The Construction Zone

So like it or not, I find myself in the middle of a construction zone. A few days ago, a huge paint bubble showed up on our kitchen ceiling. After a couple of pokes, water poured out. This was not happy news. We built our house almost 18 years ago with a local builder. It was a huge building boom in Utah. Our particular street had a dozen homes going in at the same time. Contractors were in high demand and so were sub-contractors. The rumor was that we got the substandard plumbing group who spent half their day on the job drinking.

They made a mess of our plumbing! We've had to take down drywall twice in the family room  because the bathtub upstairs had leaky pipes. That is still an on-going problem. Then about 5 years ago the ceiling in the kitchen nearly came down when the shower in our bedroom finally gave way. When we brought in someone to fix it, he said that the plumbers had cut the pan (or liner) that should have been keeping all the water in the shower. It was an awful project! I hate being without the kitchen. We spend so much of our gathering time there.



But here we are again.

My sweetie ripped out the kitchen ceiling and found all sorts of water damage. The Dog Walker moved the kitchen table into the living room where we can all feel like goldfish on display while we eat. And my sweetie uttered those dreadful words, "The damage is worse than I thought...it's going to take a couple of extra days."

It's a good thing I'll be spending all my time at the ball field.

Always Pack a Lunch!

Working at the Tooele Army Depot, South Area, was definitely the low point in my life. The year was 1988 and we were approaching graduation. I had finally finished my Masters degree in Literature and my sweetie his BS in Electrical Engineering. We loved Logan and the area, but engineering jobs were scarce and we already had two little ones who were in constant need of something. We started sending out resumes, hoping to stay in Utah, but knowing that we would have to settle for what we could get.

I got the first response, then an interview and finally, an offer. They wanted to pay me $26,000/year to become a Technical Writer. This was NOT my dream job, but it would put food on the table and pay for a roof over our heads until my sweetie could find steady work. And after struggling through school since we were married in 1983, it seemed like a pile of money!

I accepted the offer and we prepared to move. Our number one priority was the kids, so we found an apartment in Provo that wasn't too far from my sweetie's aunt who had offered to be our babysitter. I've told you many times that I am NOT a morning person, so getting up at 5:30 was torture for me. At least it was summer when I started, so I didn't have to worry about bad roads and ice. I was hoping to be able to join a carpool so I didn't have to drive the entire way by myself.

The South Area Depot didn't have any facilities for food near the Engineering building, so on the first day, my sweetie packed me a little cooler and I headed out. When I finally got to the gate, I had to be escorted to the building. There was no grass or even paved roads. The area was covered with weeds and large signs that read, "Beware of Rattlesnakes"! The Engineering building was the nicest building out there and it was nothing more than an over-sized double-wide trailer with a tin roof.

I met my new boss and he showed me to my desk...'er desks. They were standard government issue, circa 1950. There were two of them because a desk was cheaper than a wall partition. One of the desks drawers held a box of paperclips, some pencils, and several yellow legal pads. If I needed anything else, I had to ask one of the numerous secretaries.

Now I realize it was 1988, before the days of the internet, but we still had been using computers for word-processing for quite a few years by then. I was not given a computer. Across the partition from my desks was the copy machine that was shared by the entire building. It ran pretty much non-stop. Most of the people working there were government employees. There were two of us (me and another guy) who were contractors and we were both Technical Writers.

The entire South Area was the disposal site for all the nerve agents left over from the previous wars. I was supposed to document the equipment that would eventually burn up all the nerve gas and munitions.

The site was dotted with large bunkers that housed the ancient munitions. We were a couple of miles by jeep away from them. The incinerators and other equipment werre also located there.

I was assigned a gas mask and as a contractor, I had to be escorted each time I visited "the site." I'm claustrophobic, so putting on a mask was terrifying for me although other than training classes and exercises, I never had to put one on for an actual leak.

The first day was grueling and by 4:30 I was more than ready to go home. That's about the time I heard a commotion over the wall. I stood up to see what was going on. A sizable group had gathered around the copy machine about 10 feet from my desks. A couple of the engineers were carrying a 4-foot blow snake (at least it wasn't a rattler!) they had caught when it slithered out while someone was making a copy. The guys were all laughing and joking as they passed my desk. They wanted to make sure I saw their prize!  I quickly turned away and placed my feet on top of my little lunch cooler. I worked like that for the next 8 months....

Another Car Story

The Drama Queen drives a 1988 Toyota Corolla. It is literally older than she is! That hasn't always been the case. When she was a senior in high school, it became apparent that she was going to accomplish a goal she set for herself when she was a lowly 9th grader...she was going to finish high school with an Associates Degree in her back pocket. Because we were so proud of her for sticking with her goal and working so incredibly hard, we decided to buy her a car.

Not her actual car...maybe Teach can find me a pic of the real one when she gets home from school.

  Oh not a new car, we could never afford that. I've told you before that we only drive old cars that are fully paid for around here. But we started looking for a nice little used car she could take when she headed off to college to finish her last two years. And it would be so fun for her to have a car to run around in with her friends during her senior year. The idea was that we would buy the car and make repairs, etc., until she graduated from college and then she could purchase the car from us. Since we have always told the kids that we would not be able to pay for their college educations, it seemed like a good way to support her without handing her cash.

The actual Drama Queen

We finally found what we were looking for...a five-year-old white Ford Mustang. It was beautiful! And it was her dream car. We picked it up for a really good price (around $8000) and presented it to her the summer before her senior year. She was so excited! She has always been a grateful child and she couldn't have been happier. The car was SOO fun to drive! Even I looked good in it.

....But it didn't handle all that well in the snow. Drama Queen had a couple of minor accidents in it, but nothing too serious. We just paid for them out of pocket and moved on. Then she graduated and moved to southern Utah for school. She racked up the miles that first semester, coming home almost every weekend. She was SOO homesick! By Christmas she had settled in. (Ironically, after my Sweetie made an ultimatum regarding the right to drive her "Pony" home and how much gasoline cost.  Yes...we even paid for her gas for awhile.)

The actual Mustang's death photos..

Then, she was coming home for Christmas during her second year when she had the first major accident. I don't remember exact details, but she did manage to make it to most of the family Christmas party despite being on the side of the road for four hours while the cops were cleaning up three other accidents right nearby. We had the car fixed during the holidays and she headed back to school. She came home rarely after that. She was having fun at school and the drive was so long!  We even missed having her for Thanksgiving that third year, but she did come home for Christmas.

One particularly cold evening, just a day before the family party, she wanted to go see a movie with her friends. I had a bad feeling and I begged her not to go, but she wouldn't listen. I was folding laundry when I got her call. "Mom, I've been in an accident; I don't think the car will go." I panicked, of course, and immediately started pulling on my shoes. "Where are you, are you hurt?" the questions tumbled from my lips. "I think I'm ok," she managed, "and I'm only a couple of intersections from home." It was about that time that the guy she collided with showed up at her car door. I could hear him yelling through the closed window, asking her if she needed help. She had called me seconds after the crash.

I pulled on my coat and handed my sweetie his and we headed out the door. It took us about 2 minutes to get to her. By then the ambulance was there and the passenger of the other car was being transported. The Drama Queen had managed to get out of her car and I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. It was pretty apparent that her beautiful little Mustang had not survived. We spoke to the attending police officer and he suggested we gather everything we might want from the vehicle. Even then I'm not sure she really believed that her beloved car was not ever coming home.

There was glass everywhere! Her airbags had been deployed, saving her from serious injury, but her shin had been jammed by the gearshift and by morning her entire lower leg was black and blue. I never saw her tears, but I know I shed some. I was so grateful that she was still with us, but I had no intentions of buying her another car. So she took the only thing we had to offer...the 1988 Corolla we had purchased for practically nothing so we could teach the Dog Walker to drive. She never complained, she just thanked us over and over.

She finished school with that little car and on Saturday she was devastated when her key broke in the ignition. It really has been a good little vehicle for her. Much more practical than the Mustang (although not as cute!) and it handles much better in the snow.   Drama Queen is still suspicious about driving too much the week of the Christmas party, but now when I say, "I don't think you should go..." she usually listens. Some lessons are learned the hard way.

The Tooth Fairy

Scout has been having a very busy week! First she had her friend party, then her birthday. After that it was Thanksgiving and she got sick. Her lower lip was cracked and bleeding from the fever and she was pretty miserable. Then, horror of horrors, one of her front teeth started to wiggle! She was excited about the prospect of the Tooth Fairy coming to visit, but since this was her first tooth, she was nervous about the level of pain she might have to endure to receive her prize.

As the tooth wiggled looser and looser, it started to hurt a little. She became so distraught; I couldn’t get her to eat. She thought that something as simple as crunchy peanut butter might make the tooth fall out and that might mean blood and carnage and she just wasn’t ready for that. I tried to get her to let me touch it (i.e., pull it out when she wasn’t expecting it), but she refused to open her mouth. She got so worried that I even had to give her a little Ibuprofen to ease the pain and stress in her neck and shoulders!

Then last night, she came running into the office while I was working on my post. “It fell out!” she cried and placed the tiny tooth reverently on my desk. “Yay!” I enthused. “Did it hurt?” She skipped back out of the office. “No,” she called over her shoulder. “Get a cup!” I reminded her. It’s been many years since we encouraged a child to put a tooth under a pillow. The “cup” method makes life much easier for the Tooth Fairy.

 The fortunate child expecting a visit places the tooth in a small cup and sets it in the kitchen window. Then the Tooth Fairy can quickly and easily find the tooth and leave a prize in the window. Much better than a huge lump under a pillow! That’s because our Tooth Fairy NEVER leaves money. It’s always a small gift of some sort, usually something between five and ten dollars. Sometimes it’s a movie, in fact Crafty receive the Flipper twin set just a couple of weeks ago for losing a tooth. But this was Sport’s first tooth, so it was bound to be something amazing.


She was so excited when she finally dragged herself out of bed this morning and headed for the kitchen. By then, most of her siblings had already gone to school, but not before they admired her new treasure. She was so excited to find a Lil' Webkinz puppy! When I was a kid, we got a shiny new dime…and I’m pretty sure I was just as excited as Scout to receive it. How about you? What does your Tooth Fairy leave?

Not Again!

Who knew she would be so destructive when she grew up!

Remember last week how excited I was about my new countertops? I’m still excited about my countertops, but I’ve got another story to tell you about Princess.

Last night I was shuffling paperwork and I didn’t want to leave it in the middle so I asked Princess to figure out something for dinner. My sweetie was working late, so that made it much easier. She decided that Ramen soup and cheese sandwiches would be yummy and she got right to work on it. I stayed in the office, tallying up the Tupperware fundraiser we just completed at the dance studio.(Hey, check out my new website! The Drama Queen just got it all set up for me...pretty cool, huh?!)

When food was on the table, we all gathered round so we could eat. Ramen isn’t my favorite, so I headed for the pan of rolls that were left from Thanksgiving dinner. When I passed the new cooktop, I glanced down and noticed this.

Apparently after stirring the soup, Princess had set the plastic spoon right in the center of the hot ceramic unit. When I picked it up, part of the spoon stuck to my new cooktop and the other sort of melted with long strings of white plastic as I held it up for all to see. I tossed the spoon in the trash and headed for the rolls, telling myself it was too hot to deal with and I would take care of it later.  Then I forgot about it.

When my sweetie got home several hours later, the plastic had hardened on the cooktop and was nearly impossible to get off. After about half an hour of scrubbing, it looks mostly better. I’m going to have to have a chat with Princess…she needs to ruin something different next time if we have any hope of remodeling. Hmmm…my bathrooms need painting…

Ta Da! Introducing Countertops

I promised you an update on my kitchen situation…

If you remember correctly, Princess tried to give me a jump start by smacking a metal ruler down on the kitchen counter. You can read the entire story here, but basically her prank led to a new cooktop and that led to new countertops. It’s kind of like that book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie…where one thing leads to another and that leads to something else…you get the idea.

The first day was spent sanding off the old laminate countertops. By then there was no turning back. We set up a rickety folding table in the kitchen and it became the temporary home to all my appliances and the pots and pans that used to reside in the cupboard under the cooktop. Planning to feed this large crew suddenly became extremely difficult!

Then it was time to putty and prime. Faux granite is rather interesting. You “paint” on the rocks. This was almost like trowel work because it is so thick. Since the Gym Rat and Gamer both work at Kwal Paint, we got this “granite” paint back in the summer for practically nothing because they were discontinuing the line. That also meant that when my sweetie started running out because it was going on too thick that we couldn’t possibly get any more.

Fortunately, my sweetie is amazing and he came up with a brilliant beyond brilliant plan. Rather than make the edges look like stone he would buy a strip of oak and paint it black with gold flecks in it. This required a major change of plans...

By this point I was really starting to stress. I had my girl scouts coming over on Friday to cook some Thanksgiving-type treats and it was already Wednesday. But my sweetie pulled it off and on Thursday afternoon, I was able to put the kitchen mostly back together.

Anyway, what promised to be a three-day project turned into about seven days. Oh, and then he said the urethane recommended a seven-day hardening period. That didn’t happen. And I still have a rickety table set up in my kitchen…



So what do you think?

A Smack and a Crack

Good thing she's so cute!

Since Shell is Pouring out Her Heart today, I thought I might do a little confessing for Princess. So a few days ago I was standing near the toaster, waiting for my toast to pop. My brain was somewhere else or I was snoozing, one or the other, when a loud cr-a-a-a-ck snapped me back to reality. I looked around for the guilty party and Princess was standing about 5 feet away, holding a metal yardstick in her hand. She was snickering, “I always wanted to do that!” “What?” I asked, “Give me a heart attack?”

She was not apologetic. “Well,” she explained, “My teacher loves to give us a jumpstart just to see if we are awake. I thought you might need one too.” I buttered my toast and mumbled, “Next time, don’t hit the cooktop. That thing is made out of ceramic and you could crack it.” I glanced over to where she had smacked. “You DID crack it!” I accused. Suddenly the smile was gone from her face and mine.


Sure enough, right between the two front burners was a crack about the size of a quarter. It wasn’t funny anymore. My sweetie was NOT going to be happy about this. “You get to explain this one to your dad,” I remarked. “I can’t possibly keep you out of trouble this time.” Tears pooled up in her eyes. “I had no idea that could break,” she mumbled.

It took two days before I finally broke down and pointed out the crack to my sweetie. As predicted, he was not amused. But he kept his cool and decided that perhaps we could repair the crack. He bought sandpaper and filler, but while we were at the store, somehow the crack broke through and snaked its way along the cooktop.

We spent an hour at Lowe’s on Saturday, looking through all of the choices and then finally finding one on clearance for $346. “Princess needs a job,” my sweetie commented. We lugged the cooktop home and it spent the rest of the weekend occupying most of the back of my van. Now it rests in a place of honor on my bathtub.


I know, it could have been in by now and I could be cooking again. The problem is that once my sweetie realized he was getting a new cooktop, he suddenly decided that he needed to do something with those awful countertops. During similar crazy episodes, three huge burn marks had singed the laminate. And so we have begun a massive repair project.

Tomorrow I get to move everything off the kitchen counters including a rather large fish tank. My sweetie has already started sanding and puttying. Since we can’t afford real granite, we are going to put a faux finish on the existing countertops. Then and only then will my sweetie replace the cooktop. He promised three days…but then I caught him eyeing the finish on the cabinets…it might be a LONG three days.

The End of the World

Picture Credit

*Sorry the pictures look ridiculous!  The computer is having issues, but hopefully I will be able to crop them in the morning!  ~Teach*

You ever do something, knowing that it is likely a waste of time, but you just have to do it anyway? My sweetie and I have been struggling with a hard question involving Crafty. For a 10-year-old (almost 11), she is quite tall and a beautiful dancer. This past week we had to decide if we wanted to allow her to try out for Ballet West’s Nutcracker.

Three years ago we were faced with the same dilemma for Princess. Except we were told that the effort was probably futile but that it was a good experience for her to try out for a real ballet, she could put it on a resume…you get the idea. Basically we were coerced into giving her an opportunity we were pretty sure would turn into heartbreak. Imagine our surprise when our almost 12-year-old Princess landed a part as a red soldier!

The commitment was grueling. She had to be pulled out of school on several occasions for rehearsals and performances. She had to miss dance classes and the entire experience was very expensive! She needed professional pictures, a warm-up outfit and a t-shirt all emblazoned with “Ballet West.” There were dance bags and luggage tags. And don’t forget that I had to buy 15 tickets to the show! But even from our nosebleed seats we could see her dance her heart out on that amazing stage in the Capitol Theater…we were so proud.

So that brought us back to today. We decided to let Crafty audition, even though we didn’t have the time or the funds. We also didn’t want the guilt. At noon today, I took her down to the theater. She stressed with me for 30 minutes after she checked in and then she disappeared with over a hundred other girls into a practice room. After an hour of intensive rehearsal, they strutted their stuff on the stage.

As parents, we hung out in the lobby, sweating it out as we mentally tried to guess who might get in and who might be cut. Crafty and I were both pretty pragmatic. Even though she wanted to be like Princess and dance with a big-time ballet company, she knew she would have to give up things to participate. I knew that if she made the cast our lives would become incredibly complicated. But still, there we were, putting it all on the line.

They called the five-minute mark. All girls who came out would be cut and those who stayed in would make the cast. Five minutes passed, ten…after twenty stressful minutes, the doors opened. Little girls spilled out, most in tears, looking for parents and consolation. I strained my eyes, trying to see my girl. For one brief moment I thought she was not coming out and then she fell into my arms in a puddle of tears. For the third year in a row she had been cut.

We stood for a moment, arms around each other. We both knew it was not the end of the world, although for some of these girls it obviously was. One of Crafty’s dance teachers also had her daughter there for the audition and she hugged my girl and assured her that she was an amazing dancer. Then arm-in-arm, Crafty and I slipped passed the happy girls who were just released to happy parents with a folder welcoming them to the Ballet West family. It only took us halfway to the parking lot before she was talking about next year…she would have her pointe shoes by then…she would be almost 12…yeah, not the end of the world for us. Not by a long shot.

Master Gardeners

 
First I want to show you this cute onesie that Baby Doll won from Rhonda @ wherever you go...there you are.. Doesn’t she look adorable? OK, so I’m a little biased.

Pretty sure I’ve mentioned that I’ve been watching my grandkids all summer. Near the end of July, the kids started going back to school, and now that it’s September, I only have my 4-year-old grandson, Burrito, my 3-year-old son, Curly, and almost one-year-old Baby Doll left at home. Scout is in kindergarten, so we have her for half the day except that she sleeps in until noon so it’s not like she’s really here anyway.

So with just these three little ones at home, I’m having a rather difficult time accomplishing anything during the day. My biggest babysitter for the boys is our humongous sand pile, and I send them out there often. The problem with that is that they like to turn on the water and then they get in trouble when Burrito’s dad gets here to pick them up. Now since they can’t use water as a diversion, they have found something new. Apparently, they are both planning to be Master Gardeners when they grow up, which is next week if you ask Curly.

First I discovered three random ears of corn laying on the patio table. No one seemed to know anything about them. Then, on Thursday, both boys came running in, “Grandma, Grandma,” Burrito shouted. “We found a watermelon!” Curly was close at his heels. Yup. They found a watermelon all right. They pulled it right out of the watermelon patch. It was about the size of a baseball. Patience already stretched thin by my inability to deal with my life this week, I came slightly unglued. “That watermelon is never going to grow any more,” I snapped. “You killed it.” Curly started to cry. Burrito looked at me stone-faced. “It was Curly’s idea,” he said. This made Curly cry harder. “No it wasn’t.” He looked like his heart was ready to break as I continued to rake them over the coals about playing in the garden.

Last week they stomped on all the cherry tomatoes and when I cussed them about it, Burrito’s response was, “But I don’t like cherry tomatoes.” I immediately sentenced them to unloading the dishwashers as a punishment job. They complained, but eventually they made their way to the kitchen and started tossing Tupperware bowls into the cupboard. I put Baby Doll in the high chair and opened a jar of baby food. Maybe I could keep them on task if I were sitting right there. I spooned the pulverized lasagna into her open mouth. I must have been really tired because I was totally oblivious until Burrito approached the table. In his hand he was carrying Princess’s bottle of body mist. The strong scent lingered. “I sprayed the soap on all the dishes,” he proclaimed. “That is not soap!” I screeched. I snatched the bottle from his hand, stomped across the room and checked the dishwasher. Yup, sure enough. He had sprayed all the clean dishes with the body mist. At least they smelled good…I hung my head in defeat. Then I proceeded to restart the dishwasher. I guess there is more than one way of getting out of doing a job. I sent them back to the sand pile.

Ice Cream, You Scream

 Teach invited me out for ice cream tonight, and never one to turn down an offer of a delicious treat, I agreed. We decided on Arctic Circle just down the street. After we waited in an incredibly long line for our Brown Toppers (vanilla cones dipped in crunchy chocolate topping), we headed for home. I guess the girl making the cones felt bad for us because they were quite a bit bigger than the usual cone. “When I was working at Arctic Circle, we would have gotten in so much trouble for making a cone this big,” I remarked. She bit into the top of her monstrously high swirl. “When did you work for Arctic Circle again?” she asked. So I guess I have another story to tell that my kids probably haven’t heard because it is not one of my proudest moments.

Picture credit

When my sweetie and I had been married for four months, I got pregnant with Bossy. I had never been so sick in my life! It was in the middle of the spring quarter (semesters came later) and my sweetie and I were both attending the University of Utah…sort of… It seems that honeymooning and school didn’t agree very well with us. We would much rather stay home and cuddle all day than attend class. My sweetie was taking engineering classes and after he failed the same math class two quarters in a row, he mostly quit school.

My attendance was sporadic, but my teachers were much more tolerant than his. In fact, I took a Shakespeare class that met five days a week. I attended only one day each week to take the required quizzes and I earned a B in the class! Anyway, we were struggling on all fronts, but most especially financially. We both started looking for jobs and because of my fast food experience in high school, I was immediately hired at Arctic Circle to work the front counter.

Pregnant and ornery

I was forced to wear an ugly brown double-knit uniform, clean bathrooms, and wash tables. I waited on impatient customers and made drinks and shakes, cones and brown toppers. The pay was lousy, but at least it was something. By then I was about three months along with Bossy and the morning sickness stretched all day. I threw up twice a day, regular as clockwork…once when I first got up, and once in between classes. I dropped my Spanish class (which turned out to be a big problem later, but I’ll save that for another post), and then I was able to work evenings.

I mostly hated the job, not because I didn’t like to work fast-food, but the smell of the oil made my growing tummy churn. I had a manager and an assistant manager, and both of them were named Mike. Mike the manager was kind to me and sympathetic of my circumstances. Mike the assistant manager was not. He delighted in making my life miserable. He always sent me to clean the bathrooms even though there were usually three of us who could have done it. But the thing that bothered me the most was when he would randomly ring up a purchase on my till. Because he was in management, he had the right to jump in whenever he wanted and help customers even though he was never assigned a till of his own. The bad part about that is that the counter people got blamed if their tills were short even if they were not the only ones making transactions.

Picture credit

I was called in for having my till short by assistant manager Mike one evening after I had stayed late to help close. Remember I was only 19 and the injustice in the world still bugged me. I told him it wasn’t fair that I was held responsible for my till when he had been using it for nearly an hour. I guess that was the wrong thing to say because his face got all red and he yelled at me some not very nice words. After that, things only got worse between us. I asked Mike the manager to not schedule me with him, but that wasn’t really possible.

So about a week later we were on the floor together. It wasn’t even busy when some people he wanted to impress approached the counter. He helped himself to my till once again. When the customers had received their food and settled themselves in a booth, I calmly gathered my purse and jacket, announced I was leaving, and headed out the door. Mike screamed at me that I was fired and I replied that wasn’t necessary because I was quitting. I thought he might have a coronary, but I never looked back. I had only been on the job for six weeks.

Pregnant with Bossy

The next day I visited for a long time with Mike the manager. I explained why I had walked off the floor in the middle of the shift. He placed my side of the story in my file, changed my status to re-hireable (nasty Mike said they would never talk to me again about another job!), and wished me luck with my baby and my life. I’ve grown up a little since then and I know that I probably should have handled the situation differently…can I just plead "pregnant"?

Does Anybody Care?

***If you are looking for my normally happy self, please skip today’s post. Maybe I’ve been reading a little too much of Shell’s Pour My Heart Out stuff…well, see what you think.***

I don’t know why I’m suffering from Writer’s Block this week. I generally have plenty to say. Teach just came in from hanging out with her friends and asked if I wanted pics put on my post yet. When I told her I was having issues, she said, “Don’t write one. Nobody will care anyway!” Just shoot me now. Is this really true? Am I really only writing this for myself?

Once upon a time I thought I would grow up and become a mom and a famous writer. That’s because when I was in third grade, I wrote a 9-page story that impressed my teacher so much that I knew this writing thing was a piece of cake. I majored in English and eventually got my MA in Literature. What could be more perfect? My thesis was published in a nice hard-bound book and as a bonus I had a paper published in a scholarly magazine put out by BYU.

Picture credit

I just knew I was ready to take the world by storm and become the JK Rowling of my generation. So I wrote a few short pieces, some children’s books, a magazine article or two. The problem was, nobody was buying. I finally sold a story about my grandmother to the Friend, a children’s magazine put out by the LDS church. I was so excited to see it published. Every month I looked from cover to cover, hoping to see my name in print. After about five years, I stopped looking. Clearly my story had been put on a shelf somewhere and even though I received a check for a couple hundred bucks, it was never going to be published.

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Frustrated, I decided that maybe it was the genre. I switched to youth fiction and completed my first novel. I even paid an agent this time! I was sure that everything would finally go my way. After two years, I gave up and released my agent. Maybe writing wasn’t really my destiny after all.

Slowly the dreams slipped away as I immersed myself in motherhood. Every once in a while I would take a chance on a contest, just to prove to myself that I still loved writing. I had a piece published in the Deseret News and another one in a Chicken Soup book. As far as I can tell, no one except my family ever read either one of them.

Now I’m trying yet another genre. Blogging has been my friend from Day 1. You have been my friend. Everyone has been so kind to me, so supportive. I love the blogging world because no one is judging me (at least not that I see) and almost everybody is polite and friendly. I hope I’m not just writing for myself…Teach, you’ve got to be wrong. Please, somebody tell me she is wrong.