Hugging Books Goodbye
Most authors have a love affair with books and I am no exception. In the past, I managed to contain my stash under my bed. With the advent of the kindle, my stash became mostly virtual, but I still buy paperbacks of books I love. Let’s put it this way: if I became a sudden shut-in, no problem! I have enough books to last me until I die and beyond.
My night stand.
It doesn’t help that the Romance Writers of America offers all the attendees to its national conference every year FREE books, signed by the authors themselves. (And just try giving away a book that an author you enjoy has signed to you. See the problem?)
Books are a writer’s lifeblood. They feed our creative souls, they take us out of the miseries we may be having with our own books (and with life) and transport us to our Happy Place. Problem is, when you’re busy writing books, you don’t have very much time for reading. So the books accumulate…and don’t get read. This is compounded by the fact that many of your friends are writers and you want to read their books, too!
Since the kids have gone, I’ve vowed to declutter my house, which looks lovely on first glance but if you open any closet, drawer, (or God forbid the attic door), you’ll see the ugly truth, that I am a closet clutterer. But I’ve vowed to reform my ways.
Marie Kondo, from Japan, hit it big with her 2014 book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, and has a new book out called Spark Joy, about her methods for doing so. She has a novel outlook toward throwing stuff away (or giving it away). If it doesn’t “spark joy,” it should go. How can you tell if it sparks joy? You hug it, and if you don’t get the vibe, you pitch.
I’ve been doing this over past few months with my closet, my drawers, and yes, that proud bastion to the fake floral department of Home Goods, my attic. But the books…my precious darlings…how will I do it? All those books I poured over with my children, from Goodnight Moon to Harry Potter…yep. They’re in there too.
My local RWA chapter has a massive book basket giveaway each year, and that is my big source of parting with my darlings. And friends and family who love to read. But I still keep a sizable stash of “but I know I’ll get to that this year” and “I always wanted to read that.” This is compounded by the seven books I’m required to read before March 7 in the RWA Rita contest, where romance authors judge their peers to vote for the years most excellent romance novels.
I suppose the excitement of reading a book is buried somewhere deep in my genetic code. My mother was voracious reader, and from a young age I was indoctrinated into the Books are your Friends school. Books calm me, teach me, and entertain me, and even when I am bleary after a long day at the computer, I (usually) take at least fifteen or twenty minutes before bed to wind down…you guessed it…by reading.
So in a way it’s pretty wonderful to always be surrounded by more and more wonderful books that come out regularly and push back in the queue those books that I just haven’t gotten to yet.
Thank you, books, for giving me joy. But now some of you have got to go out into the world and bring that joy to others. I better go start hugging.
Life after kids…I can get used to it!
This is the first year that all three of my kids are out of the house, the “baby” having recently gone away to college. For the first time, my husband and I set out on an adventure in January. January! Oh, the decadence of being able to kiss the cat goodbye (left in capable hands) and walk out the door (even though the kids did steal all our nice luggage). In the past, January, month of mind-numbing cold and blizzards, was a month I often wished I could skip in Ohio. So where did we go–well, we spent a few days in Scottsdale, Arizona, where hubby had business (and I wrote all day), and then two in Sedona for fun. 
It was weird taking a trip alone without the kids, a luxury we rarely had when the they were young. But it was even weirder learning some things I probably should have known but didn’t:
–The sky in Arizona was the most gorgeous shade of blue that I’ve ever seen. Ever.
–Grocery stores sell flowers in January. January! Amazing.
–Arizona has palm trees. Who knew?
–The state tree, the palo verde, has green bark that contains chlorophyll (hence the greenness). As my friend said, it looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.
Green all over! Palo verde, state tree of AZ.
–You can outside sit under the stars at a restaurant (in January!) and not be cold because every place has got these cool outdoor propane powered heaters.
–There was a dramatic temperature difference between Scottsdale and Sedona due to the elevation. In Sedona, we encountered a blizzard…felt just like home 🙂
Blizzard: Sedona or Cleveland?
Good old days.
–In a weird way, I still feel the same as when my husband and I took trips together in our twenties. Of course, many things have happened and our shared history is much larger, but it was really fun, being together and not talking about our children. Lest we get too happy, our kids still found us via text and phone and tormented us in that special way that only they can. It was just nice to learn that yes, folks, I still really like that guy I married and yes, there is life after kids.
The art of packing lightly
I am in Arizona.
I have never been in Arizona before but I got the opportunity to travel there with my husband on his business trip, during this, our first trip together with all the kids out of the house. It’s been a working vacation for me but hey, what a fun and wonderful way to work! And in January, a month unheard of for traveling (for us).
Beautiful bird on a sunny day in Scottsdale
As I packed for just myself, I couldn’t help but remember so clearly packing for all those summer vacations over the years for little kids. What a nightmare that was! The diapers, the car seats, the things to entertain them on the plane, the juice boxes, the snacks! Then taking care of them while trying to pack, clean the house and suck up the ankle-deep dog hair, and write out instructions for one of our sweet nephews who would come and stay to take care of our dog. Yeah. Nightmare.
This time it was easy. Until I learned that the temperature where we were staying (Scottsdale and Sedona) was going to vary anywhere from the 30’s at night to low 70’s during the day. Then I learned that my children stole (as in, “took to college and other places and never brought them back”) all of our suitcases except for the carry ons. (I did finally find one midsize case.)
I am fairly anal about packing but not when it comes to the possibility of being cold. So in went the undershirts, the polar fleece, the sweaters. The warm socks. The really warm socks. I wanted the slippers too but–hey, no room. The thermal pants. The ear muffs. The flannel pjs.
Men, on the other hand, have it so easy. A razor, some various black things, a pair of tennis shoes and the ONE good pair of shoes. (Oh, to be a man.) My hubby was done packing in five minutes. The only toiletry he took is shave cream (clearly planing to steal the rest from me).
Stuffed to the Gills
I finally fit everything in the suitcase, and here it is, the final product, a la nuclear explosion.
In the old days, I used to tuck different books in different nooks and crannies, never certain of which book I would want to read. (One? Only one?)
See that little yellowish-green thing in the middle there? That is my kindle. Hundreds of books at my disposal in one little thin package. Now that’s packing light. If only I could compress the rest so easily.
Oh, and that irritatingly light-packing hubby of mine? He offered to let me stash my ankle boots and another pair of shoes in his case. God love that man.
Please, No Futons on Game Day
It all started with an old futon that my eighteen-year-old son wanted from home for his dorm room. His loving parents drove two hours with it on game day. Not the smartest decision.
Maybe it was last-child syndrome. You know, where you get guilted into it because “you drove cross country in a blizzard to move the girls but what do I get? Dumped off at college with almost nothing except the clothes on my back.” (Poor baby. Tuition, a meal plan, and clean socks are a lot of nothing, huh?)
Mission Accomplished
Being the great parents that we are, we somehow took the futon apart enough to fit it into the back of a CRV and get it to the dorm. As soon as we pulled up, my husband got out of the car, looked around nervously at all the traffic, and told me, go park.
What? On game day? No, siree. Not me. YOU park the car, I said.
Look, hubby said. Unless you can haul this futon up to the 6th floor and put it together, you need to park the car.
But, but…I sputtered. It’s not that I have fear of parking. More like fear of getting lost. It’s not beyond me to get lost going to the grocery store, and it’s only a mile away from my house. I did the math in my head. 95,000 people in the stands, say a car for every 2-5 people? That’s a lot of fighting for parking spaces.
Behind us, cars were honking and people were getting irate. After all, who unloads a futon during game day? Crazy people, right?
So I went, I looked, I parked. The highlight of this hour-long experience was watching people happily tailgating in an open-aired corner of the parking deck, which I thought was very creative!
By the time I walked twenty minutes back to the dorm, the futon was together and husband, son, and roomie were sitting on it relaxing. Grrr. (I tossed husband evil look.) He probably didn’t even see it, seeing as he was too busy fondly reliving his own college experiences.
The game was fun, but at the end of the day, getting out of that deck took an entire hour, then we spent another half hour in traffic watching college kids wander around on High Street, one of whom lost it in a trash can just feet from our car.
Ah, good old college days.
My son was grateful for the old futon with a rip in it (which, I am proud to say, he sewed himself). And for an old rug we found in the attic. The dorm room had been transformed into A Cool Gathering Place. My baby son’s home away from home.
Was it worth all the pain and suffering to see the smile on my son’s face?
Um, no, not really. Well, okay. Maybe a little.
Dear Caffeine, I Miss You
In my opinion, there’s nothing better than the hour after you drink a cup of coffee. You’re in love, you’re the most creative being on the planet, life is great!
Even when I was a child, the smell of coffee brought great memories. My parents used to drink coffee together over breakfast on the weekends and they used to pour me some, too. Mostly milk, but nevertheless I learned early that it was a beverage of love and companionship. And for adults. Cool beans.
As an adult, when I worked night shifts, the omnipresent coffee, burnt and acidy as it was, was a great comfort. Maybe not many others were awake, but you and me, coffee, together we could make it through till morning.
Then there’s the indescribable pleasure of driving through McDonald’s on a sweltering day and ordering an ice cold Diet Coke. Nothing like it in the world. It tastes ten thousand times better than the kind you pour at home. Period.
My dear migraine specialist tells me the only carbonated cola I can now consume is Diet Rite caffeine free cola which contains Splenda not Nutrasweet, which is known in some people with migraines (i.e., me) to cause headaches. It’s not bad, but it’s not Diet Coke, that’s for sure.
I was in denial for years, but at last my love affair with caffeine had to end. It was was so, so seductive and attractive, but very, very bad for me. It gave me headaches that went on for days. It took all the strength I had, but I had to clean up my pantry and my life.
Not that it’s been easy. I’m still known to have a stash of Ghirardelli milk and caramel squares locked away in my bottom desk drawer for times of emergency (i.e., edits from hell). I’ve even been known to take migraine medicine for a headache then say, what the heck, I’ve got one anyway, and chase it with a piece of chocolate. (I don’t recommend this, but hey, desperate times…)
Migraines are a pain (lol) and the dietary restrictions are too, but I’ve learned to adapt. White chocolate ain’t bad. The barista at my local Starbucks works hard not to roll her eyes when I come in—the “tall decaf” lady—adventurous, woo hoo. 
And I comfort myself by knowing that my favorite food in the world, ice cream, is still fair game.
Thank God I’m not lactose intolerant.