tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87655689137068415062024-03-13T11:31:12.044-07:00Cheeky NotebooksCheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-53344285057847476382010-01-07T10:49:00.000-08:002010-01-09T06:37:15.928-08:00Resolved.<p align="center"></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/IMG_0301.jpg" /> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Becca, singing heartily during our New Years Eve dance-off</em></span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6666;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6666;"><strong>Non-Years Resolutions</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>January 1- January 7<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></em></span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#990000;">January 1- Lay on couch for two full hour without getting up.</span></strong></div><div align="center">The kids are always begging me to lay still on the sofa, and watch a show with them. I haven't yet had the heart to explain that their movie time is my rush-to-get-everything-clean time. After all, when else is a mother supposed to gather the random toy tidbits from around the house, without having them spread right back into nether regions within moments of tidying? But, today, I gave in. I watched Jonas Brothers episode after Jonas Brothers episode, with a giggling, starry-eyed Rebecca at my side. (And, for good reason. That little Nick is adorable. Though, Alyssa seems to think Joe is the cutest because he's funny and "has straight hair.") It was a refreshing, entertaining, delectably snugglicious batch of hours and I daresay I may have talked the girls into watching another bundle of episodes the very next day. Ahhhhh. Why pick up the house when the kids are just going to make a mess of it anyhow? (wink.wink.)</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc6600;">January 2- Follow Your Free Whim</span></strong></div><div align="center">It was the middle of an afternoon, and John was leaving with the car when I blurted out, "Will you take us to the mall?" Why? I don't know. I didn't need anything at the mall. I didn't want to look for anything at the mall. It wasn't even inspired by a desire to get in touch with my former junior-high, banana-clip wearing self. But, to the mall I asked for, and to the mall I got. The kids and I roamed around, bought a cupcake, watched a movie. It was a fine free-spirit sort of a day, and I felt so accomplished at doing so little that I instantly deemed it the day's non-years resolution.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ffcc00;">January 3- Treat friends to Dinner. Treat self to a good girlie chat.</span></strong></div><div align="center">Every Sunday, the kids beg for dinner guests. Being righteously pressured into it by Andrew, our resident dinner-guest-sheriff, we finally extended an invite to our favorite <a href="http://simplybeautifulchaos.blogspot.com/">Wilcox </a>family. After feasting on home-cooked <a href="http://www.recipezaar.com/Panda-Express-Orange-Chicken-103215">Orange Chicken</a> and <a href="http://simplyrecipes.com/recipes/shrimp_fried_rice/">Chinese Fried Rice</a>, Jamica and I hid ourselves in a teensy closet (this is strangely truer than it ought be) and gabbed the night away. Good Food and Good Friends. Two ingredients which tend to lend significant savour to a Good Life.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#006600;"><strong>January 4- Uphold My Civic Duty.</strong></span></div><div align="center">Summoned to jury duty today, went through a metal detector, stood in a slow-moving registration line, sat in a room with faceless strangers. It was a grim start, I will admit. The most I've ever heard about jury duty is a thick sigh and the joking nudge of an elbow from others lucky enough to avoid jury captivity. What I experienced was a profound patriotism and opportunity for life-changing civic service. </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">The jury commissioner began our session by reminding us that, while many in the crowd likely would have preferred being somewhere else, we were there to take part in an experience for which our forefathers worked, fought, and dedicated their lives. I was touched to consider it and felt a sort of sanctity come upon my thoughts. Within the hour, my name was read and I was called back and chosen to sit on a jury for a sexual assault case against a child. The case was intended to last three to four days. It only lasted two.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"><strong>January 5- Develop a profound understanding of mercy and justice.</strong></span></div><div align="center">Sexual assault against a child. It sounds rather cut and dry. A 14-year-old child, inexperienced, incapable of making entirely rational decisions should never be taken advantage of by a 21-year-old adult, right? Yet, we jurors sat in that back room--twelve strangers who, over a two-day period, became strangely like friends--deliberating for four hours. We had to consider all the facts presented in the case. Yet, there was so much <em>not</em> presented in the case. The 14-year-old had been so decietful. How much of her testimony could we believe, count as true evidence. And, there was something about the 21-year-old. His demeanor in court wasn't quite right. Child-like, even baby-like at times. Hadn't some of us seen him sucking his thumb? And yet, nothing in the presented case offered us information about his mental state. The 14-year-old was a good student. Quiet and unconfident. </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">In the end, we found him guilty. Guilty on three separate charges.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">The judge joined us in the jury room after. Told us what we couldn't know before deliberations. The 21-year-old did, indeed struggle with mental health. Though, he hadn't met all the requirements to plead legally incompetent for the trial, so into trial as a person presumed healthy he went. He'd loved that 14-year-old girl, and she him. He showered her with gifts. She'd told him she was 17 (and did, indeed, look old enough to pass for it.) Of course, the law doesn't allow a child lying to be taken into account on such a matter, leaving us no choice but to throw out what she 'said' and having to rely heavily on what he--as an adult-- <em>knew</em> to be correct or incorrect behavior. How can you judge what a man who sucks his thumb in court knows or doesn't know?</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">The judge told us the other thing we couldn't take into consideration for our deliberations. The charges, for which he was now guilty, held a mandatory 20 year prison sentence. He would now be branded with the same title as a 50-year-old who touched a 4-year-<span style="color:#ffffff;"><span style="color:#333333;">old.</span> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">I keep going back to it and back to it in my mind. Did we do the right thing? Yes. We twelve jurors deliberated endlessly over the tiniest words and phrases of the law and worked diligently to apply them to this case.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">Did the right thing happen? I don't know. I don't think it did. It's left me feeling the significant sorrow of justice when applied by the unmerciful, unseeing hand of a cold law. Made me feel grateful all week for twelve strangers who left their daily routines and answered the call for jury duty. Twelve people who gathered warm bodies, experience, compassion, knowledge, and humanity around a laminate table to debate, debate, deliberate on the fate of one man. It's absolutely the most incredible thing to ponder upon.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">Of course, it's not perfect. No, I can attest to that. Everytime my gut tightens when I think of our foreman's words, "Guilty. Guilty. Guilty" I feel how imperfect the system, the law is. But, even my sickening sadness from the seeming unfairness of this specific case is hushed when I think upon the magnificence of the entire process. The gathering of facts, the gathering of witnesses, the gathering of jury.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">And, I feel honored to have been a part of it.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#663366;">January 6- Do Laundry Until It's Done.</span></strong></div><div align="center">Done.</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">(Phew.)</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><strong>January 7-Ketchup.</strong></span></div><div align="center">The blogs have been abandoned over the holiday months of revelry and relaxation. Finally, they've each been updated, and are back on track. Feels so delightsomely nice to not have to play catch-up anymore. </div>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-73232348229874358332010-01-07T10:20:00.000-08:002010-01-07T10:47:51.336-08:00Non Years Resolutions<p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/brooke10.jpg" /></p><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663366;">There's too much to do. There just is.</span></div><div align="center">Am I the only one getting that, or are you looking at your stack of notebooks and thinking</div><div align="center">"There must be a reason I can't accomplish these deep-seated desires."</div><div align="center">Well. I've figured out why all those whimiscal inspirations come into mind, then sit like a still life in pencil upon yellowing lined paper.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#663366;">It's because there's too much to do. There just is.</span></strong></div><div align="center">Things like writing a book, and opening a shelter for orphans, and becoming generally superhuman tend to have to be put off when your children have neither a clean shirt or folded pair of pyjama pants.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#663366;">There's too much to do. There just is.</span></strong></div><div align="center">Which is why, this year, I didn't set a single New Year's Resolution.</div><div align="center">I tend to make themfar too hopeful. Too grand. Too magnificent or magnanimous.</div><div align="center">And, when I find myself falling short year-after-year, it feels rather devastating.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">Which is why, this year I am moving forward with a new chapter for <a href="http://cheekynotebooks.blogspot.com/">Cheeky Notebooks</a>.</div><div align="center">Rather than digging through the past to plan my future,</div><div align="center">I'm letting each day decide what it's resolution shall be.</div><div align="center">Will three-hundred-and-sixty-five-days of teensy accomplishments add up to a better me.</div><div align="center">Grief sakes. I hope so.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">This will also be the place where memorable, random tidbits come up every so often.</div><div align="center">And, who knows what else you may find here. Because, after all.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663366;"><strong>There's too much to do. There just is.</strong></span></div><div align="center">I suppose the least we can do is just start doing it all a little bit at a time. Eh?</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#663366;"><strong>Any New Years Resolutions for You?</strong></span></div>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-41756746572072583122009-12-15T20:57:00.000-08:002009-12-15T21:31:09.114-08:00Proof that we miss them more.<div align="center"><br /><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/Vegas3.jpg" /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#003300;"><strong>"Mom?! Hey, Mo-ooom?!"</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">Jacob was tripping over himself, backpack flying from one shoulder as he tried frantically to reach me afterschool.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">"Hey buddy!" I greeted him as he arrived at my side.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">"Mom?! Mom?!"</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">The last time I saw him this filled with this level of thrilled determination was when we'd been shopping in the bakery section of WalMart and he'd spotted a Scooby Doo cake.</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">"Yeah, bud? What's up?"</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">"Mom?! Where do Nathan and Bethany live?"</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">"Oh!" I responded with surprise. This was not the question I'd expected. It had been months since Nathan and Bethany had abandoned us in this God-forsaken city of snow, ice, and friendless Sunday dinners in search of something as incosequential as a job promotion (I balk.), "Well, they live in Las Vegas."</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">His shoulders relaxed, fell back. His face settled into a confident grin. He started nodding his head slowly, surely. "I knew it."</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">"Really?" I asked, "What made you think of where they live?"</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">Excited again, he explained: "Today, when I got to choose from the treasure box in class, there was this necklace and I just looked at it and you know what it said?!"</div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center">Las Vegas.</div><div align="center"></div><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/VEGAS2.jpg" /></p><div align="center"></div><div align="center">He wore it to bed that night.</div><div align="center">And to school the next day.</div><div align="center">And, for the next week.</div><div align="center">It's now hanging at the foot of his bed, carefully strung over the bedpost.</div><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/vEGAS1.jpg" /></p><p align="center">Miss you. Love you.</p>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-77869037929934261572009-11-18T10:54:00.000-08:002009-11-18T11:32:47.779-08:00On keeping my vow to never touch a dead mouse.<div align="center">This is KwanYong.
<br /></div>
<br /><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/KwanYong.jpg" /></center>
<br /><div align="center">He's our foreign exchange student from Korea, and we all like him a lot.</div>
<br /><div align="center">Though, I didn't know how very much I appreciated the culture he brings into our house until today.
<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">*</span>
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name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:1; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Tahoma; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-520082689 -1073717157 41 0 66047 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; 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Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);">This morning, as the kids were getting ready to go outside I heard Becca scream, "There's a dead mouse!"</span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);"> Sure enough, lying frozen on the ground was a dead-dead-dead mouse, eyes all open and beady. Ugh.
<br /></span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);"> "Andrew!" I squealed to our oldest, "You have to handle this for me! I can't do mice. Please get a shovel and scoop it up." He promptly started searching for the needed item, when I saw KwanYong standing there silently.</span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);">"Kwan Yong!" I squealed, again, "YOU should be doing this. You're closer to being a grown man than anyone else in this garage."</span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);"> "What-do-you-want-me-to-do?" he asked. I rolled my eyes back sarcastically, then ran inside to get a plastic bag. While frantically searching for the trash bag, commercial-grade Lysol, and an orange Toxic Waste clean-up suit, KwanYong came into the kitchen cool as a cucumber, opened a drawer, then walked back outside.
<br /></span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);"> Suddenly, cheers erupt from the garage. "Yay! Hooray! Go KwanYong!"</span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(68, 68, 68);"> It seems our Korean boarder had a real break through here in America, today. He became a true man. The kind that saves a garage full of screaming damsels from dragons, disease, and mice.
<br /></span></span></p> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"> </div><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/TheMouse.jpg" />
<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">*</span>
<br /> I always knew we'd experience life-changing moments of culture and friendship through this exchange student thing.
<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">*</span>
<br />Thanks, KwanYong. Kamsahamnida.</center>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-8007033163388812672009-11-12T18:56:00.000-08:002009-11-12T19:57:19.533-08:00School Night: 11:26 p.m.<center><span style="color:#663333;"><em>'Twas the night before Thursday</em></span></center><center><span style="color:#663333;"><em>and all through the house,</em></span></center><center><span style="color:#663333;"><em>every body was snoozing</em></span></center><center><span style="color:#663333;"><em>'Cept this little mouse...</em></span></center><center> </center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa14.jpg" /></center><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa13.jpg" /></p><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/CSa4.jpg" /></p><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa7.jpg" /></p><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa10.jpg" /></p><p align="center"><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa5.jpg" /></p><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa11.jpg" /><br /></center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa6.jpg" /></center><center> </center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa9.jpg" /></center><center> </center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa8.jpg" /></center><center> </center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa12.jpg" /></center><center> </center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/csa15.jpg" /><br /></center><center><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/Csa2.jpg" /></center></center><center> </center><center><span style="color:#663333;"><em>Happy Reading to All, And to All a Good Night.</em></span></center>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-65939434656582657742009-11-05T09:18:00.000-08:002009-11-05T09:24:29.962-08:00Stuff<center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/Stuff.jpg" /></center><center><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></center><center><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000066;">Stuff</span></center><center>Is on my plate</center><center>And I want it</center><center>Off</center><center>Time to dishwash</center><center>Scrub the bits</center><center>That muck up</center><center>My</center><center>Heirloom china</center><center>Time to Rinse</center><center>With</center><center>White bubbles</center><center>That cleanse</center><center>And cause</center><center>Sparkle</center><center>And remind me</center><center>Where I came from</center><center>And</center><center>Where I am going.</center><center><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></center><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000066;">Feeling like your plate is too full, too?</span></center><center><em>Oh, honey. I hear ya.</em></center><center><span style="font-size:85%;">What's keeping you hopping these days?</span></center>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-81722006004001893382009-10-21T05:14:00.000-07:002009-10-23T19:55:36.605-07:00Submissions<center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/CNStopwatch.jpg" /></center><p><span style="font-size:180%;color:#9999ff;">Before I get to my notebooks,</span> I've a stack of papers on which I've scribbled countless notes and trains of thought. This week, I'm substituing in kindergarten and teaching the kids how to make a bubble map, which is really just a simple way to teach them how to brainstorm. Looking at the scrawled writings upon these stacks of paper, I wonder if my own kindergarten teacher would be mightily unimpressed by my own lackey use of bubble mapping. Oh, woe. </p><p>There are a few notes of these notes which I can't for the life I me remember what I meant when I wrote them. But, most of my scrawled sentences and words bring back a flood of thoughts and ideas. The penciled bits and pieces on scraps of torn paper, grocery bags, napkins reinspire that original idea. The tilt of a phrase, or the way I drew arrows, or grouped a list take me back to the moment the idea came into mind in the middle of the grocery store, or as I walked to pick up kids from school, or at the end of the night just as I drift.....off.....to bed. That's so often when those pesky ideas crop up, isn't it?</p><p>So, somewhere in the middle of my super scribbly, non-bubble-mapped papers, I found this unopened, unsent envelope. It's also unstamped. Golly, I do that a lot. Write, seal, address, no stamp. Note to self--get some stamps.</p><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/CNStopwatch2.jpg" /></center><p>Although, in this case, maybe it's a good thing. I can't for the life of me remember what I wrote. Not to mention what might make it good enough to query Writer's House, that holy edifice of New York writing agents. Good gravy, what was I thinking?! </p><p>Shall we open it?</p><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/CNStopwatch3.jpg" /></center><p>Yes. Yes we shall.</p><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/CNStopwatch4.jpg" /></center><p>Allright. There she is. A one page letter with a one word first sentence. </p><p>Those first sentences are such a doozy, aren't they? Everytime I send a query, I nearly pop an eye vessel trying to conjure that first sentence. It's just all too easy to imagine some gum-chewing intern glancing at that first sentence nonchalantly, and tossing it into the office incinerator.</p><p>Now, with retrospect on my side, I'm wondering if a one word first sentence is any good. I think not. At least, not the word "FRIDAY." Maybe if I'd thrown in a real clincher of a word. Like "Abominable." or "Byzantine." or "Floccinaucinhilipilification." That would have been so good.</p><p>So, with that first word out of the way, whatever was my point?<br /></p><center><img src="http://i467.photobucket.com/albums/rr34/mclayfamily/CNStopwatch5.jpg" /></center><center></center><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left">Oh, yes. The STOPWATCH book.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Oh. No. The STOPWATCH book.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">With a pink flush settling into my cheeks, I shall share with you the hideous concept behind The Stopwatch Book. Or, save yourself and flee now while you still have your eyeballs sitting in front of your head, rather than rolling around in the back of your brain from the horror of this idea.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">You still here?</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left">Allright, then. Here we go.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left">A common string of found in all of my notebooks is this idea of time. Time baffles me. It make me horribly frustrated. It flies through my fingers, whips through my hair, taunts my children to join it upon wings and flies us all through minutes without asking my permission. And, I'm the MOM here. However did TIME get to NOT ask my permission?!</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Anyhow. Years back I had this idea: Rather than bemoaning the end of a day, wondering where my time went, I was going to carry around a stopwatch and actually time myself and all of my activities for 365 days. </div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">It lasted for all of fifteen minutes.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Somewhere between recording:</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong>0:00-2:17:35</strong> RETRIEVED DOLL HEAD FROM TOILET</div><div align="left"><strong>2:17:36-6:23:07</strong> SCOLDED BOYS FOR PUTTING DOLL HEAD IN TOILET and</div><div align="left"><strong>6:23:08- -----</strong>GATHERED CHILDREN, NAUGHTY AND NICE, TO JOIN ME FOR A READ ON THE RED COUCH</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I lost track of time.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I suppose it was the reading that did it. No, not like we got lost in a really good book (though sometimes that happens). Books are nice and all, but sitting on the couch with four rounded children tucked in my arms made it difficult to record anything at all in the STOPWATCH notebook. Then, I think someone told a knock-knock joke, which led to maniacal laughter and another knock-knock joke. Before you knew it, we were sitting there on the red couch, entirely lost in each other. Snuggling and snorting and bowing our heads together with great, racking giggles.</div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="left">And, the envelope with book query was lost in a paper pile somewhere as the stopwatch ticked on, unnoticed. </div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#9999ff;"><strong>Now, It's Your Turn:</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#9999ff;">What is one of the the silliest submission ideas you've cooked up?</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#9999ff;">(You're secret is safe with me.)</span></div>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8765568913706841506.post-15745130130307228402009-10-07T15:06:00.000-07:002009-10-07T17:45:50.104-07:00Where the Wild Things Wait<center><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3472/3990231789_7fc0a2e44a.jpg" /></center><p align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#330000;">I was at </span><a href="http://www.sophistimom.com/"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#330000;"><em>Sophistimom's</em></span></a><span style="font-size:180%;color:#330000;"> house, helping her pack for a pending move.<br /></span>In her bedroom, we were making piles.<br />A pile for mail which needed answering.<br />A pile for children's books.<br />A pile of odds and ends for her new home's junk drawer.</p><p align="center"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2664/3990230425_21dc315d09.jpg" /></p><p align="center">"In which pile does this belong?" I asked, holding up a notebook.<br />She smiled a tired smile, moved to the bed and pulled back the unmade covers.<br />Swimming underneath their opaque sea was a pile of notebooks.<br />"Everytime I have a great idea, I start a notebook," she said. "These are all my notebooks full of unfinished ideas."<br />"Soul Sisters!" I squealed, "I have a stack of the very same!"<br /> Notebooks began with grand intentions, scribbled in with mad fervor, then quickly forgotten, stacked in a pile with all of the other notebooks.</p><p align="center"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3262/3990983198_78cdf6504d.jpg" /></p><p align="center">Above my head right now, as I type, is a leather suitcase full of those notebooks.<br />Stacks of paper inscribed with penciled tracks, trains of thoughts, a port to park my ideas for another day.<br />So, I've decided. It's time to dust off the papers of possibilties and jump into the journey.<br />Time to start acting on what's in those notebooks.</p><p align="center">How about you? Do you have a pile of notebooks awaiting your attention?</p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#330000;"><em>Shall we get going?</em></span></p><p align="center"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3090/3990984892_0e79765de9.jpg" /></p>Cheeky Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11450902592825765629noreply@blogger.com10