Jennifer Wilck's Blog, page 62

And The Winner Is…

Thanks so much to everyone who visited my blog during the Hero Blog Hop. It was great to meet you all and I loved visiting your sites and reading your thoughts on heroes. A HUGE thank you to Carrie Ann Ryan for setting this up–it was a huge amount of work on her part, and she did a great job.

Now, for my winner. Christine S, you’ve won an Amazon gift card and a signed copy of Skin Deep. I’ll send you an email as well. Thanks for participating and I hope you like it!

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Photo courtesy of Carrie Ann Ryan

A Hero’s Blog Hop

Okay everyone, it’s blog hop day. All participants are writing about their story heroes or what they think makes a good hero. My contribution is an excerpt from my latest book, Skin Deep, but written from the perspective of the hero. We have a ton of authors participating, so make sure to click on the link at the side (the one that matches the hunky picture below) or on the link at the end, to check out the other blogs and their heroes. It’s fun, it’s easy, and there are a bunch of great prizes offered! 1st Grand Prize: A Kindle Fire or Nook Tablet; 2nd Grand Prize: A $50 Amazon or B&N Gift Card; 3rd Grand Prize: Swag Pack! My prize will be an Amazon gift card and a signed copy of my book. In order to win ANY prizes (all participating authors are offering them), make sure to comment on the blogs (as many as you read) and leave your email address so we can contact you. Are you ready?

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Photo courtesy of Carrie Ann Ryan

We have a new makeup artist on our TV show. Her name is Valerie. She’s seems sweet and tonight a bunch of us from the cast and crew are going out after work. I heard she won’t be joining us, so I thought I’d see if I could change her mind.

“Valerie?”

“Oh, hi, John. Do you need something?”

“No.” I think I might have startled her because she jumped when I knocked. I’m sorry about that, but not surprised. I’m large, six-foot-three. I grew up on a farm and my current role requires me to work out, so I can be pretty intimidating. I hate that, and I hate makeup trailers, so I’m staying by the door. Maybe if I give her more space, she won’t be afraid of me. “Michelle told me you were not joining us tonight. I thought I would see if I could change your mind.”

“She is persistent.”

Valerie rolled her eyes when she said that—it’s cute and makes her look like a teenager. She’ll get along well with the rest of the crew. She’s amusing.

“So, what can I say to make you join us?”

She’s staring at me. I can’t tell if she’s still scared of me or not, but it’s embarrassing. I should be used to stares, but she’s blushing. I wonder what she’s thinking. She’s balled her hands into fists at her stomach. Is it because she doesn’t want to go out tonight, or is it me?

“Tonight, not even chocolate will change my mind.”

She’s a chocolate lover. Hmmm, good to know. I’ll have to keep that in mind.

“I will remember that. But next time you will not get off so easy.” There’s something about her that makes me want to stay here and talk to her, despite the cramped trailer, but I have to join my friends. Another time.

* * * *

We’re a social cast and crew that hangs out a lot. Last night was fun and tonight we are going out for pizza. This time, I’m going to make sure Valerie joins us. I’ve come prepared.

“We are going out for pizza. I will pick you up in ten minutes.” I’m dangling a bag of M&Ms in front of her. She grabs for them, but I won’t let her have them yet. Not until she comes with us. I leave before she can get them.

It’s ten minutes later, and I’m back. She’s ready, so I accompany her out of the makeup trailer and down the steps. I won’t touch her, she wouldn’t like that, but just having her close to me is enough. I like walking next to her. She comes up to my shoulder and if I turn my head, I can smell her shampoo. It’s fruity. I’m taking her to meet the others in the parking lot. She seems happy to follow my lead. I’m glad, but I can’t tell her that.

I’m not sure what to say to her, so I remain quiet. Besides, it’s dark out and I want to make sure she’s safe. I’m so busy scanning our surroundings, I don’t notice she’s grabbed the bag of M&Ms out of my pocket until she’s opened them and stuck some in her mouth.

“Hey, those are mine!” I reach for the bag, but she’s quick and dances away from me.

“Not anymore.” She’s graceful and I can’t stop watching her. She’s mischievous and I want to smile. No one’s ever acted like this with me before. If I play along, will I scare her away?

I bring my hand up to my heart. I’m an actor and I pretend what she’s done has wounded me deeply. It would be an Oscar-worthy performance, except I can’t seem to hide my amusement. That’s never happened to me before. I can see her trying not to laugh. I’m glad she thinks this is funny, but I wish she’d laugh. I wonder what it would sound like.

“You did not have to take them, you know. I was planning to give them to you later.” I pout—Me? I never pout!—and I have all I can do not to smile.

“Oh really? When?”

“After dinner, of course. I would not want to spoil your appetite.”

She thinks I’m funny. She’s laughing, and her laugh is better than I could have dreamed. Sincere, not contrived, warm and rich. As I listen to her, all I can manage is a grunt. She doesn’t seem bothered.

“What’s so funny?” Lara, from editing, asks us as we join the group of friends clustered outside the lot. All other conversation stops as everyone waits for the answer.

I know this sounds crazy, but I hate being the center of attention off camera. Any amusement I felt disappears. I look at Valerie and back up, unable to answer Lara. Lara rolled her eyes—I don’t find her eye roll as attractive as Valerie’s yesterday—and walks ahead. Valerie bends over to massage her stomach. I leave her talking to Michelle, another makeup artist, and I walk ahead.

We reach the pub. It’s dark and noisy, but makes the best pizza around. I hold open the door for the rest of the group and everyone enters. Everyone, that is, except Valerie. She stands in front of the open door and sways. Her face gets pale and she leans against the brick wall. She stares down the street and I can tell, in that moment, she wants to run. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I want to help her.

I walk up to her and stand behind her, close enough to talk without being overheard, yet far enough away to give her air.

“Don’t back out on me now,” I whisper. “I already gave you the M&Ms.” I hear her take a shaky breath and I wait.

She turns toward me and raises her hand. I can’t help it, I back up. I can’t let her touch me. I stare into her blue eyes and hold her gaze. I hear her swallow, watch her tongue drag across her lips, see her close her eyes and sway again.

She is afraid.

I don’t know why, but she’s afraid here, in this place. I frown and placed myself between her and the crowd at the bar. She breathes a little easier. I walk with her, nodding to fans as they smile at me, but not stopping to talk to any of them. As much as I appreciate them, I have to help Valerie. We pass the band and reach our table in the back. I pull out her chair and sit next to her. I hear her release a breath, as if she’d been holding it the entire time.

I turn to her and lean forward, holding her gaze until I can see her relax. Her color comes back and she seems better. Good. I want her to enjoy herself. “So, how do you like things so far, Valerie?”

“Here?”

“Well, I actually meant at work, but here too.”

She blushes again. She does that a lot and I like it. “Oh, well, I love working on the show. I was a huge fan before I got the job, so it’s amazing to be a part of it now.”

I smile as she babbles a bit. “What may I order for you?” I flag down our waitress. Everyone orders beers. Valerie orders a diet soda.

“Not ready to let loose yet, huh, Valerie?” asks Miguel, one of the crew, with a soft chuckle.

Valerie smiles and looks away. I catch her eye and smile to reassure her. It’s a new feeling to be the one to reassure someone. I actually make someone feel good. I relax into my chair and join the conversation.

The waitress returns with our drinks and takes our orders. Her ballpoint pen scratches across her pad as each person orders a personal pizza, but changes the sauce, type of crust, and combination of toppings.

When the waitress turns to Valerie, she orders a mushroom pie and a house salad. She’s unassuming and satisfied with things as they are. She’s not the typical LA girl. I like that.

The waitress pauses, raises an eyebrow and asks, “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Valerie answers.

“Are you sure?”

Valerie furrows her brow. “Of course.”

The waitress shakes of her head and turns to me. She asks me for my autograph at the same time. I scrawl my name across a napkin and give her my order—two personal pepperoni pizzas.

During the course of the evening, I keep an eye on Valerie, made sure her drink never runs out, and that she participates in the conversation. I fill her in on things she might not understand. She’s new; I want her to be comfortable with us.

When we finally leave, Valerie takes her first deep breath of the evening outside in the muggy night air. I don’t know how she can stand it, but she seems more comfortable here than inside. I walk with her back to her car.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asks me as we cross the street.

“No one should walk by themselves at night.”

“Thanks, that’s really nice of you.”

We walk next to each other, but as usual, I keep my distance. I don’t want to crowd her or scare her. We reach her blue Honda Civic and she thanks me for walking her out.

“See you tomorrow.” I wait while she starts the engine. She waves and drives away. I’m unable to drag my gaze away from her until her car’s taillights fade into the distance. Something about her intrigues me—more than just her nerves or her simple pizza order, although those things contribute to it. She’s different from the people who usually surround me. She has a vulnerability that arouses a protective urge in me. I know she’d never ask for my protection. She’d never want me to take care of her, no one would. But still…

Okay, I hope you enjoyed that insight into my hero from Skin Deep. [image error]Don’t forget to leave a comment (with your email) if you want to win a prize. And don’t forget to check out the other authors here.

Photo courtesy of Carrie Ann RyanAre you ready to hear wh...

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Photo courtesy of Carrie Ann Ryan

Are you ready to hear what your favorite romance heroes have to say? Well, we authors are ready to share our hunky heroes! Starting on Friday and ending on July 31st, over 100 Authors and Bloggers will share their favorite things about romance heroes, a character post from them, and what we love about romance and men in general.

And while we do that, we are EACH doing a giveaway. Yep. There will be over 100 giveaways on each blog hosted by that Author or Blogger.

But that’s not all….

We have THREE grand prizes. You as a reader can go to EACH blog and comment with your email address and be entered to win. Yep, you can enter over 100 times!

Now what are those prizes?

1st Grand Prize: A Kindle Fire or Nook Tablet

2nd Grand Prize: A $50 Amazon or B&N Gift Card

3rd Grand Prize: The following Swag Pack!

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Photo courtesy of Carrie Ann Ryan

Yep. ALL of that! Whoot! Be sure to come back here on Friday and over the weekend to enjoy some stories and facts about our favorite Romance Heroes and enter to win!

Where Are The Superheroes?

I’m going to get heavy, so if you’re in the mood for a laugh, come back next week. Last week’s shooting in the Aurora, CO movie theater, during the premier of “The Dark Knight Rises,” has created a myriad of discussions about gun control. While I understand that argument, and agree with it, I think we are looking at this wrong.

Let me be very clear. I don’t like guns. I am all in favor of gun control. I would like us to have the strictest controls in the world when it comes to guns. In fact, if you’re not military or law enforcement, I’d really prefer you not own a gun, Constitution aside. But I don’t believe that the issue here is just stricter gun control.

I believe the issue is that people need to take care of each other better. I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a friend. I have ties that bind me to many others around me. It is my responsibility to take care of my children. Regardless of how old they are, I need to know where they are, what they’re doing, what they’re thinking. The parents who say their kids don’t talk to them—they’re not asking the right questions. The parents who raise their hands in exasperation or roll their eyes helplessly—they need to take a breath and re-engage. Whether my child is five, 15 or 45, I have a responsibility to him or her. I can’t just bring them into the world and release them into society for everyone else to handle. I’m sorry, but parents ARE responsible for their children. And that responsibility does not end when they are of legal age. There has to be a happy medium between the helicopter parent and the negligent one.

My parents are young enough that I don’t have to take care of them yet. But I do have to remain involved in their lives, to maintain that connection with them, not just to check up and make sure they’re okay (which is really important) but to model for my own children the importance of family responsibility. My job is to keep those family bonds strong. And you know what? My parents are the first ones to tell me when they think I’m doing something wrong, making the wrong choice, or making them proud. My being an adult has not absolved them of involvement in my life.

My husband, while not my responsibility per se, is someone I love more than anyone else in the world. What kind of a wife would I be if I didn’t know when he is troubled, stressed, tired, happy? I promised to love him for better or for worse—it’s understood that I need to pay attention to that “better” or “worse” and be there for support, encouragement, love. Just as he is always there for me. If there were something wrong with me and I refused to help myself, I hope he would step in and try to get it for me.

And my friends? Well, I may not be the best one ever, but I try really hard. I try to keep up with their lives, to know what they like or don’t like, to realize when they need a shoulder to cry on or someone to make them laugh. I do, occasionally, express my opinions unasked, but they know it’s because I care. And they do the same for me.

Sometimes, all that responsibility means we have to be willing to be the bad guy. We have to turn someone in, report the bully, ask for help with someone or something. We have to recognize our own weaknesses and make sure others are there to double up on that protection. We must stand up for someone weaker than we are, offer help to those who need it, and swallow our pride, shame and embarrassment in order to do the right thing.

People who say that we need better gun control laws are right. But if that’s the only thing anyone takes away from this tragedy, then they are taking the easy way out. It’s so much easier to blame a lack of stringent laws, because no one has to take personal responsibility for the gunman’s actions. Parents, friends and family should have seen signs that he was disturbed or recognized potential trouble. No one is perfect, and nothing can be stopped 100%. But if no one recognized the signs, or if people ignored that niggling feeling that something wasn’t right, then they are just as guilty as weak gun laws for failing to stop this tragedy.

I don’t mean to imply that the blame for this horrible incident lies at the feet of the perpetrator’s parents. Their suffering is inconceivable. There is no one thing we can point our finger to and say, “that’s the reason.” There does come a time in a child’s life when we have to let them find their wings and soar or sink on their own. That’s how they learn. But we can’t cut the ties completely. No one can, or should. We have to remain connected, even if only from a distance. We need to form that village to raise our children (while appointing ourselves as mayor), reach out, step up, butt in.

We are so willing to take credit and boast when our children do something well, when we know someone famous, when we were there when something incredible happens. The flip side of that is we have to be willing to take responsibility when things go wrong—even horribly wrong.

Our jobs as humans are to be superheroes. Superheroes are not perfect—Superman had his kryptonite; Batman was vulnerable without his armor; Spiderman underestimated his foes and lacked foresight. But superheroes felt a responsibility to the rest of society and an urge to protect others. They acted on those feelings and urges. And when united, they were virtually unstoppable.

Yes, gun laws need to be strengthened. But more so than that, and more immediately especially, is people need to remember that we have a responsibility to one another. We are not living in a bubble and we cannot coast on the comfort that the distance of social media provides us. We have to interact with each other, work with one another, defend each other and help each other.

Only then will we truly be safe and protected.

Revisiting My Teenage Years

I swear I’m no better than a teenager. Coming from an adult, that’s a scary thought. Especially when I think that I’m pretty terrified of teenagers. The only difference between me and them is that I’m too old to keep up the angst for long before I get tired.

Case in point, an announcement via email, that the new school year schedules were available online for middle school. Now, just to remind you, my kids are both at sleep-away camp for another 10 days or so. They have no access to anything electronic; the only way we have to communicate is by good old fashioned letter writing. Camp mail being less reliable than the US Postal Service, it takes about a week or so for letters to arrive, in either direction. At this point, I could probably wait to tell them the information until they get home. But, knowing how anxious they are to find out their teachers, classmates, etc., I don’t.

The first thing I do is log onto the computer site where the schedules are posted. I scan the schedules. My oldest is going into eighth grade. I have no knowledge of any teachers, so looking at the names is about as helpful as reading a Chinese menu—in Chinese. But, I do recognize one teacher’s name, and I think she was hoping to get him, so okay, I’m happy.

Now I look at the other schedule. I recognize one of the teacher’s that my older child had, so I’m happy. Then I look again at the subjects. Spanish. Oh, okay. No, wait. She requested French. In fact, she wanted to take French so badly that she didn’t even put Spanish as her second choice. Hmm.

So now I have dilemma number one. Do I ask to have Spanish changed to French, but risk messing up her entire schedule, possibly moving her to a different team in order to accommodate that change, or leave it as is? I risk it. I email the guidance counselor, as the original email requests, only to receive an automated message that she’s gone for the summer. I call the guidance office, only to be directed to the voice mail of the secretary who retired.

Suddenly, my stress level, which had disappeared for the most part with the absence of my children—funny how that works—returns. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Being the nice mom that I occasionally am, I then start trying to figure out which of my daughters’ friends are on their respective teams. This is where I revert back to being a teenager. Except a really, uncool, old fashioned one. First, I call my older daughter’s friends moms (the ones I know). On the actual phone. No texting. I leave an message for some, have real conversations with others. I contemplate taking my daughter’s phone and texting her friends, but I’m afraid of being creepy, if I could actually figure out how to use her phone. I hack her Facebook account—maybe hack isn’t the right word. She knows I log in as her occasionally to monitor usage—and check out the status updates of her Facebook friends, trying to ignore/decipher/avoid the messages. I compile a list of people and teams. Now I’m starting to panic. She’s not with her best friends. Last year, all of them were on one team; she was on another. It was not a good year. This year, they seem to be spread out a little more. Still not great, but better. I’m trying to figure out if I’ve got enough guts to request a team transfer. I rarely request teachers, transfers, etc. I’m the one whose lies can always be seen; I’m also the one whose requests are always denied. Her guidance counselor is not the type to be swayed by the “but all her friends are on another team” argument. I look at the teachers on the other team; never heard of any of them. Luckily, before I have to make any decisions, I find a few friends who are on her team. I contact a friend of mine and ask her to find out what team my daughter’s nemesis is on—can we say teenager? I might as well pass notes! She humors me and I find out her nemesis is not! Suddenly, life is looking up.

I move onto my second daughter, whom I realize I’ve been neglecting—is that even possible when she’s not around to know it? I send out a mass email—see, I’m getting tech savvy. I find out that most of her friends as well, are spread out. I try not to be too happy about this. She’s entering middle school for the first time, and while I want her to be happy and comfortable, I’d like her to make new friends. I check my email multiple times an hour, looking for parent responses and hoping for a guidance response. I get an actual phone call from her one of her friends, and keep said friend on the phone while I rattle off my list, unasked, of other girls’ teams. I’m sure she really appreciated that.

Maybe I should go redo my hair while I wait for more information today. Eye roll.

Time To Recharge

Summer has officially arrived and my children have left the house. It is silent, with only the whir of the refrigerator and the jumpstart of the air conditioning to interrupt my solitude. I like the silence. After an incredibly stressful 8 months, I need it to recharge. Not that I don’t want to talk to people; I do, but the “Mom, mom, mom” calls, incessant chatter, teenaged squeals and squabbles will not be missed for the next three weeks.

It is clean, five days after the cleaning people left—exhaustion and relief on their faces after their once-yearly clean-up of my children’s rooms—and the only items out of place are the dog’s toys, which she strategically places around the house to show ownership and an “I dare you to move it” attitude. The only person I have to pick up after is myself, and my husband now becomes the recipient of my nagging to put something away, usually phrased as “Why is this here?”

The panic I usually feel at 2:45 when I realize the kids will be home from school and I haven’t gotten nearly enough day has disappeared, replaced with, “Wow, it’s only 3:30. I still have so much time.” I’m not sure I’ll be any more productive, but just knowing that I can be is enough for now. And I’m ridiculously pleased with myself when I complete some tiny, but often postponed chore, like cleaning out my coupon box—I told you it was ridiculous.

I now wait eagerly for the mail and watch the camp photo website, looking for some letter or photographic proof that my children are at camp and happy. I’ve gotten letters, fill-in-the-blank postcards (initiated by camp, not me) and seen pictures, and even received a text or two from friends who report with assurance that my children are not wandering aimlessly through the Poconos, nor have they been eaten by bears. Frankly, I think I’m more worried for the bears—my girls are loud, kind of bony and probably more difficult to take care of than the bear cubs.

My “To Be Done While The Children Are At Camp List” is very unorganized and resides mostly in my head. Items jostle for attention and are constantly examined and thrown away—seriously, how badly does that cabinet need to be reorganized? I’d much rather read or write. I’ve gotten over my fear of the new vacuum cleaner, but that doesn’t mean I’m actually going to use it. The box came with instructions on how to open it—imagine the instructions for actually using the thing! The furniture I’m planning to refinish has been sitting in the garage for so long, a few more days, weeks or even months, won’t matter. The basement needs cleaning, but I so rarely go down there, I’m not sure I’ve got the energy or motivation to do it.

So, for the next three weeks, I’m on “Jennifer Time.” It’s weird, it’s quiet and it’s often unproductive, but I think I’m going to like it.

Waiting To Exhale (or even inhale)

I’m sitting in the car dealer, again, waiting for my car to be ready, again (yes, those two “agains” were on purpose). Between car accidents, car repairs, car rentals and regularly scheduled maintenance (which had to be postponed until after all the car repairs were complete), I’ve spent a lot of time waiting for cars to be ready.

Come to think of it, I’ve spent a lot of time recently waiting for many things.

The Princess is on a personal quest to accumulate as many plastic body parts at one time as possible, so I’ve spent a huge amount of time in doctor’s waiting rooms, waiting for diagnoses, and physical and occupational therapists waiting rooms, waiting for exercises to be completed. Am considering renaming her “Exoskeleton.”

Banana Girl is wrapping up her last year in elementary school, watching all the flurry of medical activity around the Princess, dealing with her peers and preparing for middle school. She’s waiting to get in on the attention action, so I’ve spent even more time with her waiting for her life-changing activities to occur. And dreading the future.

The Husband is crazy busy at work, so in between feeling, at times, like a single mom, I spend my evenings waiting to hear how late he’ll be home, whether or not I should make him dinner, if he’s making it on time for our evening activities and for goodnight calls to the kiddos. And I have a countdown going until this craziness is over (as does he, I’m sure).

Sleep-away camp is quickly approaching—9 days at last count. My packing lists have been sitting on the counter for weeks, but despite everyone’s enthusiasm about going, I have not been able to convince anyone to start packing. I can’t figure out what the heck I’m waiting for, but I think the kiddos are waiting to see if I’ll follow through on my threats. So tempted…

Meanwhile, I’m waiting for those three and a half weeks of bliss, when the kiddos will be away and my husband will be back from employment hell. If the car breaks down it won’t matter, because I won’t have anyone to carpool anywhere. The Princess and all of her plastic body parts will be someone else’s responsibility. Banana Girl will be in a different environment with friends who have been dying to see her for an entire year. The Husband will be around and able to have an entire conversation without the crackberry beeping every 20 seconds. And regardless of what packing has been completed or not, and who has ultimately chosen the clothes that are brought, I won’t have to listen to any clothing complaints.

And that alone is worth the wait!

Not Today

Sorry, but there will be no blog post today. Mother Nature decided I didn’t have enough on my plate and decided to add acts of God into the mix. Tune in next week for regular scheduled programming. [image error]

Cars Hate Me

I am not a car person. My dad tried to make me into one by showing me how to change a flat tire and explaining what’s under the hood, but I resisted. I’m not convinced the car wouldn’t fall off the jack onto my head and I’ve seen too many scary movies about women fixing their cars alone on the side of the road to do anything other than call AAA.

If I ever thought I was a car person, I quickly learned the error of my ways a few weeks ago when my friend, Cory, asked me to move her car from one parking spot to another. Picture a parking lot with multiple rows to park. I had to move her van, a Town & Country, from a spot in one row to a diagonal spot in the next row. Maybe 50 feet? So I caught the keys and unlocked her door. That was where my confidence stopped. Because it wasn’t actually a car key, it was one of those fobs. Okay, I’ve used them before, no big deal. Except this one actually had to be stuck into something in order for the car to turn on, unlike the ones I’ve used in the past which only require it to be in your pocket or purse while you press the brake for the car to magically start. Until I figured out that I needed to put the weird looking fob into the funny-looking indent, I was pressing pedals and trying to figure out what to do. But, okay, I turned on the car. Now, I’m used to driving a Toyota, so an American one has all of the gears and everything else in totally crazy places (in my opinion). But, I figured out where the drive shaft was and put the car in gear. Remember, I only had to move it forward (not even back it up) a few feet into the next spot. Suddenly, I get nervous. First of all, the car’s not mine. Second of all, it’s a van and I haven’t driven one of those in a long time. Third of all, there is a parking lot full of parents waiting to pick up their kids sitting behind and all around me to witness this. I briefly consider moving her car into the parking spot straight ahead of me (because it’s so much easier to do that), except that the spot straight ahead of me is designated the Rabbi’s spot in the parking lot, and while I know he wouldn’t mind (especially since he was away that day and wouldn’t need it, or know about it, to begin with), all those witnesses behind me would see what I did. So I crept forward and diagonally slowly and moved her car into the correct parking spot. Then I put it in park and removed the fob, except the car wouldn’t turn off. Now I’m totally panicking, thinking I broke her car. I stick the fob back into the funny-looking indent again and remove it and still can’t turn the darn car off. Resigning myself to being seriously made fun of, I open the car to tell Cory my problem when the car turns off. Apparently the ignition is tied to the opening of the car door. Who knew?

Now that you’ve heard this story, you’ll understand my hesitation when I was offered a Town & Country van to rent today. My car is in the shop and my insurance company offers me a rental car. Of course, the amount of money I’m allowed to spend on that rental car is usually enough for a cardboard box on wheels, but since all of the boxes were apparently out, he offered me a free upgrade to the minivan. This minivan happened to be fairly luxurious, with touch screens, video to show you what’s behind you (I so could have used that last week) and automatic everything. After the guy inspected the car and showed me how to work all the fancy stuff, he gave me the fob (again!) and left. I figured out where all the basics were and turned the heat to 70 degrees (it’s a cold rainy day here, even though it’s June and I needed to take the chill out of the car). I started to drive. Cold air blasted out of the vents. I played with some of the knobs and buttons, made it so the air only came out at my feet, and increased the temperature to 75. Still freezing.

I’m the wrong person to have freezing cold air blowing on her in the car. I’m cold 10 out of the 12 months of the year. My fingers are stiffening, my nails are turning blue and my teeth are chattering as I’m trying to drive this new car that I’m not familiar with to do my errands. Even the mall with its air conditioning running was warmer than my car. I pull out the car manual and read everything I can find on how to work the heating and cooling system. I search for buttons that I’m missing (but will feel really stupid about if I ask for help). I even consider calling my friend, Cory, for a tutorial on how to work her car, deciding that the endless teasing I’ll get for not knowing how to turn on the darn heat is almost worth it. Almost, but not quite.

I decide to just suck it up and deal with being cold, until I realize that I’m going to have this car for a week, and while I might be willing to quietly suck it up, my kids won’t. So I go back to the rental place, turn in the old van (which is actually brand new) for a new van (which is actually an older and more basic model) and drive home nice and toasty. Only to pull into my driveway and realize I left my garage door opener in the other rental van.

Did I mention I’m not a car person?

I Need An Exorcism!

When your phone rings at 7:43 a.m., you know it’s going to be a bad day.

It started with a phone call from the middle school nurse. “Hi, this is the nurse. Your daughter was injured during a bus evacuation. Would you like to speak with her?”

Okay, so I’m slightly groggy, but if you use the words bus evacuation and injury, do you really think I DON’T want to speak with her? What the heck? Of course I want to speak with her! She gets on the phone and informs me it was a drill (whew) but that she hurt her ankle and she’ll call me if it gets worse.

Being the Princess, I know it’s going to get worse. It always does. This child has a raincloud over her head. Any injury that can possibly happen, happens to her. She drinks at least a gallon of milk a week and still, every bone that can break, does. No, this is not the time to play the one-up game and ask if we’ve had X illness or Y injury. Don’t tell me about them. I don’t want to know about them, and I certainly don’t want to take the chance of jinxing anything and having them happen to her. Just trust me, we get them all!

At 9:00 a.m., I get the follow-up phone call. I go to school, pick her up, call the orthopedist (whose number I should have memorized, or at least on speed dial) and take her to their office. We arrive and they all greet me with giggles of glee.

“Oh, it’s you again! Nice to see you. What, you couldn’t stay away? Did you miss us?” You see, we were just there three weeks ago; not for a broken bone, but still. I smile and follow them to the examining room. It feels like home.

The doctor walks in and actually offers me a wall in our name in his office. Seriously. I’m not sure if it’s a Wall of Distinction or a Wall of Shame. I’m not sure I want to know. My husband isn’t sure why he’s not offering us a frequent patient discount.

X-rays, exam, boot and crutches later (Wouldn’t you know that she grew since the last time we needed these things and doesn’t fit the ones I already have at home—the boot and crutches, not the x-ray machine. I don’t have one of those. Yet.) we leave the office and I drive her home, giving her the rest of the day off—I’m not sure if I’m doing it to be nice or if I’m afraid of her doing something else to herself.

She’s starting to look bionic to me—she’s got so much hardware/braces on her, there’s very little actual flesh showing these days. Although we were both encouraged that she didn’t look like the other girl we saw leaving the office, with two boots! But I digress…

I drop her off at home and go on the errand I had originally intended to make today: taking the lawn mower in to be fixed…again! Somehow, despite being tuned up before the season started, something came back broken. And since my husband is so busy at work he barely has time to breathe, let alone do anything else, I told him I’d do it for him.

So I go to the lawn mower place. They unload it from my car, tell me they’ll be done in a minute, then come back out and tell me it will take longer so I should go and they’ll call me when it’s ready. I get into my car and back into a telephone pole. Actually, I banged into the hard plastic, bright orange bumper that surrounds the pole and that is supposed to warn everyone about the location of the pole. Everyone except me.

I move away from the pole, see that the pole is still standing, see that there are no remnants of my car on the ground and drive home, yelling words that I am supposedly too well bred to say (sorry, Mom!). I go home and call my husband, who has the good grace not to complain (or laugh). I call the insurance company guy, who does laugh when I explain about how I’m apparently the only person who doesn’t actually see the bright orange plastic warning bumper, but redeems himself by sympathizing with me when he hears the Princess making fun of me (apparently the obnoxious bone has survived intact).

The lawn mower place calls me to tell me the lawn mower is ready. I’m now too afraid to go back there to pick it up—sorry neighbors, our grass is going to have to grow a bit.

Now it’s time for Banana Girl to arrive home. She does and takes the Princess’ injuries in stride. She also doesn’t comment on the car. Her mood is greatly improved when I inform her that the old crutches are now hers and she can play with them. However, by the time we sit down for dinner, she’s complaining about how everything is now going to center around her sister and she will be ignored. I go to great lengths to explain how that’s not going to happen and that really, the Princess’ foot is only bruised, so really, while it’s inconvenient, it’s not going to cause the Earth to move off of its axis and start revolving around her. She starts to feel better.

At which point, Princess starts feeling around her mouth and informs me, for the first time ever, her brace wire has popped out. Banana Girl grimaces and my husband laughs (brave man).

If anyone knows of an exorcist, please send him or her my way.