Death and honor

My sister is so selfish. She was sitting in the stands at a softball game and one of the players died and she gave the girl CPR and defibrillated her back to life -- and didn't call me and tell me about it! How selfish is that? Even further, she didn't call the papers or even give anyone her name. The most evidence I could find to support my story (which would have been magnificent, by the way, if I had more generous, self-sacrificing sisters who thought of me and my need for writing material first like they should) was a measly bit on the softball site that said something like "thanks to the quick action of the umpire and the nurse in the stands..." blah, blah, blah...the nurse in the stands? She couldn't give one lousy person her name?

Kidding aside, we're all thinking about heroes today. I hope that those of us who aren't "that guy" (thanks, Live Free or Die Hard), never forget to live up to our responsibility to make sure that lives are never sacrificed in vain and that our heroes, especially the ones who never come home, are honored.

It's sort of depressing, but something occurred to me as I wrote this:

Death is the only thing we do perfectly.

So relax, some day you'll be perfect. Perfectly dead.

Suddenly perfect doesn't look so great, does it?

Imperfectly yours,

Robin

Odd Hours

Today's writing tidbit:

'Ejaculated' is almost never the right dialogue tag, especially when the speaker is a woman.

Don't believe me?

Don't take my word for it; I'm just the messenger here.

Check out Dean Koontz's podcast: Episode 21, Moments in a Publishing Life

Incidentally, don't you get excited when you find someone who has literary tastes similar to your own, and you discover they haven't read something you really liked?

This happened in our house recently when we discovered my mother hadn't read Koontz's Odd Thomas yet. Hubby zipped to our fair library and got her a copy. She prefers paper and ink and our copy is the audio version.

As predicted, she loved it. She made a point, several times, to come over to me with the book, holding it open as if afraid that if she closed it she might not be able to get it open again. "All parts of this book are good."

"I know," I would say.

Then, one day she was reading at the table next to my desk. Suddenly she folded the book on her finger, almost willing to close it and push it away, but only because she didn't want it to end. She looked at me, her soul peeking through her pupils, waving at me and making me a little uncomfortable. I don't want to see that. I'm still trying to get over seeing her naked.

"I love him," she said.

I had to smile. "Odd Thomas? You love Odd Thomas?"

"Yes."

Then it was over. The End. She asked us, "There are more of them, right?"

"Yes."

"Get them for me," she said, twitching.

"You're an Oddict!" I accused.

"Just get them," she said, narrowing the space between her lids, scaring her soul back to its hiding place.

"No," we told her. "You have to pace yourself. Read someone else between. You don't want to O.D. on ODD."

"Okay," she said, sullen. "Fine. KC's got this Jack London fellow she wants me to read."

"Call of the Wild?"

"Yeah."

"That's her favorite book. Don't worry; you'll like that too."

So, in case you other Oddicts out there didn't realize; there is a new Odd out as of yesterday. Odd Hours.


Don't worry; I believe Mr. Koontz now has complete artistic control of his dialogue tags.

Yours,

Robin

Funniest Ad: It Could Happen To You by Alexandra Barreto, Rider Strong, and Shiloh Strong

Politics aside, this is just clever and funny:

Diapers and fluorescent orange ice cream

If I told you I've been working on pull-ups and push-ups, you'd probably wonder what sort of sordid experiments people could perform using diapers and fluorescent orange ice cream, but you'd be wrong. I mean actual pull-ups and push-ups. You know, with the pulling and the pushing. Or the attempts thereof.

The good news is that only the parts of me with muscles were sore yesterday. And my hair hurt a little, but that might have been my imagination.

Today's writing tidbits:

Hurry and build a platform; it will help you get published.

Also, hurry and get published; it will help you build a platform.

You're welcome.

Better yet, try to keep your sense of humor; it will keep you sane.

Speaking of your sense of humor, I hope Sunday's post got some of you talking about global warming (chilly here again today, by the way). Do I really believe it doesn't exist and we are instead starting a new ice age? Here's the thing: I never needed and still don't need to know if it exists or not. I was born in Cleveland. I've smelled many of our cities. I don't need statistics to tell me that air is not supposed to be chunky. I don't know how I'd convince myself that tons of chunk that weren't there before don't mutate our planet. There are probably hallucinogenics that would help me in that department, but I'm afraid they'd make me write about lilac laser-wielding butterflies. Mutations seldom change things for the better. Except in X-Men. And possibly in writing full of laser-enhanced butterflies.

In Costa Rica they heated our water with a solar panel and a tank.

The simplicity of it made me realize how much of our dependence on wasteful consumption is perceived. It made me feel ridiculous. For me we don't need the big discussions on what we are doing to the planet to make me know that what is coming out of our smokestacks and cars is wrong. I only need my nose and watery eyes for that. Sometimes things are much simpler than we make them. Seems that way to me, anyhow.

So, let's keep talking. Conversation and communication. That's what the words are all about. Good stuff.

Speaking of words, it's time for today's related random thriller book look. Amazon key words: sore muscles

HOLD TIGHT
by Harlan Coben


Want to flip through the pages? Yeah, me too.

Here's the synopsis from his website:

How well do you really know your child?

Tia and Mike Baye never imagined they’d spy on their kids. But their sixteen-year-old son Adam has been unusually distant lately, and after the suicide of his best friend Spencer Hill, they can’t help but worry. Within days of installing a sophisticated spy program on Adam’s computer they are jolted by a cryptic message from an unknown correspondent that shakes them to their core: “Just stay quiet and all safe.”

As if Mike Baye isn’t dealing with enough, he also learns that Lucas Loriman, the sweet kid who grew up next door, is in urgent need of a kidney transplant. As the boy’s doctor, Mike suddenly finds himself in possession of an explosive secret that threatens to rip the Loriman family apart at the seams.
Nearby, while browsing through an online memorial for Spencer, Betsy Hill discovers a surprising detail about the night of her son’s death. Before she can find out more, Adam disappears, taking the truth with him and sending shockwaves through the neighborhood.

As the lives of these families collide in tragic, unexpected, and violent ways, long-hidden connections in their small suburb begin to work their way to the surface. And when an unidentified Jane Doe is beaten to death not far away, those connections threaten to turn this quiet community upside down—and force these desperate parents to decide whether there is any line they won’t cross to protect those they love most in the world.

Congratulations, you survived Monday!

Yours,

Robin

Taking the high road by sneaker

Best sign from today's 5k:

Life is short, running makes it seem longer.

Bwahaha. Since the other signs had inspirational quotes on them and not Gary Larson cartoons, I'm guessing they meant "running makes it longer." Which is good, because then you have more time for running.

Two of the guys who won the race ran the whole thing again before I finished. That means I had three chances to trip them, but I didn't. I think you'll agree that I'm practically a saint.

'Twas 49 degrees and windy. So I'm assuming that by global warming, you all mean, "oncoming ice age." Maybe that's the endorphins talking. Or the lingering decompensation. One or the other.

I'm pretty sure the guy who won lapped the planet and turned back time a bit, so you might want to adjust your clocks accordingly.

I hope you've all had a fantastic weekend.

Yours,

Robin

Senator Kennedy

You have probably heard that Ted Kennedy is at Mass General in Boston after exhibiting stroke-like symptoms this morning.

Oddly enough, Hubby and I are going there at the end of the month so Hubby can attend a sports medicine conference. Hopefully Senator Kennedy will be home, happy and healthy by then.

It's a good time to raise awareness, so I'll mention that James Macdonald did an informative write-up about strokes over at Making Light. The most important thing being, once again, to get to the hospital as soon as possible if you're having stroke-like symptoms. Timing is everything.

I wanted to add a bit about related procedures. In October of last year, Senator Kennedy had a procedure called a carotid endarterechtomy. That is a procedure wherein they bypass the clogged artery with a hose, then clamp off the diseased area, slice it open, scrape the plaque out of the inside of the artery, then sew the artery back together. Then they remove the hose and repair those stab wounds. Sounds scary, but the endarterechtomy is preferable over a stent if you're a good candidate for it, and that's coming from someone who works for a group who profits from placing stents, so there you go. Even though it's more intrusive, there are fewer complications and the benefits last longer.

The more you know.

Yours,

Robin

Slugs as living art -- who knew?

I can't paste a picture, but they're worth the click.

Beautiful slugs from National Geographic.

/via FARK

Could you hold this for me?

Tish Cohen's new blog, Waits at the Window, explores anxiety and ways to deal with it. Which is good, because breaking all the windows of your least favorite neighbor's house is often frowned upon as a way of dealing with anxiety. Even when they deserve it. What can I say; life isn't fair.

Lately, Tish talks about a creative tool you or your child can use in which you visualize your anxiety as an entity outside yourself. Sort of like turning the monster under the bed into a friend. Okay, more of a receptacle than a friend, but still. (As long as you're causing me anxiety, why don't you hold it all for me?)

Some people like this kind of thing; some people don't. I know athletes use all sorts of different approaches to psych themselves out. At any rate, check it out. You know you want to know what other people's anxiety critters look like. Tell Tish how you'd imagine yours if you had one. (I suggest that you do not use Bill O'Reilly as your anxiety critter. Don't ask me why, but it has something to do with that f-bomb video of his that's been floating around. Oops, they yanked it. I don't blame them. Bill, get an anxiety critter. It might help.)

Tish's forthcoming book, Inside Out Girl, is about a learning-disabled girl who becomes an accidental superhero in inside out pajamas.

The cover alone reduces my anxiety:


Love that.

Yours,

Robin

Race #2

Make that "Race" #2. Yes, I did the whole 3.1 miles. (Damn you, metric system -- we used to be friends! 3 miles would have sufficed.)

My main goal was not to puke and I didn't. Yay, me!

My secondary goal was not to die, which soon moved me to trump my first goal with Don’t puke AND die. Those kids en route handing out sickly sweet juice after asking me if I wanted some water almost kept me from my goal, but, in true Idiocracy fashion, I thwarted them by watering the grass with it. I slowed to inquire as to where I should put my cup and they made me throw it right on the ground. On the ground, I tell you! Now I really am going to hell.

On the less yay-infused side, like ten grandmas, grandpas, and an alarming number of assorted small children beat me. And two, maybe three babies. Oh, come on -- they rode in strollers. Epic little cheaters.

I knew I hadn't done so well, when I was still a quarter-lap away and the announcer said, "Here come the limpers!" Verrrrry funny. He's lucky there wasn't any blood in my head or I totally would have said something clever to him when I went by twenty minutes later. Though I did put a tone in my moan (tone in my moan!) as I passed him. "You got 45'30"," he told me, his big panda eyes resting sad and limpid in his face.

So, as it turns out, I had to add both truth and the metric system to my list of overrated concepts today.

Speaking of running, it so happens that news about a related book arrived in my inbox today. I'll tell you about it, since I haven't recently received any news of any books about a mysterious series of murders in which the victims are finish-line announcers. If somebody could work on that, it would be great. (Nah, I thought he was hilarious and I appreciated the humor. In fact, I was mad he didn't say something snarky when I crossed the finish line. How am I supposed to get writing material if he just stares at me in sympathetic silence?)

Okay, back to books.

Ah, running and horror, a perfect match:


The Gingerbread Girl
By Stephen King
Read by Mare Winningham

In the emotional aftermath of her baby's sudden death, Em starts running. Soon she runs from her husband, to the airport, down to the Florida Gulf and out to the loneliest stretch of Vermillion Key, where her father has offered the use of a conch shack he has kept there for years. Em keeps up her running -- barefoot on the beach, sneakers on the road -- and sees virtually no one. This is doing her all kinds of good, until one day she makes the mistake of looking into the driveway of a man named Pickering. Pickering also enjoys the privacy of Vermillion Key, but the young women he brings there suffer the consequences. Will Em be next?

The real question is, will Robin be next? I'd better not run anymore, just in case.

I looked for more fiction related to running and this popped up:

Running Blind
by Lee Child


I went to buy the audio version and Amazon gave me these prices:
Unabridged audio $74.64 marked down from 402.25
Someone involved in the selling of this book obviously wants to see me divorced. (But, honey -- it's Lee Child! We love Jack Reacher!)

Okay, they fixed it. My marriage is safe. Here's the synopsis:

Jack Reacher is back, dragged into what looks like a series of grisly serial murders by a team of FBI profilers who aren't totally sure he's not the killer they're looking for, but believe that even if he isn't, he's smart enough to help them find the real killer. And what they've got on the ex-MP, who's starred in three previous Lee Child thrillers (Tripwire, Die Trying, Killing Floor), is enough to ensure his grudging cooperation: phony charges stemming from Reacher's inadvertent involvement in a protection shakedown and the threat of harm to the woman he loves.

The killer's victims have only one thing in common--all of them brought sexual harassment charges against their military superiors and all resigned from the army after winning their cases. The manner, if not the cause, of their deaths is gruesomely the same: they died in their own bathtubs, covered in gallons of camouflage paint, but they didn't drown and they weren't shot, strangled, poisoned, or attacked. Even the FBI forensic specialists can't figure out why they seem to have gone willingly to their mysterious deaths. Reacher isn't sure whether the killings are an elaborate cover-up for corruption involving stolen military hardware or the work of a maniac who's smart enough to leave absolutely no clues behind. This compelling, iconic antihero dead-ends in a lot of alleys before he finally figures it out, but every one is worth exploring and the suspense doesn't let up for a second. The ending will come as a complete surprise to even the most careful reader, and as Reacher strides off into the sunset, you'll wonder what's in store for him in his next adventure. --Jane Adams

Incidentally, Lee's newest book is Nothing to Lose

Two lonely towns in Colorado: Hope and Despair. Between them, twelve miles of empty road. Jack Reacher never turns back. It's not in his nature. All he wants is a cup of coffee. What he gets is big trouble. So in Lee Child’s electrifying new novel, Reacher—a man with no fear, no illusions, and nothing to lose—goes to war against a town that not only wants him gone, it wants him dead.

It wasn’t the welcome Reacher expected. He was just passing through, minding his own business. But within minutes of his arrival a deputy is in the hospital and Reacher is back in Hope, setting up a base of operations against Despair, where a huge, seething walled-off industrial site does something nobody is supposed to see . . . where a small plane takes off every night and returns seven hours later . . . where a garrison of well-trained and well-armed military cops—the kind of soldiers Reacher once commanded—waits and watches . . . where above all two young men have disappeared and two frightened young women wait and hope for their return.

Joining forces with a beautiful cop who runs Hope with a cool hand, Reacher goes up against Despair—against the deputies who try to break him and the rich man who tries to scare him—and starts to crack open the secrets, starts to expose the terrifying connection to a distant war that’s killing Americans by the thousand.

Now, between a town and the man who owns it, between Reacher and his conscience, something has to give. And Reacher never gives an inch.

Actually, there are so many good books in my inbox right now, I'm twitchy with happiness. (And that's even through the rapidly spreading necrosis of my recently-terrorized muscles.)
Look at this one, for instance:
The Host
by Stephenie Meyer


Please visit her site. I got a kick out of this from her bio:

The unusual spelling of my name was a gift from my father (Stephen + ie = me).

I'm glad my dad didn't do that because then my name would be Bennieie. Not good. (Apologies to any Bennieies out there.)

I also liked this:

We've been married for ten and a half years now, and have three beautiful, brilliant, wonderful boys who often remind me of chimpanzees on crack.

And Amazon's description of The Host :

Melanie Stryder refuses to fade away. The earth has been invaded by a species that take over the minds of their human hosts while leaving their bodies intact, and most of humanity has succumbed.

Wanderer, the invading "soul" who has been given Melanie's body, knew about the challenges of living inside a human: the overwhelming emotions, the too vivid memories. But there was one difficulty Wanderer didn't expect: the former tenant of her body refusing to relinquish possession of her mind.

Melanie fills Wanderer's thoughts with visions of the man Melanie loves-Jared, a human who still lives in hiding. Unable to separate herself from her body's desires, Wanderer yearns for a man she's never met. As outside forces make Wanderer and Melanie unwilling allies, they set off to search for the man they both love.

Featuring what may be the first love triangle involving only two bodies, THE HOST is a riveting and unforgettable novel that will bring a vast new readership to one of the most compelling writers of our time.

Well, that's one good thing about being out of shape. There's better real estate out there when other entities come looking for hosts.

It's the ones who might come looking for food that inspire me to keep running.

Yours,

Robin

Barackricot

One of the kids told me her friend is against Barack Obama because her mother is Hungarian and Barack means apricot in Hungarian.

Wow. Well, that is kind of cute, I suppose, in a terrifying sort of way.

I checked a translator and it said Barack meant clout in Hungarian, but the word for apricot was sárgabarack or kajszi, so I suppose maybe they shorten that first word.

Doesn't Hungary have good apricots? Someone needs to send them some delicious apricots.

xoxo,

Robin

Upward Bound: dress for success

You may remember that I recently blogged about walking in Father Ted's Fun Run/Walk for Upward Bound.

Well, today a mysterious box arrived at our house.

It contained five more Father Ted t-shirts.

So now we have nine Father Ted t-shirts.

I'll let you decide what it all means. No correspondence accompanied the shirts. Perhaps they just had too many. Perhaps someone in the program has a sense of humor. Perhaps -- well, let's just go with the sense of humor option.

I don't know, but I think we finally have the perfect outfit for big group family photos this summer.

I do still plan to read his book:

God, Country, Notre Dame
by Father Theodore Martin Hesburgh

xoxo,

Robin

Barack Obama has great guts

When I said, "See you there," in regards to attending the family picnic for Barack Obama in Fort Wayne, Indiana, I didn't mean ALL of you. A few of you could have watched it on TV. Just sayin'.

Ha. A lot more people showed up than they expected. By the time we made it, the place looked full and the line stretched far down the street. To their credit, things moved quickly. I feared we'd be turned away, but they packed us in and, before it was through, we were shoulder to shoulder, filling the giant pavilion and spilling out the sides. When Michelle and then Barack Obama spoke, the crowd clamored, twisted, and struggled, trying to catch a glimpse. First, people stood on the chairs, then they climbed up onto the tables. I chauffeured Talulee and her friend to the top of one of the tables so they could see.

Earlier, I'd recognized Talulee's new level of maturity and concern when she spent the time before we left making a banner instead of primping.

Yeah, the Secret Service took the banner away. Oops. In case you were wondering, Barack Rocks her Socks.

Well, I wanted to give you a taste of the people side of what happened in Fort Wayne today. Yes, despite the banner faux pas, I did figure out the Secret Service wasn't going to let me bring in potato salad. And I don't just mean because I always cook the potatoes too long. They catered the picnic and though the food looked delicious, we were late and so were a lot more interested in worming our way toward the front than we were in eating.

Some people tried to stay seated. I felt sorry for those people, who invariably ended up with up close and personal views of the hineys of those who stood. One elderly woman asked if my plan was to sit in her lap. I didn't want to tell her I was about one push shy of ending up doing exactly that.

So many people packed in there, ready for change.

I see it as a real change to have a candidate who doesn't make decisions based solely on securing votes or on what is going to best serve him in the game of politics. Or, even worse, on what is required of him to please those who own him because of contributions, favors, or some antiquated political hierarchy that chauffeurs in those who are able to become more connected, cutthroat, and agenda-entangled than those they've stepped on, over or around to get to where they are.

It's nice to think there is a possibility we could have a president who makes decisions using logic, integrity, common sense, information, and intelligence. Who makes decisions based on what is right for the country and for the world, for now and for future generations. Senator Obama called it being able to do a gut check when it comes time to make decisions.

You can only make a gut check when you know who you are and what you stand for.

You can only make a gut check when you know you have the courage to do what's right instead of what is easy or offers you the biggest reward.

More later.

xoxo,

Robin

Obama picnic rally

Talulee and I are getting ready to attend the Obama Family Picnic in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

We're bringing potato salad. Or, you know, whatever I can buy on short notice at some Fort Wayne grocery store.

I had to smile at Talulee's comment: "Mom, if I meet him I'm going to tell him that I'm happy he's going to be the next president because though it would be cool to have a girl president, it would be a lot cooler to have a GOOD president, since we haven't had one in a long time."

You'll have to trust me when I tell you she'd be even happier if he was a girl: she's just seeing the bigger picture here. Which makes me feel like I must be doing something right.

See you there.

xoxo,

Robin

Morning Song Writing Contest

The fabulous Susan Henderson of LitPark motivated me to enter an essay contest held by Charles Shaughnessy, the dishy actor from The Nanny. Morning Song, by David Habbin with lyrics by Robin Lerner, inspired the contest:



The song is about the loss of a child and the challenge was to write about how even though loss tears through your soul, some good can come from it, if you let it.

Charlie's own words about it touched me this morning:

The gift that a loved one gives us when they die or when we do experience a personal loss, is a nudge in the ribs as if to say:

"Hey, wake up! Look how fleeting and unpredictable it can all be. Don't waste a moment worrying about what was or might be: live each moment in love, harmony, faith and patience. If you can do that, really "be" in each moment, without expectation or regret, it is a wonderful, wild, exhilarating ride. The only things you can take to the bank are that it is always changing and it will end."

The featured essays, including mine, are here.

I like to think my brother has a bit of a smile on his face today.

A big thanks to everyone involved.

xoxo,

Robin