Current Listen:  Falling In courtesy of Lifehouse

I belong to several writing groups. SCBWI and Romance Writers of America (RWA) being the hub, with "spokes" Young Adult RWA, Future Fantasy & Paranormal RWA, and my local Utah RWA chapter. All help roll my stories along from the throes of creation, to the oh so scary time to expose them to the harsh, cruel world of finding an agent and publisher. The latter two will serve as the final spokes in my custom crafted wheel, pushing my tales to places where they can be shared.

Being a part of these wonderful organizations has opened up endless doors and windows for me as a new writer. One of the well traveled highways I use on my journey for knowledge, are the many blogs and websites of my fellow writers. I am fascinated by the individuality of each cyber page these creative minds have constructed, and the information they offer.  No two are alike, and I'm not just referring to the visual display. The content is unique to each individual owner. Two blogs or websites can focus on the same subject, but the perspective will be totally different.

The same holds true to stories. Ideas are not original, but the stories told are unique to each author. The game "Gossip" runs parallel to this concept. An idea is whispered into one person's ear, who in turn, whispers the idea to the next, and the next, and so on. The last person being told reveals the secret and nine times out of ten, it's completely different from the original spoken idea. Each person was given the idea, but when they shared the idea with someone else, they added their own individual spin.

The book MATCHED came out recently, and I panicked when I read the short synopsis. "...futuristic...dystopian (government controlled basis)...matched mates." Several sleepless nights ensued. I bruised my best friends' sympathetic ears with my paranoia. 

DESIGNER GENES ...futuristic...dystopian...matched mates. Someone stole my idea! And published!

So many emotions ran rampant inside me. Once I found my lost mind and dialed up my maturity level a few notches, I downloaded a sample to my Kindle. I had to know. Not just for myself, but now that something similar is out there in my genre, I have to be able to say why mine is not like MATCHED.

The story is totally different. Same concept - different spin. I've locked my jealous green monster back in its cage, bolstered the locks and taken away the daily feeding of paranoia and self doubt. Two very powerful and self destructive snacks.

I've now downloaded the entire book and am invested in the story. Do I like mine better? Silly question. Is mine better? Even in my humblest of opinions, I can't or won't answer that one. To me, every story written is good. Someone has put their heart and soul into sharing a written piece of their imagination. I've been in awe long before I took up the mighty pen (or keyboard) of those who are brave enough to write and finish a book. I bow to those who are published, in any format. You're out there!

My idea was never really mine. To this day I could not tell you where it came from, but the story created from the idea, is all mine. Its a part of my crazy imagination now immortalized in written form. Do I wish I'd got it out there sooner? Hell yes! Funny thing is, "Matched" was one of the titles I played with using.

Good luck Ally Condie! What a wonderful imagination. Visit her website:  www.matched-book.com 

To those of you starting out as writers, I cannot stress the importance of joining a writing group. If I could set fireworks off the attract you to RWA, I would. It is a wonderful organization to belong to, and the branches reaching out from its base are equally invaluable to join. SCBWI is a must if you are writing anything related to children and young adults. Joining one of these powerhouse organizations is like belonging to an online university, specialized for your talent. The online classes are phenomenal, and the members blogs and websites are endless sources of information and fun. Check out my list to the left. I've added some more I've found helpful and enjoyable.

Again, thanks for stopping by! Leave me a comment. If you've read MATCHED, let me know. Just finishing HALO (love the cover!). Another's idea with a twist.  Later cyber friends!  Joelene, the sensible side of Harley Brooks

MUSES & BRUISES

Current musical muse:  Last Train Home by Ryan Star*
(*a favorite listen and used as "muse" in my story)

I TAMED TWINS. They were part of the zoo I was in charge of feeding, housing, and returning to "the wild." The tag-team was also a total surprise. Even to the doctor. At 3:00 in the morning I was advised my son had brought reinforcements (undoubtedly heard his older sister on the outside and made the decision she was too scary to face alone). His brother arrived four minutes later. 


Twins come without a set of instructions and rule the universe they are visiting. They have a bond that can't be broken. They're weird. They're a blast. One is "the instigator" and the other, "the informer." When they took off in opposite directions, I just had to decide which one was in the most danger and let the other roam free. They never face life alone. There's always someone to share everything with from chicken pox to alibis. The last was used constantly throughout their life, and I'm sure, I'm still being duped.


When your seven-year-old calls to establish an alibi for his whereabouts "all day" (the time was specifically mentioned which was my first clue - he'd only been gone an hour) your system goes on alert. My twins were supposedly next door playing while I was on cupcake detail for a church party. I pondered the phone call a full minute before donning my detective hat and running shoes (twins require a lot of chasing. I had the best damn legs during their early years). I stepped out onto the back porch and smelled smoke. At that moment I realized I was about to be the proud parent of a young arsonist.


Quickly, I rounded the fence line and discovered the small group of trees (3 to be exact) behind our subdivision (affectionately referred to as the "magic forest" by our kids) were being devoured by flames licking up their branches. And off to the side of the small inferno was Twin A. "The instigator." Of course I ran to make sure he was okay before I killed him. It should be noted here that twins have "followers." A small gaggle of boys appeared. Apparently, the "club meeting" had taken a turn for the worse when they decided to see if the lighter they discovered on a treasure hunt, could start a stick on fire. When it did and they dropped it they witnessed how fast a fire can spread. Lucky for them, the sidewalk and street halted the fire, and the only casualty was one tree. The Fire Department responded within minutes and the other "proud parent" stepped from the driver's seat of the engine and faced Twin A. Meanwhile, Twin B arrives on the scene wearing the angelic face of innocence...smudged with dirt and soot, his blond locks smelling of smoke. His alibi lost credibility immediately. Because my little darlings' father was on the fire department, they were spared any legal repercussions, but spent the next four Saturdays washing the whitewalls on the engines and pulling weeds in the gardens in front of the fire station during their dad's shift. Community Service.


This is only one of many pictures my twins colored in my life. My reason for sharing? I'm asked where my ideas for stories come from, or what inspires my imagination. Jordan and Jesse, my twins in Designer Genes were created from the two muses who kept my life from becoming dull. That's why they were so fun to write. I'd already been inside their heads, knew how they competed constantly with each other, and how when push comes to shove and life deals one a particularly rough hand, the other is there to support and stand guard. Such is the relationship with my characters.


My stories generally appear in my daydreams, usually while on a motorcycle, taking in the view and alone with my thoughts. They play like mini movies in my head. I see my characters physical features, hear the timbre of their voices, and watch them pull other characters into their world. I play the movie over in my mind, watching different scenarios play out. If they "click" a plot is formed and I put the "movie" on paper.


Some story lines come from a life experience, the words of a song that's touched me, a picture, or even a conversation I happen to overhear or a scene I watch while enjoying a cup of coffee or sitting at the park eating lunch. Some muses are instant stories, while others never materialize beyond a few sentences. I call them my "bruises." I never throw away ideas. Another day, a "bruise" may become a best seller.


What's your favorite muse? What spice flavors your life?

Again, thanks for stopping by.  Joelene, Harley's "twin"

Today's thought:  The easy things in life pass without notice, but when something's difficult, it gets our full attention. We can't rise above the "mushy" stuff. We need something "hard" to help us stand. (special thanks to Clancy Metzger for inspiration)