as promised

So, there was birthday cake way back in late June (pre-Disneyland).


And then, come July, the birthday boy - the very fruit of my loins - was being used as a projectile with his cousin on the Delta in northern California.

There was this sexy lily:

And this wall. That I climbed. All by myself. Do you see the size of those little itty-bitty people standing next to it? There was a bell at the top for climbers to ring. It was my Oprah moment.

There was a trip to Santa Cruz, where I lived for five years during - and a little after - my undergraduate years. Oh, the stories. Oh, the humanity. (That's my husband on his sweet ride near Natural Bridges State Park. I lived just a couple of blocks from there for a while).

There was a pool, and there were children. Many, many children.

There was one of my oldest and dearest friends, and her talented, pie-baking hands.

There was nautical therapy.

And there was me, doing my thing.

Oh, look. My boy has inherited my freaky E.T. toes.

There was, in fact, MUCH nautical therapy.

And there was the Jelly Belly factory in Fairfield. Yes, People, there is a factory where those miraculous beans are born. Willy Wonka has nothing on this place, I tell ya.

And then it was back home to Arizona, where there was/is handiwork therapy.

Introducing Bootstrap Bill. Remember when he was just a little fuzzball?

My old dude, Zzari, should need no introduction, but perhaps he does anyway. I love the lighting in the evenings during monsoon season, which is in full swing now.

And that's about it for my summer thus far, folks.

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'nuff said

So, I'm not going to go into great detail about how the past month and a half has been one of the most difficult times in my life, mainly because those difficulties involve people who have a right to remain anonymous in every possible way. Suffice it to say I am feeling tired but cleansed from a lot of introspection and tears, and I am feeling renewed by friends and family who came to my aid in various ways and with the kind of love that can make you reel from its power to heal. (Hey, I made a rhyme that time; I'm a poet and don't know it).

There's a moment during childbirth when you enter a phase known as "transition." Every mother reading this right now is probably nodding and grabbing protectively at her nether regions, because "transition," though a benign-enough sounding word, might be more accurately described as "that period of time wherein the Evil One and his minions seem to descend upon your innermost ladybits with their pitchforks of fire."

However, once you're through it (in my experience, and especially if your epidural has not yet worn off) you find that the worst is behind you, and you finally get to push. That's where I am right now, in a non-childbirth-related sense. I'm on the other side of a life-changing trial with much work ahead and, finally, a vague notion of what that work might entail. So, in the spirit of feeling like the worst of this particular trial is behind me, I'd like to share a pictorial of some of the stuff I've been up to since we, Dear Readers, last communed via the Internet ether. Look for the pics in my next post, though, because at this moment I have to get to work.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

rain

Okay, okay. Natasha's a little overdone, I know. So sue me.

Can I help it if THIS is applicable to life in so many ways right now?

Crank up the volume, Baby. (And I dig it that she was, for years, a gospel singer).

Oh, yeah. Here's this evening at feeding time...looking up, of course:



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blog's going dark

for a while, at least. Got some figurin' to do.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

last night, looking up

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no words

I wanted to post the joyful story of our Disneyland adventure before sitting down and writing out this one. Truth is, I've gone back and forth, wondering if I should even blog about this subject at all, but since it's been weighing heavily on my mind since late last week, I'll go ahead and share it here. Warning, though: If you don't particularly want to learn of someone else's tragedy, I suggest skipping this one.

I got a call last Friday, just hours before we were to head home from Southern California, that a local family was involved in a horrendous accident in which three of their four children perished. They were also in SoCal at the time, not terribly far from where we were enjoying ourselves without a care. Now, I understand that this is a tragedy of nearly unthinkable proportions no matter where it happens, but when I say "local," I'm talking about a town that's not even a town, and that can't be found on most major maps. I believe we're called an "incorporated area," though the homesteaders and a well-known wagon party were here at least as early as they were in Flagstaff to the east of us. The enrollment at our little local school - once a one-room schoolhouse next to the railroad tracks - is up in recent years: I think they had just over a hundred kids this year, from Kindergarten through eighth grade.

Two of the children killed were students at the school.

A few weeks ago, our community came together for a spaghetti feast/Bingo night benefitting a much-loved employee at the school who is battling a serious illness. She was the first person I met there when I was still debating whether to homeschool or not, and her warmth and obvious love for the students was one of the things that convinced me that maybe public school wouldn't be so bad for our son.

I remember looking around the gym that night a few weeks ago, paper plate in hand, and agreeing with one of the cafeteria ladies who, with tears in her eyes, said something about what a special community we had. I remember thinking how hard it was to believe that someone we all knew so well was battling something life-threatening. I remember laughing with friends that night, all of us keeping an eye on each others' children to make sure they didn't fall off the bleachers or get too wild. We also watched those kids because most people around here seem to understand that life doesn't get much better than that. We cheer for those kids at games. We marvel at how fast they grow from year to year ("Seems like I saw your daughter just yesterday, getting on the school bus, and she was just a little girl. Now look at her!"). We open our doors to those kids when a family's at wit's end and needs extra help - or when the parents are just delayed in town.

Today was the last day of school, and no one knew quite how it would go, since everyone is still reeling from last Friday's news. It was debated whether the traditional Field Day - the tug-of-war, the basketballs-balanced-on-plungers relay, the barbeque - should be cancelled. It wasn't, and that was a good thing. Because despite the unthinkable enormity of what has happened here, those kids still need to be kids. They need to mark the end of another school year not just with tears and confusion, but with laughter, with the kind of joyous celebration of the start of summer at which schoolchildren excel. So, against the nearby backdrop of the growing memorial of flowers and teddy bears and posters of the three children's faces framed by notes upon notes from all the people who loved them, our kids laughed, and played, and leaned back against that rope as hard as they could until the other team collapsed, also laughing, onto the sand.

Another benefit dinner/Bingo night is planned for tomorrow in the gym, and it looks like the memorial service will be held at the end of this week, also at the school. This seems fitting, not just because the school is pretty much the central meeting place of our little "incorporated area" in the pines (the mercantile comes in a distant second). Mostly, it's fitting because the final farewell for those three children will happen where the heart and soul of our community - those hundred or so students - spend much of their vibrant young lives on this mountain.

There is a time for everything...a time to weep and a time to laugh...a time to mourn and a time to dance....
~Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

"Life is short. Shorter for some than for others."
~Augustus McCrae from Lonesome Dove

So, I suppose this post is mis-titled. I suppose there really are words that can be used to describe, to wonder, to grieve. It's just that they seem wholly inadequate for the task of comprehending how quickly life can change, how quickly this present world can matter not one bit, and how there had better be something else we cling to with all our hearts and with all our souls and with all our minds and with all our strength, if hope is to prevail.

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I'm baaaaaack

For those of you who have emailed, tried to leave comments, etc. for the past week or so, please forgive me, as I was working from a place that didn't allow me to access my Blogger account. Or maybe Blogger was just being bratty - I'm not sure which.

Anyway.


Since my last post I've been deeply immersed in birthday stuff for my son, which included the following: bringing cupcakes to his classroom, celebrating at a Flagstaff park with a bunch of his/our friends before heading to the movie theater to watch Shrek the Third (funny, but definitely the weakest of the three Shreks, in my opinion), hosting a slumber party, and then, on his actual birthday a couple days later, surprising him with a trip to the House of Mouse:

Say what you will about Disney. Despite the corporate shenanigans in recent years, and the schmaltz, I truly, madly, deeply love that Happiest Place on Earth. My first memory there is from when my parents brought me and my brother there when I was four, and I looked out through our hotel window at the late-night fireworks lighting up the sky. I also remember the Country Bear Jamboree (which is now where Winnie the Pooh and Friends is located) and that cool "Inner Space"-type attraction, where they shrank you down to the size of a bug (which is now Star Tours). The old submarines have been renovated, and will open this week as the new Finding Nemo subs.

Last year, while living in California, a big family group of us visited the park and upgraded our tickets to annual passes (a great deal if you've already bought multi-day tickets), so I wanted to get us there before our passes expired later this month.

And what a week it was. As if the surprise of the trip wasn't enough for our boy, we stepped onto Main Street that first day just as a huge parade with all the classic Disney characters in full regalia was approaching. Then (this was painstakingly arranged), I turned him around and said, "Who's that walking toward us?" as my mom and nephew (who is the same age, give or take a few weeks) approached. We haven't seen them since moving back to Arizona at Christmas-time, so it was quite emotional and awesome. Suffice it to say that the boy was stunned. He quickly got over it, though, and we spent the next five days in total, full-tilt Disney immersion.

Dude. It so totally rocked.

Last year we were there for the Pirates of the Caribbean; Dead Man's Chest premiere, and, while I didn't yet have the Nikon back then, I camped out next to the red carpet on Main Street for SEVEN hours just to get this picture of Orlando (insert dreamy sigh):

And this picture of Keira (gorgeous girl, but MAN was she wearing too much makeup that night):

The Governator passed right by...

As did Johnny, though he was bringing up the rear of the celebrity parade, and went by much too fast and far away for me to get a decent pic (he's the one in the fedora):

We missed the red carpet premiere of At World's End by a couple of weeks this year, which was just as well. And heading toward the park on Memorial Day might have been a bad idea traffic-wise, but it also meant that we didn't have to deal with any massive crowds for the whole week. That was cool.

I stayed with the boys most of the time, which meant that the week was filled with all the crazy, thrilling rides like Splash Mountain, the Matterhorn, Space Mountain, Indiana Jones and Star Tours. Meanwhile, my mom and daughter cruised through A Bug's Land via a Heimlich the Caterpillar coach multiple times, sailed through A Small World and joined us for rides like Pirates and Soarin' Over California (one of my all-time favorites in the California Adventure park). I had to go back to the hotel in the afternoons to log into work for a few hours, but it actually worked out fine, since the afternoons are generally when we'd start to poop out anyway. We ate way too much junk food, but since the train was out of service the whole time we were there, we walked most of it off. I'm hoping to post pictures soon, but we used only those throw-away film cameras, and I don't know if I'll be able to get them on a disc.

And now that we're back to "real life," I'm experiencing those familiar, post-Christmas-type blues that happen after a trip to Disneyland. Most people are probably relieved when it's time to leave the chirpy music and the cutesy facades of the Main Street stores, and the hordes of children on a communal sugar high, and the long waits to get on the rides (if you weren't smart enough to get your FastPass tickets).

Not me. I'd go back tomorrow if I could.

Come to think of it, our annual passes don't expire until the 20th.

Hmmmm....

If only my bank account balance looked as promising as the view from FantasyLand.

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I have to be honest

I really didn't know that Smokey Robinson was still alive. But seeing him on American Idol last night? It made me LOVE this country all over again, Baby!

I mean, okay. Let's face it. There's a good chance he'd been pulled out of the rest home to lip synch Tears of a Clown. (And more than a good chance that Gwen Stefani was doing the same with her new single, in my opinion - and I really like Gwen: I love running on the prairie to Just a Girl and Sweet Escape (a great "new mommy" number). Some day - I share this because I trust you all not to blackmail me with it later - I even aspire to be known as the Gwen Stefani of literary fiction). But I digress.

And then, good Lord, they trotted out Gladys. "I found a man who can put it all together," she sang, with the top several A.I. female contenders as her backup singers, and I thought, Ms. Knight must be about 103 years old by now, but by golly, I'll bet she's still gettin' busy. She belted out Midnight Train to Georgia, and I thought, I hope those young whippersnapper girls up there with her know just what an incredible honor is being bestowed upon them at this moment.

And then....really, it was almost too much...Tony Bennett came back to the A.I. stage to sing - of all the perfect, wonderful, tear-inducing things - one of the most gorgeously joyous Stevie Wonder songs ever: For Once in My Life. This is one of those songs I like to blast at eleven on the PowerStroke's stereo while fishtailing around the dog-leg turns at 50mph on the cinder road heading toward home. Tony is the kind of guy who makes you realize that your parents and grandparents (depending on your age) came from a generation So. Much. Cooler. than your own that you might as well just give up now even trying to aspire. Even Simon looked moved.

But were the A.I. producers going to stop there? Oh, no, Missy, they certainly were not. Because then my favorite contestant of this season (other than Jordin, an Arizona girl who is darned hard not to love) - Melinda Doolittle - sang some butt-kicking modern Gospel with BeBe and CeCe, for whom she has apparently been singing backup until now. I really applaud Idol producers for airing such a blatantly Christ-centered song: I very simply DIG that about them.

Okay, three words to describe the embodiment of the un-self-conscious joy I strive to someday achieve: African Children's Choir. I mean, there they are, in this big concert hall, on this big. momentous night in American music history, and they're all like, What's the big deal? They asked us to sing, so we're singing. Isn't this fun?

And, did I ever think I would actually laugh out loud for joy at a Sanjaya performance? Well, I did laugh. (Aerosmith's Joe Perry actually made an appearance in an early version of my newest novel draft, so it was pretty cool to see him rockin' his Sanjaya cameo so hard).

The Divine Miss M. came out a bit later. I love Bette. Who doesn't? She's like everyone's favorite wacky drama/dance teacher from high school - complete with leather mini-skirt and amazingly well-preserved/surgically-enhanced face. Another joyful gal who makes me smile.

I mean - Lord have mercy - did all these established and soon-to-be superstars just look around at each other backstage and say, "This, right here, is what it's like to be blessed," or WHAT?

Okay, so then there was this sort of tweaky Beatles tribute/fugue...but it didn't last too long.

Look. I fully understand that American Idol is, first and foremost, a big, contrived, corporate form of dopamine for the masses. I do. I also know full well that there's more than just a little of the "Sing out, Louise!" element to the whole thing. But does it make me a complete schmuck to say that I like it? Call me David Hasselhoff, but not once have I heard someone say, after finishing their performance, "Oh, and by the way, I really HATE George Bush,"...or, "Those evil Democrats are ruining EVERYTHING." And I believe our country needs more of this right now. So, the show has that going for it.

And, then?

I don't know. Because, while the kids and I were driving home from a Little League game near the Grand Canyon, my lovely Dish Network DVR decided to STOP RECORDING about 10 minutes before the end of the American Idol finale.

So, you tell me. Who won?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

so, me and my bad self...

...sat ourselves down in a dental chair first thing this morning to get an ancient filling (one that's been causing me grief for several months now) replaced. I was nervous enough about this simple procedure, but was completely unprepared for The Dentist to tell me that, if I was interested, he had time to go ahead and also do that ROOT CANAL he mentioned yesterday - the one I'd need on another tooth that I didn't even know had problems until they showed up on the x-ray.

Gulp.

I was so nervous last night about the root canal, and about the very real possibility of losing the tooth, that I called my oldest friend ever (not oldest as in she's old, but oldest in that we grew up on the same street). She's a dedicated dental hygienist, and managed to settle down my neuroses considerably (so, if your reading this, C, you ROCK). I'd never had a root canal, but just knowing what it entails has always been enough to make me shudder in horror. Suffice it to say I lost a little sleep last night, wondering how long I'd have to wait in painful anticipation to get it done.

I was also planning to enjoy a little sedative or nitrous oxide aperitif when the big event happened, but since I was already in the chair with one side of my mouth numb, I figured what the heck. And you know what? It wasn't bad at all. In fact, the worst part of the whole procedure was feeling like my mouth was some kind of construction zone, with all the metal and latex and heavy equipment moving about in there. It'll probably feel sore at some point, I'm sure, though it's already been several hours and the filling is bugging me more than the root canal.

Of course, it didn't hurt that the dentist is a dead ringer for Joaquin Phoenix. I mean, if ya gotta have someone drilling away on your teeth...

(If you're reading this, Dr. O, you and your staff rock, too!) :-)

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wednesday night lights and some minutia

Turns out Little League games are great girl bonding time. Our local team "blew it out the box" (as Randy Johnson would say, though I shouldn't even start talking about American Idol, traumatized as I am by Melinda's departure), winning their second of two games while we mothers chatted it up by the bleachers. Of course, we stopped to cheer when our boys were at bat.



Here are April's fingernails (the pink ones - mine are the plain Jane ones below hers) which I photographed before the game. Did I lie when I said they were glorious? I was hoping to get a picture of the opalescent tips she had the other day, but she'd already gotten them re-done. Because, like many women, she has her nails done on a regular basis. My nails, on the other hand, no longer look like they do in this picture, because I chew them to nubs on a regular basis. Hey, it's cheap maintenance.


My books arrived from Amazon a few days ago, all of which were recommended by another dear friend. I've started reading A Severe Mercy, which she tells me is going to be made into a movie.


Other than that, I got nuthin'.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

'tis the season

...for this:

I love baseball season. It's my son's fourth year (if you count his two seasons of t-ball), and it's like a yearly rite of passage when that first game rolls around and all the parents come out of the woodwork to unload camp chairs from their vehicles, clean their camera lenses and chat up other parents they haven't seen for a while. Our team's first game was last week, and the kids looked so spiffy in their new uniforms. Kicked some Little League tail, too. :-) I must blog about my friend April's fingernails, which never cease to amaze me, and which I was admiring at the game. They're perfectly manicured, with tips that look like OPALS! And she even has horses, which is just inconTHIEVEable to me (movie reference pop quiz: Let's see who can identify the origin of that word the fastest). I need to do a photo comparison between April's nails and mine so you can get the full effect.

I'm putting the chicks (I guess I can officially call them pullets now) outside during the day, in a temporary pen. Angel is happy about this. They seem to bring out her latent livestock-guarding instincts. (heh. As if. You just know she's thinking, "Chicken. It's what's for dinner.")

Unfortunately, it's also weed season. This double-whammy, dandelion/foxtail combo is the current bane of my existence:

Fortunately, though, where there are weeds, there are also these (I don't know what they're called, but they're very delicate and paper-like):

And these wild Irises:

This is one of my favorite sights of all, come spring. No one shoes a horse like that husband of mine:

Now I gotta get back to work.

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gallows humor for writers

My crack-up of the day: While researching alternate terms for a character's demise, I came across this list of writerly euphemisms for death on DeathSlang.com:

Made the big deadline.
Taking minutes for the Maker.
Went to that big spell-checker in the sky.
"Lateral mobility."
The final Edit.
The eternal offsite assignment.
Documented the Big D.
Reformatted.

And my favorite...

Very, very passive voice.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

why wait 'til Sunday?

Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms in my life!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

return of the soap queen, part 1

Way back in 2000 I got a hankerin' to make some soap. I had stalked the Primal Elements display at a local bath and body shop for months - you know, those pricey loaves of incredible looking (and smelling) soap sold by the slice/ounce? I started researching the melt and pour technique, because I've loved glycerin soap since owning my first Neutrogena bar as a pre-teen. I was also drawn to the intense colors and fun designs that were possible with glycerin soap-making.

I bought my first supplies from Michael's craft supply store- little pre-cut shapes for inserts, teeny squeeze bottles of fragrance and coloring, and some cheapo plastic molds. My first successful loaf of soap was some kind of berry punch; each slice was bright pink and looked like it had ice cubes floating inside. I was hooked. My mother-in-law ordered some expensive vertical molds from Canada for my birthday, which allowed me to branch out into some fun designs, one of which earned me first place at the County Fair (insert visual image of Nicole hooking thumbs proudly in her suspender straps).



My first craft show was a small gig benefiting the local volunteer firefighters auxiliary. I had no clue how to price the bars, my wrapping technique was iffy, and I was incredibly shy about selling. Still, I moved a decent chunk of my fledgling inventory that afternoon. From there I sold at a larger holiday gig in a nearby town, and the next year I hit the two biggest holiday craft fairs in Flagstaff. In 2002 the local paper came out to do a Sunday Arts & Living feature story on my little home-based soap business, which was incredibly cool.

In all, I had five good years of soap-making and selling before we picked up and moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, where the wonderful, glycerin-rich base I used misbehaved terribly; it actually sweated beads of glycerin in the humid air, making it difficult to package and work with. I did spend a day in my son's first grade classroom showing the kids how to make pretty jewel soaps for Mother's Day, but other than that the business went on hold.

Until yesterday. Yes, folks. The Soap Queen is back. Well, that might be a bit of a stretch, since soap-selling season really doesn't pick up until November. Applications for the big shows will be mailed next month, though, so it's not too early to start ordering ingredients. I need to update my website, too, since it's been languishing for over a year. Soaping, I've found, is a great way to get the creative juices flowing when it comes to writing, which is so non-physical. So, as I get ready for this latest book to leave the nest and start working on the next one, it will be good to get back to creating something that involves getting my hands dirty - er, clean.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

cue Vangelis

On second thought, rather than cueing the theme music from "Chariots of Fire," today's story might be better set against music from a movie titled something like "Rickshaws of Warm Milk."
Yes, I ran in my first 5K this morning.

It was actually kind of fun! Except for the part about waking up at 5:45 a.m. and seeing snow outside my window. Yes, snow. In May. The boy was excited to run in the kids' half-mile fun race, though, so I resisted the urge to dive headfirst back under the warm covers.

Also, the part about my hands going numb from the cold and my face feeling like it was going to fall off during the first half of the race (running into the arctic wind) wasn't so fun.

And neither was the end, when I gave all I had in the final stretch and, after crossing the finish line, thought I might throw up on the shoes of my nice neighbor, who's job it was to pull the little information tab from my paper number.

But other than those things, it was great.

Actually, I'm being more melodramatic than is warranted (a REAL shocker, I know). It was big fun to start the race with our son, who is basically a rocket ship with feet. He flew out ahead of me immediately, so I got to watch him and the other kids hit their halfway mark, then u-turn it and race back to the finish line (we gave each other a high-five as he passed me going the opposite direction).

I had driven the course last week, so I had some idea of how long 5 kilometers is. Let's put it this way: It's longer that I am accustomed to running. This course is mainly on asphalt, too, so it was also harder than the prairie/trail running I prefer. But I did run (rather than walk) the whole thing, which was a good feeling. It was humbling, however, to see the winner of the 10K come in only minutes after I finished the 5K. What kind of supplements are these people TAKING? And while I was nowhere near first place, I did get first place for the female 30-39 age group. So, that was pretty cool. The boy came in second place in the kids' race, which meant that both of us got pretty medals to show off.

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may musings

Son's baseball season is winding up, and the school year is winding down. An icy, feisty wind is still blowing outside and I still have a bunch of adolescent chickens living in the guest bathroom, but that's okay. Last weekend the daughter and I rode my gelding Zzari out to the old cowboy shed on the prairie. It came down in a storm several years ago, and is now not much more than a pile of weathered lumber on top of some rusty mattress springs. Still, an interesting landmark. Maybe I'll get a picture of it one of these days, and scan the picture my brother-in-law took of it when it was still standing.

I'm hoping to get some update work done on the blog this afternoon (links, nightstand books, etc). I don't have too many more hours, though, since Friday nights are pizza and movie nights around here. I asked the husband to pick up Talladega Nights if he makes his usual trip to the video store. I haven't actually read or heard a single review of this flick, so I don't know if it's any good.

I've been getting some very helpful feedback on the rough draft of the new novel - Beta readers rock. Also, I recently read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, which I never blogged about. A painful read, not because of Didion's prose style, which I enjoy, but because of her nearly unbelievable story of surviving the loss of her husband at the same time that their daughter came down with an (ultimately fatal) illness. Also, just to look at the picture on the back of the dust jacket (an elegant People magazine shot from the 70's) compared to the author photo on the inside back flap is shocking. I'm not sure what else to say about that book.

I've recently gotten my hands on The Time Traveler's Wife, which, sadly, is very likely to be eclipsed by Thirteen Moons, which I picked up just yesterday. I've read mixed reviews of Frazier's sophomore effort, so I'll be interested to see if it captivates me as thoroughly as Cold Mountain did.

That's it for now. I hope you all have a great weekend!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

prodigal cat

Took a couple of the chicks (now gawky, half-feathered/half-fuzzy teenagers) to son's school for show and tell yesterday. We finally had some beautiful weather, and even had to keep the windows open until well after dark last night to stay comfortable.

After we got home I brought all the chicks outside in the bigger wire cage to start acclimating them to the outdoors. I also did it so they don't get too used to the lap of luxury they've been experiencing as bathtub/house chickens. I tell ya, it's champagne wishes and caviar dreams for animals around here. Our Aussie sits next to the cage when we bring the chicks out like this, because she takes her guarding duties very seriously (as the cats will tell you). My daughter wanted to tell stories while we sat out there, so I told the story of the beautiful princess who had a cat named Angel, and it was a big hit. Then it was daughter's turn. "What story do you want to hear, Mom?"

"Hmm," I said. "How about The Very Tired Mama?"



Daughter thought about this for a minute. Then she said, "How about a story that doesn't have any scary parts?"

Anyway, I went out at around 10 pm last night (as I always do) to check on the horses and let Mr. Fatso gelding out of the corral where he eats his Jenny Craig rations while the older boys get the 2 flakes each/Equine Sr./corn oil feast. Life's not fair, I know, but if we didn't separate them, I have no doubt that I'd walk outside one day to see that Bearkhat had exploded. (I affectionately refer to him as a "Snausage" because he's the easiest keeper I've ever known. I'm convinced he could get fat on air alone.)


So, I'm out there and I hear a high-pitched meow. This is not unusual in the least, since Angel and Milo are outdoor kitties, and Angel frequently accompanies me for horse chores. As always, I say, "Hi, Angel." I hear the meow again, and look around for her gray stripes in the dark. Nothing. "Where are you?" I call out. Meow.


Now lets backtrack a bit to Christmastime 2005. A move to California was imminent. Arrangements had been made for the horses, and we were taking SheDog the Aussie with us. The only animal that didn't yet have accommodations waiting for him was Pepper Kitten, a half-feral black cat that I'd managed to remove from his entirely feral mama when he was about six or seven weeks old. I then tamed him, neutered him (well, I didn't neuter him - the vet did. I'm a fairly self-sufficient, handy gal, but there are limits), and generally transformed him into a pretty great (albeit still a tad wild) outdoor kitty. Now, for those of you who believe keeping a cat outdoors is tantamount to animal cruelty, I will tell you that I've owned outdoor cats all my life, and they've always been well-cared for, well-loved and extremely happy, spoiled rotten little beasties. Plus, my husband and I are allergic: He makes a run for the Albuterol inhaler when cats are inside, and my contact lenses start feeling like someone squirted Elmer's glue into my eyes.


So, when it came time to move, I was very torn about what to do with Pepper. I knew bringing him to California was out of the question: He'd lived his entire life at the end of a long dirt road, with prairie all around and no traffic. I knew he'd be flattened on the street in front of the CA house right away. I also had doubts about trying to re-home him. He knew his territory, and he owned it, and I could also imagine him running away from the new home and getting equally squashed. I knew he could probably fend for himself fairly well as the rural kitty he was, and I knew he occasionally visited neighbors, but still... Then my mother-in-law, who lives next door to us for part of the year, said she'd look out for him, which made me feel a bit better. So, we essentially did nothing with Pepper, and I agonized over this literally the whole time we were in CA.


The few times we returned to visit our place, our horses and our friends here in 2006 I looked for Pepper, and went out late at night to call for him (since that was traditionally when he liked to visit). Nothing. I had to believe he was either being shy or that he'd found a new home (probably with the Cat Lady, who lived right across the dirt road from us, and who has a local reputation for taking in cats that actually have homes already, keeping them inside and basically adopting him whether they need it or not. She even has a big yellow "Cat Crossing" road sign in front of her house. Clear enough picture?) My MIL had been putting out food, and she assured me that she'd seen him around, but I still worried. I take animal care very seriously, and not knowing how Pepper was doing was one of those things that I'd fret about in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. I know the other animal people out there get this.


So, in the four-plus months that we've been back in AZ, I've actively searched for PK, but to no avail. I've been putting food out in the horse trailer, and have called for him at night. I've also had to find a way to come to peace with the fact that I had very possibly made the wrong decision to leave him here when we moved, and that has not been easy. But you know what's coming, don't you?


I couldn't see Angel's stripes in the dark, but I did see something black and hairy. I had to stand there for a minute and let my brain catch up to what I was seeing, but there he was.

I said, "Pepper, is that you?" and he answered in the affirmative, winding around my legs like he'd always done, and drooling uncontrollably as soon as I started petting him. I couldn't believe it. Since both kids were already asleep, I ran to get the camera so I'd have proof when I told them this morning that Pepper was just fine. Then I went to pick him up and discovered that the whole year-plus I have spent worrying about him has been for naught. Because Pepper has apparently done more than just eke out a life of bare-bones survival here on the prairie. He apparently has a sugar mama (or several sugar mamas). I have included another photo for illustration purposes. Everything outside of the California and Texas-shaped areas roughly represents Pepper's mass as it appeared when we left for California.

He used to be a sleek, trim, efficient barn-type kitty, and now he is....how to put this delicately...

A lard ass.

Yes, our poor, deprived half-feral rescue has somehow managed to amass two entire states' worth of tonnage since being left behind.

And I feel like I've had at least that much weight lifted from my heart.

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story time for adults

This is how I described the Northern Arizona Book Festival to my son this past weekend, when he asked where I was going.

Billy Collins was there, and stole the show. After his (far too brief - I could have listened to him read for hours) reading, Lemony Snicket took the stage. Or rather, some guy whose job it was to explain Mr. Snicket's unfortunate demise (via a too-hideous-for-words creature at a picnic) took the stage. That guy was quite funny. I suspect he may have actually been Mr. Snicket in disguise, but one never knows. The whole thing was very mysterious and unfortunate.

I didn't get to devote as much volunteer time to the festival as I would have liked, though I did spend several hours (some of it with the husband's help) updating their address list. Those school board secretary skills have to come in handy somewhere.

In other news, we've got a whole lotta truck love going on at Brackett Villa. Herewith:

oh yeah.

that's what I'm talkin' about

uh huh.

come on, baby - bring it.

Let me hear ya TESTIFY!

I loved my trusty Chevy S-10, which has carried me and the children around faithfully for the past couple of years (and that's saying a lot, coming from a Ford woman).

But Mama's big truckin' again, and that means life is GOOD.

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rough

April 23.

Snow coming down outside the window.

The book is beta-reader ready, more or less.

It's been a long, hard year.

I'm kinda happy and extremely tired.

Strangely, this describes my current mood pretty well.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

hot chicks in a bathtub

If the title of this post doesn't bring more male readers to this blog, then I give up.

I hope you all had a happy Easter, as we did here at the Brackett household.

Still working feverishly on the book.

Remind me to tell you how I now know that these newest additions to our menagerie have multiple lives, much like cats. (Hint: the story involves an exploding heat lamp.)




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"I like your buttons."

Recommendation 1: Go see Blades of Glory, especially if you've gotten into the unfortunate habit of taking yourself too seriously lately.

Recommendation 2: Do not eat a large meal of Indian food beforehand.

I had a great birthday yesterday. It started with a call from Mom, a gift of flowers from a friend, and hugs and drawings from the kids. I did some spring cleaning, worked on the manuscript draft, which is coming along nicely (I met my goal of having something halfway-decent hammered out by the time another year turned over on the ol' odometer), and then got to enjoy some cake and ice cream before heading out to one of my favorite Flagstaff restaurants of all time - Delhi Palace - with my husband. The meal was awesome - tandoori-style meats, curry spicy enough to get the nostril hairs tingling, and, of course, one of my favorite carb vices: Naan (fried potato-ey, bread-y pancake-y things).

After gorging ourselves thusly, we rushed over to the theater, arriving just in time to see some of the upcoming summer movie trailers. It's going to be a good film season, methinks, considering the triple whammy of Shrek 3, Pirates 3 and Spider Man 3, all of which look like they're going to be excellent. So, then our movie began. Now, I will admit up front that I am a huge John Heder fan. I'm one of those people who "got" Napoleon Dynamite (and, thanks to my sister-in-law, I even have a "liger" sticker on my truck to prove it). I also enjoy Will Ferrell tremendously. The two of them together are almost too much for my brain and stomach to handle, and I mean that in a good way. Honestly, I don't think I've laughed so hard since watching Sinbad's show at Morehouse College called Brain Damaged, which used to air on the comedy channels all the time in the late 90's (my husband and I have tried to find a copy of it for years, to no avail). Seriously, Blades of Glory actually caused laughter-related pain, and afterward we both felt totally depleted, which is what I consider to be a quality movie-going experience.

So, now it's full-on spring, I'm officially not getting any younger, and I want to go outside and play with the kids and dog and cats and horsies and chickens...but first I need to get this book beta reader-ready. I could actually use one more really good snowstorm at this point as an excuse to chain myself to the computer for a couple more days. Barring that, I'll just have to draw the blinds, shutting out all that gorgeous sunshine for a little while longer.

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today in the land of fairies and elves...

...it's Sarcastic Wednesday! (AKA "the day when the boss brings us all the money and throws it at our feet.")Follow @nicole_mcinnes

wherein I get the tiniest glimpse of what Simon Cowell’s mother must have experienced

Yesterday a cool thing happened at church: My son let his voice be heard loud and clear among all the other voices during singing. This may not sound like a big deal, but we attend a very small church (record attendance is 61 if memory serves – there were about 20 of us yesterday), and the songs are always sung without piano or other accompaniment. In a group that small every voice stands out, so I thought it was pretty brave of him. In fact, not only did our boy sing, but he followed right along with the words and music in the hymnal, even mastering most of the tricky pauses in songs like “How Great Thou Art” and “I am Resolved.”

So, naturally, on the drive home, I told him that I thought his singing was fantabulous.

There was a pause. Then, from the back seat, I heard, “Really? You think so? I thought it was sort of pitchy and all over the place.”

This may be a stretch, but I think there exists the slightest possibility that I’ve been letting him watch too much American Idol.

In other news, THIS IS IT. The final week of my writerly blitzkrieg with which I hope to accomplish the completion of my latest manuscript (or at least a half-decent draft) by the time I turn 37. So, please, ESP those thoughts, prayers and vibes of endurance. I need all the edge I can get.

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critter-filled spring break

I suppose it's a given that when you live in the country you're going to see your share of animal behavior (and I'm not just referring to my children). My son's been on spring break from school this week, which essentially means that the house has been a wreck, I haven't gotten as much writing done as I meant to, and...we've had lots of fun. This was especially true today when we woke up to this on the prairie just outside the kitchen window at dawn:

My husband counted 16 in the elk herd - a bunch of cows and some adolescent males.

Later in the day we headed into town and paid a visit to the local pound. Both kids have missed having kitties around (my mom's ancient Himalayan died while we were living in California). So, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you (drum roll, please...) Angel!

And Milo!

Honestly, it was an absolutely emotionally exhausting experience visiting the Humane Association, especially since we had to walk through the dog kennel to get to the cat room. Not to bring everyone down, but you'd have to be super-human (or maybe sub-human) not to feel your heart break at the sorrow-filled eyes of the old dogs and the hope-filled eyes of the puppies. This kind of suffering is one of the things I plan to bring up with the Big Guy when I hear the roll called up yonder someday. Until then, it feels good to know we could spring two of the inmates.

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can't talk. writing.

Okay, maybe I can talk for just a minute. I've morphed into a composing machine, still intent on finishing this draft of the new novel by my birthday. I have two weeks. I like to think this means I'm "borin' with a big auger," as the cowboys say, but it may mean that I'm just delusional.

And speaking of things completely unrelated, please tell me that Barbie doesn't have a new dog named Tanner that poops little Barbie pet-sized loaves. Please tell me I was hallucinating when I walked by the television and saw the ad this morning. I mean, just don't even get me started here. First of all...Tanner?? Who would name a dog something that makes you think of taxidermy?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

tough flowers

As Mr. Groundhog predicted last month, spring has sprung early here on the prairie. I planted these crocus bulbs several years ago, in a little patch of hard, rocky soil next to our pump house. But they're tough little blooms ready to herald the arrival of the Vernal Equinox next week, and each year they prove that they won't be deterred from doing their job, despite lack of pampering. I like that in a flower.

And speaking of things resilient and beautiful, yesterday I got to see some old playgroup friends I haven't seen since before we moved to the Bay Area for our year-long sabbatical. For the first few minutes of our brief reunion everyone just stood around marveling at how much all the kids had grown. One of these families has been a part of our life since our son was just a year old, the other since our daughter was younger than that. And there's something about forming friendships as a new parent that must provide extra glue; although I haven't seen these women in well over a year, it felt like we just picked up where we'd left off. It's nice to know those bonds transcend the temporary convenience of early childhood play dates because Lord knows we moms have all been to H-E-double-toothpicks and back in various ways since playgroup unofficially disbanded a couple of years ago. I may not live in a mansion, and I may not drive a Rolls, but these women remind me that I am rich with friends-for-life friends.

In other news, I'm still laboring daily at a draft the new book, which is finally deciding to cut me some slack. In this respect it's a far cry from my last novel, which seemed to spring to life almost fully formed, like Athena from the forehead of her daddy, Zeus. I was on fire with that last one, writing more often than not in what felt like a state of near-effortless inspiration. Little did I know how cushy I had it. But I'm excited by this new book, and it seems somehow fitting, given the gritty storyline and characters, that I should have to sweat over it a little. My dad commented the other day that I must be as busy as a one-armed paper-hanger, which is a figure of speech I like (and may use).

That's all from the Western Front for now. Time for me to don the helmet and flak jacket (i.e. sit at my keyboard and open up the draft file) again, 'cause "I'm goin' in."Follow @nicole_mcinnes

bad mare day

Uh oh.

It looks like Sparkle Wedding Pony and all her My Little Pony friends partied a little too hardy at Sparkle's bachelorette party:




The groom is NOT amused:



But wait! All Sparkle and her friends need is an aspirin or two, and some Cowboy Magic mane and tail detangler (not just for real horses anymore!)...

Hooray! The wedding's back on. The groom forgives Sparkle, and all the pony friends look fabulous once again!

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I try not to swear

in front of the children. I don't try hard enough, though, because they hear more language than they should, and I'm not proud of this. So, here's my attempt at weaseling out of full culpability: Swearing, for me, is usually a reflexive thing. I bang my head on the open door of a hanging cabinet (because I'm so nearsighted that I'm *this close* to being legally blind, and when I'm wearing my glasses instead of my contacts my peripheral vision is a great Gaussian blur surrounding two little windows of clarity). Or I slice my finger instead of the tomato. That sort of thing.

I remember well my first taste of willful cussing. I must have been about seven or eight, and we kids were hanging out on the front lawn - my brother, myself, the neighbor kids. And I don't know what got into me. Maybe it was frustration at reaching the age where I realized it was no longer appropriate to take my shirt off (like the neighbor boy did) and play in the big, fresh pile of landscaping dirt in front of his house. But I don't remember being frustrated.

I do remember wanting to show off. Looking back now, I think of Ralphie from the movie A Christmas Carol, whose father "wove a tapestry of profanity which to this day is still hovering somewhere over Lake Michigan." I doubt that my own swearing binge was very artful that day, but I do know that it was effective. As soon as I was done with my little teeny-bopper Tourette's rampage I noticed my brother, who was staring at me across the lawn like my hair had just turned into a nest of snakes. He tried to tell me too cut it out NOW, but that, of course, was only an excellent incentive to figure out more bad words to shout into the early spring air.

And that was all she wrote. Some people who have to cart oxygen tanks on wheels everywhere they go remember their first smoke back in the fifties (pompadour, poodle skirt, Frankie Valli playing on a jukebox somewhere, etc.). I remember my first cuss. I remember the heady cocktail of liberation and shame, the shock and awe those words coming out of my mouth seemed to cause in the other kids running around on our lawn that day. I don't remember liking the taste of that cocktail exactly, but it didn't matter. Like the first pinch of Copenhagen to a snuff queen, those words were an addictive substance that I now hope won't hook my own kids. Which is why I try not to swear in front of them.

Which brings us to this morning, and my report of half-victory. I didn't exactly swear in FRONT of my daughter, who was busy playing at the coffee table while I collapsed into the recliner and cracked open Billy Collins' "The Trouble with Poetry (and Other Poems)." Collins is the former Poet Laureate of the United States (2001-2003), and he's one of the featured authors at the Northern Arizona Book Festival this year. And it was his poem,"Statues in the Park," which caught me so off guard (so soon after taking that first sip of my addictive morning coffee) that I just barely managed to keep my mouth shut as the words "Holy sh*t" popped into my brain.

Do yourselves a favor and pick up a copy of this book.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

talk about a triple salchow

Got to go to an ice-skating birthday party this weekend for the sole girl in my son's class of ten. I know: That poor teacher. Our boy took skating lessons a couple of years ago, so he was basically Evil Knievel on ice. However, it was our girl's first time skating. And she was such a trouper. Every time she fell down (and there were many, many falls), she'd sit there for a second, splayed across the ice like a starfish in her purple snowsuit, before scrambling back up and saying, "It's no big deal."

Anyhoo, while the Flagstaff rink was extremely crowded, and the male half of the species was well-represented, I certainly don't recall seeing anything like this. And I really think I would have noticed. (Thanks, Dad, for the link. I also liked the accompanying email note, which read, "I'm forwarding this only to illustrate the kind of SHOCKING!! display that should surely be BANNED before it corrupts the morals of our women folk.")

Okay, okay. Gold lame' - I'm not so much into that. However, Evengi wears it well, and I do dig the fact that he looks a lot like a young, healthy, non-smoking Joe Elliott - my first rock star crush of the early 80's.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

beware the ides

This is a picture of our son's gelding yesterday - the last day of February - when I went out to feed the horses their dinner. Note the black, snowthunder sky before sundown.

While March didn't come roaring in as fiercely as it could have, I'm banking on that "out like a lamb" thing at the end of the month. 'Cause, Baby, it's COLD outside.

I probably won't be blogging as much as I'd like for the next few weeks, primarily because I've committed myself to finishing a working draft of the new novel before my early April birthday. I'm also swamped by my work-from-home work, which is a good thing.

Today I picked up some Luci Tapahonso books, both for research and enjoyment. She's a Navajo poet and fiction writer, more well-known now than she was over a decade ago when I first heard of her via my NAU office mate, who was basing her doctoral thesis on Ms. Tapahanso. So far, what I've read is lovely, and I wish I'd looked into her books sooner.

One thing that's keeping me plugging away at this draft is the carrot-on-a-stick thought that I'll be able to get back to reading for pure enjoyment when I'm done (as opposed to reading for enjoyment while simultaneously feeling guilty for not reading for research).

Another think keeping me going is the fact that, by the time April arrives, the geldings will have shed the majority of their woolly mammoth haircoats, and the days will be getting long enough to canter off across the prairie after my husband gets home from work to watch the kids.

Until then, though, I need to focus on wining and dining my muse as much as possible. Wish me luck in keeping that finicky gal happy until the the draft's wrapped up.

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