Sorry if you've come across my blog while it's being revamped. The construction work is pretty much done and hopefully my new, clean, streamlined layout will give me the clarity of mind I'm always wishing I had. Well, it's a start . . .

So the fam (down to husband, me and Wee One at home) is talking big about going vegetarian. Mostly it's husband and Wee One doing the talking. We don't eat much meat in the first place and many of our meals are already vegetarian. But I find it funny when they say they'll start, "as soon as this Canadian bacon's gone" or "when I'm done with the package of beef jerky" or some such thing. I don't know if they have it in them when faced with temptation.

I was vegetarian for a couple of years in my late teens. Then I met my husband and even as in love as he was, pastaroni and canned pears weren't going to cut it (I was yet to discover my inner gourmet). Needless to say it's difficult to cook meals that would satisfy both.

But the talk has been going on for some time now and Wee One really wants to do it. Even if it means giving up her shrimp-flavored cup-o-noodles (sometimes the inner gourmet takes a break). Lettuce see what happens : )

P.S. Pop over to my friend Megan's relaunching of her fun and informative blog Orange Peanut. You might just see someone you know . . .

I wouldn't say my daughter is taking ballet lessons so much as joining a culture. I had no idea that was going to happen when we signed her up at age six, all the way back when it was still okay to wear unds under your baby-blue leotard. No, the assimilation slowly crept up on me.

Beyond increasingly bigger parts in performances, taking more classes, going en point and being asked to join the company, there is a lifestyle that sucks the dancer into the ballet culture. It's one of buns and hair pins, toe shoes and leotards, sweat and sore feet, and car rides . . . lots and lots of car rides. I think Wee One loves life at the studio off the floor as much as on. I see her giggle with her friends, fix the newest bow in her hair and survey what the others have brought for snack. They appraise new skirts or tops and share tips on wearing hair nets, all while in the splits, bonding as only ballerinas can.

As the years go by, everything increases: the costs, the time commitment, the responsibility ("did you wash my tights?"). I know we're no different than other families who get wrapped up in soccer or swimming or the such. If I had to choose, I'd rather watch Wee One twirl in the family room while humming the Dance of the Sugarplum than have shin guards laying around the house or endure the constant smell of chlorine. For an obsession, at least it's a lovely one.

At the grocery store yesterday the bagger asked if I needed help out to my car. I meant to say, "No, I'm good." Instead, what came out was,

"No, I'm God."

And of course, if God can create heaven and earth, he can handle pushing a cart into the parking lot. But thanks for asking.

In the past week I've bought two new purses and a wallet. Yes, purses are my weakness, as shoes are my husband's. And when Darling Daughter reads this I know I'm going to hear about it. Let me just say now, they were all good deals.

I search endlessly for the bag that will have the right number and size of zippered sections for all my stuff; be not too deep, not too shallow, not too floppy, not too rigid, lightweight and comfortable, with pockets that allow for easy access of phone and chapstick . . . and be cute to boot.

My obsession with the perfect handbag goes beyond fashion, though. Don't mistake me, I love admiring the shapes, materials and adornments of new clutches and hobo bags. But beyond that, I've always had this sense that finding the perfect purse will somehow make everything in my life fall into place. I guess it has something to do with my quest to be organized. I periodically start new systems, buy new gadgets, in an attempt to manage my time and keep life running smoothly.

As a writer, and a muddled person in general, I have frequent brain lapses. I am always preoccupied; more so as the years go on. It's to the point where I don't even listen to the radio in the car anymore - I just have too much whizzing around in my brain. I once dropped my daughter off at a friend's house all day, only to learn it was a different Rebekah who had called and invited her over. There were lots of reasons I should have caught that, the mom looking totally baffled as I breezily thanked her for having Wee One over being one of them. That's when I seriously began worrying that I wasn't allowing enough brain space to think clearly.

And what helps me think clearly? Organization. Clearing out the clutter and unnecessary distractions. Hence a need for notebooks, calendars, PDAs and sticky notes always within reach. And something to keep them all in.

So there's a little thrill I get when I transfer stuff from my old purse to my new one, compartmentalizing every little thing, noting how perfect this or that aspect of my new handbag is, ignoring the things that aren't. With every spot I slip my sunglasses or keys in, every card I slide into place in my new wallet, I gain a sense of control of my destiny, ready to take on the world with my new animal print bag, enjoying the confidence I suddenly have in my ability to conquer all that comes my way . . . and life is good - until all that comes my way begins collecting in the depths of my prized purse, tumbling around with mints, pens and old receipts, and the search begins again.

In the past couple of months I have read this:
and this (different annotations):
and saw this in San Diego on opening night:
watched this twice:
and I've lost count how many times I've watched this:
Next up - Mansfield Park.

Today I want to tell you about a wonderful writer, a few months new to me and in a few short more weeks, new to publishingdom.

I met Rose Cooper in the most bizarre way. Two clean cut nineteen-year-old boys made the connection for us. When I was told she was a writer, I was like, right, aren't most people? But then I stalked her online and found out that not only was she represented by the most successful YA/MG agent in the business, but that her debut book was ready to be pre-ordered on Amazon. She was a bona-fide writer traveling the same path as me, albeit several steps ahead.

Rose Cooper lives two miles from me and being able to connect with another flesh and blood YA/MG writer has been an amazing experience. Not only have I had the joy of writerly commiseration, I've gotten a sneak peek at her book, Gossip From the Girls' Room. And it is hilarious. Here's the blurb:

If there's anything going on at Middlebrooke Middle School, Sofia has it all right here, in her super-secret notebook... Sofia Becker "accidentally" overhears gossip in the girls' room. She jots down all the juicy gossip in her notebook so her brain won't forget any super single important detail. Filled with text and hilarious sketches, follow Sofia on her dramatic journey to finding gossipy goodness for her blog while surviving 6th grade, gaining the attention of her crush, taking down the Popular Pretties and staying true to her BFF. Whew, what's next--taking on the world?

What I loved about Sophia was the false bravado she uses to get her through one of the most hellacious times in anyone's life. She's not as brazen as she pretends to be, but darn it if she's going to let anyone find that out. Wee One, who's in seventh grade this year, devoured the book and quotes it still months later. She can't wait for the next one to come out. She perfectly identifies with the ridiculously accurate picture Rose paints of middle school.

Rose is a gem, and I'm so excited to watch as her writing career takes off. I highly recommend picking up Gossip From the Girls' Room for the middle-grader in your life - or even for yourself if you're looking for a trip down middle school memory lane, punctuated with laugh-out-loud drawings.

I haven't been around because of life lately. But I'm so excited, I had to pop in and share this. My writer peeps will appreciate just how awesome this is. My early Christmas present from my husband: our shed converted into a writing studio for me.

I'm so thrilled and keep pinching myself. I'd only dreamed of ever having a "room of my own". And now I do! I am very humbled and thankful that I'm able to have such a wonderful thing.
And it's amazing how much easier it is to focus in here. With no distractions I am becoming very productive! It's just 6' x 8', perfect size for my needs. I call it my woman cave.

Hope you are all productive, too!

At the cabin, after the barbeque. Kids want to chill and Handsome One (my husband) and I are up for a walk.

It's dark out. Pine trees disappear into the night. Yellow squares of light peek out of houses tucked away from the road. We walk down the slope, around the curves, keeping to the left like good pedestrians.

Our lungs inhale clean air that the lake seems to purify somehow. There are no sounds but our voices and the crunching of the gravel beneath our feet. I walk quickly to warm my body in the cool night air. At 6'4", Handsome One just increases his stride slightly to keep pace.

We talk about life, family the future. We murmur our hopes and fears, words drifting away in the higher elevation. Juniper and ponderosa absorb our spoken thoughts along with the CO2, recycling them back to us as life breath.

Our thoughts, opinions, and ideas are in sync more often than not and I relax into the comfortable feeling of easiness. Eighteen years will bend any couple toward each other, if they let it. I am at peace and I am thankful.

Cars come around the bend now and then, bright lights cutting through the night like knives. I close my eyes and reach for his hand, trusting he will keep me safe until I open them again.

When I pass her room and see the boxes piled up my heart hurts. When I step into her empty closet my gut wrenches. When I lay on her bed and smell her scent I lose it. Darling Daughter is leaving for Oregon on Labor day. The enormity and finality of it is washing over me like a tidal wave and threatening to sweep me out into oblivion. Why didn't I paint toenails with her more often, take her to lunch, shop when she wanted to? I always thought there'd be more time for that, but my heart hammers as I realize time's up.

I am not a helicopter parent. I do not hover. I am excited for my daughter to be independent and well-adjusted. I just love her so much.

She was a freshman at community college this past year and we saw so many changes. She was beginning to emerge from the teenage egocentricity (emerge, mind you, not free of). She learned to take responsibility for herself, especially with her schooling and finances. The enormous relief to a parent that comes from the end of nagging is indescribable. We were able to start a new chapter in life. One where she became a dear sister to Wee One, a friend to me and a source of pride to her dad.

We only got to enjoy one year of it. Husband and I agree that it would have been much easier if she had left shortly after high school. Mother nature produces those strains through the adolescent years for a reason. It's a way to begin the eventual separation. We were always close, but the drama was really hard to endure. Tensions were high, but they've disappeared significantly since then.

I could list a thousand little things I will miss with her gone. But I'm trying not to be selfish and concerned only with what I'm losing. I'm trying to be excited for her new adventure. I haven't cried in front of her yet, I don't want her to feel more homesick. I already made husband cry, though. It will be tough for all of us.

I'm making a herculean effort to hold it together. I know all of our good times together are not over. We can still paint toenails, go out to lunch and shop when we visit. I'm going to enjoy watching her spread her wings and start this new phase of life, and treasure the parts I get to yet share with her.

The first in an on-going series . . .

The fact that I even exercise is amazing. This feat is accomplished only because I joined a women's circuit fitness club which has set up the workout for me so that I have to do zero thinking. All the effort I have to put into it is to drive there and get my sorry saggy butt in the door (which is a challenge in itself).

This nation-wide chain is popular with the older set, and my club is no exception. Perhaps you have heard me rant about being stuck in the circuit behind the senior with the walker. I have many tales to tell about my escapades with the exercising elderly. Today's involved The Odiferous One.

The Odiferous One (T.O.O.) must be pushing eighty, though her hair is still as red as it was when she was twenty. Grandma cannot seem to come to the gym without a dousing of old lady perfume, despite the many signs posted about the place asking the women to refrain from wearing scents to the club. I'm not normally sensitive to smells; I wear a spritz of O oui! myself from time to time. But this chemical, vaguely floral, smell is a sinus assassin.

T.O.O. has an uncanny knack for showing up whenever I choose to workout. I've tried to vary my workout times in vain. But today I thought I pulled a fast one on granny. I'm on the last leg, thinking, "oh, yeah, olfactory freedom at last!" As if that were her cue, she pops in.

T.O.O. starts about seven spots ahead of me in the circuit. I'm on my last round, I figure I can tough it out. The problem is, T.O.O. is so slow she moves one station for every two the rest of us do. It isn't long before I'm slammed up against her on the circuit - and my head is about to explode with every inhale. So I skip the last few machines.

Curse you T.O.O.! My butt will forever be saggy because of your old lady scent.

At least that's the excuse I like to use.