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Karen McQuestion's Blog

McQuestionable Musings

from a Wisconsin writer

Archived Blog:

7/05- 9/07

NEW BLOG LINK:

Eventually I'll figure out how to do this, but for the time being,

my new blog is here. Thanks for being part of my world!

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September 30, 2007

Life is good--another one of my commentaries aired on the local NPR radio station.

A friend who heard it commented that I read it well. Ha!--as if. It was only 500 words and they were my words, but still I stumbled and stammered.

Luckily, Mitch Teich, the producer, is a very kind and patient man. Whenever I flubbed, he calmly said, "Take two," (even when it was actually takes three, four and five) and gave me a chance to do it over again. Radio magic. They sew it all together to make one seamless piece. Life should be that way.

The essay that aired last week was called Almost Everyone Needs An Editor. So true. If you're interested in hearing it you can go here. And if you're not interested, have a very nice day.

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September 12, 2007

Four years ago, I was lucky enough to be awarded a two week residency by the Ragdale foundation, an artist's retreat in Lake Forest, Illinois. For those who aren't aware of what that means, I give you an explanation right off the Ragdale website:

"At Ragdale we believe that time and space are not luxuries but necessary elements for creating important new work. Ragdale provides these necessities to artists in the form of two- to eight-week residencies. Add eleven other creative individuals to the mix, acres of idyllic prairie, a family-style dinner each night, and you have Ragdale."

Doesn't that sound wonderful? Another writer described Ragdale as "heaven" and I think that sums it up nicely.

At the time I went, I had three kids at home--one in high school, one in middle school and one in grade school. Every night when I called my family, my youngest child asked when I was coming home. Heartbreaking. Only being at Ragdale (and knowing my husband and mother had things well in hand) kept me from leaving early. Because not only did the residency give me the space and time to write, but it also gave me much needed validation and the company of other artists. The conversation at dinner, among like-minded individuals, was a gift.

There were two painters, a composer, short story writers, poets and novelists there during my stay. The woman I shared a bathroom with was head of the creative writing program at an Ivy League university. Others had won prizes or been awarded grants for their work. I was the least accomplished of the group, but I took comfort in the fact that at least I was in the group.

One evening, a reading was held in the communal living room. It was voluntary, so of course I opted out. In retrospect, I wish I had read, but insecurity held me back. I sat quietly holding a glass of wine and listened while others read their work. I heard such wonderful writing that night--poetry that touched me so deeply I found myself wiping away tears. Short stories that packed a world in a dozen pages. And chapters from novels that were so brilliant they gave me something to aim for.

I remember coming home and giving my husband all the details. One project, in particular, stood out for me--a historical novel about Mamah Borthwick Cheney, best known for her scandalous affair with Frank Lloyd Wright. The writer, Nancy Horan, was deep into the project at that point and had done extensive research. At the time she was making decisions about the best way to structure the story. The night of the reading she read from a section she'd reworked and it just sung. I remember thinking I couldn't wait to read it as a published novel, and I was certain it would get published. Judging from the reaction in the room that night, everyone else felt the same way.

Most readers of this blog will probably recognize the novel--now published and on the New York Times bestseller list--it's titled LOVING FRANK and is every bit as wonderful as I remembered.

This past Sunday I had the pleasure of hearing Nancy Horan read again, this time at a Borders in Madison, WI. Just like at Ragdale, the audience leaned forward as she read, completely entranced. The discussion afterward was lively. One attendee, an elderly woman had lived down the road from the Wrights and visited them in their home. Her stories were incredible. Finally someone asked how old she was and she told us she was nine months shy of her 100th birthday. When the applause died down, she said modestly, "I didn't do anything."

Later Nancy talked to the group about how she came to write the book. She referenced Ragdale and mentioned me by name, something that warmed my heart. So many successful writers are also very generous, I've found, and Nancy falls into both categories.

If you're interested in finding out more about the Ragdale Foundation, you can go here. If you click on "Support" you're given opportunities to donate money or items on their wish list. When you read Nancy's book I think you'll agree that a financial contribution to Ragdale is a worthwhile way to support the arts.

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September 5, 2006

My word, I have never seen so many mosquitoes in my entire life! The combination of dry weather, followed by Wisconsin's monsoon season and a more recent stretch of sunshiny days has provided perfect conditions for egg hatching or whatever it is they do.

Last night my son Jack pulled me over the the front door to look at the white siding opposite the light fixture. I was glad to be in the air conditioned house, because clustered on the siding, like bats on a cave wall, were hundreds of mosquitoes. I felt itchy just looking at them.

Jack said solemnly, "They know we have to come out eventually."

I'm praying for a brief but effective cold snap. But not so cold it botches things up for the farmers. As long as I'm asking I might as well be specific.

And in other news, my writing life is coming along nicely, thanks for asking. I recorded a few more of my personal essays for the local NPR affiliate, WUWM. The humorous nostalgia piece I did about phones aired yesterday. If you're interested, you can see and hear it here. Sorry my voice sounds like that--it just does.

Also, I was interviewed on the Anthologies Online website! Big thanks to Amy L. Jenkins, a terrific editor and writer, for featuring me on her site.

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August 30, 2007

I once read that most people think they're better-than-average drivers. I myself am slightly above average, although if you ask my oldest son Charlie, he'd say my driving sucks.

Last spring I was driving him back to his university campus, which is basically a bunch of buildings surrounded by corn fields, when I was pulled over by a cop. This surprised me because I was 100% certain I was NOT speeding. I pride myself on only going the allowed five mph over the limit. Never six, never seven, because that would just be wrong, and I am nothing if not a law-abiding citizen.

My heart was pounding a-bang-a-bang-a-bang as if I'd been caught carrying a sack of money with an already exploded dye pack. The officer asked if I knew that I was going eighteen miles over the speed limit. I expressed my disbelief. Secretly I thought this man was making the whole thing up, trying to generate a little revenue for this podunk town. I was on a country highway, I said. Didn't country highways have a 55 mph speed limit?

"Nope," he said, pointing to houses someone had put along the road when I wasn't looking. "This is residential. It's 35 mph."

"Oh," I said. And then in a brilliant bit of logic I explained that since I thought I the limit was 55, I was actually driving 2 mph less than the speed limit as I'd perceived it. "I don't think it's clearly marked," I added.

He then explained that I'd passed at least two speed limit signs from the time I turned off the expressway.

"Maybe," I said, "you could give me a warning?" I tried my best to look contrite. "If I just got a warning, I promise never to speed again. It was just a misunderstanding."

He frowned. "Just wait here." And then he walked back to the squad car.

"Just give me a warning?" Charlie mimicked. "Ha! That's a good one. Like that's going to work."

But, oh happy day, it did work. He came back and said he was letting me off, which would save me $187 dollars and three points. I'm not sure if it was my contrite look or skewed logic, or what, but ever since then I've been that annoying driver who clogs up traffic because I now go so slowly that kids on bikes sometimes pass me.

The next week when I was driving the same route I purposely watched for speed limit signs, thinking they weren't as obvious as he made them sound, but I was completely wrong. Those damn 35 mph signs were EVERYWHERE. There were two signs warning that the speed limit was going to change and then after that there were two more prior to the place I was pulled over. I have a theory that the signs were erected sometime after my incident because a person would have to be completely oblivious not to see them.

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August 21, 2007

School starts in less than two weeks, a fact that makes some of the people in this household very sad. Others feel just the opposite.

It seems like every summer my two older kids, Maria and Charlie, stay up later and later until finally, at the end of August, they have almost completely flipped their schedules around. Charlie in particular becomes nocturnal, eventually having more in common with kangaroo rats and vampires than most people could ever hope for.

Jack is the only disciplined one, straying from his school-year bedtime by less than an hour. Returning to his school schedule requires only a minor adjustment. I think he's very sensible, but his older brother mocks him and calls him obsessive. True visionaries are almost always misunderstood.

Every year Maria decides that a really good plan would be to start going to bed 15 minutes earlier each night until she's finally at her usual school year bedtime. We talk about it and both agree it's a really great idea. I offer to remind her.

And then neither one of us follows through and BAM, the first day of school is here before you know it and we have to go to plan B, which is that Maria, along with the rest of the kids in her high school, is just really, really tired for a week or two.

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August 8, 2007

My family is back from Maryland, where we visited with my husband Greg's sister Trish, ate crab, saw a few sights and generally relaxed.

Maryland (or MD, if you want to be postal about it) is a beautiful state--lush green trees, winding roads and the biggest pine needles I've ever seen. Seriously, these pine needles are as long as drinking straws. It gives new meaning to the phrase "bed of pine needles." I always wondered about that--the ones in Wisconsin are way too poky to sleep on.

The only problem with going to MD in August is the weather. In the words of one of my kids, it was "like a sauna." The natives don't mind it because, I was told, they are "used to it." People are so adaptable, it's truly amazing.

Word on the street is that spring and autumn are glorious in that part of the country. Temperate and lengthy, comparatively speaking. We'll have to keep that in mind for future trips.

In other news: two of my three kids had birthdays at the end of July. Maria turned 16 and Jack is now 13, which means I now have three teenagers at home. Luckily, I have the good kind of teenagers, not the rotten kind who sneak out of the house at night. When I mentioned this to Maria, she laughed and said, "Are you kidding? The way our doors creak, that would never work."

This means she's at least THOUGHT about it. Hmmm.... Better keep an eye on that girl.

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August 1, 2007

So, did you hear Steve Martin got married? This is especially newsworthy for me, because (and this is not widely known) at one time in my life I was pretty certain I was going to marry Steve Martin.

We came close. The main problem was that I was a single adult only from ages 18 to 22, so Steve didn't have much of a window to greet, meet and win me over. Alas, he did not move quickly enough, and so lost out to a better man. It happens.

Steve's life didn't go well after that. Yes, he published essays and novels, won numerous awards, and starred in hit movies, but relationship-wise--well, let's just say there were a few glitches. But now he's married to a smart, attractive woman named Anne Stringfield, a writer and editor for The New Yorker. Proof positive that a guy can spring back after a huge loss (i.e.-me).

(As a sort of interesting side note, one of my sisters once confided that at one point she was pretty sure she'd end up with John Cusack. Can you imagine the family get-togethers with John and Steve in attendance? I can see it now--Steve complimenting my mom's turkey at Thanksgiving, John regaling us with entertaining stories about the movie biz. Or perhaps they'd think we were Wisconsin rubes and mock us behind our backs. Maybe it's just as well things turned out the way they did....)

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This just in: a fellow writer, Allan Ansorge, has listed me under "Writers I admire." How nice is that? Thanks, Allan you made my day! You can see that link and the rest of Allan's site here.

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July 23, 2007

I think there's something wrong with my mouse. I have to click it like eight times to get it to work. Oh such problems I have...

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Yesterday my husband was a hero to five teenagers when he drove them three hours to a concert in Chicago, hung out in the parking lot for another eight hours or so, and then drove them back. I suggested he find a coffee shop or something nearby and park himself there for a bit, but he wanted to be close in case the kids had a problem. He also bought himself a ticket, so he could go into the concert if need be.

The concert venue was made up of a whole bunch of different bands, most of them hard rock. It went, ironically enough, by the name the Family Values Tour. Our daughter Maria was especially interested in seeing one of her favorite bands, Evanescence.

Greg brought a canvas chair, the kind people take to their kids' soccer games and he was sitting in it next to our van, reading his computer manual when a couple of guys working the concert came out and said he couldn't be there. They didn't want people in the parking lot, there was no security there etc. and so on.

Greg explained that he was waiting for his kid, he was reading his book, that he wasn't going to cause any trouble.

They held firm, rules being rules and all. Nobody could hang out in the parking lot. If he had a ticket, they said, it would be different. Case closed, they thought, except Greg did have a ticket, which he produced for their inspection. Talk about complicating matters.

Finally they left and came back and said their boss said it was okay if he stayed. Which is how he came to hear the entire Family Values Tour 2007 from the parking lot of the First Midwest Bank Ampitheatre in Tinley Park, Illinois.

They got home at two thirty in the morning. Right now, as I'm typing this, Maria is still sleeping, but Greg is at work. He looked a little worn down, but he's still the coolest dad I know.

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July 6, 2007

When summertime rolls around people always want to know what you're doing over the summer. I get this question a lot. Especially because I have kids--everyone always assumes we have big plans--camp and Tae Kwon Do and tennis lessons and gardening and hiking expeditions and whatnot.

Just to set the record straight once and for all: The McQuestion family is doing nothing. NOTHING. Not a thing. Except for Greg, who insists on going to his job at the Medical College, we wake up each day with no plans and nowhere we have to be. I'll say it again--NOTHING. That is what we do each and every day. And we are deliriously happy. I don't think you'll find a more content little group anywhere.

I know parents who feel that kids need to be scheduled. It keeps them out of trouble. They learn valuable skills. They say children need to follow a schedule so that when school starts it's not such a shock. All this is true, I know. Because of me, my kids are lacking in wilderness training and martial arts. Abandon them in the middle of a forest or pit them against a black belt and they're goners.

I believe though (and maybe this is just laziness on my part) that there's value in unstructured free time. My kids do fill their days, but they do it their own way. Maria's guitar barely gets a rest. She's been to Summerfest, watched movies, gone to behind-the-wheel driving lessons, and made many mysterious walks to the gas station with friends. (Someday I'm going to follow them to see what the deal is with the gas station. Always to the gas station--and then they're not hungry at dinnertime. Is a puzzlement.)

Jack does the aforementioned science experiments. He rides his bike to the library and the park. Waters things. Visits with friends. Watches Dr. Who. Goes next door to visit his grandfather who is down to one eye and has hearing problems, but is always delighted to see him.

Charlie is sort of the exception to my philosophy, since he's a legal adult and all. Once you turn eighteen your slacker privileges get amended. Right now he spends his free time besting his score in Renegade, playing softball, mowing his grandparents' (and our) lawn, going to Summerfest, seeing movies, going out with friends. Sounds perfect doesn't it? Well, maybe a little too perfect. He had a job interview today. Hopefully his free time will be a little less abundant in the near future.

And as for me, I've been doing some writing, not as much as I'd like, but life isn't a competition after all, and it is summer vacation.

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July 3, 2007

My mother emailed after reading July 2nd's blog entry and was dying to know what Jack was doing. I think I convinced her to leave well enough alone. If he was using jumper cables or something it would be different, but I don't think it's possible to do anything really bad when Hershey kisses are involved.

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July 2, 2007

How I Can Tell I've Mellowed As A Parent:

My soon to be seventh-grader Jack sometimes likes to concoct his own science experiments. Yesterday I passed him on the front walk as he was doing something with an energy drink, a handful of Hershey's kisses and a dishcloth.

Me: Is this something I'd want to know about?

Jack: Probably not.

And then I went into the house and didn't think about it again until today. Five years ago, heck, one year ago I would have grilled him until I had all the details.

So, does that mean I've become laid back or just apathetic? Either way Jack is so off the hook compared to his older brother and sister.

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June 20, 2007

Yay! Summer vacation is here and I couldn't be happier. I'm so ready to be done with sixth grade, I can't even tell you.

Middle school has always been a mixed bag for me as a parent. So far I've had two kids go through it. Once Jack gets past eighth grade the McQuestion family will be done. So what's so uneven about middle school, you ask?

Well, I'll tell you. It's the teachers.

There are two kind of middle school teachers. In the first group are the shining stars of educators. These teachers are saints--they come to the classroom with a passion for their subject and deal with these smart-alecky kids with a finesse I could never manage. They should all get raises and medals.

Most of the teachers I've met fall into this category, but I have come across a few of the other kind--the teachers that started out like those in the first group, but are now burnt out. Not that I blame them, but it does make for a diverse experience for the kids.

Here's a story about the very best kind of middle school teacher. We'll call her Mrs. Fricker, because that's her name.

One summer day the phone rings and my daughter Maria answers it. After a few minutes she brings the phone to me saying, "It's Mrs. Fricker, she wants to know if I can go on the field trip on Wednesday."

Puzzled, I take the phone and indeed everything Maria said was correct. I said, "Mrs. Fricker, are you aware that school is out for the summer?"

She laughed and said yes she knew, but she'd promised the kids they'd go on this trip but couldn't get the bus scheduled so she arranged to have it during vacation. She said if I just dropped Maria off with a permission slip and the money, the bus would be at the school at eight o'clock. So that's how Maria wound up going on a field trip to the courthouse in the morning and a behind-the-scenes stadium tour in the afternoon, with a stop at a custard stand for lunch.

Unbelievable. I said it then and I'll say it again--Mrs. Fricker rocks.

Contrast that with the teacher who told me not to worry about my eighth grader's grade because there was no retention policy at the middle school level. In other words, everyone passes on to the next grade, no matter what. What kind of policy is that? And what kind of attitude is that? Fortunately that teacher is no longer at the school, but that conversation always stuck with me and I do occasionally see glimpses of that attitude in other teachers. Luckily there are enough teachers like Mrs. Fricker to make up for it.

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June 10, 2007

Above is the cover of A Cup of Comfort for Writers, which will be coming out in September. I am pleased to be able to say that one of my essays "Of Rewrites and Restitution" will be included in the book.

The subtitle--Inspirational Stories that Celebrate the Literary Life-- is ironic in my case because my piece tells about a negative experience. It was the first time I had an article accepted by a national publication and the editor completely rewrote my article, fabricating dialogue and making it so cheesy it made me wince. It's a funny essay, of course, because having your dreams eviscerated is always a laugh.

At the time, I agonized over the situation and finally (reluctantly) accepted his version, took the money and never looked back. Until I wrote a personal essay about it.

Since then, just for the record, I've only had good experiences with editors,**a point I bring up at the end of my Cup of Comfort story. Which is why, now that I think about it, it's an inspirational story after all.

** In case any editors are reading this, I think you guys are the best and I never, never mind making changes. I realize you have a more objective eye, not to mention years of experience and I respect that. It's just this one guy I had a problem with. I'm not saying he was a egomaniacal control freak, just that we didn't share the same vision for my work, in that I wanted it to be reflective of what actually happened and he had other ideas. Ideas that may have been fine under other circumstances, but didn't work for me personally.

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May 31, 2007

I gave Jack a ride to school and as he was exiting the car I said, "Good-bye my young son. Go forth and be edumacated."

And without missing a beat he said, "I'd rather be stupefied."

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May 27, 2007

Life has been a little off kilter for me lately because:

+My dad has had three surgeries in as many months

++My son created a freezer-buying emergency when he came back from college with many, many boxes of frozen meat (due to having leftover money on his meal plan)

+++Our central air conditioning system needed to be replaced.

My dad's situation was the only one of real importance, but all of the above complicated my life and added just a smidge of stress. That's why it was especially nice, in the midst of all this, to get an email from Sid Leavitt saying he'd like to feature my blog on his website. He wrote an actual review of my blog, saying many, many kind things about my writing, and since he's never met me, I believe he means every word.

I really love his site, Readers and Writers Blog, and have bookmarked it (and several of his featured blogs) for future visits. Go over and take a look. I think you'll agree that Sid has great judgment and a knack for giving his readers the highlights of each blog he reviews. :-) Thanks, Sid!

+ My dad is much better, thanks for asking.

++ Imagine me yelling, "What are we going to do with all this meat?!" and my husband saying calmly, "Let's go buy a freezer."

+++ If your air conditioning is broken, no amount of futzing with the thermostat will help.

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May 5, 2007

Recently we decided to replace our television with something bigger--not one of those huge mongo type TVs that turn a room into a "home theater" but one that's noticeably larger and less reflective, with a flat screen and a sharper picture. All around it's a big improvement at the McQuestion house.

Coincidentally Greg and I purchased the thing on a weekend when our daughter Maria was off at a friend's house, so it was all set up by the time she came home. She was amazed that we made this change without her.

Maria: Now I know how Charlie feels. You guys do everything when we're gone.

To clarify here, I have to explain that Charlie is convinced that since he's gone off to college, we've taken it upon ourselves to do things we've NEVER done before. Most of his objections have to do with food. We go out to eat more, we buy better groceries etc.

It's as if I've only bought vanilla ice cream for eighteen years and suddenly I thought--Hey, Charlie's gone. Let's try some of those other flavors!

He feels like he's missing out. My take on it is that we've always operated this way, he's just more aware of it when he comes home on the weekends.

But getting back to the TV--I didn't realize how much our new purchase was affecting me until a few days later when I was driving home in the rain. Suddenly the rain stopped, the sun came out and all around me the spring colors came into focus--the greens seemed greener, the daffodils brighter--you get the picture, and the first thing that came into my mind was, It looks like high def!

And that's when you know you've been watching too much TV.

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April 10, 2007

This week I appeared as a commentator on radio station WUWM, an NPR affiliate. My piece aired yesterday. You can hear it, if you so desire, by going here: The Identity of a Regular

Scroll down to the bottom and look for my name.

Mitch Teich, the very brilliant executive producer, likes my essays and it looks like I'll be doing more of them in the future, a fact that pleases me very much.

A little funny aside: I mentioned to my son Jack that I'd always been told I had the perfect face for radio and he thought that was hysterical. So that's another great thing about having kids--they haven't heard all the old jokes yet.

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March 26, 2007

Since my last blog entry, life has been tough. My dad had complications from surgery and there's been lots of back and forth to the hospital/ doctor's offices/ pharmacy. Officially I shouldn't be the one complaining--my dad has been in excruciating pain and my mom has had extreme stress and very little sleep, so they're the ones who have had the tough time--I've just been helping. Still, of the three I'm the only one with a blog so if I can't mention it, who can?

It's a long complicated story and I won't get into here except to say that medical care is just like anything else--if you're not happy with how things are being handled, get a second opinion. It may well be that the original so-called experts don't have the answers and someone else will.

My kids have impressed me by being completely self-sufficient during those times they've come home to an empty house with a note explaining my absence and telling them dinner is "whatever." One time the note was next to money for pizza and they worked it out between themselves, even managing to feed some extra visiting kids. I'm starting to feel less essential, but in a good way.

One harrowing day 911 was called (Hartland Emergency is VERY fast). My father was taken via ambulance to the emergency room while my mother sat up front with the driver. I drove their car and met up with them at the hospital. Later my mom said the ambulance had traveled at 85 miles per hour, the fastest she'd ever gone. I was telling this story to my husband, when our older son, in the next room called out, "That's not that fast."

Ahem. Do I even want to know why he would say such a thing? No, I do not.

Later, I asked the same son, just as he was heading out the door to go back to the university, to pray for Grandpa.

Charlie: I would, but I don't really pray.

Me: Could you make an exception this time?

Charlie: I'm not on God's prayer list. He'd think it was SPAM.

Me: Or maybe he'd be so shocked to hear from you that it would carry extra weight.

Charlie agreed that was a possibility and we left it at that. I'm not sure if he ever followed through, but my dad's situation seems somewhat better (she says hopefully) so I like to think all our prayers were heard--even Charlie's non-prayers.

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March 10, 2007

Yesterday my parents and I went to see my sister's new house. We almost didn't make it home and my poor sons had to fend for themselves in my absence.

First off, I want to make it clear that this is my sister Kay's fault for moving to a new place even if it is Whitefish Bay, WI, a lovely, charming community (and also the hometown of actress Kristen Johnston). I can see why my sister wants to live there, I just don't understand why I had to suffer in the process.



To back up a little--our plan was to see Kay's house, play with her adorable little son Henry, go out to lunch, say our good-byes and drive home. A simple plan. Well executed, I would still be home in time to make sure my older son Charlie, home on spring break, would be awake in time to go to a doctor's appointment. As a back-up plan, I set the kitchen timer to go off an hour before Charlie's estimated departure and told his younger brother Jack (home from middle school because of a teacher's work day) to open the door to his brother's room and flick on the light to wake him up. It wasn't much of a back-up plan, since there were no flame throwers involved, but it had to do.

So, we were off. I drove, and my dad, who'd had cataract surgery earlier in the week, sat in the back while my mom read Kay's excellent directions to me. For a while all went well. The house was beautiful, Henry was cute as ever, lunch was good. Then we headed for home, which is where the problems began. First off, I turned the wrong way on the expressway. At one point my mother asked, "Aren't we going in the wrong direction?" and I assured her that I knew what I was doing. Luckily, before we reached the Canadian border, it clicked with me that we were in fact, going the wrong way. I can't explain that particular mental lapse. I have a friend who calls such things, "brain farts" and that's as good a description as any.

It got worse. I turned around and was finally going the right direction when we hit a traffic jam north of downtown Milwaukee. We were locked into the middle lane and we were not moving. Oh, we'd go a few feet every thirty seconds or so, but it was so slow Henry could have outpaced us. I could clearly see the people in the cars next to us: the young woman on her cell phone flipping her hair back, an older man in a pickup truck flicking cigarette ashes out the window. I could feel my mother getting more tense as the minutes (hours?) went by. She kept looking at her watch, and at one point said sadly, "I don't think we'll ever get home." We have a flair for the dramatic in my family.

My dad said, joking, "Maybe we should go to Milwaukee and just check into a hotel." It was tempting.

Anyway, we crept along for an agonizingly long time and finally reached an area with police cars and orange traffic cones. The three lanes narrowed to one and we could see workers cleaning up some kind of liquid on the pavement. Industrial waste spill, perhaps? We didn't spend a lot of time pondering it, because once we made it past that point we discovered the joys of going faster than two miles per hour and off we went.

Our delay meant that my arrival home was a little later than I'd planned. I hoped and prayed Charlie was on his way to the doctor's office. As I've mentioned before, he is impossible to get out of bed, so I had my doubts that Jack could wake him up. I was happy to learn I was wrong when I checked the garage and the car was gone.

I came into the house to find Jack on the couch reading a book.

Me: So Charlie went to the doctor?

Jack (not looking up): Yes

Me: Did you have to wake him up or did he get up on his own?

Jack: I woke him up.

Me: How'd you manage that?

Jack (smiling): It was really no problem. It's not that big of a deal, Mom.

Compare and contrast with Charlie's version of the same event:

Me: So Jack woke you up in plenty of time?

Charlie: Jack has to be the most annoying person on the planet. He kept coming into my room every two minutes. And then he turned my light on but only part way so it made that stupid buzzing sound. I wanted to kill him.

Just for the record, he was speaking in hyperbole. I'm quite sure Charlie didn't really want to kill him.

Brotherly love, there's nothing like it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 3, 2007

A joke from my son Jack--

Question: What has four arms and seven legs?

Answer: A pile of dismembered body parts.

Twelve-year-old boy humor. Ick.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February 27, 2007

Over the weekend we got a fair amount of snow--enough that a friend of Maria's who was visiting Saturday evening wound up sleeping over rather than risking the ride home. The next day the girls, who are sophomores in high school, and my youngest, Jack, went outside to check out the snow. A few minutes later, I looked out the window to see them making a snowman. Too adorable for words, I thought. Who would have thought high school kids would do something so sweet?

So I grabbed my camera, threw on my coat and boots and went outside only to find that in that in the three minutes it took me to do that, they had destroyed the snowman. On purpose. Just for the fun of it.

"You knocked it down?" I asked incredulously. "I was going to take a picture."

"We could rebuild it," Maria said. Heartless girl. As if one snowman could replace another. Honestly.

Anyway, I settled for a photo of them alongside the wreckage.

Here they are, Snowman Murderers:

They don't even look sorry, do they? Kids today, I have my worries for the future...

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February 2, 2007

Happy Groundhog Day! I don't care if the groundhog sees his shadow or not--however much is left of winter is way too long for me.

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What's new with me since I last blogged, you ask? Well for starters, my husband had a monumental birthday at the end of January. I won't say how old he is, but if you split a century in half...

Anyway, in honor of his birthday I tormented him with some memory math.

Me: Do you realize that when we met, I was younger than Charlie (our oldest)?

Him (in disbelief): No!

Me: Not only that, but when we first started going out, your parents were younger than we are now.

Him: Why are you doing this to me?

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My son Jack is now officially obsessed with zombies and killer robots. Charlie came home from school last weekend, picked up a book from the coffee table and read the title. "How to Survive a Robot Uprising?"

When I said, "It's Jack's," Charlie made a sort of derisive sound.

Jack gets no respect around here. I predict that will change if there's ever a zombie or robot attack because he's the only one in the family that knows the right strategies to survive such things. Then they'll be sorry. I hope he remembers that I've always been on his side, even though I've unsuccessfully encouraged him to give up this unhealthy interest and read books about bunnies and other non-violent things.

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My daughter Maria now has her learner's permit. We went to the DMV yesterday and she aced the test. So, if you're in Hartland in the next few weeks and you see a petite girl driving a red mini-van with a frazzled looking woman in the passenger seat, that would be us.

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My new favorite Youtube video is from the Free Hugs campaign. I smile every time I see it. (Sorry I don't know how to paste it so you can see it here--I'm technologically challenged.)

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And lastly, I'm going to Chicago tonight with my friend Michelle for a two day get-away. Yes, we chose the coldest weekend of the year to go to the Windy City, but I think we'll survive the cold with two nights in a luxury hotel and front row seats to a show on Saturday night. Life is good.

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January 16, 2007

Happy Birthday to me!

The day has just begun, but I've already had a plethora (Charlie's word) of good things. My family gave me cake and presents last night, Birthday Eve, because Charlie had to leave this morning to go back to the university.

I received many delightful gifts--a watch from my husband, a BA* clock radio from Charlie, The Devil Wears Prada DVD from my wonderful daughter Maria (who knew how much I wanted it), and from Jack--Season Two of Dead Like Me, the best, not-widely-known television series ever. In typical Karen McQuestion fashion, I discovered Dead Like Me after it was cancelled. Jack got me hooked on it and only when I asked when the new season was starting did he tell me that it had been cancelled two years ago. Well. I never. So now I own Season Two complete with outtakes. That should hold me for awhile.

Greg bought a beautiful Black Forest Torte, which did not go over very well with the kids, who were suspicious of the cherry filling in between the layers. Charlie said it was just wrong. I think Greg was a little disappointed by their response (ingrates!). He tried telling them the story of the cake's significance, how when he and I were first dating we would frequent this German bakery and cafe called Hartter's , which was known for serving wonderful tortes and pastries. We'd eat lunch there or sometimes just stop for dessert. This torte reminded him of that time in our lives. It was a touching story, but no one but me really listened or appreciated his thoughtfulness. Just for the record--I loved the cake and the care with which is was selected.

After the cake episode, the conversation somehow steered toward the fact that George Carlin was Mr. Conductor on the old kids' TV series, Shining Time Station. From there Charlie spun off on a verbal riff which somehow ended up with him assigning all of us new names. Maria was "towel-head girl" ** and I was "Birthday-woman." I can't remember what he called himself and Jack, but Greg's new title was "The Conductor," which is somewhat fitting considering his role in the family.

So Charlie was going off on this comedic rant and the rest of the family was joining in. At one point I was laughing that wonderful sort of laugh where you can barely breathe. Right about then Jack said, "Our family has so much fun."

All in all, it was a perfect evening.

* Another one of my older son's expressions. For those not in the know, BA = Bad A$$.

** She had a towel wrapped around her head, ala Ferris Bueller.

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January 12, 2007

Earlier today I was going to blog about how happy I was that Charlie, my college freshman son, was going back to school next week because frankly, he was being difficult this morning and at that point in time I wanted to send him away (far, far, away) , but just now he apologized for being cranky earlier, so now I have nothing. And not only that, but I'll probably be sad and miss him when he packs up his computer and clothes and other miscellaneous items and goes back on Monday.

This having a kid live partially elsewhere is an odd thing. We just get used to him being gone and then he's back, and vice versa.

His biggest fear, I think, when he first left, was that I was going to clean out his room and make it into something else. A home office maybe, or a sauna. Maybe a meditation room or a model train room (his dad's idea). But I wouldn't have done that. For one thing, there's his stuff. He has so much stuff. An unbelievable amount of stuff. It's piled in his two closets and along walls and under his bed. I get tired LOOKING at it--I'm sure not going to clean it out. Someday when he moves out permanently we'll have a few dumpsters delivered and hire a hazardous waste crew to come and remove it all. Until then, I'll just shut the door.

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December, 2006

Here's some good news--an essay of mine has been accepted for the anthology A Cup of Comfort for Writers, which will come out next September. I submitted this piece (now retitled "Of Rewrites and Restitution") to at least twenty different publications over the last several years. A few editors told me they enjoyed it, for whatever that's worth, and that they were sure I'd find a home for it eventually. Thankfully they were right. To all the writers out there, it is true--perseverance counts.

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October 17, 2006

Just for the record, my older son Charlie is NOT depressed. I know this because I sent him a package at his university address and he responded by leaving a phone message saying, "I know you think I'm depressed, but I'm really not. I'm just trying to get adjusted." No word on whether he ate the cookies anyway.

He also told me, during a different conversation, that the reason he sometimes SOUNDS depressed when I call is that other guys from his dorm are around, and because he doesn't want them to know he's talking to his mother, he answers as quietly and briefly as possible, usually just a "yes" or "no." What a relief--it's not depression, it's me.

In other news, my daughter Maria had the BEST night of her life over the weekend. She, along with four friends and her dad, went to the Evanescence concert at The Rave in Milwaukee. Evanescence is her favorite group and she thinks very highly of the lead singer, Amy Lee. Very highly. Very, very highly.

When they left for the concert Maria and company had plans to wait for the band to come out after the show to see if they could get their tickets signed and maybe take a photo or two. I thought that was a fine idea, especially since my husband was taking them and I'd be home warm and dry, but I had my doubts the band would spend a lot of time chatting with fans. Evanescence is kind of a big deal--they'd been in People magazine the week before, and if I had to guess I would have said they would wave to those waiting, get on their bus and go.

But I'm happy to say I was wrong. Maria and Greg came home at 1:00 a.m. with photos and signatures and news about the best part--Maria hugged Amy Lee! Greg was so impressed with the group. Despite the fact that it was a cold, damp night the band came out to about fifty waiting fans and signed and posed and talked as if they had all the time in the world.

So thanks Amy Lee and John and the rest of Evanescence. You made my daughter very happy.

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September 20, 2006

Greg and I are back from New York. If you asked us what we saw we could quote Ferris Bueller and say, "We've seen everything good. We've seen the whole city! We went to a museum, we saw priceless works of art! We ate pancreas." Of course Ferris was referring to Chicago, but the words still apply (except for the part about pancreas).

It would take far too long to tell you everything we did in our five days in the Big Apple and besides, it's really none of your business, but I will tell you that the NYPD kills me, and not literally. They are a feisty bunch. Here in Hartland, Wisconsin we have a very fine police force, but I generally see them driving around, whereas in New York, they were among us.

Overheard on a side street, a man getting ticketed argued with THREE police officers (in rain slickers, which for some reason amused me greatly):

Man: But I always park here! Every day for months now. I never get a ticket.

Police officer #1 (continues writing): Tell it to the judge.

Police officer #2 (triumphantly): That's why we have a criminal justice system!

I think they've been watching too much television.

The next day we passed a NYPD tow truck maneuvering a tightly-wedged SUV out from between two other cars. Greg stopped me saying, "Wait a minute. I want to see how he does this."

As the tow truck driver got the SUV halfway out of the space, he blocked the street and cars, most of them taxis, were forced to stop. Eventually the waiting vehicles were wrapped around the block and some of them started honking. And honking. And honking some more. In response, the driver left the cab of the truck and jumped up onto the tow bar. He raised his fist and screamed, "You can honk all you want. I don't hurry for nobody, you hear me? Nobody!"

You gotta love that.

September 12, 2006

Thus ends the blog hiatus of 2006. I have no excuse for my absence--none whatsoever. I was busy, but of course EVERYONE is busy, so that namby pamby rationale just won't cut it.

While I was away from the website a child of mine grew up and moved out. Sort of. Well, actually Greg and I moved our oldest, Charlie, out to a dorm apartment at a university an hour away from home. This was his choice, by the way. I don't want to give the impression that we forced him out.

On that fateful Monday after we unloaded his stuff and drove away, I pictured my son curled up on his narrow dorm bed crying like Tom Hanks in the hotel in the movie Big. I felt a little sick about abandoning my child, if you must know. In truth he just fired up the old computer and IM-ed his friends. It wasn't really all that traumatic. Now our house is eerily quiet, but I'm getting used to it.

Meanwhile my younger son, Jack, started middle school this year, which came with its own set of worries. Moving from class to class, locker combinations, changing clothes for gym. Remember all that stuff? It's a stressful time. Personally I wouldn't go back and redo it for all the money in the world. I didn't tell Jack that, of course. I said it would be fun.

Our middle child, daughter Maria, is now a sophomore in high school. She came home the first day of school and said she was sick of it already. It's going to be a long year.

And tomorrow it's off to New York for a few days, a mini-vacation for my husband and myself. Life is good.

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June 20, 2006

Never let it be said I don't have my fun. Typical conversation with my son Charlie:

Charlie: Do you care if I use the van to go to Best Buy?

Me: Of course I care. You're my son--I care about everything you do. I love you.

Charlie (exasperated): Can I use the van?

Me: Sure, no problem.

He's done this several times already, proving that even high school graduates haven't learned it all.

It reminds me of a teacher at my kids' middle school who's famous for this exchange:

Student: Can I go to the bathroom?

Mr. Anderson: I don't know, can you? If you can't, you should really see a doctor. That's a serious health problem...

Again, we middle-aged people get our fun any way we can. Or may.

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June 3, 2006

If you have a spare six minutes, this is very funny:

Evolution of Dance

Brought to my attention by my daughter Maria. :-)

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June 2, 2006

I've been a blog slacker lately. I offer my apologies--for whatever that's worth.

What's new at the McQuestion house, you might ask? Well, recently:

☼ My oldest child got his driver's license. Also, he's not legally a child, but I keep forgetting that. For me, this driving thing is equal parts freedom, equal parts worry. I try not to dwell on it--if the state of Wisconsin felt comfortable giving him his license it must be okay. I'm sure the government wouldn't make an error like that. Plus, we have insurance. And airbags.

☼ My 14-year-old daughter attended a concert at a seedy dive called The Rave. On a school night. A friend warned me about this place--it attracts a rowdy crowd, stinks of smoke and has a potentially dangerous mosh pit. I vowed that no child of mine would EVER go to a concert there. In fact, when Maria told me her favorite group would be playing on an upcoming date I said, "Don't get any idea you'll be going--that place is bad news." I also gave a speech about how sometimes parents have to make hard decisions that kids don't understand, but someday she would really appreciate my efforts to safeguard her. Also, I said, she could go to The Rave when she's 21. If it hasn't burned down by then.

So how did she end up seeing Avenged Sevenfold with two of her friends at the forbidden place? Her father took them. Yes, he did. Unlike me, he is not immune to the puppy dog eyes, and the cuteness that is she.

In case you were wondering, the concert was amazing and Greg is the BEST DAD IN THE WORLD.

☼ I am in the home stretch of writing in a novel I'm calling EASILY AMUSED. The first line in the book, as spoken by the narrator Lola, is this:

            When I saw a group of my neighbors clustered on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Cho’s house, I was sure they were talking about me.

And you know what? I think the neighbors were talking about her.

The writing is going well and I'm having big fun writing it. I hope to have it completed by the end of summer.

And coming up:

☼ Driver-boy graduates from high school on Sunday, June 4th. His father told him he either brings home a diploma or some boxes.

My son was not too thrilled with the relative gathering being held at our house after the ceremony, until I mentioned the traditional cards filled with checks /cash. Now he's thinking it will be nice to get the chance to catch up with those he loves.

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May 19, 2006

Two years ago I attended the Book Expo when it was held in Chicago. At this very moment, this year's Book Expo is taking place in Washington D.C.--without me, which I think is very rude. Next year I think they should hold it in Hartland, Wisconsin.

One of the best things about the Expo is that they give out free books--advanced review copies. The whole idea is that the recipients will talk up the books or write reviews--what's known as "creating a buzz." Word of mouth is huge in the book publishing industry. Two years ago I came home with loads of books. And book bags and bookmarks and magnets. And I dutifully talked up the books I loved--the most memorable being THE HA-HA by Dave King. Excellent book, although I almost didn't read it because the narrator was a mute Vietnam vet. For some reason, that didn't intrigue me. But, as so often happens, I was wrong.

In honor of the Book Expo, which as I might have mentioned, is being held without me, I'm cutting and pasting my blog entry from two years ago. Here it is:

June 5, 2004

Yesterday I ran into R.L. Stine. Literally.

I was walking around the 2004 Book Expo America in Chicago, trying to look like someone of merit, rather than the nosy, wanna-be that I am, and I bumped right into a guy. I also stepped on the edge of his foot. I apologized; he said "No problem," and I glanced at his name badge all in the space of two seconds. As he walked past, my first thought was, What a coincidence! He has the same name as the guy who wrote those "Goosebump Books."

Heh heh. Well, I never said I was quick.

The Book Expo is a huge convention--all of the publishing world was there, it seemed. Also a good share of librarians, booksellers, P.R. and marketing people etc. etc. I went on Friday, got more than my share of freebees, eavesdropped, and took it all in.

I didn't make any IMPORTANT CONNECTIONS, but had big fun, which has to count for something. I walked until my feel bled (new open-toed shoes--big mistake) and checked out which novels the publishing houses were promoting as their lead titles.

I saw someone I knew, Dave, and almost went up to him to say hi and play catch-up, until I realized it was Dave Barry and I've never actually met him. He was talking to his real friends: Scott Turow, Ridley Pearson and Kathi Kamen Goldmark.

Not to name drop too much, BUT, I saw Jane Pauley present the 2004 Book Sense Book of the Year Awards. Also, I either walked past Marilu Henner, or a woman who looks a lot like her. Plus, I spotted tons of authors and editors who aren't household names, but whom I hold in high regard. I felt like I was spying on Madonna.

Finally, when driving home, I found the expressway without any trouble at all and even made the correct turnoff to wind up in Wisconsin.

All in all a very good day.

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May 9, 2006

We have this same conversation every year.

My house yesterday:

Jack (bless his heart): What do you want for Mother's Day, Mom?

Me: You know what would be really great? If you guys would clean the whole house from top to bottom, without me even having to ask.

Jack: Still dreaming the dream, huh?

Maria (in the next room): What did she say she wanted?

Jack (yelling): For us to clean the house.

Maria (laughs): That's what she asked for last time.

So, probably not this year. But maybe someday....

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May 5, 2006

I've been informed that if you click on the link on the April 27th blog entry, it does indeed take you to my short story, BUT the print is so small as to resemble ant tracks. Also, as one very frustrated person told me, when you try to print it, it does not work. Maybe this is just the fate of the third place winner. If you're not first in this big, cold world, than you're nothin', baby.

On a more positive note, I read the story aloud at the bookstore last week at the awards reception and did just fine. I read first, which was good, because then I could sit back and listen to the second and first place winners' stories. I thought my story was a little risqué, what with the teenagers getting drunk and my literary use of the term "erect penis," something I would NEVER say in public usually, except the story called for it. But the first place winner's story made reference to the narrator's pecker and the woman who won second place wrote about a priest with a major drinking problem and a bit of a shoe fetish. Drinking played a part in all of our stories, which may just be coincidental or may say something about the judges.

Up next for me: I'll be moderating a writers' discussion group at Martha Merrill's bookstore in Waukesha, WI on May 13th at 3 o'clock. That would be in the afternoon, so don't come knocking on their door after bar time. No one will be there.

My topic will be Writing Humor and I will have handouts. And maybe candy. If you're in the area and the least bit interested, stop in. Tell them the blog sent you.

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April 27, 2006

Oh happy day--I placed third in a short story contest. It's a major award! You can read all about it here.

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April 22, 2006

Some things I would not know if I didn't have kids:

Nobody calls condoms rubbers anymore.

As my oldest said, "Uh, they're made of latex, Mom."

So sue me, I didn't know. (Or else I knew at one time, but had no reason to keep that knowledge in my head. That happens. A lot.)

Also, when making the hand gesture meaning "rock on" be careful,
because if you're one finger off, you're actually making the "Surf's up" gesture (also the letter "Y" in sign language). And since the surf is never up in Wisconsin, it looks pretty foolish.

Also, anyone who uses the word "hip" to mean "cool" is completely clueless.
And no one really says clueless either.

But some teenagers think Frank Sinatra is cool.

And Johnny Cash is cool.

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April 4, 2006

So. I didn't have to go to jury duty today. I called last night, after 5 o'clock as instructed and the prerecorded message said only those with last names starting with G through L had to report. Since I'm an "M" that was a little close. I'm not sure if they're sparing me or torturing me because I have to call again tonight to see about tomorrow. It's like being on call for a job I don't have.

And in other related news, if you live in Hartland, Wisconsin you might want to get thee to the community center and vote for members of the school board and village trustee. Despite the title, I don't trustee any of them; I'm a little cynical that way. It would be a better system, I think, if we could cast negative votes because I'm always pretty sure of the ones I definitely don't want. A negative voting system--I think I'm on to something. Anyone up for totally overthrowing our current way of doing elections, on my say so?

Let me know at your earliest convenience.

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April 3, 2006

I've been very busy lately NOT doing jury duty.

It all started about a year ago when I received a notice from Waukesha County, wherein I reside, saying that I had been selected ("selected"--what a nice word!) to serve as a potential juror. I had to fill out a form, which gave me the option of listing up to two weeks when I was not available.

And then I heard nothing. For a year. I almost forgot about it, but Waukesha County didn't.

Recently I got another letter (always with the letters!) saying I needed to call on a Monday night for information about serving on Tuesday through Friday. The weekend prior I cleared out my calendar, by which I mean I did the week's grocery shopping, caught up on the laundry and told the kids they better not miss the bus because no one would be home to answer their pathetic phone calls pleading for rides.

When I called, the prerecorded message said that only those with last names starting with A-F should show up. The rest of us, all the G through Z-ers, second class citizens so to speak, should call the next night for instructions.

This was starting to feel like a very complicated spy movie. Luckily I'm fairly good at following directions, so I did call the next night and the new message said all the trials had been settled and to call again NEXT week.

So here I am, willing and able to do the duty, but rebuffed at every turn. This doesn't seem like a very good system. I can't help but wonder if the A through F-ers got the better deal, getting it over with as they did.

I will call again tonight, just as I was instructed. I'll let you know how it goes.

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March 28, 2006

Something I wrote two years ago is now in print. You can see it at the Christian Science Monitor website, if you're so inclined.

Have a good day!

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March 21, 2006

I have such admiration for my son, Jack. He's eleven years old and knows exactly who he is.

This morning, a discussion about snow pants:

Me: You don't have to wear those. All the snow is melted.

Jack: But it's still cold, right?

Me: Yeah, it's still pretty cold.

He climbs into his snow pants.

Me (watching him put on his jacket, gloves, hat): Don't the other kids make fun of you for wearing snow pants when there's no snow on the ground?

Jack (shrugs): Sure. But when they talk about it I just tell them I'm wearing them because of the cold, not because of the snow.

Me: And this doesn't bother you--that they make comments?

Jack: Why should I care what they think?

It took me forty years to achieve this same mindset.

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March 15, 2006

A local billboard had an advertisement for the Johnson Bank. Their slogan? We'll treat you like family.

Sounds like a threat to me.

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February 26, 2006

For three years, starting when I was eighteen, I worked as a waitress in a restaurant called Karter's. The place was owned and run by a Greek family--I always secretly wondered if their original name was Kartopoulos or the like, but I never found out for sure.

Karter's has a fond place in my memories. On Friday and Saturday nights the place was packed with a loyal following. One family always put their name on the waiting list under their little daughter's name because she loved hearing it over the loudspeaker. When they announced, "Molly, party of three, your table is ready," she would squeal and clap her hands. It was the cutest thing ever.

One older couple ate there every Saturday night. And sat in the same booth and ordered the same thing. They were nice enough, but a little annoying the way they'd say, "I hope Clarence is grilling the steaks tonight and not that young guy," or "Tell Bob to make the drinks exactly like he did last time--they were perfect." They ordered by saying, "We'll have the usual." Like I would, of course, know what that was. In fact, I did know what their usual was, everyone did, but I still found it presumptuous. I can't remember their name (which is bugging me to no end), but I can picture them perfectly--he was a tall guy with a husky build, she had a bouffant hairdo. At the time they seemed ancient, but I suppose they were in their 40s. What struck me the most about them is the sameness of it all. I remember thinking, Good lord, could you try a different place now and then? Mix it up! Live a little. I mean, I had no choice but to be there--my name was on the schedule--but they had money, a car and free will. It was impossible to understand.

I bring this up now, because my husband and I, in the last few years, have started going out to dinner every Saturday night. When this began we wanted to go to a restaurant close to our home, because I am a chronic worrier and I couldn't enjoy a meal without knowing I could dash home in five minutes if the kids needed me. They never did, of course, in fact, they got along better when we weren't there, but even so, staying nearby eased my mind.

So every Saturday we've been going to Señor Tomas, a wonderful Mexican restaurant a mile from our house. And slowly very slowly, a routine has crept in. Our arrival time used to vary, but over the years it's narrowed down to a half hour window. We used to order different meals each time, but eventually we figured out the best ones, so now there's really no need to have anything else. And if we don't show up one week, the next time the staff comments on our previous absence.

We even go in the same car and park in approximately the same area of the lot. Every now and then, when the weather is nice, I suggest to Greg that we should really walk there sometime, and he completely agrees that it's a great idea, but we never do.

I fear we have become the very thing I once deplored.

Last Saturday morning, my older son Charlie had just finished his banking and had a wad of cash and a hunger for Mexican food. Because (I suspect) none of his friends were awake yet, he asked if I'd go with him to Señor Tomas to get something to eat. "Are you paying?" I asked, and when he said yes, I took him up on the offer.

So when dinnertime came around I told Greg I was just too embarrassed to go back again. Two of the waiters had recognized me when I was with Charlie and one of them said, "See you tonight!" as we were leaving. It would be just too pathetic to go twice on the same day.

So.

We went to a completely different restaurant. And had the worst food ever. After the waitress wrapped up the remaining portion of my meal, I peeked inside the container and told Greg that I couldn't imagine reheating and eating it under any circumstances. I left it on the table.

As we were driving home Greg said, "You know what this means, don't you? We should have gone to Señor Tomas."

So last night, just to make the universe happy, we went to Señor Tomas and as always, I ordered the Guajillo Enchiladas and he had the Ranchero Burrito and it just felt right. To show we weren't in too much of a rut, I ordered a different drink and Greg had dessert. Just to shake things up a bit.

Proving, without a doubt, that we're really nothing like that couple at Karter's after all. What a relief.

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February 9, 2006

Jack came in the door after school yesterday to tell me he needed the ladder because his glove was on the roof.

Not, "Hi Mom, how was your day?" or "Look Mom, I got an 'A' on my presentation" (which he did), but that he now has a piece of outerwear on top of the house.

Turns out he was trying to knock down an icicle. And of course, a glove would be the right strategy for dislodging an ice jam from the rain gutter. I guess I should be glad he didn't use his boot.

Anyway, we couldn't get it down with a chair and a broom and since I was cold and crabby and didn't want to get out the ladder, I told him it could wait until his father came home. But Greg didn't get home until 8 o'clock and by then I'd completely forgotten about it. And now it has snowed.

Maybe this spring.

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February 8, 2006

I've always had a fascination with names. Before I had kids I would try out different combinations, writing them down and saying them aloud. I wanted names that were different, but not bizarre, names that were easy to pronounce and spell, but beautiful and distinct. I thought that someday I'd have a daughter named Francesca Nicole or a son with a strong name like Garrett or Max.

I wound up with a Charlie, a Maria and a Jack. All good names, but not what I'd anticipated. Somewhere along the way my plans got derailed. It might be because my husband, who is the father, thought he had a say in the whole thing. Or maybe it happened because I really couldn't imagine teaching a kindergartner to spell "Francesca." And then there's our last name--McQuestion. You have to be careful what you pair up with that one. At one point I was sold on the name "Isabel" but when it came right down to it, I couldn't saddle "Isabel McQuestion" on someone I loved. Come to think of it, "Francesca McQuestion" isn't much better.

As it turned out, my children's names are perfect for them. I recently told Jack that before he was born I'd considered Samuel or Max as a name for him, but his father ixnayed both suggestions. "Samuel?" He wrinkled up his nose. "Max? Yuck. You really would have done that to me?"

So maybe it's all for the best.

As a writer of fiction, names are important as well. Character names come to me, sometimes fully formed. And I love playing with combinations until they feel right.

In my current WIP (that's writer lingo for work-in-progress) I gave the main character a last name that was only used in one scene. Forty pages later, I needed a last name for her best friend and it came to me in a flash, resulting in my own little inside joke. I forgot about it until one of my critique partners returned some of my pages with written commentary. I get it, she wrote in the margin, Holmes and Watson! Even though the two names were five chapters apart she picked up on the connection--now that's an attentive reader.

It's interesting to note the names writers select for their novels or movies and the subconscious effect it has on the viewer/reader. I love that in the movie When Harry Met Sally, Billy Crystal's cynical character is named Harry Burns in contrast to Meg Ryan's upbeat Sally Albright. Or that in The Scarlet Letter, the main character's name is Hester Prynne (rhymes with sin!), and that the two men in the story were named Dimmesdale and Chillingworth. Once I became aware of this phenomenon, I started seeing yellow VW Beetles everywhere.

Most often it's not obvious. As Barbara Kingsolver says, "Meaning must be subtle, of course. You can't go around calling all your domineering guys Victor."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 31, 2006

My son Charlie says things when he's half asleep and has no recollection of this later. He answers questions without even opening his eyes.

Me (entering his room to turn off his three alarm clocks): How can you sleep through this?

Charlie: It's easy.

And another time.

Me: Why are your clothes always on the floor?

Charlie: That's where they died.

And in fact, it did look like they died right there on the spot. I'm tempted to draw a chalk outline around them, just for fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 21, 2006

You might guess that I posted this photo of myself and my five-month-old nephew, Henry, to show off his adorability.

You would be wrong.

Yes, he's adorable. I've seen a bazillion pictures of him and the kid doesn't take a bad shot. He's just cute, cute, cute, from the bottom of his perfect feet to the top of his fuzzy head.

So, we agree Henry looks good. That was never in dispute.

The reason I posted this picture? Well, there's really no good way to say this without sounding narcissistic, but here it goes--check out my hair. I had no idea my highlights looked this good. I mean, you sit in the chair at the salon for three hours with foil on your head, smelling like chemicals, all the while wondering: is it worth it? And looking at this photo I've come to the conclusion that yes, it is worth it.

I really haven't been tipping Jessica nearly what she's worth.

Feel free to admire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 7, 2006

I am now the mother of a grownup. Yep, Charlie turned 18 on Friday. I was feeling kind of choked up about it that morning at breakfast until he took a bite out of his donut, said it looked like a fish and then made it swim through the air. I think he did it mostly to make me laugh, but I was glad to see I hadn’t lost him yet.

100 Things about Charlie:

When he was a baby he was fat.
Really fat.
So fat that a friend told me later she was sure he was going to turn out to be one of those obese children, like Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
He slimmed down once he started walking at age seventeen months.
In case you didn’t know, seventeen months is rather late for a child to walk.
I have a theory that he could have walked before then—he just didn’t want to.
When Charlie was a baby he had the best belly laugh.
Sometimes we could get him going and he’d be almost breathless from laughing. He was such a happy baby.
Charlie has always been a most excellent sleeper. As a child he willingly went down for naps.
Today he does a lot of recreational sleeping, but not always during the nighttime hours.
When he was a baby he had a favorite receiving blanket. He liked to rub the tag between his fingers.
He called it his “Taggy.”
He still has Taggy, even though it’s in tatters.
He’s always had a problem with change. Transitions are hard for him.
Charlie didn’t want to give up his crib and was mad as heck when we took it down and made him sleep in a twin bed.
He was three years old at the time.
In preschool he didn’t want to sing during music time.
He told the other kids not to sing either. This caused a problem because they listened to him.
I thought this showed leadership ability. His teacher didn't see it the same way.
In first grade he taught himself to say the alphabet backwards. In fifth grade he recited it this way for his class during talent week.
For years he wouldn’t willingly wear anything with zippers, buttons or collars.
The seams had to be just right too.
And if a shirt had tags we had to cut them out.
He wore a lot of t-shirts and sweatpants and still does.
In second grade he taught himself to play chess by playing against the computer.
We moved to a new house when he was eight and he mourned for the old house with its climbing tree for a long time.
Years later we drove past the old house and the new owners had cut down the climbing tree.
He’s still mad about that.
When we moved to Hartland one of our neighbors had a son exactly Charlie’s age.
When I suggested he might go over there and talk to the little boy he said, “I don’t like the looks of that kid.”
They’ve been friends for ten years now.
In third grade the teacher sent home a note saying, Charlie would not stop talking about farts today.
My husband said, “Why should today be any different than any other day?”
Charlie used to talk about farts a lot.
And he still does, now and then, just for old times' sake.
As a kid he sometimes ran into walls for sport.
That made me crazy.
He once drew a family picture of his dad and I standing with him in front of our house, but left out his sister.
When I asked why Maria wasn’t in the picture, he said she was in the house getting a time-out.
Sure enough, in the background he’d drawn Maria’s face peering out of one of the windows.
Eventually he learned to accept Maria.
Then we had his brother Jack. It took a while for them to connect. But now that Jack is eleven, Charlie is okay with him.
In fact, recently the two brothers cooperated in order to play a practical joke on me.
Jack lured me out of my home office by calling out that he was bleeding. Charlie waited around the corner and then jumped out and scared me.
It wasn’t funny.
They thought it was hysterical.
In fourth grade Charlie was chosen as the school’s best writer and was able to attend a statewide writing conference for students.
His story was excellent.
His dad and I were very proud of him.
We still are.
Once a mother from the neighborhood called to complain about Charlie. She said that when he played ball with her son he had such a mean look on his face.
That was her complaint. A mean look on his face.
I tried to explain that the mean look was just Charlie’s expression when he meant business, but she thought it was evidence of some underlying character flaw.
That family moved away a few years later.
We don’t miss them.
Our neighbor across the street always calls to invite Charlie over when she’s made homemade chicken noodle soup. He loves her chicken noodle soup.
Once he brought some home and let me try it. He’s right. It does rock.
Sometimes his friends call him Chuck.
He doesn’t mind.
But don’t call him Charles. He so hates that and once said that someday he’s going to change it so his legal name is Charlie.
Fine by me.
There were a few years in Charlie’s life—let’s just call them “the middle school years”—when he was difficult to live with.
Very difficult.
Coincidentally, during the same time period he thought I was difficult to live with.
Luckily, we both grew out of that phase.
One year during “the middle school years” he scored in the 99^th percentile overall in nationwide standardized testing.
After that whenever he did some boneheaded thing I wondered how the other 98% was doing.
Charlie doesn’t hold grudges with his friends.
But he’s been known to bring up things his parents have done incorrectly from years ago.
Just for the record, I thought a spring-loaded airplane made a pretty nifty birthday present. I had no way of knowing it would only go four feet and break on the first try.
He sees right through people.
Superficial things like expensive clothes do not impress him.
He’s honest.
One time he called when he was out driving with friends to tell me he would be home late because they had gone to a cemetery. They’d heard that one of the statues cried blood at night and wanted to check it out.
Just for the record I told him this was a very bad idea and it was trespassing.
He said it was okay because other kids from school had done it in the past and the cemetery people had not minded.
I would have told my mother I’d been at Denny’s. Or at the very least, not mentioned the cemetery.
But like I said, he’s honest.
In case you were wondering, the statue was not crying blood on the night they were there.
He’s good at arguing and can talk in circles so that your head swims.
Once after witnessing a particularly good argument on my son’s part, my dad said that when Charlie grew up he’d either be a con man or an attorney.
And my husband said, “If he lives that long.”
He was kidding, of course.
Charlie’s room is always a mess. I think he likes it that way.
But personal hygiene is a different matter.
He takes very long showers.
Ungodly long.
Once when he was in there for ages I got mad and shut off the hot water valve so he only got cold water.
It was not my finest moment as a mother. But he did get out.
Charlie was on the track team in high school for three years, but didn’t like to compete at meets.
He just liked to run during the practices.
How weird is that?
Charlie excels at saving money. And he hates being in debt. If he borrows from someone, he always pays them back.
He’s been employed by the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel for a year and a half and he’s never missed a day of work.
His job is collating the Sunday paper with the ads. He lifts huge bundles and spreads the papers out on a table to put the sections all together.
The Journal Sentinel says his job title is “Station Captain.”
He says he’s a “Paper B*tch.”
Charlie has a quick wit and can go off on comedic riffs like Robin Williams. He’s one of the funniest people I know.
But not everyone sees all his exceptional qualities, because he can be shy at times.
Even if he weren’t my son I would think he was an extraordinary person. I feel honored to know him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 30, 2005

My son Charlie gave me several gifts for Christmas, one of which was a pair of pink, fuzzy slippers. I needed slippers and these were definitely slippers, but they weren’t my usual style (did I mention they were pink and fuzzy?). I usually get slippers that could almost double as shoes, so that if a neighbor catches me shuffling out to get the newspaper my footwear doesn’t scream “still in sleep mode.”

So these weren’t quite what I was expecting, seeing as they’re more along the lines of what nursing home residents wear rather than the attire of a hip, suburban, oxymoron-prone mom. BUT, and here’s a huge BUT (as indicated by the capital letters) these slippers love my feet. Really love my feet. They hug my feet and keep them oh so warm. If they could, these slippers would marry my feet.

Since Christmas I have been living in these slippers. If I could give everyone in the world these slippers I am convinced there would be no more wars, or at least no name calling. I am completely converted. Pink fuzzy slippers rule.

And to give my other two children equal time: Maria gave me the new Kelly Clarkson CD, which I wanted and LOVE. She picked up on this even though I never stated it directly. She’s perceptive that way.

And Jack gave me my brain back because he gifted me with a 2006 calendar, and now that I’ve filled in all the birthdays and future dentists appointments all is right with the world. You can’t usually buy that kind of relief, but Jack did.

Thanks, kids. You’re the best.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 24, 2005

No one at my house believes in Santa anymore, not that I ever encouraged it. I was never one of those moms who left out cookies and milk, or who pretended to mail letters to the North Pole. I did once threaten my older son by saying Santa didn’t leave presents for boys who insisted on lying spread-eagled in the shoe aisle at Target, but Charlie didn’t believe me, so the threat didn’t carry much weight.

Lying to my children just felt wrong. And for what purpose? Getting gifts from people who love you seemed like magic enough to me. But I didn’t want to be a spoilsport so I talked my way around it, making those finger-gestured quotes whenever I used the word “Santa” so that someday, if it all came back to me, I was covered.

But on Christmas Eve in 1995, something happened to make me rethink the idea of Santa. My family lived in Butler, Wisconsin at the time, on a block where the houses were small and close together--twelve feet apart, at most. It was eight-thirty at night and my husband Greg was in the basement on the computer (some things never change), my younger two, Maria and Jack, were already asleep and I was just tucking Charlie into bed. I said goodnight and arranged his covers around his shoulders (even though he customarily kicked them off later, seeing as he’s warm-blooded rather than reptilian like his mother). I was about to turn off the lights when out on the roof there arose such a clatter, Charlie and I sprang from the room to see what was the matter.*

On this we both agree: something landed on our roof—it came down HARD and was accompanied by the sound of jingle bells. And we agree too, that when we went outside we could see NOTHING. There was nothing on the roof, and nothing outside that could have made such a noise. We didn’t see anyone in the street or the surrounding yards. Charlie, who was about seven at the time, was convinced it was Santa Claus who, he decided, had the capability to turn invisible at will, which would of course, explain everything.

I couldn’t come up with a better explanation so I went with it. “It really is puzzling,” I said to Greg later that night. “I heard it too. But when we went outside there was nothing there. And we really looked.”

“Hmmm,” Greg said, his eyes never leaving the screen. Now I knew how Mulder felt.

Charlie and I were talking about this recently and our memories match perfectly. But in the years that followed he’s come up with his own theory. “I think it was John Robson **,” he said, referring to the homeowner next door.

"You think so?” I said. “How do you figure? We ran out there pretty quickly and didn’t see anything.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m really thinking it was him, just goofing around. He did drink a lot of beer, you know ***.”

The idea that it was John Robson ** doesn’t sit well with me. I didn’t realize until right then how much I like the unsolved mystery of the jingle bells on the roof. As Christmas miracles go, it’s not much, but it’s mine.

I can't prove it was Santa, but no one has convinced me yet it wasn't. All I know for sure is the truth is out there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Apologies to author Clement Clarke Moore

** The name has been changed—he’s actually Rob Johnson.

***As evidenced by the empties in the Robson recycling bin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 6, 2005

Jack, my fifth-grader, had a lengthy assignment for “Wordly Wise” and it was due in four days. His strategy?—to do a third of it each night. “Except,” as he told me the first night, “I did a little more than a third. I thought I’d cut Tomorrow Jack a break.”

Me (amused): Do you think Tomorrow Jack will appreciate it?

Jack (knowingly): Yes, I think he will.

Using the same mindset, I really wish Yesterday Karen had cut me a break with the laundry. Clearly she didn’t mind making it my problem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November 22, 2005

Oh happy day—I won a contest! Yes, me. A winner. If you want proof you can go to Joshilyn Jackson’s website and scroll down to November 20^th. Ms. Jackson is the author of the darkly funny novel, GODS IN ALABAMA, which if you haven’t read already, you really should.

The contest was called Blogging 4 Books and since my piece was chosen (first place!) by guest judge Megan Crane, I will receive a copy of Ms. Crane’s latest book EVERYONE ELSE’S GIRL. I'm looking forward to reading it. I’m certain it will be wonderful.

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November 11, 2005

I’m looking at my daughter right now as she’s talking on the phone to a friend. Her head is tipped to one side and her long dark hair is covering the phone. She looks like a deranged person talking to herself.

She does this often. In fact, she and her friend(s) often “watch” TV shows together via the phone. And give each other play-by-play descriptions of what’s going on at their respective houses. And then there's the laughter--lots of doubled-over, uproarious-type laughter. Even apart, these friends share all.

I feel kind of left out.

On the plus side, at least they haven't invented the holographic image phone yet. I'm not looking forward to seeing this guy in my house. Or anywhere for that matter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 28, 2005

I have a seventeen-year-old son and an old junky sofa in my garage and they're both up for grabs. Really, just email and we'll see what we can do.

I've had the son for awhile, but the sofa is a new addition. To explain, I have to back up to Wednesday night, which is when the tile guy called to say he finally had an opening in his schedule and he and his "crew" (one guy named Jason) would be coming the next morning to work on our kitchen and front entryway. Coincidentally all three of my kids (and their many friends) had off school on Thursday and Friday due to teacher's convention. So we were all here for the fun. Ahem.

If you know me well, you know that I am a Highly Sensitive Person. I don't do well with chaos or loud noises. I definitely don't like having people I don't know in my house. Heck, sometimes I don't even like having people I do know in my house. So this was a particularly trying two days. My kids' friends kept knocking on the door and I had to route them through to a different entrance. The phone kept ringing and it was never for me. To get to our basement we had to go outside and around the house and back in another door. At one point a group of Charlie's friends came to pick him up and they wound up knocking on his window and talking to him through the screen.

After several hours of this I looked out the front door to see a sofa on my front lawn. This was out of the ordinary as we don't usually keep furniture on the grass.

"Does anyone know why there's a sofa in my yard?" I asked the crew. Jason answered that he saw a group of teenage boys unload it off a truck. At that moment the phone rang. It was my mother who lives next door. She said, "You didn't hear this from me, but did you know Charlie is lying on a couch in your front yard?"

I went out to investigate. Charlie was indeed, stretched out on this sofa, which he proudly told me he and his friends had "found" curbside in front of a house in the Hartridge Subdivision.

Me: Take it back!

Charlie: Why? It's perfectly good.

Me: You need to take it back right now!

Charlie: I don't think I could even find the place again. Besides I want to keep it. I'm going to put it in my room.

Me (blood pressure rising): It won't fit in your room. And even if it did, I wouldn't want it in my house. This thing could be infested with bugs. It could have mice in it. For all you know someone could have died on this couch!

Charlie: Or maybe (long pause), they just got a new one and don't need this one anymore.

The boy has no imagination.

So now the couch has migrated from the lawn to the garage. Charlie probably thinks the fact that it's closer to being inside is a victory, but I'm here to tell you that NO, it is not. It will be going somewhere, but not in my house.

Also, the tile guys don't work on weekends so my refrigerator and kitchen table are still in the living room. The stove is in the garage next to the infested couch.

But the good news is that someone in the Hartridge Subdivision must be celebrating big time--they finally got rid of the couch. I should be so lucky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 10, 2005

This falls into the "Now I've seen everything" category. If the sight of two naked bronze men peeing would offend you, better not go here. They say it's art.

Those wacky eastern Europeans.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 4, 2005

I am still recovering from my wild Saturday night in which I did not fall asleep until 5 in the morning. Turns out that Homecoming weekend at the high school is a big, big, big deal in Hartland, Wisconsin, the likes of which won't be seen again until the new Walgreen's opens next month.

For the first time ever, two children of mine attended a formal dance on the same night. Maria's a freshman and Charlie's a senior, so you'd think Charlie would be in the know and his sister would be clueless. No, that is not how it worked, because Charlie is a teenage guy and can't be bothered with details.

Maria to her brother: "Are you going to the parade on Friday?"

Charlie: "There's a parade?"

The day of the dance, Charlie worked a full shift at the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel warehouse. He came home just in time to take a shower, shave and get dressed. I have no photos of him. If I did, they would just be a blur as he raced out the door.

Maria spent the day getting her hair done at the salon and taking care of other Homecoming Dance related details. She looked absolutely stunning, more lovely than any 14 year-old girl should ever look. Greg and I are seriously considering having her transferred to the Sister Mary Frances' Convent School (the one with the twelve-foot wall). We took many photos of Maria and her "special friend."

When the dance was over a group of Maria's friends came here to watch a vampire movie and afterwards I drove them home. Then I got lost, or maybe I should say WE got lost because luckily Maria was in the car with me. The last friend to be dropped off lived somewhere very remote and very dark. Now I'm someone who can't find my way back to the reception area when I leave a doctor's exam room, so I was at a distinct disadvantage, but believe me, even Magellan couldn't have navigated his way home. The roads in the area were unmarked and winding. We drove and drove and drove.

We were seriously lost and I was on the verge of making all kinds of promises to God when Maria spotted a familiar soccer field and directed me from there. How she recognized it as a soccer field in the dark I'll never know, but I'm grateful she did.

We returned home a quarter tank of gas poorer, but victorious. I was as wired as I was exhausted and didn't fall asleep until sometime around five.

Good thing Homecoming comes but once a year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 24, 2005

Saturdays are usually for sleeping in, but today I had to get up early to drive my oldest child to the high school. He had an invitation to be part of the Breakfast Club and the whole thing started at 7 o'clock. (What they don't show you in the movie is that the moms dropping off the kids are actually wearing pajama tops underneath their jackets.)

Charlie's crime? Last week Friday he completely missed first hour because he could not get out of bed. Seriously. His bed was like the Venus fly traps of furniture. Nothing and I mean, nothing, could get him up. Yelling, threats, ice cubes--all these things were just mere irritants in the face of the all powerful bed. And then, to make his day even worse, his first hour teacher marked him absent and the attendance office noted that it was an UNEXCUSED absence. Now, from what Charlie tells me, other kids ROUTINELY skip classes. It happens all the time at this high school, and no one says a word. NO, not one word. But when he does it, suddenly it's a big deal. It's almost as if he's supposed to be there by law or something. It's absolutely ridiculous.

Or so Charlie says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 22, 2005

So just because the staff at Children’s Hospital was so very nice the last time, I thought it might be fun to go to the Emergency Room AGAIN, to make it a total of twice in one week. I really needed a hurt child for this outing, though, and since Charlie obliged once, and Maria has a bad cold, it was up to Jack. He cooperated by coming home from school with an eye injury on Tuesday. One of the other boys (not a NICE boy, I might add, but one with very good aim) had thrown a stick at him during afternoon recess, hitting my son right in the eyeball. The school nurse gave Jack an ice pack, then sent him back to class just in time to get his backpack and get on the bus to come home.

Jack walked in the door with one hand over the eye, which he couldn't open without intense pain (the eye, not the door). So off we went to the hospital. Luckily my regular parking spot was available and I knew the whole procedure for checking in, which streamlined the whole thing. I tried to say Jack was poked in the eye with a sharp stick, because how often do you get to use that line?--but he corrected me: the stick was thrown, not poked, and it wasn’t all that sharp either, but sort of bluntish.

Turns out he has a scratched cornea, which requires ointment placed on his eyeball three times a day for a week. In case you were wondering, this is how it’s done—you pull the child’s lower lid out creating a small pocket. And then easy peasy, you squirt a little of this clear goop out of the tube and then Jack blinks really fast and that’s all there is to it. No muss no fuss. Unless you count the part right beforehand where I chase him around the house with the tube, while he makes excuses to stall.

So, that's what I've been doing lately--in case anyone's been wondering...

September 18, 2005

Saturday night I took my older son Charlie to the Emergency Room. It seems that while I was at Taco Bell picking up dinner for the family, Charlie had arrived home from work with a cut on his hand. He'd taken out the garbage at the end of his shift and sliced his palm open on the edge of a garbage can. It was a pretty deep gash, but by the time I came home he had some paper towel over it and was applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Even so, it was apparent it would need medical attention.

The last time I rushed Charlie to the Emergency Room I'd picked him up and literally RAN to our mini-van, where I strapped him into his car seat and drove frantically to the hospital. This time I tried a different tactic; I asked, “Do we have to leave right this minute or do I have time to eat my enchirito?”

I was glad I was able to eat the enchirito because we were at the hospital for more than two hours.

Out of habit I went to the Children’s Hospital ER entrance and then realized, once inside, that Charlie was taller than most of the people who worked there. They said it was okay though, not because he’s my child, but because he won’t be eighteen for a few months yet.

The staff seemed to get a kick out of treating someone old enough to hold a paying job and they enjoyed his grumbling about the sharp edges of the garbage can. He was in his element, first describing the metal edge as “shrapnel-like” then comparing it to barbed wire. By the time he was done, taking out the garbage at work sounded as dangerous as working on the bomb squad.

The pediatric nurse, Brad, said, “Sounds like a workman’s comp claim.” Charlie wasn’t familiar with the term, so we filled him in and he liked the idea.

Brad added, “These big fat cat corporations don’t care about the little guy. You and I are on the front lines doing their dirty work and they’re just pulling in the profits.”

Charlie agreed.

"I say we stick it to ‘em!” Brad said. My son loved the idea.

Luckily Charlie’s hand was stitched up before the two of them could start a union and picket the corporate office.

Five stitches and a stop at Krispy Kreme later, we were home. Just another Saturday night at the McQuestion house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 7, 2005

I told my son Jack that when school started he'd be making his own lunches. I figured that since he’s in fifth grade and can explain how botanists develop fruit hybrids (“playing God with fruit!” he told me gleefully), he’s probably capable of making a turkey sandwich.

Even though he’d been forewarned, he was surprised when I refused to make it for him the first day of school. “I never agreed to this,” he said, his eyes narrowing. Which cracked me up, because who ever agrees to anything?

Ever since, he’s tried to get me to do it. He’s used lack of time as an excuse (but I’ll miss the bus!), sucking up (please, best Mom in the world!), and the classic--guilt (if you really cared about me you’d do it). He spends more time trying to get me to do the chore than it would take for him to do it himself—a habit he shares with his older brother, a master at getting people to do his work. I can only speculate that delegating is an inherently male trait. Not that I'm saying it's a bad thing--In fact, I could use some of that myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 11, 2004

Recently I realized that my whole life I’ve attracted mentally unstable people. I mentioned this to my husband and he said, “Thanks a lot.”

I was quick to add, “Of course I didn’t mean you,” although I’m certain that people who know him will agree that he’s far better off now than he was before we met. Not that I can take credit for all the improvements.

But it’s true that folks who are slightly off seem drawn to me. Once a man in an elevator pulled a rock out of his pocket and told me a long, impossible-to-follow story of how he got it and why he always carries it with him. And trust me, I didn’t ask.

And years ago, when I used to ride the bus, the oddball rider who wore pajamas and talked to herself, always sat right next to me. Even when there were open seats.

At every job I’ve ever had, compulsive talkers befriended me on the very first day.

I’m not sure why this is—I’m not particularly outgoing. I guess I just seem approachable. I’ve heard people’s life stories in Laundromats and on planes. Exclaimed over photos of people’s grandchildren while standing in line at the post office. Had a girl offer me a bite of her candy bar waiting at the DMV. And these were complete strangers.

I haven’t had this happen in a while, probably because I now work in my basement, where the only ones around are my children (and they aren’t technically unbalanced, just a little moody). But last Saturday I was asked to lead a discussion group for writers at a local bookstore. I’d attended these discussion groups before as a participant and knew it would be a very informal type of thing with about a dozen people; I would tell everything I knew about WRITING AND MARKETING THE PERSONAL ESSAY, a topic I know more about than the average person. After that there would be a Q and A, and then at the end, time to talk amongst ourselves, so to speak. Just a small crowd of writers, conversing about our love of the written word. What could be better?

It was going pretty well until one of the attendees, an elderly woman, who was maybe 103 years old, started telling her life story. Literally. She droned on and on in her shaky Katherine Hepburn voice talking about matters that had nothing to do with personal essays. She’d rambled for ten minutes and was only up to 1948. It was excruciating. When she stopped to take a breath, I cut in and said brightly, “It sounds like you’ve had a fascinating life—perfect for writing personal essays.” And then I wrested control of the floor back to the topic and thought that was the end of it. Except it wasn’t. She started up again and again, and each time I used the same lame tactics to get the discussion back on track.

I thought she might be irritated at my interruptions, but after the event she came up to me to tell me how much she’d enjoyed the talk and to share even more of her life events.

“Maybe she just never gets a chance to talk,” a friend suggested, and I suppose that’s possible. But I think it’s more likely to be me. I seem like someone who cares, which is not a bad attribute, although it certainly worked against me in this case.

Anyway, I’m going to try to focus on the positives of my mini-speaking engagement. Overall, I'm thankful the talk went well and the participants were receptive. And I'm really thankful this lady doesn’t have Internet access so I can vent without fear of hurting her feelings.

And I’m glad I had handouts, because I know from experience that even a less-than-perfect speaking engagement can be redeemed by useful information. If anyone is interested in the handouts (Some Thoughts on Essays & Markets for Personal Essays) email me and I’ll be glad to send them your way.

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August 5, 2005

AN ODE TO AMANDA, WHO LIVES IN ILLINOIS

(my attempt at poetry)

Oh Amanda! A girl I have never met

But my son says she is so lovely

And he would not lie to me

Except maybe about where he goes at night

And what he is doing away from my watchful eyes

But Amanda lives in Illinois, which is a good place

If you like it very flat and

Enjoy paying tolls

Still it is not Amanda’s fault

That her state has these flaws

Amanda has a boyfriend named Jon

And Charlie could SO take him down

If he wanted to

Luckily for Jon, he does not want to

Yet...

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July 13, 2005

It used to be that friends and family would go on trips and I'd get postcards. Sometimes they'd arrive in my mailbox long after their return home. Now I get emails giving me a play-by-play of their travel activities as they're happening.

They tell me the sun rising over Machu Piccu is spectacular, the people in Prague are warm and welcoming, etc. I don't mind hearing these things and don't doubt it's true--it's just seems like a little bit of a dig on their part. Like they're saying, heh heh, while you're folding towels and doing other humdrum chores, I'm on the other side of the world really living.

But I'm here to tell you that the sun rising over the Piggly Wiggly is also a pretty sight, and the people in Prague have nothing on the folks at the Hartland Public Library as far as friendliness goes.

So there.

July 11, 2005

So it turns out that if I don't blog for a month, only ONE person notices and wonders if something is wrong. To that person (and he knows who he is) thank you for caring. I am fine and will be getting back into the swing of things soon.

Switching topics for a moment here: I came across a story about a couple with fifteen biological children. FIFTEEN. And the wife is now pregnant with the sixteenth.

And they like it that way.

My friend, Michelle has six children, which always struck me as more than plenty, but this family makes Michelle and her husband look like slackers. See the very large family here.