Up until this year I had not participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I first heard about it in 2017. I would take that as meaning I wasn’t truly a writer until 2017. Some may beg to differ with me, being writers themselves and still unaware of what exactly NaNoWriMo is. It was only today that I looked up the wording to be certain I had it correct for this blog post. I joined a few writing groups in 2017, a cancer survivors group, a Christian women’s writing group, a collective women’s writing group and a memoir writing group. All met at different day, times and a variety of locations as well as varied frequencies.

It was in one of these groups I first heard the word NaNoWriMo uttered. Not wanting to seem ignorant (as all other heads in the room nodded with understanding) I remained silent and gathered information as it was given. I was freaked out when I realized they were speaking of committing to writing every single day to the tune of 1667 words each and every day! If you missed a day, you had to make up the words, as in order to win one had to complete a minimum of 50,000 written words. Woah! Unwilling to fail, I decided not to try. Take that doubting self. 

This year I was invited to join a group of writers who were writing a novel virtually. Each writer would commit to one day in which they would write one chapter in the novel. Having ignored the original blanket invitation I found myself tagged in a post looking for writers as they found they did not have the necessary 30 writers, one for each day. I liked the post and said I would give it some thought. I began to read the chapters already written. Notebook in hand I kept track of each character introduced and a few details I felt would be important should I agree to jump in and write a chapter. Within 5 chapters I was overwhelmed. My skin became alive in a not so good way as fear crawled through the hairs that stood on end. How would I ever keep their story going, I couldn’t keep the characters straight? 

I was nudged again as they approached Chapter 26 (on day 25) and still did not have a writer for that day. Like a rookie taking their first bungee jump, I put fingers to the keyboard and started writing. After 500 words logged in Word, I found the courage to post on the FaceBook page that I was in fact writing Chapter 26. As I wrapped up what I hoped to be a chapter that kept the plot moving forward while keeping the characters straight, I posted a question as to how many words I was supposed to be writing. I did not know the info above at that point (the 50,000 monthly goal equating to a 1,667 per day goal applied to this situation). I was told 1,667 minimum but that one writer had posted an update and they were behind, so 2,500 per writer would be great. For once, my wordy nature was going to come in handy, I had written over 3,100 words. If nothing else, I was getting them to their goal. 

Enough about the process of how this came to be. Below you will find Chapter 26 in ‘The Devil Wears Flannel”, a NaNoWriMo collective novel. 


“It was not death, for I stood up.” Emily Dickinson

Rosalia stood in the dark basement apartment she called home, her hands shaking as she gripped them tightly in front of her body. What had she just seen? Who had she just seen? The sight of a human skull remained in her mind no matter how hard she tried to blink the image away. A shiver ran up her spine. What if whoever could do that was after her? Anyone could have been watching as she and Sarah checked the freezer at the end of their shift, been lurking in the shadows as she rushed to her car without so much as a good-bye to Sarah, both knowing it was the last they would see of each other.

Rosalia had grown to love Sarah and her daughter, feeling like they were family. Something she longed for, especially during the long cold winter months on the Peninsula. Summer wasn’t too bad, what with hikers and fisherman coming to Soldotna and Homer for the Salmon runs on the Kenia River. Many brought their wives and children as fishing on the Kenai was successful no matter your skill. A smile played on the corner of her mouth for just a moment as flashes of utter joy swept across her mind. Fish after fish being reeled in by man, woman and child alike. The children often getting the biggest fish much to their daddy’s dismay. Sarah had brought Rachel out to fish with Rosalia several times. Just the girls. A tear threatened to spill over her lashes, sadness welling up inside her belly.

Smoothing her shirt with her hands to keep them busy, Rosalia glanced around the room. Not much to pack, her place was simple, lacking the personal touch typically found in a ‘home’. Move after move, over most of her life, too many memories left behind created heart-ache, the kind that could not be healed even over time. The old-adage, Time heals all wounds, struck a nerve with Rosalia. It just wasn’t true. Some wounds would never heal, and time only allowed them to fester deeper still. Lie after lie, spoken, lived out, causing the pain of the original wound to bury deeper until it coursed through her veins, a constant reminder of who she truly was.

Her only hope was that her wound, the wounds of those she had gotten involved with, had not transferred to Sarah and Rachel. Rosalia would do anything to be certain they went unharmed by all the others had done. She wished she could help them, keep them safe. The best thing would be to stay far away from them. If the authorities came after her, and they would, Rosalia did not want there to be any chance of Sarah being linked to the deaths. As much as her heart broke, thinking she would never hold Rachel again, she knew it was best for all if she went away. Even better if she could lead anyone searching for answers away from where Sarah and Rachel would go.


Lauren sat looking at the text her mom had sent to her. Will I come meet her for dinner? She contemplated a snide reply, ‘Will your boy toy be joining us?’. Her mother always had time for dinner or coffee when it was convenient for her, when it fit her busy realtor schedule, or when she didn’t have a guy on the line and was lonely. But when Lauren needed to talk, a shoulder to lean on, like now, when her father had been found dead, could her mother be bothered with a simple phone chat? No, she was at the beach. Now she wanted Lauren to come to dinner. Everything within her wanted to cry out, NO!, but she knew she had to go. This time not for her mother’s sake but for her own. The only way to get to the bottom of what had happened to her father, who he really was, was to get her mother to talk.

Lauren typed out a reply after deleting her desired response.

“Sure mom. See you at 7. I’ll bring the wine.”

Anne’s phone chirped a new text message coming in. Satisfaction calmed her racing heart. Lauren would come to dinner. Good. Now to figure out what to tell her. How much did she really need to know? She had been frantically thinking of ways to make it all go away, to keep the truth hidden. With two dead bodies and connections coming out of the woodworks that would potentially implicate her, at least link her attachment to Daniel, she couldn’t help but worry that Lauren just might be in danger herself. If anything happened to her baby, she would just die.

Oh, why was this happening now? Just when she was getting close to this handsome and successful guy too. Pierce was a delight. Nice to look at, easy to listen too, and financially stable on top of that. The fact that he owned a rock-climbing business certainly showed when her hand smoothed his shirt, brushing away the sand that clung to the soft cotton. Rock hard abs warm from the sun beating down on them had sent a tingling sensation through Anne’s body. Just as she leaned in certain Pierce was going to kiss her, her cell phone rang. Never one to let her phone go to voicemail for fear it was the next million-dollar listing, she had answered while her gaze had remained on his soft lips in front of her. Instead of a million-dollar listing it had been a royal pain in the ass, Detective Sergeant Steele wanting to set up a time for her to be interviewed. Nothing to worry about, just a few questions. Yeah, right. The beach date called to an abrupt end, Anne told Pierce she had to go check out a new listing ASAP before another realtor swooped it up. Thankfully he understood and said they could pick up where they left off as soon as her schedule allowed.

Anne peered inside the nearly empty fridge finding nothing more than bad take-out and a few beyond-their-shelf-life vegetables not even worthy of a catch-all stew. She would have to run to the store in order to cook something suitable for her and Lauren to eat. Unsure her stomach would hold much down considering the weight of the topic up for discussion, she decided lemon caper chicken, light on the sauce, with whipped mashed potatoes and simple green beans would be best. Anne grabbed her Prada handbag, keys and dashed out to the market.


Rosalia, passport in hand, along with a duffel bag with the few items she felt worth taking, took one last glance at the place she called home before sliding into the back of the car she had ordered to get her to the airport. Her flight wasn’t scheduled until later that night, it was the earliest one available on short notice. Alaska Flight 106 direct, non-stop to Mexico City boarded at 9:00 PM. She would fly over night and arrive in the early hours of the morning. With plenty of time on her hands she had decided to fly out of Anchorage, a 3- hour car-ride away. The ride would give her time to think and formulate the rest of her plan.

She had left a note in her home right on the kitchen counter, first place someone would look. And a message on the voicemail at Kodiak Burgers for Angie. At least that’s what the message sounded like, but really it was for the police or anyone who might come looking for Sarah and Rachel

“Hi, um Ang, it’s Rosalia. I, uh, know I’m not supposed to be calling you here, but, well I had to. I needed to say good-bye. I tried your cell but you didn’t answer. I wanted to be sure you got this message, direct from me and well, not from anyone else. I’m, I’m sorry for anything that I screwed up, or did, or whatever. I didn’t mean to harm anyone, I just wanted you, um, your boys, everyone to. Um you know, be okay. I’m going, well you know where I’m going. I probably shouldn’t go there, but it’s all I have left. Thank you for being there for me, you know, how you have been. Having my back and all. I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I won’t call again. That’s all. Bye.”

Before she could give in an choose the button to erase her message, she hit the ‘end call’ button on her phone. There, it was done. Anyone with any sense at all would know where she, Rosalia would go, that she really shouldn’t go if she didn’t want to be found. Hopefully, the Detective from the lower 48 would get her drift and steer the search for her, leaving Angie, the boys and most importantly Sarah and Rachel out of this mess.

The car ride from Kenai to Anchorage was peaceful. Having lived in many different places across the US and Mexico, Rosalia had seen varied landscapes growing up. Nothing compared to the majestic mountain ranges, bodies of water, and wild life one found in the great state of Alaska. Winters were hard, no doubt, but the glaciers that remained year after year, lasting through the warm seasons, to the delight of cruise ships, tourists, and even the locals, were unparalleled anywhere else. Well, maybe Antarctica, but Rosalia hadn’t been there, not yet anyway. The sky remained bright as they approached the airport terminal, summer evenings had a difficult time coming to a close before midnight in Alaska, but her body knew this day had a been a long one already. Maybe sleep would come to her on the flight.

Rosalia made it through security with one more swipe of her fake ID and passport. She realized this very well may be the last time she used it. A glance at her watch let her know she had just enough time to grab a paperback for the plane in case sleep evaded her, a coffee and a sandwich. The long flight likely served a meal, but she wasn’t taking chances that it would be even remotely edible.

Tomorrow morning would be a new day, a new chapter in her life, a new beginning in a different country. God willing, the last time she would flee ever again.


Lauren decided to let Detective Sergeant Steele and Ryan know that she was having dinner with her mother. As much as she hated the thought that her mother had anything to do with all that was going on, she had to be realistic. Anne had shown no remorse, not an ounce of sadness when Lauren’s father had been found dead. Had Lauren not asked she doubted her mother would have even spoke of it. Then when she did try to ask her mom about him, she had all but told her to let it go already. Anne had been more intrigued by her new real estate client, aka conquest, then about who had killed her ex-husband and why. Lauren did not understand how even her mother could be that cold hearted. It was that thought which led to her wondering what her mother truly knew about Daniel. And did she know anything about the other man, Gregor, who had also been found dead?

“Police precinct, how may I direct your call?”

“Oh hi, um May I speak with Detective Sergeant Vera Steele please?”

“May I tell her who is calling?”

“Yes, this is Lauren Riley”

“I’ll see if Sergeant Steele is at her desk, what is the nature of your call?”

“Well, um, I have some information that may help the case she is currently working on.”

“Okay, please hold Ms. Riley.”

The hold musak crackled through the phone speaker. Why did people still use musak? In this day and age one would think they would update the hold system. There was a double beep as her call was patched through.

“Sergeant Steele speaking.”

“Hi Vera, it’s me, Lauren.”

“Oh Hi Lauren, what can I do for you today?”

“Well, I am hoping maybe I can do something for you. You see, my mom texted me today, rather out of the blue.”

“Oh, yeah, what did the message say?”

“She asked me to meet her at home for dinner tonight.”

“Okay, is that something out of the ordinary, you going home to have dinner with your mom?”

“No, not exactly. We eat dinner together a lot, or she leaves me left overs in the fridge. But this is different. I tried to talk to her on the phone about my dad the other day. I had all these questions and she just brushed me off. She told me I sounded tired and I should go take a nap.”

“Go on.” Sergeant Steele waited to hear more.

“The whole time she was talking to me I could tell she was more interested in who she was with than the questions I was asking. She was at the beach with Pierce and they were, giggling and carrying on. Then it was like she caught herself and realized I was on the line and that she should really act concerned about me dad.”

“I see. So, you think she knows something about Daniel’s murder?”

“As much as I hate to say it, yes, I do. Oh my, am I a terrible daughter? My father is murdered and here I am turning my mom into the police for suspicion!”

“Hold on, you are not a terrible daughter and you’re not turning her in. You are doing the right thing and letting me know of a concern. One that most likely will turn out to be nothing, but is the right thing to do. Okay?”

“Okay.” Lauren let out a huge sigh as her body relaxed.

“Here’s what I need you to do. I need to know what your mom has to say. Would you be comfortable asking if Ryan and I can join you for dinner? Otherwise, I think I’d like you to wear a wire.”

“A wire? Are you serious? You really think it’s that serious?” Lauren’s palms began to sweat.

“I don’t know, but what I do know is we need to get to the bottom of this and time is running out. We need whatever information, whatever may lead to finding the killers and stop this from happening to another person. Who knows your mom may just have the information we need. Are you willing to help us find out what’s going on?”

Lauren took a deep breath and let it seep out through her lips before responding. Her thoughts all over the map, visions of her dad being found dead, the photo Ryan had shown her, and the ones she had seen on his phone flashing through her mind.

“Yes, yes I am willing to help anyway I can. I think it’s best if I wear the wire. Should I come to the station now? I can be there in 15 minutes.”

“I’ll call Ryan and get the wire ready. We’ll run you through how it works. Listen Lauren, you’re doing the right thing. Thank you.”

“I know. I’ll see you soon.”

Lauren grabbed her keys and coat as she dashed out the door. She hopped into her Jetta and headed to the police station. Maybe this would be the night, all these years she had wondered about her father, wondered who Daniel was and why he had gone away, stayed away. Maybe now she would know.


Rosalia boarded the plane, placed her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment and slipped into the window seat, row 22 seat F. She fastened her seatbelt and flipped open the paperback book she planned to read. The plane sat idling on the runway long enough for the air to turn off overhead. Passengers began whispering wondering what was taking so long. Rosalia looked out the window of the plane to see if maybe the weather had took a turn causing a delay. The exterior door, which had been closed and sealed by the stewardess, opened and two armed officers stepped onto the plane as an announcement was made.

“Excuse passengers, my apologies for the delay, this is your flight Captain speaking, your flight will take off momentarily. Thank you for your patience. Would passenger Rosalia Flores, please stand up.” The silence was cut only by the shifting of passengers in their seats as they turned left and right straining to get a view of who the officers wanted.

“Rosalia Flores, would you please stand up if you are on board.” The stewardess repeated one more time.

Rosalie shifted in her seat and looked at the gentleman sitting next to her.

“Excuse me, I need to stand up.”

The man’s eyes grew wide. He shoved his coat to the floor and waited as the woman in seat D moved into the aisle first.

“Are you Rosalia Flores”, the officer questioned.

“No, no, I’m not. I’m moving so she can get out of her seat. Please, wait.” Her voice nearing hysterics, the woman in seat D stumbled and nearly fell into another passenger’s lap. The man sitting next to Rosalia helped the woman gain her composure and they both stepped back, clearing the way for Rosalia.

Rosalia stepped into the aisle.

“Rosalia Flores, Please place your hands in the air where we can see them. Stay where you are. Don’t move.” The first officer began walking down the aisle towards her as Rosalia raised both hands high above her head, palms facing forward in surrender.

Rocky Raccoon watched as the VW Jetta pulled up to the station. No longer hungry for food, there was only one thing he wanted now. The truth. And he had a feeling Lauren was about to bring the truth to light, at any and all costs.

Rocky wasn’t the only one watching as Lauren walked up the steps of the City Precinct. Jonathan Van Roy slunk down in his seat as best he could, large frame and all. He watched as she took each step, every part of him wanting to go after her, to stop her. What was she doing? This couldn’t possibly be good. He didn’t want her involved, didn’t want her to get hurt. If she went to the cops, getting hurt might be the least of her worries.

Something shiny caught Rocky’s eye. He turned left just in time to see a flash of light reflect off the car window. As quick as it came it was gone. Rocky sat there watching Jonathan. “One wrong move buddy and I’m all over you. Get out of that car, I dare ya! I’ve had a hankerin’ for some flesh in my teeth. Just try me,” Rocky snarled, baring all of his sharp teeth.

Kristi Lyn Reddy, mom and realtor in Seattle, WA, is new to the writing scene. Currently working on her memoir as a part of the Narrative Project.

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Collective Meditation (a writing group prompt)

aurora borealis

Meditation, not my strong suit, is the ship sailing through the fog of my life that I find myself drawn to now and again. I have a guttural need to quiet my soul, yet my mind repeatedly gets in the way. Thoughts a-buzz in a flurry of action, never-ending, often uncompleted, rushing into one another.

There are times, too many to count, when I find my thoughts have been thought out loud. These moments lead to embarrassment, confrontations, misunderstandings and such. It is then I find myself seeking forgiveness if I am brave enough, strong enough to lay aside my pride.

Left to my own thoughts in the stillness of meditation, whether it be sitting still or out for a jog in nature, is when I do some of my best writing. The words flow. Sentences become paragraphs, pages mold into stories. E-mails, letters, and speeches alike have been composed on a journey through the woods. The problem remains, my mind is not reliable enough to hold these pieces of work in order to be transcribed to Word Doc, Scrivener, or paper when the meditation comes to a close.

Collective meditation fills my mind with the vision of many bodies in one space. The beauty of the energy which flows from each individual participating, gathers together, an aurora borealis. I am mesmerized by the vast array of colors – each one a representation  of the self it permeates. I am drawn to hues of green and blue. My desire to know them, who they are, what completes them, overwhelming my thoughts. Questions fill my mind. So much to ask, so much to learn. An explosion of need – a longing to connect.

I speak, breaking the silence of the collective meditation.

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Who I Am, Comparison & Contentment

In the ever-connected world we live in, how does a mother not compare herself to other moms?

From Facebook to Instagram, the photos run through our feed pressing in on us to strive for perfection. We see mothers wearing babies while a toddler plays happily at her feet, all the while she is mixing a bowl which will become steaming hot baked banana bread, filling her home with the aroma of love. Barely a smudge of flour on her rosy cheek as she smiles at her adoring children. Next up, a selfie, beauty beyond measure, every hair on her head in place as she sits in the driver’s seat of her car and her life, shuttling her star athlete to practice. One glance down at my own rumpled, baggy sweat pants, a heavy sigh escapes my lips as the weight of not measuring up bears down on my shoulders. I find myself taking selfies after a glance in the mirror reminds me for once my hair is fixed and my make-up is on. First one, then two, finally 10 shots later I accept with only minor reservation the photo I will post. The first several rejected over a double chin, unflattering angle or yet another part of my body that did not meet the standard set by all the other selfies I awarded a thumbs up or heart gif on my social media page. Once posted I go back again and again to gauge how many ‘likes’ my photo has received, checking to see just exactly who liked it. The power of the like button weighing in on my opinion of how pretty I am or am not.

To Pin or not to Pin, that is the question.

With a plethora of ideas at our finger tips, it is no longer necessary to call up our girlfriends or run out to the local library in search of idea books for craft time, menu planning, or decorating tips. One-click on the website Pinterest and endless ideas fill the never-ending computer screen as you scroll down the page. Beyond stepping stones for Mother’s Day and hand print wreathes for Thanksgiving, there are links to shape defining workouts, five course dinner menus, hair styles and wardrobe options. Add your friends to the pages you ‘Follow’ so you can view all the ideas that spark their interest. Yet another way to keep on the up and up of all things ‘liked’. While there is nothing wrong with ideas or making changes to our home, our bodies, our appearance, it’s when these ideas drag us down the long and winding road of self-doubt or self -deprecation, that we must question our intentions. When we no longer believe we are made in the image of our creator and thus, beautiful just the way we are, flaws and all, it is then that we have pinned one too many pins for all the wrong reasons. I read my daily bible study book this morning and the verse about leapt off the page. Ephesians 2:10 ‘For we are God’s masterpiece. He created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.’ A masterpiece. When you hear that what do you think of? Like me, I am sure some of you now or at times have shook your head and thought, I am no masterpiece. Before you start down that road, stop for one second. Close your eyes, still your heart and say this prayer with me, “Father, help me to see myself through your eyes. Amen.” Now, open your eyes and try again. When you hear those words, A masterpiece, what do you think of?

Merriam Webster Dictionary states the definition of Masterpiece is: a work done with extraordinary skill
especially: a supreme intellectual or artistic achievement’

Another dictionary states it is considered the greatest work of a person’s career. Imagine that! You were created with extraordinary skill. You are a supreme intellectual and artistic achievement! A far cry from being a mistake. You are a well-planned, thought out, designed and molded masterpiece. When I find myself looking into the mirror with a critical eye, it takes great effort to drown out the voice that is reminding me he loves me just the way he made me. It is I, who doesn’t. I am working hard these days to pray that simple prayer in those moments. ‘Lord, help me to see myself through your eyes. Help me to love myself the way you made me. Help me to be who you want me to be and to love who I am.’

A closer look in the mirror.

I speak in generalities as I am certain we have all been there, done that. More than once we have found ourselves looking upon our fellow mother at the grocery store who has just waltzed in looking like she stepped off the runway, while we ourselves are simply longing for a 10-minute shower. And in that moment, we have faltered into envy, resentment, self-pity, or worse, self-hate. It happens to me most every time I walk up the sideline of the soccer field. I find myself looking at the other moms, noticing their salon worthy highlights, designer boots and wonder why it is I do not see myself in the reflection. I say I pride myself in being a simple person, and yet, in these moments I find myself wanting to measure up. Would I be a better mom, a more attractive wife in my husband’s eyes if I took the time to follow the fashions the other moms wore? Would highlights in my hair and nails from the salon step up my game? Again, there is nothing wrong with following fashion, wearing stylish clothes, going to the salon for hair and nails. It’s the idea that because I don’t do those things I am somehow less than, not good enough, that is wrong. The comparison of what I do and don’t do regarding, what other moms around me do and don’t do, weighing in on my worth, is what is bringing me down.

One year during Lent I decided I was going to give something up. A tradition I had not followed and was intrigued by. I mulled over my options: chocolate, sweets in general, alcohol, TV, Netflix, social media, the list went on. Ultimately, I decided it would be social media. After posting one final message on Facebook to let all my fans, er, I mean friends letting them know that I would be gone from the online world through Lent (and of course waiting a couple hours to see how many likes and comments my sacrifice would receive), I deleted Facebook from my laptop and the much more difficult one, my phone.

I awoke the next morning, turned off my alarm and reached for my phone, swiped the screen, entered my password, only then as the home screen came into view did I remember the blue square with the white ‘F’ for the Facebook App would not be there to greet me. No worries! I jumped out of bed ready to start my day with coffee instead. The morning breezed by as I got our son up, ready for school and out the door. No sooner was he gone, and I found myself yet again, reaching for my phone. It wasn’t ringing. I laughed at myself, Seriously? Could I not get through one day without checking Facebook? It took a few days, but I got used to the new routine. In the mornings I reached for my bible rather than my phone. A habit that I was altogether good at getting out of more-so than getting into. I fumbled reading random scriptures at first, found my way to the Psalms and Proverbs (always a good option) and finally settled on reading through the New Testament. Reading God’s word led to praying and sitting in silence listening to His voice speak to my heart.  My desire to pray, to worship, to sit in His presence grew immensely. My step was lighter, my smile brighter. My heart and my spirit renewed by this lovely time with the Lord.

I wish I could say it was the start of an ongoing area of growth in my life. Unfortunately, about 4 days after Easter, 2014, I reinstalled Facebook to my phone and let it back into my life. I am not blaming Facebook for my Christian walk being mediocre at times nor for my lack of discipline in areas of Bible reading and prayer. I have no one to blame but myself. Psalms 103:14 says, ‘For he knows how weak we are; he remembers we are only dust.’ Amen. He knows. God knows my weakness, my failures, my longings, my need to be approved of, liked, accepted.  Psalm 119:73 ‘You made me; you created me. Now give me the sense to follow your commands.’  The entire chapter is worth reading over again. A poem with valuable insight into many of the areas I personally struggle with, time and again. Verse 8 ends, ‘Don’t give up on me!’ Yes Lord, please don’t give up on me!

What is it we say to our children? You are enough, just be you!

The little beings that God knowingly placed within our care, the ones whose eyes are upon our every move. Whose ears hone in on the sound of our voice whether it be loud or soft. They are watching, learning, being led by our example. To them we say, “You are exactly who God created you to be. Don’t try to be anything but you. I love you just the way you are!” When chatting with close friends about our children we hear ourselves say, “He dances to the beat of his own drum!” or “She is in her own world, a very creative type that one”. We commend our children’s individuality. Encourage them to be all they can be, all they were designed to be, even when it is different than what those around them are doing. You see, we have it right, so very right.

You and I, we, are just who we were designed to be. In the ever-faithful hands of our Creator we were molded and shaped before we were conceived. His hands, His love, His will formed us as we grew in our mother’s womb. Physically yes, spiritually, even more. In His eyes we are beautiful, for man looks on the outward appearance, but God looks upon the heart (1 Samuel 16:7). It is when I am drawn into His presence, when I am listening after having cried out my heart to Him, that I am reminded to look at myself through His eyes not my own, earthly ones. At times that is the prayer I lift-up for days on end. “Lord, help my eyes to see as you see. Help me to view myself clothed in your righteousness. Remove from me any desire to be anything other than your will for my life. Help me to love myself as you love me, a beautiful creation, made in your image, filled with your spirit, strengthened to do your will.” These are the good times, the times when I am closest to God, closest to His spirit that lives within me. Thankfully when life, busyness, selfish desires, my own human nature gets in the way, derailing my prayer and bible study time for periods great and small, leaving me unfulfilled, deep in the depths of discontent, God is ever faithful to draw me back to him.

Job 10:10 says, ‘You guided my conception and formed me in the womb.’ I love hearing those words. To think God was there in the very moment that I was conceived. And in that moment, he formed my very being and who I was to become. I hope that makes you feel as amazing, as loved, as wonderful as it does me. Hang on to that feeling. Allow that feeling to settle you into the contentment God wants for you. Laying aside all comparison, take hold of being just who God formed and molded you to be, a beautiful masterpiece of his creation.

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Recently, I was asked to substitute teach an after school program, Word Magic, for one session. Of course I said, yes! I love to write. I love to teach. And I enjoy being with children. No sooner had I said yes, when I was told the topic of the lesson would be poetry. Oh, boy.

Of all the lessons I could have been given to teach, poetry would not have been at the top of my list. I can rhyme with the best of them. Have even been known to belt out a rap or two when interacting with my kids, but teach a poetry lesson. I had visions of Shakespeare and Poe in my head which immediately caused sweat beads to form, in droves. I have never been fond of poetry, at least not the kind that I imagined I was supposed to.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your shirt is smelly
Your feet stink too.

You make me laugh
You make me smile
Your neck is so long
It stretches for a mile.

These are the typical poems I would come up with. Off the cuff, rhyming silliness. If ever I opened a poetry book and began to peruse the pages, the words swimming through my brain caught in a tumultuous current no small than the Bermuda Triangle, leaving me wondering where I had begun and how I had ended up here. Basically put, I just couldn’t make senses of what was written, the meaning or the message. And so, I put poetry aside and determined it was not for me, or I was not for it.

I grabbed my bag, library card inside, and made the brief 2 block walk to my local Seattle Public Library. Saddled up to the modern-day Dewey decimal card system, AKA computer, and began my search. Keywords: Poetry for Kids. Starting at the basics seemed my best option for success.

For those of you wondering what I found here is part of my list:

Explore Poetry with 25 Great Projects by, Andi Diehn

Nibble Nibble – Poems for Children by, Margaret Wise Brown

Friends and Foes – Poems about us all by, Douglas Florian

Now We Are Six by, A. A. Milne

Joyful Noise- Poems for Two Voices by, Paul Fleischman

among others……

I read through the first title, Explore Poetry, page by page. Each page a lesson with examples and a project. This helped me immensely. My inner poet stretched as she was awakened, her thoughts, flittering butterflies, began to stir my creativity. As I sat on a plane to Disneyland I decided to do one of the assignments.

Diamante Poem

A diamante poem has 7 lines. It’s written within this structure:

  1. One word that is the name of the shape
  2. Two adjectives that describe the shape
  3. Three verbs ending in “-ing” that describe the shape
  4. Four nouns related to the shape
  5. Three verbs ending in “-ing” that describe the shape
  6. Two adjectives that describe the shape
  7. One word that is the name of the shape


First I picked my shape, Circle. Next, I made a list of adjectives that I related to this shape. I wrote whatever came to mind. Nothing was kept from the list. Each word may or may not be used, it was the act of opening my mind to the shape and finding words I could work with. My next list consisted of objects I related to the shape. Once I felt my lists were enough I began to shape my poem according to the list above. My diamante poem was birthed.


Smooth, round
Never-ending, engaging, inviting
Ball, frisbee, moon, sun
Bouncing, flying, setting
Full, continuous

I felt light, young, free as I raised my pencil in completion. The nervous butterflies had fluttered away. I sat, my lips curved up in a smile. I had written a poem. Not only that, I had learnt something I don’t believe I had ever been taught before. It felt great! A poetry expert, I am not, but I am a little more prepared to substitute teach the kids this week. Better yet, I am looking forward to it! We will work on understanding rhyme, meter and maybe even Haiku.

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Quest For Love (excerpt 1)

His gaze pulled her from across the crowded room. The constant hum of conversation growing louder as the guests consumed more wine. Their voices blended together in a symphony of highs and lows mixed with laughter. She tried to focus in on what those close to her were talking about, to be a part of the topic at hand, but their words jumbled together with the race of thoughts spinning through her mind.  It took all her restraint to keep her feet from walking over to him. What was she thinking? She didn’t know him. Had never met him. Hadn’t even heard anyone speak of him. Who was he? How did he come to be at their company Christmas party? As a matter of fact, what was she doing here? She didn’t celebrate Christmas. Not anymore.

Kaiyah loved her job. More than anything she adored her boss, Mr. Johnston. He and his wife were the most generous couple Kaiyah had ever known. If she could be so lucky as to meet a man and have the long-lasting marriage that the Johnston’s had she would be one lucky lady indeed. Unfortunately, she had only known heart break up to this point in her life. The most recent having been devastating, to say the least. Luck would have it she was working for the Johnstons when her life came crashing down. They had taken her in under their wings, in more ways than one. There was no way in the world she would ever be able to repay them let alone thank them for all they had done.

Heat rose in her cheeks as she felt herself blush. Lost in her own thoughts, Kaiyah hadn’t realized the gentleman holding her captive was looking at her as well. Her eyes dropped to the empty glass in her hands. A waiter passed by holding high a tray mixed with etched crystal glasses holding Prosecco, white and red wine. He glanced her way as she lifted her head, his eyes met hers with a question implied but not spoken.

“Oh, thank you, no, none for me.”

Thankful for the interruption giving her cause to move, Kaiyah excused herself from the circle of conversation and went in search of water.

Head up, shoulders back, walk slow, she coached herself to cross the crowded room. Having no clue where this inner confidence came from, Kaiyah’s new motto was,’Fake it until you make it’. She had written it in her journal and now she had to live up to it. It was either that or go back. There had been many moments, countless, in the past few days where defeat overwhelmed her, consuming her thoughts and sending the message that going back would be so much easier than going forward. How could she do this, live this life on her own? How would she ever make it?

Mary spotted her and waved her to come over and join the office girls huddled in the corner of the room, exchanging the latest on all of the crew no doubt. Kaiyah raised her finger indicating she would join them in just a minute. She had eyed the door to the patio was opened and decided a moment of fresh air was just what she needed. Placing her empty glass on a small table with other glasses, small plates and napkins, she stepped outside. Winter was in full swing this year with temperatures in the low 30’s for over two weeks now. Snow was inevitable if only moisture heavy clouds would roll in.

Kaiyah welcomed the chill she felt inside and out as she took in the night sky. Stars sparkled over the valley below. The only constellations she knew were the big and little dipper. Admonishing herself for not paying more attention in school or taking time to beef up on the stars – the ones in the sky and on the big screen, politics, the world around her, all topics of interest that adults talk about at gatherings such as tonight. Just one more reason to the ever-growing list of why she wasn’t cut out to succeed on her own. Anxiety welling up within her, the very reason she had come outside in the first place. Between holding her own in a job she had only been trained to do over the past year and struggling to drown out the over-bearing voice reminding her of the simple fact she had not even earned a diploma, there was no time for the multitude of new worries entering her mind.

Fear had a way of holding you prisoner or pushing you to make rash decisions. What had her therapist called it? Fight or Flight. Hers had been more of an endless relinquishment of self or run. Fighting back had never turned out to her advantage the few times she had tried that avenue. And running, well running hadn’t turned out well either. Until now, if you could count this as turning out well. Every ounce of her being hoping that it would turn out more than well. Her bank account, bills coming due, collectors calling her at work, lack of a car and so much more taunting her dissipating all hope. She wrapped her arms around herself hugging tight as shivers overtook her body.

Being alone wasn’t something she did very often. Alone meant silence and silence meant a storm was on the horizon, silence was something she had grown to fear. Stepping away to the emptiness the outdoors provided felt right. It was hard work to pretend to understand the conversations around the room at the party. One can only smile and nod for so long before someone inquires, about your thoughts, your point of view on the subject. She had tried moving from group to group in hopes of falling onto a topic allowing her to chime in, only to find there wasn’t much she could chime in about. Sports? No. Presidential elections? Having once volunteered to make calls for Republican Candidate, George W. Bush, brought shock and then nervous laughter when those listening realized she wasn’t joking. Ballet, Opera, performances at the 5th Avenue or Benaroya Hall? Kaiyah had never been. As uncomfortable as silence had become, tonight it was a welcomed reprieve.

In this moment, although alone, she felt safe, fear held at bay as she took a break from the conversations overwhelming her. Standing here on this patio, looking out over the valley that went on for miles, she could dream of the life she had always hoped she would have. Gazing at the tall trees that swayed in the winter winds, high above the farm land below, their sway like a dance, a winter’s dance the trees had in celebration of their life and all they had seen over decades of living. They looked over the barns, the livestock, the fields producing crops and the farm houses that held the families whose love, care and hard work kept the cycle of food and life going year after year. Kaiyah longed for the love and care she envisioned in the farm houses below.

A soft luxurious covering fell over her shoulders. Kaiyah turned her head to look over her right shoulder.

“I thought you might be cold out here without a jacket.”

Her hands pulled the cashmere throw around her accepting the warmth it provided. Her lips parted awaiting the words caught in her throat to come out.

“I watched you leave. When you didn’t come back in right away I thought I would bring you a blanket. I hope that’s alright. That I followed you out here, I mean.”

It was him, the man who had held her captive in the crowded room. His gaze having the power to hold her still and draw her to him, now stole her ability to speak. And yet, his presence felt safe and warm, not threatening or harmful in any way.





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Everyday Necklace

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I sat in my office in front of my laptop, facing the screen listening to the voices coming out of the speakers sent magically around the world through the air no less, on what is called wireless or wi-fi. Two voices came from Edmonds, WA, another from Portland, Oregon, and yet another from all the way across the United States of America in a small town in Virginia. I, here in Seattle, could also be heard when it was my turn to speak. All of our voices sounding as though we were in the same room together, talking, sharing, commenting, laughing, and sometimes catching our breath, our hand at our throats, our head shaking as we tried to convey the grip what had been read had on our hearts.

The pocket door that separates my office/writing room from the rest of our home rattled as someone on the other side slid it open. They were hesitant, not rushed and I could tell they held the hope that they were not disturbing me. My head turned to find my sweet son, a smile upon his 9 year old face with his father close behind so that I could see the apology in his eyes for their interruption. The corners in my mouth already turning up and I hoped they could see the sparkle in my eye as I watched them slide their feet across the hardwood flooring without a sound. My attention went back to the laptop as one of my fellow writers once again was speaking and I thought I heard my name.

It was my turn to share my thoughts on the second piece submitted to the group for critique, unless I wanted to defer as they had all just critiqued mine. Maybe a moment to let their words dissipate was a good idea. I jumped at the chance to go last, muted my microphone and turned back to where my son and my husband were donning their jackets. Michael, my sweet little boy, mouthed coupled with a very soft whisper, “We’re going to the mall so I can shop for you for Valentine’s Day.” His father behind him raised brow, lips moving without sound, “He insisted.” I nodded and waived a good-bye before turning my attention back to the group waiting for me. Having not heard my acceptance to go last they awaited my thoughts, I fumbled to pull up the word document and forged ahead.

Drawn into the Galapagos Islands and the adventure my writing partner was on, my thoughts held no room for what the boys were off doing. Easy for me as I am not one to try to figure out or guess the gift another may be giving me. There is something in not knowing, not expecting, that makes a gift that much more delightful to receive. I find myself unwrapping what the giver wanted to portray in the gift rather than the item itself. At times it is where they went or what they went through to find and purchase the gift. The place they chose having meaning from our or their past. Other times the gift itself reminds them of me, something I have said or expressed an interest in, or so they thought. Then there are times that there is no real rhyme or reason, it is just that, a gift, purchased and given. And yet, without expectation, even these gifts bring a joy to fill the space within me that had opened as my fingers removed the tape or tissue that held a covering over the item inside.

Our online group came to a close with the promise of two more pieces to be submitted via email by the morning for our critique meeting the following week. I savored the final sip of my soda water and rosemary vodka as I lingered in my chair, comfortable with the cushion beneath my bum, the aroma from the diffuser continuing to waft through the air around me, and soaked in the silence of our quiet home devoid of the usual hustle and bustle. A light rap on the side door window pulling me from my thoughts. On the other side out in the cold of the now dark evening, stood my sweet boy who had knocked with restraint we often think he knows nothing of. I leaned to remove myself from my chair then settled back in as my husband, Tom, approached the door key in hand.

“Hi guys. Perfect timing my class is over.”

Taking in the relief in Michael’s eyes, I turned my chair towards to the door and sat watching him remove his shoes and jacket. Pushing himself up to his feet, Michael grabbed the bag which held his gift to me. Standing there across the room from me as his body wiggled, feet shuffled, and his eyes danced.

“Come on Mom! I’m giving you my present right now!”

I got up out of my chair, turning off my computer and essential oils diffuser, and gathered my things to shut down for the night. My back turned to him I said, “Oh no, honey that’s okay. You should save your gift to give to me tomorrow night when we have our special family dinner with Sissy. Besides tomorrow is Valentine’s day.”

I have this thing about gifts. First I am a not a huge fan of them, I do not need gifts. Not a true minimalist, but a follower of the idea that I only want to have things I actually use. Not a collector of things, I have a hard time giving gifts as much as receiving them. If you are going to give me a gift though that is meant for a particular holiday, anniversary, birthday, I prefer to receive the gift on the day or at least at the event in honor of the day. Not before.

“No, mom. I won’t hear of it. I am giving you your gift now.”

My back still turned, the small voice inside of me spoke. ‘Let him give you his gift. It’s what he wants to do. Don’t squash his excitement and make him wait. We don’t always have to wait for the right time, the right place, do the right thing, do we?’

“Alright, let’s do this.” I smiled overwhelmed by the feeling welling up inside of me, this was right and for once I was going against all things me and just letting the moment unfold as it may.

“Yes! Okay, come into the living room. Come on dad, let’s go.”

Michael hurried into the other room, whether from excitement for the gift he was about to give or to be certain I would not change my mind or his dad would not step in and decide that we were in fact going to wait until tomorrow, I do not know. As I stepped through the doorway into the living room I caught sight of Michael already on the sofa, one hand holding the bag from Macy’s the other patting the seat next to him.

“Here mom, come sit here next to me on the couch.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming”, laughter bubbled up in my throat as I went to sit next to him.

“Dad, tell her the story.”

Tom chuckled before responding, “Well, I have to say I tried to talk him out of it, but his mind was set on what he was going to get you before we ever left the house. I tried to get him to go to Ross or Fred Meyer but he wouldn’t have it. We got in the truck and he said he wanted to go to the mall. To Macy’s in fact. He was resigned, wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say, so I said okay. You can tell her the rest buddy.”

Tom looked at me once again with those eyebrows raised. I’ve come to know that look from him when it has to do with Michael. It’s the ‘Hey, I tried to talk him out of it but you know how he can be when he has his mind made up about something’ look. The corners of my mouth remained turned up as I soaked up the excitement radiating from every pore in Michael’s body.

“Okay, Mom, I went to Macy’s and got you this. Here open it. Then I will tell you what happened.”

He handed me the white paper bag with large red star on it. Not a wrinkle in sight the only fold being the one at the very top, the sales lady having turned the top down and creased the fold tight before handing his purchase to him to bring home. I sat holding the bag for a moment, my hand stroking the smoothness before unfolding the top and reaching inside. A receipt slipped out and fell onto the couch as I pulled out the square box inside. I raised my hand to my lips and glanced at my son as he picked up the paper.

“I’ll show you it in a minute.” His eyes sparkled as he held onto the receipt and looked at me.

Savoring the excitement he was feeling and the joy I was receiving, I held the box before lifting the top off. There lay the most exquisite silver chain on a pillow of white batting.

“Feel it mom. Isn’t it heavy?”

I picked up the thick rope chain. It was heavy with a coating that made it smooth as silk to the touch. Breaking up the monotony of the rope chain were round circles snug on the chain every two inches or so. The clasp. also unique, was a larger circle on the one end and a bar at the other.

“Put it on mom! Do you need help?”

I held the two ends in my hand and they met behind my neck as I put the chain on. My right hand positioned the bar so it would go into the circle and through, then releasing it perpendicular it was held through the circle so the necklace would stay put. As I did, my mind flashed back to another necklace that I have upstairs in my closet with the same clasp. It was my mother’s. A bit flashy, layers of black beads that hold a charm that hangs in the middle of chest. The charm is a clear glass square that has several diamonds, fake, the gems float in the square that is edged with diamonds all around it. I have worn it a few times with a cocktail dress, otherwise it stays hanging in my closet.

“Do you like it mom?”

Without waiting for my response he goes on.

“Look at the tag.”

Ignoring my thoughts that want me to explain how it isn’t appropriate to look at the price of a gift nor is it appropriate to tell someone the price you paid for the gift. I instead listen to the small voice that is telling me to do as my son is asking of me. Grant him this moment. I pick up the tag and look at the front and then the back. Eyeing my husband who once again has that look on his face followed this time by raised hands of mercy hovering just above his lap, I tell me son the sales lady covered the price with a return sticker. I explain they do this so the gift recipient doesn’t see the price of the gift. Then I hush my own voice reminded by that small voice that I am saying too much.

“Oh, okay, well here, look at the receipt.”

My eyes grow big and my fingers caress the thick chain laying against my neck. I look at Tom, a look of disbelief as he nods his head.

“Oh honey! You spent sixty dollars on me? Wow! That is so very generous.”

“I tried to talk him out of it. In fact, even the sales lady who wasn’t all that, let’s say good-natured with kids, she even tried to persuade him to buy a different necklace that was on sale for less. He made his choice.”

My fingers remaining on the chain, I handed the receipt back to Michael as I looked into his eyes. I saw a flicker of hesitation.

“It wasn’t all of my money. I still have over seventy dollars. The sales lady did show me another necklace after I found this one. It was a silver chain also. It was more dainty. I had her get it out of the case so I could look at it more closely. It was real pretty. And it cost forty dollars. Even the sales lady said the other one was more fancy, special. She said this one was more ‘every day’ kind of chain. That’s what I wanted, something you could wear every day. And I didn’t spend all of my money. I still have plenty.”

His eyes looked at me as he finished his last word. My heart caught in my throat as I removed my fingers from the chain and reached out to touch his leg.

“Hey buddy, I want to tell you something. I completely get what you are saying. You want to know what this makes me think of?”


“Two things actually. One is a very special necklace that I have upstairs. It is a thin dainty silver chain that has a heart on it made of tiny little diamonds. One year before Mother’s day a radio station ran a contest and asked listeners to call in to share a story of why their mom was the best mom. The stories were on the radios web page for a few weeks where listeners could go and read them again. Then people would vote on the story they thought was the best. The winner would receive this beautiful necklace to give to their mom for Mother’s day. Well, your sister called in and told a story about me and she won! I love that necklace and every time I wear it I think of what she did for me. It is fancy and dainty and I wear it now and then with special outfits.”

“Wow, that’s cool that she won it for you.”

“Yeah, but you wanna know what other memory this makes me think of?”

“What mom?”

“Well, several years back before you were born, Mother’s day was coming up. Something inside of me really wanted to buy my mom a pair of diamond earrings. I had never bought my mom anything extravagant like that before. I wanted her to know that I loved her more than anything, wanted to give her something out of the ordinary, different than  say your typical Mother’s Day gift of flowers or a candle. The only thing was, I was a single mom at the time and couldn’t really afford too much. I asked my boyfriend, your dad was my boyfriend then, what he thought and he said although it was genuinely a good thing to want to do it, my mom knew how much I loved her and didn’t need diamonds to express it. I believed what he said was true.”

Love threatening to spill out and poor down my cheeks welling up inside of me, I squeezed my son’s hand and smiled before telling him the rest.

“I spent time with my mom that Mother’s Day and gave her a card telling her of what I had wanted to buy her but hadn’t. My mom cried silent tears and hugged me close, telling me she knew how much I loved her. We sat and enjoyed lunch together on her couch until she was tired and needed to go lay down and rest. A month later my mom died. We didn’t know at the time that she was that sick. I didn’t know it would be our last Mother’s Day together. The thought never crossed my mind. What I did know was that I had wanted to express to her in a tangible way, a gift, the love that I held inside for her. To this day, there is a part of me that wishes I would have thrown caution to the wind and purchased diamond earrings for my mom. Not because she needed an expensive gift to know I loved her that much, but because I wanted to give them to her.

It means so much to me that you wanted to buy something very special, and spend your money, no matter the cost. You knew what you wanted to buy me and you did it. Thank you my sweet bugaboo. I love this necklace and I will wear it all of the time. There is a time to be frugal, to buy things on sale, to not buy gifts when we can’t afford them. And then there is a time to go ahead and be generous, be extravagant, and buy what we want for the one we love.”

I reached out and drew my son close to me. Wrapping my arms around him I felt the love from him that I so longed to give to my mother on that Mother’s Day so long ago.

And then my son, being the nine year old that he is said,

“Okay mom, now you have to put the necklace back in the box. Tomorrow at dinner I am going to give it to you again and you have to act surprised. Just like you are right now, you have to do all of this all over again for Sissy. You have to tell her the story you just told me and everything, okay?”

The small voice inside of me spoke once again, ‘Do it. Give this to him, it’s all part of his gift. Let him have all of this as silly as it seems.’

“Okay, honey.” My eyes met with Tom’s one more time, it was my turn to shrug my shoulders and raise my palms up in open willingness.

Michael took my necklace and placed it back on the cloud of batting, closed up the box and delicately returned it inside the still perfect, without wrinkle or crease, white paper bag. He folded the top down as the sales lady had and placed it on the dining room table where it would await the re-unveiling.





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Thoughts on Common Metaphors, Similes & Idioms (Not to be confused with common idiots.)

I should be more specific. These are in fact, my thoughts, on common metaphors. In an effort to filter my at times unrequested thoughts and opinions on matters at hand, I have grown accustomed to having conversations with myself. First, I have a thought and then, I respond to my thought. Typically in agreement with my original thought, but at times I debate the alternative, or play the devil’s advocate as they say.

The Devil’s advocate? Why is it that an opposing view to the original point of view is so easily associated with the Devil himself (or herself, however you choose to see it)?

In out lining potential chapters for a book that I am writing, I sat thinking of catchy titles for each chapter. Wanting to not only use phrases that would fit the subject matter that would fill the pages but would also resonate with the reader and draw them in. One that kept sticking out to me was, The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree. Quite frankly, it often does. Literally and figuratively speaking. When an apple falls out of a tree it is prone to roll or bounce on the ground in any direction, which could potentially take it far from the tree. Figuratively as the metaphor is truly meant for, I can think of multiple instances in my life alone where I would say the apples fell far, very far from the tree. I have known children raised in day-to-day dysfunction who grew up and found a way to not only be successful, but organized, on time, and high functioning in almost every aspect of life. I have also known first hand, individuals that had wonderful and only slightly dysfunctional (because let’s be honest we all have some degree of dysfunction in our family) upbringings who have turned out to be abusive, narcissistic, dictators unlike anyone in their family. They are more like the rotten apple that grew on a kumquat tree. All of the kumquat are sitting back wondering how in the heck that apple began to grow on their tree. I could go on, and name names, personal and celebrity to prove my point, but I won’t. You know who you are.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down? Other than Mary Poppins I don’t know anyone whose mother or care giver handed them a spoonful of sugar when forcing them to take castor oil, cough syrup, or any other prescribed meds that we were forced to take when we were sick. Have you tasted fish oil? Just a tablespoon a day helps reduce your chance of cancer, reduce anxiety, depression and increase brain and heart function. No amount of sugar is helping the gawd-awful stench and taste of fish oil leave your mouth, not before and not after. Mix it into your morning yogurt or smoothie. What? And destroy my love of perfectly delicious foods that will hereafter taste like fish oil when I have them for breakfast. By the way, none of the claims for the benefits fish oil have actually been verified.

You made your bed, lay in it? First of all who lays in their bed after they have just made it? You take the time and effort to get the sheets smooth and straight, then you fold the corners at just the right angle like mom taught you to do. The last thing you are going to do after completing that is jump in and mess it up! What people are actually saying is that you created this mess, now  you get to live through it. What they should say is, You wet your bed, now go lay in it. Wouldn’t that be more accurate?

A stitch in time, saves nine. I imagine if I google that I will find the meaning. I think a cliché, or saying should stand for itself. If I am going to use it on the regular then when I say it, I and the recipient should be able to make sense out of the meaning straight away. A penny spent from a dime, saves nine. Now that I would understand. If I spend less than what I have then I am actually saving more than I am spending.

Slippery as a snake. Anyone who says this has never touched a snake. Now mind you, I have not touched all breeds of snakes in the world and thus may be mistaken, but the snakes I have touched are anything but slippery. Snake skin is smooth or scaly, rough more so than soft and typically dry. I suppose snakes that live in the rain forest or tropics are at times wet. I have not, as of yet, felt a slippery or slimy snake. Sneaky as a snake, now that would make more sense to me, as I believe snakes tend to slither upon the ground quietly in an effort to not be heard nor seen. That way they are able to sneak up on their prey and take them quite literally by surprise and then swallow them whole.

Like taking candy from a baby. Okay, who made that up? Taking candy from a baby is anything but easy. And yet, when used the speaker is referring to how easily something was done. Not only is taking candy from a baby not easy it also isn’t enjoyable. No sooner have you taken the candy and said baby erupts in a loud fit which includes, wailing, shreeking and other annoying vocalizations of their displeasure. If you find it fun, well than you my friend are sick.

I could care less, this one I have always said wrong, er I mean correctly. If I could care less, than I am quite possibly caring too much about whatever it is I want you to think I do not really care all that much about. And what am I doing caring what you or anyone else thinks about whatever it is in which I do or do not care all that much about? I should simply speak my peace, my mind about whether or not I like, love or hate it and let that be that. You may think whatever you like, I couldn’t care less.

I imagine there are more, but my eyes and my brain are tired. Sleep is calling me and my bed yells all the louder. And so, I say good-night to you and to me.



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