If you give Kay a leak...

A hundred million years ago when my daughter was just a wee lass, we read her a fabulous set of books by Laura Numeroff, one of which was entitled If You Give A Pig A Pancake.  This particular book started out with a pig, and the story went something along the lines of, if you give the pig a pancake, she'll probably want some syrup to go with it.  If you give her some syrup, she'll probably get all sticky.  The story continued onward for quite some time with one thing leading inevitably to the other until, at the very end, the poor little piggy was hungry, and if the poor little piggy was hungry, she'd probably want a pancake.  Everything leads to everything leads to everything.  The connections between episodes seemed logical, and progressed in a timely fashion.  Coupled with the delightful illustrations by Felicia Bond, these books became a favorite of our daughter.  The book looks like this:

 You can find the book here:  If You Give a Pig a Pancake by Laura Numeroff Click here to purchase it on Amazon.

Ms. Numeroff went on to write additional such delightful tales, such as If You Give A Moose a Muffin, and If You Give A Mouse a Cookie.  I'm sure you get the drift.

Well, last week, much to my chagrin, I found myself facing the grown up version of Ms. Numeroff's book.  It went something like this:

If you give Kay a leak from her dishwasher,

She'll probably find a discolored and warpy floor.

If you give her a discolored and warpy floor,

She'll probably want to have someone come and find out what caused the problem.

When she calls someone to find the problem,

They'll probably take the dishwasher apart to discover water damage.

But, knowing Kay, when they took apart the dishwasher, they didn't find out where the leak was coming from.

If they can't find out where the leak is coming from,

They'll be unable to repair the leak.

If they're unable to repair the leak,

They'll probably tell Kay to put paper towels underneath the dishwasher and wait a week.

If Kay waits a week to discover where the leak is coming from,

The dishwasher will probably continue to leak.

If the dishwasher continues to leak,

The floor will continue to warp and grow all squishy.

If the floor starts growing all squishy,

She'll probably need to find out if there is further damage in the crawl space.

When she (gasp!) braves the crawl space,

She'll probably discover a pool of water beneath the house.

When she discovers the pool of water beneath the house,

She'll call the Home Owners Insurance Policy people and ask them to help pay for the repairs.

When she calls the HOIPPs to ask them to help pay for the repairs,

They'll probably tell her that the leak is caused by the dishwasher.

If the repairs are caused by the dishwasher,

Then they'll tell her the dishwasher installation repair people should pay for the damage.

If the dishwasher installation repair people are unable to discover from where the damage is originating,

The DIRP will be unable to repair the problem.

If the DIRP are unable to repair the problem,

The kitchen floors will continue to warp and grow all squishy.

If the kitchen floors continue to warp and grow all squishy,

She'll probably want to call a few floor repair people to give estimates.

If she calls a few people to give estimates, 

They'll probably tell her that she needs to have the sub flooring replaced.

If the sub flooring needs to be replaced,

They'll probably need to remove the kitchen cabinets.

If they remove the kitchen cabinets,

The kitchen counters will probably be destroyed.

If the kitchen counters are destroyed, 

They'll probably need to be replaced.

If the kitchen counters need to be replaced,

She'll probably want to purchase pretty new cabinets to replace the old ones.

If she wants to replace the new cabinets,

She'll probably need a lot of money for extensive repairs.

If she needs a lot of money for the extensive repairs,

She'll probably need to refinance her home to pull out some equity.

If she needs to refinance her home for the equity money,

She'll need to hire a house appraiser.

If she hires a house appraiser, he'll probably need to look at the kitchen floor.

If he looks at the kitchen floor and discovers water damage,

He'll probably refuse to provide the house appraisal until the kitchen floors are repaired.

If the house appraisal is not completed,

Kay will probably not receive the equity money from the house refinancing.

If she doesn't receive the equity money from the house refinancing,

She'll probably not be able to pay to have the damage repaired.

If she can't afford to pay to have the damage repaired,

She'll probably need a stiff drink and a large bowl of chocolate ice cream.

If she needs a stiff drink and a large bowl of chocolate ice cream,

She'll probably need to get those from the kitchen.

If she goes into the kitchen to get her large bowl of ice cream and her stiff drink,

She'll probably look down at the kitchen floor.

And if she looks down at the kitchen floor,

She'll probably find a discolored and warpy floor.

If she finds a discolored and warpy floor,

She'll probably think it's from a leak from her dishwasher.

Sigh

* * * * *

Girl Scout Cookies

It's that time of year once again.  Yes!  It's Girl Scout Cookie Season!  Yay me!!

I'm a proud supporter of the scouts.  After all, when I was a wee lass a gajillion years ago, I, too, was a scout.  My mom, in fact, was the "Cookie Mom."  Our troop would pre-sell Girl Scout Cookies and then, like a miracle, one day I would come home from school and our entire garage would be filled with boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes of Girl Scout Cookies.

As a fat child -- a fat child who loved and adored Girl Scout Cookies, this day was second only to Christmas morning.  I truly believe the Cookie Angels descended down to bless us, making up for the thousand times my mother casually waltzed down the grocery store's cookie aisle, ignoring the Oreos, Peanut Butter Nutter Butters, and Chips Ahoy only to put a measly package of Fig Newtons in our cart.

Fig Newtons are a favorite cookie of my mother.  And evidently a fav of my husband as well.  But for me, Fig Newtons taste like year old graham crackers that have moved so far past stale they have taken on an entirely different consistency -- then, they've merged and melted onto year old raisins that have gone funky and now have a weird, well, crunch.  Nasty.  Nasty and, what's worse, not worth eating.  Buying Fig Newtons, I must admit, must have been a brilliant ploy on my mother's part because they truly were the only cookie that could remain on the cupboard shelf untouched by any of my siblings.  (I believe it's necessary to point out that this is the same woman who would buy Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies, take them out of the box, and then slip the plastic wrapped goodness between the mattress and box springs in her bed to hide them from the rest of us.  The fact that I know where my mother kept the LDOCPs is a testament to my perfectly honed hunting skills.)

If my mother ever did, in fact, buy Oreos or Nutter Butters or Chips Ahoy, you could count on one hand the number of seconds that passed between the time my father unsealed the package, and the time that the locusts, er, um, I mean my siblings and I, descended and systematically devoured the entire contents.

But I digress.

So back in the day when I was a Girl Scout, the instant I arrived home from a troop meeting with my Girl Scout Cookie pre-order sheet, I ran as fast as I could on my chubby, not-even-remotely-little legs across the street and three houses down.  That house was owned by a single man, a doctor by trade, who spent altogether too much time away from his cats drinking Diet Rite and working on premature babies at the hospital.  I loved him.  If I caught him before any of the other Girl Scouts in the neighborhood, I was guaranteed a huge sale.  You see, my folks did not believe it was "fair" to take my order form to work with them to sell my cookies for me on my behalf.  So I had to hoof it around the neighborhood selling door-to-door the old fashioned way.  Kinda like trick or treating, but not in October, and I didn't get any candy.

One time, when I lugged my little red wagon filled with the Good Doctor's cookie order over to his house, he answered the door, and the look of glee that crossed his face brought such joy to my heart.  At that moment, I understood with crystal clarity why Santa Claus works so incredibly hard all year round to make all those toys -- to see that look on another person's face.  The Good Doctor wrote me a check, and I spent the better part of forever unloading the millions of boxes he had ordered.  I thanked him and headed home, red wagon in tow.  About three steps out, I opened the check to make sure he had filled it out correctly, and my jaw dropped to the floor.  The Good Doctor had written a check for $100!!  I had never seen so much money in my entire life.  I sobbed uncontrollably.  I had never felt so happy in my entire life.  I vowed right then and there that should I ever grow up and own a house, I would buy $100 worth of Girl Scout Cookies from the first Girl Scout who ever came to my door selling cookies.  And I have lived up to that promise.

I am pleased to say I have passed my love for Girl Scout Cookies down to my children.  When my son was 14 months old, I sat him down and asked his three year old sister to watch him for a moment.  When I returned no more than a minute later, my daughter, a half eaten Tagalong in her hands, with the innocence of an angel asked, "What's so funny, Mommy?"

Well, you see, my son (my baby.  My 14 month old baby.  Who had maybe eight teeth at this point in his brand new life) had found his way over to the Thin Mints.  He had a sleeve of the cookies in his hands, and, like an ear of corn on the cob, he had raised the sleeve to his mouth, gnawed through the plastic, and sampled the goodies inside.

To this day, I flash back to this image each and every time I eat Thin Mints.

And as I sit here alone on a rainy Saturday afternoon, PMSing, surrounded by 23 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies, my hubby gone on a business trip for the next five days, I truly believe I should not be judged for having eaten an entire box of Tagalongs all by myself.  

After all, my baby gnawed his way through plastic to eat Thin Mints.

Just sayin'.

* * * * *

Dreams and Problem Solving

Before I wrote my first Jack Diamond manuscript, I plotted the entire thing out on paper.  It started as a simple skeleton, and then rapidly grew more complex as things moved along.  Because the manuscript was a murder mystery, I needed to plot and plan out when I would kill off certain characters, when I would leave certain clues about certain events, which tasks needed to be completed first, which ones needed to be completed last, and so on.  The ending remained a mystery to me, however, until a few weeks before I finished writing the entire manuscript.  I only discovered the ending when I was writing up my synopsis.  I had to commit to an ending for the synopsis, and once I had committed myself (hahaha! committed myself!!! hahahaha!), it made writing the ending a much easier process.  I honestly still didn't know exactly how everything was going to play out at the end, but at least I knew who was going to live and who was going to die.

Oddly enough, the plotting and the planning took me significantly longer to complete than actually sitting down and writing the book.  The plotting and planning also made writing infinitely easier for me, because as I sat down to write each and every day, I'd simply look over my plot and plan chart, and read what it was that I was supposed to write about that day.  No worrying or fretting, no rueing over events, no long blank stares at empty computer screens, no writer's block.  I'd simply look down, read the notes that said something like, "Scuba diving scene at Ankeny Street Dock," and I'd be all set.

I did not write my first manuscript this way.  Instead in that manuscript, I wrote whatever I wanted to write about that day, and my book meandered and digressed and wandered and eventually got around to where it needed to go.  I think (I know) that is probably why (that's exactly why) my book is eons too long, rambles too much, and isn't as focused as it needs to be.  Alas, I digress (which is what I did throughout the entire first manuscript).

The other thing I did differently while writing this manuscript is that I edited the chapter (or chapters) I had written the day before I began that day's writing.  The editing allowed me to (a) edit my work and (2) get into the same writing 'voice' that I had been in whilst writing the chapter before.  This pattern proved to be so successful to me that when it came time to edit my book at the end, I found I had a million (!!) or so very minor changes (mostly I had way too many commas that all had to be removed), and only three major fixes.  When my book gets accepted for publication I'm quite sure their editor will find another million changes.  I've kept all of Shea's and my husband's sticky notes with editing changes on them and put them in plastic sleeves for posterity.  Perhaps some day they'll be worth a gajillion dollars.  Just think!  I'll be rich!!

Meanwhile, I sit here writing in my blog because I'm at the terribly difficult stage of this manuscript of creating the skeleton and plotting and planning the whole thing out.  This skeleton I created on my own (yay me!!).  But before I can move forward, I find myself needing to tie up a whole mess of loose ends I had created by the end of Jack Diamond's first manuscript.

Most of the loose ends involve Claire.  The Claire in my head is an amazing woman who I hope every reader will fall, at least a little bit, in love with.  Evidently she didn't come across as amazing and wonderful to a few of my initial editors and readers, and I'm concerned.  Clearly, I need to do some rewrites to make my readers love her as I do.  

I've been reading Veronica Roth's blog.  She's the author of the Divergent trilogy.  I *heart* Veronica Roth.  She wrote an interesting article about her time in school when she was asked to sit for an hour while everyone in the room criticized her work.  During this hour, she was not permitted to defend herself, or her characters.  At one point in her article, she mentioned that this experience really forced her to look more closely at her own writing.  After all, if her readers didn't "get" her characters the way that she wanted them to, it wasn't their fault for reading her book too fast or interpreting her words incorrectly.  Instead, she blamed it on a need for better writing and editing on her own part.  

How true.

Especially since my first reader didn't even like Claire.  I was flabbergasted.  Astounded.  Shocked.  Mortified.  Ashamed.  I completely understand that different people in life will like, or dislike, various other characters in various books and movies to one degree or another.  Some people like John better than Sherlock.  Some people prefer Peeta over Gale.  Others like Four better than Tris.  I get that.  It's the nature of all things.  But I was so disappointed in her admission that I wanted to grab back my manuscript, stroke poor Claire's hair, and tell her everything was truly going to be okay.  Then I remembered she is a fictional character who simply needs a rewrite.  Good enough.  I can do that.  (If you read the words, "I can do zat! I can do zat!" in Chekov's voice from the latest Star Trek movie, you're now officially as Geeky and Nerdy as I am.)

So now I am inspired to go back and rewrite a few of my scenes with Claire to share with my readers the love I have for my beloved Claire.  I want them to be as in awe of her as I am, as she struggles through this difficult time in her life.  I also want to reveal a lot more about Claire in this next manuscript.

Well, last night I had a wonderful flash of a dream.  I love those flashes.  Those dream flashes are, after all, how I came up with Jack Diamond himself.  Last night's flash of a dream explained why Claire married Ron.  Such an epiphany!!  I can't tell you how relieved I am that I've had such a revelation.  I simply couldn't move forward with the latest manuscript until I knew.  I don't even know if I'm going to reveal such a key piece of information in this next manuscript, or wait until the third.  But it is so wonderful to know that I know.  I also need to find out what, if anything is going to happen between Jack and Claire.  She has some issues to deal with.  Well, he does too, but hers are a bit more pressing.  Lastly, before I write up this manuscript, I also need to know what Claire's career is.  How I ever managed not to know such a key piece of information about her is astounding to me.  I've had a few thoughts, but nothing has screamed "a HA!" just yet.  Perhaps I need to go into Sherlock's Mind Palace to figure it out.

Needless to say, I know who is going to die.  I know who is going to kill her.  I know where she worked (you'll love it, I promise!), and I know a bit about what her house looks like.  I know where Jack is going to find her, and I think there might be some interesting characters introduced.  I plan to only kill off one character in this book.  I killed off so many in the last one, it seemed to be the right thing to do.   I still don't know what her name is going to be.  It needs to be very generic and boring.  Plain Jane and all that.  If you have a suggestion, I'd love to hear it.  Then I'd have one less thing to do before getting this writing show on the road!!

* * * * *

Dreams and Husbands

Several people have asked me where I get the ideas for my manuscripts.  The easy answer:  from my dreams.  The more complicated answer, to be honest, involves my husband.  Jack Diamond, for example, started from a flash of a dream.  In that particular dream, I watched a man who had just finished running lean over and tie his shoe.  And that's how it began.  That's it.  That's all.

Later that day I happened to flash back onto the dream and that man, and all of a sudden my mind flashed onto his kitchen.  He was chopping veggies to make salsa and guacamole.  As I looked around, I caught a glimpse of his living room.  It reminded me of a typical NE Portland house, with a giant front porch, no entry foyer, just a centered front door with large windows on either side, a living room on the left, dining on the right and the dining room connected to the kitchen with a bar with three comfortable stools where someone could sit and admire the man making their dinner.  The living room was painted a beautiful deep red, and had a couch.  And on the coffee table in front of the couch stood a half-played game of chess.  I have since "seen" the entirety of Jack's house and his back yard in my dreams, and have created a floor plan and everything!

Time passed, and I found myself elbow deep writing my first manuscript (M1), and wrote an entire scene of that main character baking chocolate chip cookies.  I found the scene in the manuscript very romantic and charming, as it reminded me of a true story in my own life of a very sexy man in faded levis baking chocolate chip cookies, my feeding him an enormous spoonful of the cookie dough, and then dancing with him barefoot in his kitchen while I was wearing a ballroom gown.  But I digress.

After I had written this scene in M1, I realized that at no point during the rest of the manuscript had this main character ever shown any interest in baking cookies.  Or baking in general.  I do recall several scenes of his cooking things and not being a bad cook.  But clearly, this scene was not, in fact, about the main character in M1.  So I deleted the scene, stored it away somewhere on my computer, and forgot about it.

Years passed, and I found myself wanting to write a new manuscript.  My sweet hubby suggested that I switch genres to Murder Mysteries, as that is the genre that, at the time, I read the most.  "Write what you read," they say.

"That's all fine and good," I told him, "except for the fact I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what I would write about or where I'd get my ideas from."  His jaw dropped in incredulity.  "Hello? Don't you think I could help you out a bit?"

"Fine.  So what would I write about?"

"Well, you could have a story about a guy named Jack Diamond.  He's a good buddy of mine from work, and he has the best name.  I bet he'll let you use it."  (Thank you, by the way, Jack, for giving me permission to use your name in my book!  You seriously have the best name ever!) My husband went on, "Jack could be a detective for the Sheriff's Office.  He could investigate a series of murders, and all the bodies could be dumped into various pools of water throughout Portland."  He later went on to suggest that Jack's Dive Team could do some seriously cool underwater investigations to retrieve the bodies and uncover evidence in some amazing underwater scenes -- since, he argued, no one is currently writing Detective Crime Novels with scuba diving detectives who perform seriously gnarly underwater investigations.  With his experience and my over-active imagination, he suggested I could write an amazing book.

"Hmmmm."

I grew troubled by his suggestion, because then I thought I'd just be writing my husband's book, rather than mine. This fear troubled me for quite some time.  My husband after all, is a brilliant man.  And the last thing I wanted was to take his idea and write his book, with all of his thoughts and plans and ideas and characters, with my contribution being, well, essentially a ghost writer.  The doubts festered, and I worried.

Until a short while later.  I had another dream.  A dream in which Jack Diamond morphed into the man from my dreams.  The one who was chopping veggies for salsa for a beautiful woman's dinner.  The man who was baking chocolate chip cookies in my first manuscript.

So I started thinking about Jack Diamond.  And I watched in the dream as this beautiful woman for whom Jack was cooking dinner had a daughter, an extraordinarily gifted child who, too young for school, needed a challenge to keep her intellectual curiosity at bay.  Jack promised to teach the little girl how to play chess.  And over the years, he and the woman became quite good friends.

So I began to write the manuscript using my husband's skeleton idea, and more and more of Jack's past came to light.  The woman and her daughter didn't end up in the final version of this first manuscript about Jack, but I do believe I'll see them again one day.

I have since found out more and more about Jack.  I learned about how GranNini raised him. I watched in horror as his past came to light and how his need to become a police officer enveloped him and became a part of who he is.  I watched over Jack's brother during his struggles.  I watched Jack go to college and meet Claire.  Throughout the time I wrote this book about Jack Diamond, I created dozens and dozens of characters, all while daydreaming about Jack and his escapades.  I know all about Monday and her husband and how they met.  I have a whole book idea about Monday's mom and Monday's grandparents.  And that book led to two other book ideas (an intertwined love story spanning two generations with the setting in the San Juan Islands).  Jack's brother has an entire book of his own -- which intertwines with my first manuscript.  Which I suppose means I'll have to dust M1 off, scrape off the mothballs, and rewrite it. I still think it's a wonderful love story.  It just needs a bit more assistance and a great deal of rewrites.

I know about Nick's past and a little bit about his home life.  I look forward to learning what is in store for him.  Shea, Peter, Max, Tank, and Mason are all growing into wonderful meaty characters.  I probably know most about Max from that group, as she's based on a dear friend of mine.  I have hopes and plans of writing each and every one of their stories, and all of these books will have something or someone in them that connects them to at least one of my other books.  And as for GranNini, well, she's a children's literature author.  And I most definitely have plans to write a wonderful series of children's books with GranNini as my pen name.

I've been so fortunate to have my husband answer technical questions about Jack's scuba diving adventures and work issues and whatnot.  His advice and technical mumbo jumbo really give my manuscript a ring of truth.  But as he'll gladly admit, other than his technical help and providing the first skeleton idea of this manuscript, the only thing he's assisted me with since then has been providing love and encouragement every step of the way.  He's the one who taught me that the only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.

So in all honesty, the more complex answer is easy too.  My husband gave me the idea for my manuscript.  But Jack?  Well, he's all mine.

* * * * *

Evidently I'm inedible. At least for lions.

I read an article the other day about a zoo which had killed one of its giraffes and fed it to one of its lions.  The article recited mumbo jumbo regarding the genetic code of said giraffe having met its quota and so forth, and the zoo did not want to create an "inbreeding" of said giraffe's genetic material, blah blah blah.

Despite the debate over whether or not such a decision by said zoo was or was not in fact ethical, I found the article fascinating.  Not because of the debate itself, but rather in their decision to kill the giraffe with a bullet, rather than euthanizing the animal.

Turns out, if they had given the giraffe anesthesia in order to end its life in a more "humane" manner, the giraffe would no longer have been edible for the lions.  Not wanting to waste 200 kilograms of meat, they opted for a bullet and gave the lions a tasty treat.

Again, putting aside the ethical debate over the method of death, or the fact that they euthanized a giraffe in the first place, my sick and twisted mind instantly sighed in relief.

You see, after having recently undergone not one, but TWO surgeries in the last several weeks, I have recently been given extensive quantities of anesthesia.

And as such, I am not edible!  Yay me!

At least not for lions.

* * * * *

Unhelpful Surgical Staff and Surgical Complications, part deux

The day after I had my gallbladder surgically removed I started having complications. Off to the surgeon we went, hi ho, hi ho.  A quick visit later I had fresh clean bandages (yay me!), and an assurance that my stitches hadn't popped.  Rather, I'd developed a small acute hematoma that had leaked out, and now I would have a more colorful belly whilst I was recuperating.  Yay me!

So, like a good patient, I took my medications as required, and after the first two or three days of sharp, searing pain from having been stabbed four times, I started to feel much better.  No more gallbladder pain.  No more stabbing pain.  Everything was moving along splendidly.  Until it wasn't.

Complications from surgery happen a lot more often than I think people realize.  I must say it certainly  surprised me.  Several days after I'd stopped taking the medications, I started having difficulty sitting up.  Standing was fine.  Laying down great.  But if I tried to sit up, it felt a bit like there was a very hard baseball just under the skin of my belly button cave, right above my hernia scar tissue.

Hi ho,  hi  ho, back to the surgeon we went.  Five minutes later my surgeon scheduled me for an ultrasound.  And first thing the next morning my surgeon called me (!) to confirm that my little tiny hematoma had been growing on the inside.

Hi ho, hi ho, back to the surgeon we went.  This time, he injected my belly button cave with lidocaine (which didn't hurt, despite his warnings.  Hello?  I've endured two hideous foot breaks.  I've suffered through countless cortisone shots.  I've given birth without drugs.  Lidocaine in the belly button cave?  No biggie!).  He then, however, introduced *THE NEEDLE.*  I swear it was the size of a pterodactyl beak.  Good Grief it was ginormous!!!  After shoving that sucker into my belly button cave, he was only able to suck out 1 cc of fluid.  Sigh.

Hi ho, hi ho, back to surgery I went.  The next day I found myself in the surgical pre-op waiting room, spending hours listing all my medications and getting the IV inserted (*in my hand,* which still had bruising from the surgery I had 10 days before.  And which evidently didn't reallllly get inserted properly, which I found out later when they tried to inject my go-to-sleep medications, and Yowza!!!  I sat there listening to my heart rate skyrocket on the monitors in the operating room while the pain meds hurt so very, very much going in, and took forever to take effect.  I had bruising in my hand for a full two weeks afterwards.  But alas, I digress.).  The rest of the time we generally just sat around waiting around for my surgeon to arrive.  Then it was time to go, so off we went.

So this time, having had such an amusing experience in the operating room just ten days before (even if I didn't get a Dyslexic Zorro scar, much to my chagrin), I decided to introduce myself to my surgical staff.  Thought we could have a little fun.  I even sang them the hematoma song.  It's sung to the tune of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."  I prefer The Nylons' version of the song.  You can find it here:

I changed a few of the words to make it work, but it goes something like this:

"In the belly, the fat, fat belly, the hematoma grows tonight.
Oh in the belly, the fat, fat belly, the hematoma grows tonight.
A hematoma, hematoma, hematoma, hematoma, hematoma, hematoma, hematoma, hematoma…"

So the surgical nurse cracks up, the anesthesiologist cracks up, there is generally snickering all through the freezing cold operating room, and I'm feeling pretty confident that I've got a great group of folks who are going to take care of me in this hematoma-ectomy.

So the anesthesiologist was having a few problems setting things up -- a machine wasn't working, some cords were all tangled up, things weren't going smoothly for her.  She seemed a bit flustered, but things finally cleared up, and the surgical nurse standing next to me asked me what I was in here for.  So I said, "Liposcution and a tummy tuck!"  Snickers all around.  I smiled at myself, thinking I was being cute, funny, and charming. I'd blame it on all the good drugs they'd injected me with, but I hadn't been given any yet.

In a stern voice worthy of a drill sergeant, the surgical nurse barked, "Ma'am, seriously.  I need to know why you are here today."

I turned to her, and enunciating as well as I could I said, "Li-po-suc-tion and a tum-my tuck."

Two of the nurses laughed out loud, and I swear my surgeon snorted.

"Ma'am, I need you to be serious now."

So I said, "I am serious.  I asked him to do liposuction when he was removing my gallbladder last week, and look at the terrible job he did!"  I wiggled my big belly around with my one non-strapped down hand.  "I'm so disappointed."  I turned to my surgeon and smiled and said, "Seriously?  You didn't suck out enough fat!"  He laughed.

Ms. Drill Sergeant was not amused.

For the third time, "Ma'am.  This is for the record.  I need you to tell me why you are really here."

So in the most serious voice I could muster, I told her, "I'm here to have a hematoma removed from my belly, immediately above my hernia scar."

"And how did you get the hematoma?"

I turned to my surgeon and pointed at him.  "He gave it to me!"

I'm not sure, but I think Ms. Drill Sergeant swallowed a brick.  My surgeon, however, laughed.

Ms. Drill Sergeant's face had grown into a what would have been a lovely shade of mauve, had it been on oh, say, a throw pillow.  But on her face?  Well, let's just say it wasn't as flattering.  "Ma'am?"

"He stabbed me four times last week, and I ended up with a hematoma right above my belly button cave!"

This time I think the brick came out the other side.  "Ma'am!!!!!!"

Okay, so I know when I'm in trouble.  I got in enough trouble as a kid.  You can tell it's bad when you get shivers, and the little hairs on your arms start standing up.  I know it was colder than Alaska in January in the operating room, but still.  I'd gone too far.

So I sobered up and recited in my most serious and proper voice, "During a routine laparoscopic cholecystectomy last week, my surgeon also repaired a pre-existing umbilical hernia. I developed a small hematoma the day immediately following the surgery.  The acute hematoma was treated by repacking the wound.  The hematoma continued to bleed internally, however, and today my surgeon will surgically remove the subacute hematoma, slicing through the same incision in the umbilicus."

There was a very long, awkward pause.

She cleared her voice and said, "Fine."

Party pooper.

Just for that, I started singing, "Hematoma, hematoma…" under my breath until the anesthesiologist started chuckling again.

* * * * *

Dyslexic Zorro, the belly button cave, and the unhelpful surgical staff

A few weeks ago, I had my gallbladder removed.  Yay me!!  I am amazed by the medical advancements that allowed my surgeon to pull the sucker out using only three teensy weensy holes scattered sporadically across my tummy, and one longer incision inside the cave leading to my belly button.  (A cave leading to my belly button, you ask?  Why yes.  I'm pleasantly plump.  Think of a nine month old, well-fed baby with a big round belly.  That's what my belly looks like.  My belly button is in the center of what essentially looks like a cave.  And, fortunately for me, my surgeon was able to go to the underside of the upper part of my cave, and slice open a two inch slit through which he somehow managed to slide out my nasty, no-longer-functioning, chronically inflamed, scar-tissue infested gallbladder.)  So when I look down at my cave of my belly button, I can't see the scar.  Pretty darned nifty if you ask me.  The surgery was an instant success.  And other than the sharp searing pain which felt like I'd been stabbed four times (which my surgeon assures me is exactly what happened), the instant I woke up from surgery, I felt better than I had in years.  

Not only was my amazing and incredible and fabulous surgeon able to remove my gallbladder, I got a two-fer.  Whilst he was in the general area of my belly button cave, he fixed a hernia that I hadn't even known I had.  He noticed it on the CT scan during my pre-op visit, and remarked that he'd be happy to fix it while he was hanging out inside my belly button cave.  Later on he confessed that he would have to fix the hernia because it was going to be in his way when he was tugging out my gallbladder, but it was nice to think that he was doing me such a great favor.  

The day of the surgery deemed to be a rather uneventful experience.  Except for the fact that evidently I have difficult, teeny, tiny (read nonexistent) veins.  I assured all who attempted that I had a perfectly wonderful vein that would give them whatever they wanted in the crook of my arm if they just put a tourniquet around my arm and waited.  But alas, they are the experts, and they decided to go hunting elsewhere.  After an hour (an hour!) of stabbing, probing, prodding and blowing out four (four!) stab sites in an attempt to insert an IV, they hauled in the vascular expert.  He stared at my arm, my elbow, and my hand for eons.  His overly obsessive examination of my arm started to give me the creeps.  Then, he turned off the lights.  This didn't help me with the whole feeling creeped out business.  He rubbed some weird red light up and down against my arm, elbow, and hand for what seemed like forever, and then after trying (and failing) to insert an IV in an already blown vein in my hand, he quit.  I out-trumped the expert!! Ha!  The anesthesiologist wasn't amused to be called back in to my cubby in order to insert an IV, but it only took him one stab and he'd inserted a 20 gauge something-or-other in the middle of the underside of my arm, and the ultrasound tech who'd ran all the way up to my cubby from the bowels of the hospital seemed a bit put off when he wasn't needed.   I felt bad for the poor ultrasound guy, having run all this way for nothing.  So the anesthesiologist ran the ultrasound machine on the inside of my elbow, just for kicks.  What do you know, a very large, very pretty vein, *right where I had told them it lived,* pulsed beautifully in blue across the ultrasound screen.  I didn't do a very good job of hiding my "I told you so" smirk.  

Needless to say, after an hour of probing and prodding and finally having the IV inserted, and after getting every one's attention in the entire pre-op waiting room for having out-matched the nurse, the other nurse who specialized in spectacularly difficult IV insertions, and the vascular specialist (I felt like such a celebrity!), they injected my IV with several wonderful medications that instantly made me feel loopy and delightful. I put my hair in a pony à la Mulan, donned my hairnet, and off to the operating room we went.  

The whole gang was prepped and ready (and had been for quite some time), so while the anesthesiologist nurse finished getting me ready to slip into a blissful state of unconsciousness,  I looked around and introduced myself to the awaiting doctors and nurses.  My surgeon I knew, of course.  He was busy reviewing my chart and talking into the surgical recording device.  The rest of the folks were just masked, scrub-covered people.  Complete strangers.  I turned my head, and the nearest doctor introduced herself and told me that she would be assisting my surgeon.  I asked her if she was going to be the doctor who sewed up my puncture sites from the laparoscopic procedure.  She said that if my surgeon thought that was appropriate, she would.  So I asked her if she would be so kind as to alter the stitches in such a way as to write, 'Dyslexic Zorro was here."  Now, to be fair, most of her face was covered in either a hair beanie, some dark framed glasses, or a face mask, but I could swear that she looked confused.  Could have been the knitted eyebrows.  Who knows.  Or maybe the drugs had started to kick in.  But it seemed to me a fair question to ask.  After all, I have a Dyslexic Zorro scar on my foot.  It only seems fitting to have a matching scar on my big fat belly.

So, I explained to Doctor Confusion that I have had two surgeries on my foot.  I've only broken the sucker on two separate occasions, but the first time I broke it in four places (one in the ankle, three in the foot), and the second time I broke it I broke it in two different places.  The first surgery left a single slash across my foot.  The second surgery I also had a two-fer.  My foot surgeon sliced open my foot on one side to fix things up and remove a small bone fragment that was floating around.  Then, after stitching me up, he sliced open another section, removed another piece of bone that hadn't wanted to reattach, and then reattached a tendon that had gone all wonky.  The result left me with a FABULOUS scar, exactly in the shape of a backwards letter Z.  Dyslexic Zorro.

So back to Doctor Confusion.  I explained to her about my Dyslexic Zorro scar on my foot, and explained to her that I wanted her to stitch in "Dyslexic Zorro was here" on my belly.  And if she couldn't manage that, I asked her to please, at least, to sew in my initials or something.  She laughed and assured me that she would see what she could do.

Imagine my disappointment when I awoke, looked down, and found three, pathetically boring, teensy weensy scars.  No "Dyslexic Zorro was here."  No initials.  Sigh.  Such a completely unhelpful surgical staff.  I mean really, I can't even connect the dots into anything interesting!  What fun is there in that?!?

* * * * *

The Jackness Monster

So my son has had this nasty cold for the last few days and, as he was highly contagious, I kept him home with me.  Yay me!!  Sometimes it can get rather quiet here at home when they're all at school and at work, and I'm left here with nothing but the blank computer screen staring me in the face, wondering why oh why oh why I haven't sketched out the outline for manuscript number three.  (In case you were wondering, the first is now collecting dust bunnies in the bottom drawer of my desk, and the second is anxiously awaiting competition results.  Cross your fingers!)

The *real* reason I haven't sketched out the outline for my next manuscript is because I'm a bit kerfunkled.  I've decided to slow things down in this next manuscript and only kill off one person.  Seems fair.  I killed off so many in the last one that I can't remember exactly how many ended up dead by the end.  But that's more of a memory problem than a killing off people problem.  Easy for me to say, I'm not one of the people I killed off at the end.  Whew!  So whilst manuscript number 3 is percolating, I'm procrastinating by doing such things like binge watching Netflix tv shows and eating chocolate by the pound.  Just don't tell my kids.

But alas, for the last few days I had company, and I had to actually do something.  Otherwise he'd sit around and play Minecraft all day.  And he might just actually think I don't do things all day.  Which, let's be honest, he probably doesn't think about because which little kids actually sit around and wonder what their parents do all.day.long whilst they're at school?

So we decided to tackle his Valentine's Day Box crafty project.  Each student in his class has been asked to decorate a box in which the other students will place their Valentine's Day cards to one another.  It's all very "fair" and "even" and "nice," compared to when I was a kid.  Back then, in my day, a million, billion years ago, we'd spend the entire day at school decorating our boxes.  Then the teacher would turn off the lights, and we'd all stand up, pick up our lovingly made Valentine's Day cards (mine were always home made, usually by folding a piece of red construction paper in half and cutting an arc, so that the heart would be evenly shaped), and we'd walk slowly up and down the aisles between the desks, and secretly try to put our Valentine's into other children's boxes and envelopes without anyone else seeing whose envelope or box we were putting our Valentine's Day card into.

Only those really good friends who were worthy of our Valentine's received them.  I'm sure the teachers envisioned equal quantities of Valentine's Day cards in every box and envelope, with love shared around, and all of us holding hands and smiling with pinked cheeks, ducking our heads to the ground, looking a bit like the cupid cherubs from Disney's "Fantasia."  What happened in reality was that all the pretty girls got scads and loads and tons of Valentines, their boxes and envelopes filled to the brim, stuffed to the gills.  The popular boys also received Valentine's.  They responded in one of three ways: (a) they either strutted around like puffed up, proud peacocks, bragging about how many they received.  Or, (2) they faked an embarrassed look, but then strutted around like a puffed up, proud peacocks.  Or (c), or they tried to hide, because they were mortified that someone had demonstrated some sort of affection toward them.  So all the pretty little girls and all the popular boys had a wonderful and delightful Valentine's Day.

The rest of us, well, it wasn't so great.  We did, in fact, receive a few Valentine's.  Sometimes three.  Maybe four.  But it was quite clear who was popular and well loved, and who wasn't.  The haves and the have nots.  Too bad I didn't have Glinda (aka GaLinda) to help me be Popular!  I wanted to be Pop-You-Lar!  She could have sung me the song, like she sang to Elphaba, and I, too, could have a "personality dialysis."  Alas, such was not the life for me.

Things eventually changed over the course of my elementary school years, and eventually we were all "required" to provide a Valentine for each and every one of our classmates, and not just to the pretty and popular kids.  We bought a small box of Valentine's Day cards at the drug store with nifty and neato little catch phrases.  We signed each card, and then we folded them on the perforated cardboard lines, tore them apart, and then voila, 30 identical Valentine's Day cards.  Now was that so hard?  No one spent more than $1.59 at the local drug store.  No one bought chocolates, or added candy, or attached fun-sized candy bars with their loving sentiments.

But I digress.

So my son and I set to task making his Valentine's Day box.  In my head, I had visions of sweet heart-covered shoeboxes, construction paper hearts folded in half and lovingly cut out to make even-shaped hearts, pink and white construction paper, the works.  Alas, he had a different vision in mind.  I think his idea may have been Pinterest inspired.  However he got the idea, I think it turned out wonderfully well.

So here is the Jackness Monster.  The sign on the left says, "The Jackness Monster."  The sign on the right says, "Please Feed the Monster."  (That is, in case you were curious.)

The Jackness Monster

As he was cutting out the mouth hole, he informed me that he thought it would be big enough for full sized candy bars.  As my jaw fell to the floor, he said, quite matter of fact-ly, "Some of the kids got carried away last year, Mom.  It was crazy!"  And then he grinned mischievously and went back to work, trying not to saw off his thumb.

Then here is a picture of the Valentine's gifts he's giving to his friends.  He poured over all the Pinterest ideas for at least seven minutes (a lifetime for him!) and chose this one.  The mouse is made out of two Hershey's kisses, two googlie eyes, a pink piece of paper cut into ears, and a pink ribbon tail.  The "swiss cheese" has heart shaped holes, and he wanted me write, "It's 'mice' to know you."  Cute.  Even if I do say so myself.  He asked me if I would please be so kind as to put them together for him.  As I was, at the time, recovering from surgery, it seemed easy enough of a task for me to accomplish whilst being completely blitzed out of my mind on pain meds.  Er, um, I mean, I was gently coddled into comfort by the medicinal effects of prescribed pain medication.  Probably not a great idea to be using a hot glue gun while heavily medicated, but hey, I suffered no burns, and the mice all turned out okay.

It's "mice" to know you.

So that's it for today's blog.  Must go buy milk and bread and brace for the stormageddon.  (Not to be confused by Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All, the little baby from Doctor Who.)  They're closing down the schools early in anticipation of the Big Storm, and now I'm going to miss the Toad the Wet Sprocket intimate concert for which we won tickets!  Boo!

* * * * *

So my daughter thinks I'm a serial killer...

When I set out to write a murder mystery manuscript, it never occurred to me that doing so might negatively affect the way that my daughter describes me to her friends.  I thought, perhaps, she might say something to the effect of, "Oh my mom?  Well, she writes murder mysteries."  But alas, no.  

In the midst of performing my parental obligations of the daily carpool run, my daughter asked if we could give one of her friends a ride home from school.  Absolutely.  Be happy to. (Thus satisfying the requirements for POSIL#1 (Parental Obligation Self-Imposed Law or POSIL): always say yes, whenever humanly possible, when my daughter asks for something in front of one of her friends.    

I immediately performed the second self-imposed law of my parental obligations (POSIL#2) when driving my teenager and her friends around.  (*A quick side-bar:  My daughter has never asked me to do these things, but I once was a teenager -- albeit a million, billion years ago -- and I should like to consider myself a "cool" and "awesome" mom who is so considerate as to think of these things ahead of time.) 

So, in accordance to POSIL#2, I turned down the music, vowed not to speak unless I was spoken to, and basically pretended like I don't exist.  Of course every time I invoke POSIL#2, I giggle, because, alas, I immediately get Harry Potter's voice in my head, responding to his Uncle Vernon about hiding upstairs in his bedroom when Uncle Vernon's boss comes over, promising not to make any noise, and pretending he doesn't exist.  But I digress.

Normally when I pull out of the carpool lane, I stifle my giggles, and eavesdrop as loudly as I can to my daughter's intriguing conversations.  I actually learn most about what goes on in my daughter's life when she talks to her friends in the back of the car.  When it's just to the two of us, I typically get answers like, "fine," or "some," or "not much."  I get the juicy gossip and interesting information like who is asking whom to the winter formal when and only when she's willing to share, if she's had a decent day, isn't too tired, has had enough to eat, or (because those things are so rare these days), when she has a friend with her in the car.

But on this particular afternoon I had been a bit distracted, having just finished a difficult scene in my manuscript.  I wasn't really following their conversation, and had truly tuned them out.  My daughter, ever the observer, was surprised by my lack of curiosity in her conversation with her friend (because let's be honest, I have never actually been able to succeed in POSIL#2.  I inevitably interrupt her conversations with her friends, ask what turn out to be embarrassing questions, and inevitably embarrass my daughter -- which truly is the last thing I want to do.).  She asked me how my writing had gone that day.  Absentmindedly (because my brain was still focused on my manuscript, and really not on anything else -- as I'm sure those of you who write and are forced into a PO that disrupts and disturbs your writing flow are keen to understand), I told her that I killed three people that afternoon.  Two of which I knew about.  The other one was a complete surprise.  

An odd, uncomfortable silence followed.  Silence, when there are more than two of us in the car, is a rare event.  I turned my head to figure out if I could see what was wrong when I noticed the look of pure horror on my daughter's friend's face.  Confused, I turned to look at my daughter, trying to get an explanation.  Her brick red cheeks screamed mortification.  My daughter cleared her throat and croaked, "Um, my mom writes murder mysteries for a living.  I don't think she actually killed anyone today."

Needless to say, her friend hasn't asked for a ride home since then.  And I'd like to think that I'll do my best to stick with POSIL#2 in the future.

* * * * *