What's Going On

Several of you already know. I wrote a little book. I don't talk about it much in larger circles because 1) there are many people who have written books.  Seems to be another new black; 2) there are many people who have written very good books who haven't been published, but should be; and 3) the process of writing a book, seeking an agent/publisher, or even self-publishing takes a long time. People who don't write or are unfamiliar with the process are impressed at first, and then they begin to lose interest as months turn into years because your book is not at Barnes & Noble, the giant advance all authors get didn't arrive, and The Today Show hasn't called.  It's like you're the little writer who cried, "Wolf!", or the couple that announces they're pregnant before the bed has been made.

Well, the bed is made.  My little ditty of a book will be available October 1st on Amazon.com as well as on the shelves of a few local bookstores.  It's a niche book titled To Mormons, With Love - A little something from the new girl in Utah.  It's bubble gum, but not the kind rolled in large sugar crystals.  Nor is it the sour Warhead variety.  Just pleasant to chew.  I hope a few people like it.

There's more to share...the supportive, small publisher that believes in the project; the process of writing, listening to critiques, rewriting, and how the book ended up in its shorter, nichier (not a word, but it works) form; an upcoming feature article I wrote for a popular LDS magazine; and the importance of your local arts council.  All of this later.

Today I'd like to direct your attention to an artist whose work I'm crazy for.  His name is Darrell Driver and you can check out his art at www.darrelldriver.com or click here.  I love his balance pieces, the colors he chooses, and his funky interpretations of...everything.  I dig his wife, too. 

Darrell agreed to create the cover art for my book.  I wanted one of his beautiful signature balance birds, holding a daisy in its beak.  The bird is a humble, polite messenger.  The daisy is a simple offering.

After sketching my ridiculously uncomplicated concept no less than 15 times, this is what I faxed to Darrell...

His version is much lovelier, of course.  Some cool folks are using Darrell's fabulous art to create the final cover design.  It's getting exciting.  The handful or two of you who still read this blog will get a sneak peek very soon. 

He Says Collecting, I Say Hoarding

Our five-year-old son loves stuff.  Talking with friends, having two older kids, and remembering my own childhood quirks, I know it's not uncommon for children to keep trash and trinkets.  Forever.

This child, the five-year-old, knows where every broken plastic toy, shred of ribbon, deflated balloon, popsicle stick with a joke he can't read, and object stolen from his older brothers, is located.  When I stealthily purge a few of his items, no matter how deeply buried they were beneath the latest additions, he busts me.  And hell hath no fury like... you know what I mean.

"Mom! Did you throw away part of my collection?"

"Honey, I donated a few things you don't play with.  There are children without toys who would enjoy that... stuff."

Recently, I thought to myself how well our youngest son has been maintaining his room.  Other than a few dozen lego creations displayed on his dresser, things appeared to be in order

The five-year-old has a bathroom attached to his bedroom that is basically unused.  He bathes in the master bathroom, brushes his teeth in his brothers' bathroom and doesn't require much lavatory drawer space regardless.

While putting laundry away, I was tipped-off that there might still be a problem when I opened his closet.  Balloons from his father's birthday that he claimed to have released to China!

I entered his bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain and found this:

Then I opened a couple of drawers and discovered my little hoarder is still struggling...

And, yes, I recognize we all have a junk drawer, but come on.

I'm both sad, that he's going underground... and proud.  I enjoy a worthy adversary.  I'm also impressed by his use of semantics.

Anyone else have a young, or not-so-young, "collector" in the house?

Because They're Elderly

My mom and dad aren't really elderly. They're not 70, but almost. Like knocking on the door. But "elderly" is a relative term.

The past few years, visits to my parents' home in Arizona have provided several family take-away stories.  There was the time I backed into their house... with Mom's car; the time I experienced heat exhaustion [Dad's diagnosis] or water intoxication [my diagnosis]; the time we debated the value of a Snuggie; and the time Mom and I learned that it's common for public bathrooms to have ice in the urinals.  I continue to find women, elderly women even, who's husbands have neglected to share that last fact with them.

**********

Middle Boy and I traveled to Arizona in June so he could attend a music camp -- we stayed with Mom and Dad.  Chris and our other two sons remained in Utah.

The music camp culminated with a Friday night concert after a week of lessons and rehearsals.  My parents and I happily attended the event to support our young rocker.

I arrived at the concert venue early so that I could snag some good seats.  Sideways glances shot my way, warning me that it was not cool to save seats.  I sat down in the second row, placed my purse on the chair to my right and a camera on the chair to my left.  Seats saved, glances ignored.

The small auditorium filled quickly.  With 15 minutes until show time, my parents still hadn't arrived and the only two seats remaining were theirs.  People asked, "Are those taken?"  I apologized to everyone and said yes.  Where were they?

The couple sitting in front of me turned around and gave me a sympathetic look. 

"I can tell it's poor form to save seats," I said.  "But we traveled from Utah and my parents are so excited to see my son play.  My brother and his wife are here, too, but they're on their own."  Then I embellished, "And my parents are... elderly."

"Oh we understand," said the woman while her husband nodded in agreement.  "Last year we tried to save a seat for my mother-in-law who'd just had hip replacement surgery.  She could hardly walk.  She got here late -- poor thing struggled in the dark parking lot -- and a rude woman plopped herself down in the seat we were saving.  Said we weren't allowed to save seats and she was going to watch her child perform."

"How old is your mother-in-law?" I asked.

"Eighty-four."

Great.

Mom and Dad finally bounced into the auditorium.  They looked perky, were dressed in their classic yet contemporary styles, and moved very non-geriatric-like through the crowded aisles to where I was sitting.  The couple in front of me watched my parents approach.  "Your parents?" they asked, eyebrows raised.

Twelve bands.  Twelve, young [ages 11-17], loud bands.  All very good, I might add, and playing to a mature, seated house.  Middle-aged parents, grandparents and a few younger siblings stared at the stage with goofy smiles on their faces and clapped courteously at the end of each performance.  Not your typical rock concert crowd.

"Is that a boy or a girl?" Dad asked me.  Repetitively and audibly.  I played deaf and hoped the parents of the androgynous kids weren't sitting near us.  His commentary continued.  I can't tell.  Seriously.  Is that a girl?  A boy?  Can you tell?  They all look the same.  Ooh.  That's a big kid.  Look how tiny that one is.  He can't be 11.  Was that a good singer?  Did you like that singer?  I can't tell who's good.  What about that one?  Boy?  Girl?

"They're all doing a great job!" I said loudly and fervently.  Damage control.

As we piled out of the auditorium at the end of the night, I managed to make eye contact with the couple who had been sitting in front of us. I raised my eyebrows.  Elderly.