You thought I’d ditched it here forever, right? Yes, I’ve been busy getting The Travel Belles going, but I don’t intend to stop posting here. I’m just not sure what I’ll be posting and whatever it is  may come in fits and starts. Recently I’ve been working on my fiction mostly when I have the time, so I thought I’d share some of my initial bursts and ramblings with you. The following is the beginning of two of the main characters in a novel I’ve just started working on. Since some of you have known me much longer than I’ve had this blog, I feel it is important to add: No, this is not autobiographical. Yes, this is fiction.

I’m sorry, but it’s too red, I told her, because admitting the truth of what I was really thinking, even to myself was uncharted territory in the mother/daughter relationship. I never have liked red clothes though, and that’s how it came out.

Red clothing reminds me of many things that frighten me: the Midwest, republicans, sports fans, accountants. I became aware of my aversion the first time I went home with Todd to meet his parents over Christmas 1989. Incidentally, it was in Cleardon, which just so happens to be in the Midwest. I struggle with the idea of those geometric states, days drives from ocean. I never knew anyone from the Midwest before Todd and I’m sure I got my idea of them from television shows, those happy simple comedies with laugh tracks, and women with done hair and dresses and Betty Crocker cookbooks.

For any Christmas, the color red plays a big part.  Now it’s obvious that red is not the reason for the season, but for Todd’s family it was huge, this thing about wearing red. Some green may have been thrown in for good measure but, mostly the family wore red. Red shirts, red sweaters, red hats and scarves. All of it freaked me out a little. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s not my color.

It’s not Jayne’s either, but here she is in the Dillard’s dressing room with an armful of clothes and I’d say at least half of them, probably more, have more than their fair share of red, much more, if she were to consider how bad we (meaning her and me) look in it. It  goes beyond me just thinking she looks like the treasurer of a young republicans club. It washes out her complexion, muddies her green eyes (Barney taught her when she was a toddler that when you mix red and green it makes brown. Doesn’t she remember this?), and draws attention to the fact that her hair isn’t really even that blonde any more. If I wasn’t such an advocate for resisting the influence of the media on todays teenage girls, I’d have her in the highlight chair in a minute.  Here we’ve raised her in a city and she, in spite of my influence seems to want to look like someone who thinks all the best books can be found in grocery stores. She probably even thinks that wall to wall carpet is superior to hardwood.

She peeks  from behind the curtain handing me the one clothing item she had back there that made any sense to me. I actually may have found it for her – an adorable pucci baby doll dress of purples and blues, perfectly suitable for a girl her age. If I still had the body I had when I was 15 and I knew what was in store for it in the coming years, I swear to you I would have put on not just this dress, but the bikini closest to the size of a postage stamp that I could find. I’d then parade around everywhere: to school to the mall, to stand at the bustop for as long a possible. I would have interviewed for college in the thing.

“Honey, why didn’t you let me see it on  you?”

“The belt was all weird, I couldn’t figure out how to tie it. And I think it was a little short…”

“Come out when you have the next thing on, I want to see.”

Reluctantly she exits the dressing room. She has on khaki pants. (where on earth did they come from, besides the 80s, I mean what rack?) and a white collared shirt under a sweater as red as the reddest apple you could pluck from a tree in Washington state – apple red, not tomato, not merlot, but fire engine, primary color red.

She appears to be shifting dirt around under her fingernails. I don’t say anything even though I want to about that.

“Well that looks okay, but don’t you think it’s, well….”

“Well what, mother?”

“It’s a little….”

“Red. Is that what you mean mom?. That you think it’s a little red? How is something a little red anyway? When it’s red, it either is or it isn’t.”

She shifts from foot to foot turning her body as if she were inspecting a prom dress and not the most boring red sweater I have ever laid my eyes on.

I notice the time and if we don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be late for my noon juvaderm injection.

“It’s great honey. Seriously, it’s perfect. Just your color.”

People always used to tell me that she looked just like me, like one day I just spit and there she was. She is changing and I’m not sure what to do about it. Maybe I’ll just forget about it. There’s always my other daughter. She doesn’t look much like me, but who knows, maybe at least, she doesn’t like red.

I’m holding a contest over on my new blog, and I’ll start by asking you this:

Do you know that feeling of having a party and thinking that no one, except maybe your best friend or mother, is going to show up?

That’s EXACTLY how I feel about doing a giveaway. (For the record I’m fine with others doing giveaways.)

I say I want to do something for my readers..

(I feel like a bit of an arse even referring to “my readers.”)

But assuming there are any. Readers.

Not that I’m assuming there are or anything.

What I’d like to do is give Nikons and cashmere sweaters

to everyone.

Does holding a giveaway make me a subscriber whore?

Goofy, and out-of-line?

Answers: Yes. Yes.

Apparently I want to be Oprah.

And I don’t like Oprah.

What’s with me?

Oh, sorry, I mean, “What’s with you?”

{I may not be giving away cashmere sweaters and Nikons, but I’ve got a gorgeous necklace from LuShae and a rolled canvas from Uprinting. And for each entry I’ll be making a donation to ECPAT/USA (End Child Prostitution and Trafficking)}

OMG, I just realized that this all sounds like Oprah.

So come on over and enter. Please.

Now for the next topic: The College Roadtrip

Dolly and I are going on a college roadtrip next week. The other night we made a list of colleges she’s seen that she’d likes, and a list of colleges she’s seen that she didn’t like. I noticed that I wasn’t there for the colleges she likes, and that I was there for the ones she didn’t like.

You don’t think these things are related, do you? Well,  just in case they are, I’ve decided that I’ll go to the information sessions with her where I’ve promised to sit on my hands and not ask questions, but not on the campus walking tours. This is fine with me – all those young people walking backwards make me nervous. Her enthusiasm in letting me know this is fine with her too, leaves me doubly convinced that aliens have indeed abducted my child from her body. If I close my eyes I can still feel her tiny hand in mine as we walked into our first day of pre-K.

I’m concerned I’m making all kinds of bad decisions. When figuring out what schools to visit next week, I ruled out one college because they had nature sounds playing on their website. I feel as if the past 17 or so years have been building up to this and now that I’m here, I’m behaving like someone else’s mother making decisions based on things like how  a student tour guide walks backwards and chirping birds. Like a mother who is crazy and thinks her child is in 10 years old because that’s about how many years it seems have gone by.

And yes folks, she’s only a junior. We’ve got at least a year of “they grow up so fast”/pre-empty nest syndrome posts ahead of us. (If the aliens are out there and can hear this, please let her know that we miss her dearly on her home planet and look forward to her safe return in a couple of years.)

Any advice? And did I tell you about the giveaway I’m hosting over on The Travel Belles?

The Travel Belles is now open!

When some of you heard me say I was starting a new blog about travel,  I bet you didn’t think I meant I was undertaking an extended outer space mission. But as with many journeys in life, you never know exactly what you’re getting in to until you step out and try.

So I’ve stepped out and  am trying.

It’s exciting and scary. Dreams along the lines of finding myself naked in a room full of strangers keep me awake at night. It taps into all my insecurity driven, perfectionistic, overthinking tendencies. During the many moments I feel like bopping myself up the head, I’m saying unlovely things to myself things I wouldn’t slap on my worst enemy. Things along the lines of  “Who am I to be trying to do this when there are so much better, more worthy, more talented, more deserving women out there?” Except not so politely.

I had no clue I was still riddled with all that. No clue that I am a walking poster child for women in need of  this Marianne Williamson quote:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Other than that I’m having a blast. Seriously.

A week or so ago I was thinking about leaving Life in the Short Lane behind. But even though a blog does not a person make, I don’t see how it can be  cast aside any easier  than a part of my personality.

And I doubt visitors to a travel blog want to witness my bipolar blogging methods, of one day funny, one day, not so much.  Posting here may now come in fits and starts, but I’m sticking around.

When I started this blog, there were probably  around 50 clicks between the blogger dashboard, and going live.

I can safely say that with The Travel Belles there have been many more than that. Will you do me the honor of checking it out?

Much love,  xoxoxo

I’m on the way to Atlanta with the family. The purpose of the trip is four-fold:

1. To take 17 year old to visit Emory University

2. To go see Muse in concert on Saturday.

3. To meet the mother of our next labradoodle. (please don’t tell Lily the labradoodle. I want to tell her myself when the moment is right)

4. To test out blogging with my thumbs from my BlackBerry while riding directly into the sun on one of the most heaven forsaken stretches of interstate highway in the nation, I-20 between Florence and Columbia, SC.

On Friday I have a post up at (Travel Writers Exchange) http://www.travel-writers-exchange.com/ (sorry I can’t make the link all pretty. I’m wondering if there’s any chance it will fix itself). It’s a great site for travel writers and bloggers, but a lot of the content is relevant for writers and bloggers in general.

With a little luck a couple of photos may show up here too. I’ll probably get online tonight and be horrified by the sheer wonkiness of it all in regards to this post. I’m really hoping the photos show up because don’t two mediocre elements make one okay blog?

Don’t answer that.

Sparkle's first snowball fight ever happened within 10 minutes of the first flake. Check out that folow through.

Did you you hear that this past Friday, 49 states had snow? According to the Associated Press at dawn on February 13, more than two thirds of  the United States’ land mass had experienced a least a dusting of snow. The lone holdout was Hawaii. Surprisingly that state’s Mauna Kea volcano, at 13,800 feet, usually sees a fair amount of snow throughout the year; it just happens that on this past Friday and Sunday there wasn’t any.

According to the article, Patrick Marsh a Phd candidate in meteorology at the University of Oklahoma, put out a call that he was collecting photos of snow on the ground in all 49 states. He was immediately inundated. If I’d known about it, I would have sent him several of the 500 I took from South Carolina.

“It just shows that deep down inside, all of us is a weather weenie, a weather fanatic,” Marsh said. “This is just an awesome weather event.”

I come from a long line of “weather weenies.” Using our nation’s newfangled weather speak, my mother has been known to call me across the span of several states to warn me of approaching “cells.”  I try to play it cool, that I am some kind of exception to cultural influence and genetics, but truth be told I often  take it upon myself to wise-up friends and loved ones with similar notifications of encroaching dire weather weather phenomenon like  “radiation fog,” “correlated shears,”  and rapidly  approaching “supercells.”

Dave, Sparkle and I were in Charleston this weekend to experience the rare coastal South Carolina snowstorm. My not-so-inner weather weenie got unusually excited when I saw an even more rare weather happening called “blue lightening,” followed by the sound of what I think were electrical transformers popping. We didn’t lose power, but did lose cable in the middle of the Olympic’s opening ceremony. It  may have been a blessing in disguise of sorts, because it occurred in the middle of the second hour of dancing Indians, but we got over it and went to bed.

Snow didn't stick around long on Charleston's East Battery

Tiny mystery snowmen appeared on top of cars throughout the city overnight.

... and on park benches. It was like playing, "Where's Waldo?"

Snow on flower boxes and palm fronds looked a little strange...

... but kind of dreamy on the camellias which bloom this time every year

But my favorite thing about our weather weenie weekend was  definitely this:

Whenever possible Sparkle continued to break into snowball fights for the next 20 hours

I know most of you non-weather weenies, or at least those of you who have had so much snow this winter that you’re ready to melt Frosty with a blowtorch, will forgive me for this gratuitous and enthusiastic snow post. The guests at our bed and breakfast from the Washington, DC area seized the opportunity to enthusiastically tell us we were nuts. They tried to pretend as if they weren’t weather weenies at all anymore. Frankly I didn’t buy  it.  They couldn’t help but reveal their inner weather weenies by repeatedly saying things like, “you better get some dry gloves on that kid, QUICK,” as if her fingers were about to crack off right there on the oriental rug. Or my favorite, “This is nothing! You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen 36 inches in your driveway.”

I’m sure they were simply angry that they came all the way to South Carolina just to see more snow. But Lord knows that weather weenies we all are, we would have still probably talked about the weather. We just wouldn’t remember it.

]]> http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/02/unexpected-weather-for-your-average-family-of-weather-weenies/feed/ 16 http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/02/leave-the-luggage-to-us-would-have-been-a-good-idea/ http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/02/leave-the-luggage-to-us-would-have-been-a-good-idea/#comments Wed, 10 Feb 2010 22:41:12 +0000 Margo http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/?p=2524

Who knew there was a collection of Elvis wines?

There really aren’t that many people whom I would stand in line to have my picture taken with.  Elvis would be one of them. I know Elvis hasn’t been with us here on earth for a while, but his memory lingers on, right smack in the middle of Cecilia’s and my first stop on the way to the Gaylord Opryland last week.

If you’re looking for Harry Connick, Jr. photos from the Blissdom conference, you’ve come to the wrong place. Don’t get me wrong, I would love to have had my picture taken with Harry. How cool is it that Harry Connick, Jr., makes an appearrance at your conference? I just detest the idea of standing in a long line to end up with a picture of myself with tall dishy Harry, and be faced with the fact that I didn’t look nearly as cute as I thought I did. I treasure my delusions. And I don’t want to think what this means for the vlogging ambitions that I walked away from the conference with.

Hope Ceclilia Doesn't Sue Me, but this Was our First Stop in Nashville

Does this zippy little Volvo look like an economy car to you? The nice man at the Alamo desk asked me if I wanted an upgrade for only $38 dollars. Even the way he said it, I could tell he didn’t think $38 was nothing. I politely declined. Alamo gave me this stylin’ ride anyway. It sure beats my ancient minivan as a mom getaway car.

I liked my wheels so much I came close to not turning it back in on Sunday – at least in my mind. I considering driving, instead of flying back to Myrtle Beach, stopping by Asheville on the way with Cecilia.  Turns out I’m not that much of an Ann Tyler novel cliche yet.  Have any of you read any of her novels? In at least two of them the main character, a straight-laced but somewhat loopy mother of teenagers, hops in the car and leaves. I imagine this woman would drink lots of Elvis wine.

Tea Party Hardy!

You may have heard that the National Tea Party Convention was in Nashville at the same time and place as Blissdom.  I fully expected to run smack into Sarah Palin or at least Sean Hannity, if only for storytelling value. I didn’t see any famous tea partyers unless the couple pictured above is renowned in tea party circles. I did meet some attendees on the elevator. They were very friendly and I thought pretty easy to differentiate from the Blissdom attendees, but they kept asking if we were here for the Tea Party.

I got a few, “So what exactly is a blog, anyway?”

“Ask Sarah and Todd Palin,” did NOT fly out of my mouth.

We did notice lots of security “detail” (isn’t that what they say?),  but I don’t think the tea partyers had anything to worry about. Anyone looking to make trouble for them would have to successfully navigate The Gaylord Opryland jungle/rainforest. In case you haven’t heard, this is no small feat (see map to the left of the above couple).  Not only is the Gaylord Opryland huge, nothing is situated at right angles. The entire complex is under-roof so there isn’t any hope of triangulating oneself by the sun. To top it off seemingly haphazard escalators and stairways present themselves just as you sense yourself coming into range of your room while lugging a 100 pound suitcase.

My suggestion to the Opryland would be to think about providing overconfident visitors like me and Cecilia, a special Garmin-type nav system made especially for the Gaylord Bio-dome. It could even speak to you in the voice of George Jones, Vince Gill or Kellie Pickler. I’m fairly certain we’re not the first two customers to get  in over our heads finding our room. At one point I wanted to jump in the “river” and hold my suitcase over my head, as a soldier would  hold a rifle while wading through the jungles of Vietnam.

In the meantime when Opryland front desk personnel observe two women carrying full bottles of vodka and wine in flimsy plastic bags that aren’t long for this world, headed off brazenly to their room: Stop them and insist that they should probably USE A BELLMAN.

Get a Free Suitcase with any $250 purchase!

Remember how obscenely proud of myself I was when I packed everything in one suitcase? It didn’t take me long to remember what it was that I was forgetting in my post: A fold-flat tote bag for anything I might accumulate during the trip.

On our last night, as I set out on my search of  such a tote bag at one of the Gaylord Opryland’s many shops, I saw the above sign. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I found it promising for my prospects.

Oh how wrong one can be! And I had been so optimistic in finding the right thing to pack my water bottle, two travel mugs and Hershey’s chocolate Bliss. I found a $79 Oprah’s Favorite gym bag, which definitely wasn’t what I was looking for, or even cute. In typical form, it took me 20 minutes of staring at it to realize this.  Yes, I ended up at the local Target on my way to the airport the next day.

(I know this isn’t your average conference round-up piece. But then again maybe it is. Like I say, I treasure my delusions. Seriously – I met so many wonderful women bloggers this weekend – and I can’t believe how much I learned in such a short period of time. I look forward to keeping in touch!)

This vast cavern provides an unexpected rush of optimism.

Until today I was not an efficient packer. When it comes to air travel, I’ve always been a two bag, over the weight limit kind of gal. Blame it on the fact that since the birth of my first child – 17 years ago - I don’t get out enough. So when I do, I go a little nuts.

In honor of the fact that I am starting a travel website and I am going to the Blissdom conference tomorrow in Nashville, I’ve challenged myself to pack in one little bitty old suitcase. This piece of luggage, my more intrepid husband’s 22″ Travelpro, theoretically could even be carried on the plane. I tell you right now, that isn’t going to happen. (I thought it might for around 5 seconds, but when I mentioned it to Dave this morning he seriously spewed his coffee.)

All women know the TSA regulations for carry-on bags are meant for annoying people: females who are size quadruple zero and don’t wear make-up and men who don’t ever change their clothes. Since I plan to change my clothes like Oprah on crack, the idea of carrying on my one and only suitcase will just have to remain conceptual. I’m more than a little willing to pay up.

But beware: I plan on testing the Travelpro 5’s expansion technology to the point of near rupture. Is that the entire contents of my flying closet sprinkled on the tarmac?  Not to worry – the xanax is in my purse.

As I begin, I can’t help but notice that this suitcase looks like it can really hold a lot. Then I remember these:

Premptive Strike: Yes, I've pulled the pair I'm wearing on the plane already. And yes, that's two pair of boots.

When packing,  it is better use of space to roll, instead of fold clothes.

Rolled clothes for 4 days sans shoes and underpinnings

Underpinnings? I’m not even sure what that word means. It sounds so architectural. Well, if it doesn’t mean “everything that goes underneath” – it should, so I’m leaving it.

There are several zippered sections for things that go underneath and things that don’t leave the room (like pajamas, work-out clothes – yeah, right - and toiletries)

Ready to follow my bliss

I am going to wear the black boots to fly, but other than that, it all fits nicely with a little room to spare. Any ideas on what I might be forgetting?

My friend, Mayor of Sass from Sasstown is going to be at Blissdom. I can’t way to meet her! Anyone else going? I’m looking forward to meeting you!

Lily the Labradoodle

Here’s love disguised as a mop! -  Peter Gray

(because I find myself wordless a day late)

]]> http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/01/love-disguised-as-a-mop/feed/ 11 http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/01/id-rather-rotate-crops-than-book-purge/ http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/2010/01/id-rather-rotate-crops-than-book-purge/#comments Tue, 26 Jan 2010 16:27:28 +0000 Margo http://www.lifeintheshortlane.com/?p=2442

Dave in this kind way of his that defies reason, except insofar as it kind of explains how he manages to  love me, mentioned a few weeks ago that perhaps I could go through some of my books.

“Just give some away,” he said, as if that were the easiest thing to do on earth.

He doesn’t know that I know he is farming me, I think as he walks away without making eye contact. The guy was planting a seed. I am the dense soil; he is the farmer. Action wasn’t expected. As all good farmers do, he sent up a prayer and moved on.

Imagine shelves lined with books neatly arranged according to genre and author. Now picture the exact opposite.

I could get a clear shot of this one because it is still pulled out from the wall from when the cable guy was here two weeks ago.

I’m trusting you with this image to not think less of me. Sharing’s not easy.

In my defense, my family isn’t great at respecting the boundaries of each other’s cornfields. Under the cover of darkness they have willfully turned my “office” into a memorabilia and mystery laundry purgatory.  Sure the farmer and the chillin’ give lip service to the contrary, but in truth my “office”  is a rather cushy storage area  for everyone in the family’s crap. Instead of an office, or even a  junk drawer, what we’ve got here is  junk room. In the clan’s defense, I’m certain that someday in the future everything in my “office” will be critical for our continued existence.

But when Farmer Dave throws his empty suitcase in here with the intent of  someday returning it to its appropriate closet – or should I say stall -   I know the end – the one where my office is nothing more than a glorified silo  – has arrived.

This morning I was in the middle of searching for a book in my glorified silo,  the title and subject of which now elude me, when I switched gears, probably because of that pesky little seed Farmer Dave planted in my not-so-fertile mind. For around five minutes I gave this massive book depository of mine, located in an untended field of sawgrass rug, my full attention.  Since I am now writing this, it’s pretty obvious that this attention didn’t last.

A year or so ago I decided to divest  myself of some of my library through Book Mooch. The initiative resulted in a full day spent on this exchange website listing books, followed by another full day at the office store where I stood confounded in an aisle considering envelopes. Bubble lined, or not? Perhaps color coded? Why are these pretty colored ones less expensive? Is something the matter with them? What size address labels? Oh, what about return address labels? Should I buy a postal scale? Isn’t this getting ridiculous?

When a fellow Book Moocher – one who quickly snagged my copies of both The Memory Keeper’s Daughter and Water for Elephants – noted my enthusiastic start, she gave me some advice. She suggested that I only list ten or so books and only ones I knew were in high demand. That way I’d enter ten books, they’d be gone by the end of the day, and I could mail them all at once. I could then sit back and “mooch” some books back for myself. Not exactly zero population growth for the shelves, but it was a well-intended start. Let’s call it “rotating crops.”

Even though he’s damned nice, the farmer doesn’t understand the degree to which considerations such as Book Mooch, used bookstores or Amazon – heaven forbid, don’t get me started on the perils of Amazon – can keep me stuck until next Tuesday. Looking up several hours later I would find myself surrounded by Eiger-esque piles of books, in the middle of this possession purgatory. Should I write about it or make a lame attempt to purge? Either way, resistant soil’s going to do what it’s going to do.