Preparing for the BIG Move

You may have noticed things have been a little quiet around here.

{Cue pins dropping.}

I'll let you in on a secret: I'm currently off teaching myself Wordpress. Yup, this girl is moving up.

So, if this site looks wonky or disappears for a bit, don't panic. I'll be officially moving to 

KerryAnnMorgan.com shortly.

I'll let you know when I've mastered the art of Wordpress design and blog migration. Wish me luck. Keep your fingers crossed. Send wine. I'm going to need it.

 See you there soon, my friends!

photo credit: h&b { Lea } via photopin cc

Currently. The end-of-summer edition.

Reading

I'm in a very rare and tough position—I've started two books, and I can't seem to get into either of them. I've halfheartedly read the first chapters of AND THE MOUNTAINS ECHOED twice. Though Khaled Hosseini's two previous novels left me breathless with their dangerous beauty, I just can't make the leap into this one. I've also picked up one of my favorite women's fiction author's summer release, and I seem to be reading it in a daze. I feel horribly guilty. I want to shout to the books and their authors, "It's not you, it's ME!" 

I have a list waiting on my kindle, but nothing is grabbing me. Between books is a dangerous time for me. Need help.

Listening to

Ear worm time!

Steedle, Thomas O, MD

Steedle, Thomas O, MD

I've been singing this song from Grease 2 all morning, now you can, too.



Today is Kiddo's first day of 4th grade. {gulp} How is this possible? Although he is always up by seven, this morning I had to drag him from between the sheets—literally. I'm not ready for the end of playtime, relaxing, and pressure-free afternoons. I'm not ready to face the homework melt-downs, the drama, the tween angst. Fingers crossed this year will start better than last year. {If you want a clue what I'm talking about, check out my post THE BIGGER HE GETS, THE HARDER I FALL, now up at Kludgy Mom's Best of the Bonfire series. And vote for me. Please?}

Thinking about

My manuscript's next step. I'd still love some more beta readers {hint, hint} but I'm not sure how much more I can do with it. Is it ready? Is it good enough? I'm somehow desperate to start the eternally painful querying process and prepping for the requisite months (or years) of nail-biting and rejection. But I don't think my query letter is perfect. Yes, it must be perfect. Yes, this is an impossible feat. I'm trying to convince myself to cool my heels a bit longer so I can take a Submissions that Sell online class. Patience, right?

Watching

Game of Thrones (season 1). I cannot read epic fantasy, but the hubby is in love with acclaimed series. Since a fanatical fantasy lover and fellow book nerd assured me that this TV series is actually almost as good as the books, I've been watching, immersing myself in this mythical world. Season 1 has proved that there's no way I could have read the immense tombs, but I still love a great fantasy movie or TV series. Season 2 DVDs are already waiting by the TV.

At least now I get all the GOT & George R.R. Martin memes going around.

Bummed out on

My eyes. To celebrate my latest birthday, I bought my first pair of reading glasses. Granted, they are weak ones from the dollar store, but I own my first pair of glasses. I feel old. My days are spent immersed in words—on paper, my kindle, or the computer screen—and when they are blurry, my life seems unclear. Night driving and overall brightness have also bothered me lately, and I know I must get my vision checked out. I'm not sure if I'm embarrassed or proud to admit I've never had my eyes examined as an adult. Probably the former. Promise not to laugh if I'm caught wearing big honking frames in a few days.

Loving

My end-of summer memories. We took our first vacation in AGES. Though hubby has lived in Florida since he was a toddler, he'd never made it down to the Keys. Thanks to some amazing friends (with a timeshare—the BEST kind of friends to have) we spent four nights in paradise. By day we explored pristine beaches, meandered through a sweltering Key West, and glided through turquoise waters. We rented a boat and everyone (even the five-year-old) snorkeled along a shallow coral reef. We surprised a sea turtle, watched a hammerhead chase a stingray in the shallows (I was in the water on the other side of a tiny shoal), and delighted as a pod of curious dolphins surrounded our boat.

Dreamy days followed by stunning tropical sunsets and wonderful company. Perfect.

How's your summer finishing up?

A Summer Show Initiation —The Kid's First Dave Matthew's Band Concert

For Dave Matthews Band fans, the summer tour is ritual. It doesn't matter if the band released a new album recently. There are no glitzy effects or troupes of scantily clad backup dancers—there's just a prolific jam band playing their hearts out for you, and if you love DMB, you savor every second of the spectacle.

I've been going to DMB summer tour shows—eating, drinking, and being merry—for more years than I care to admit (long before cell phone cameras were popular, thank god). I've married, matured, become a parent since—but I still cherish my one night of everlasting freedom dancing to Dave under the stars. 

While this summer pilgrimage to Tampa or West Palm Beach has been an annual event for the hubby and I for well over a decade, this time it was different. This time we were bringing the kid. I almost wish we'd planned an initiation ceremony (although tamer than, say, Rocky Horror "sacrificing of the virgins").

All bets were off. The adventure was on.

Traffic screeched to a halt before we even made it to the highway for our two hour drive to the show. Red and blue lights flashed, and though our senses were on high in anticipation of a night of technicolor glory, these lights were of the wrong variety.

The little one piped up from the backseat. "Looks like an accident."

Turns out it was—AND the remnants of a police chase following a shooting. As we sat in the stalled traffic, cops cuffed the alleged perp and shoved into the back of a squad car.

We hadn't even left the "safety" of our suburb. This was going to be one heck of a night.

The skies opened up just past Disney. My fingers practically hot glued themselves to the steering wheel, but the kid relaxed in the back, playing something on his Kindle. Lucky duck.

Yes, he's wearing his DAD's shirt. ::sniff sniff::

An hour and a half later, the amphitheater appeared. Our plans to arrive early to beat the always wicked concert parking debacle mostly worked.  We pulled into a swampy parking spot, set up the bag chairs, and popped our respective PBR, cider, and juice box. It was tailgating time.

Tailgating like a rock star. (must. finish. Harry. Potter.)

Now, normally, the DMB concert is the one night a year Hubby and I act like drunken dancing fools. We join 20,000 fans grooving in the dark (and often stormy) night to a three-hour marathon of music, sharing in a moment of consummate oneness with the happy hoard of fellow faithful enveloping us.

But this time, we had to behave. Instead of going as a wild and winsome twenty-something (as I did sixteen shows ago) I was going as  . . . one of those parents . . .

Respectable. Sober. On my best behavior. ::chills going up my spine::  My how times change.

Change can be good.

The amped up festival atmosphere hit us as soon as we approached the main gate. By arriving early, we staked out a prime piece of real estate. With our dollar store shower curtain spread across the soggy grass, we picnicked as the opening band played. We may have skipped our usual vodka-soaked watermelon, but we had hoagies, an unencumbered view, and an excited kid.

Though the clouds hung heavy, threatening to turn our field seats into a mud pit, someone up there had sympathy for us, and the rains held off.  I had visions of my  9-year-old  sliding down the sloped seating area like it was a giant mud-drenched slip-and-slide. (I'd seen it done by drunk frat boys before. Unfortunately, concert venues provide no showers.)

The crowd sat tamely this year, a trend I've noticed during other concerts in recent years. (Last time we saw NIN everyone SAT the entire show. Un-freaking-believable.) Those around us thought kiddo was adorable and they acted slightly more decorous than usual (meaning no one spilled beer on the kid, elbowed him, or blew smoke his way). They praised us for introducing him to the joys of live music. Seeing a real band live is a completely different experience than just listening on your device of choice—each one of your senses becomes immersed in the music, lighting you up from within.

This show was amazing, as always. And while kiddo enjoyed himself . . .

He grew a little tired being up past his bed time. (Let's hope this trend continues well into his college years.) Never imagined I'd be holding Goldfish instead of a beer at a DMB show.

But at least he stayed awake the whole time, unlike his first concert. We introduced him to Paul McCartney at the ripe old age of six. (Figured we'd train him young—and we hoped he'd think we were cool parents someday. A mom can dream.)

He passed out cold as Sir Paul performed some of the most momentous songs in rock history. Not even the fireworks during Live and Let Die roused him—but we did wake him so he could sing along to Hey Jude.

Though DMB didn't play his favorite song Funny the Way It Is (which will always be his theme song to our Costa Rica vacation back when he was just five), he sang along to the songs he's been raised on.

We all grow up someday. Though the hubby and I felt almost our ages this time, we made memories the kiddo will hopefully remember. And we loved every moment of it.

Have you ever taken your kid(s) to a concert? Do you go yourself? Or do you think I'm just plain crazy?

Review: The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro

"You see, nothing is more immediate, more complete than the sense of smell. In an instant, it has the power to transport you. Your olfactory sense connects not the the memory itself, but to the emotion you  felt when that memory was made. To recreate a scent memory is one of the most challenging, eloquent pursuits possible. It's poetry, in its most immediate form."

***

Ever since my yoga teacher began laying cloths spritzed with essential oils over my eyes during final rest time (Savasana), I've considered concocting my own unique fragrance. Nothing sultry or elegant, but a delicate aroma which could trigger scent memories, carrying me away to a place of consummate relaxation. I haven't done it yet, but after reading this book, I want to even more.

THE PERFUME COLLECTOR tells the tale of Grace Munroe, a sheltered 1950s young Englishwoman seemingly unsuited for her current situation. The former debutante from an aristocratic family married well, yet she never fits into the fashionable social scene. Though she tries to fulfill her expectations, her outspokenness, and intellectual aspirations leave her feeling detached from her contemporaries.

A spark of excitement (and confusion) ignites her world when she receives in inheritance from an unknown benefactor in France. After she discovers her husband may be having an affair (with a socialite who is the very antithesis of her), she impulsively flies to Paris to unravel the mystery.

The story flips in narration between Grace and the mysterious benefactor, Eva d'Orsey, who we first meet as an orphaned young maid in the 1920s. Eva's story takes us from New York to Monte Carlo, as she uses her wits, looks, and unusual talents to rise out of a life of servitude. . . in a way.

Grace's quest to discover her connection to Eva leads her to a stunning Paris apartment and a long-abandoned Left Bank perfume shop filled with the lingering scent of secrets. By following the scent, Grace uncovers the story of brilliant perfumer and his muse, and how one can trust their own scent memories to remember the past.

Almost everyone loves a Cinderella story. Personally, I'd rather read about smart woman transformed by a sleek haircut and stunning black Balenciaga dress than a prince and a frou-frou ballgown. While this story certainly has a fairy godmother, the happily ever after focuses on a woman's journey to find herself, not her prince charming.

The supporting characters are eccentric, egotistical, and fun to read, adding another layer of sometimes maniacal charm to the story. And as always, I love a novel that can sweep me to faraway times and places while educating me a bit on subjects I know little about. I'll escape to Paris any day, and I had no idea how fragrances were extracted—fascinating!

The dual storylines blend intoxicatingly creating a sweeping jaunt through the decades. **possible spoiler*** Though the final mystery was no great surprise, it was still an enjoyable ride.


Though the  THE PERFUME COLLECTOR is over 400 pages, it is an easy read, the plot carrying readers along at a quick pace.


I'll certainly pay finer attention to the scents around me, and I'll make sure I spritz some of my signature scent, Channel Allure, before I walk out the door each day.

 THE PERFUME COLLECTOR is the She Reads August selection.
For more about the book, the author, and general book love, check out SheREADS.org.


About the Author: Kathleen Tessaro is the author of ELEGANCE, INNOCENCE, and THE DEBUTANTE. She lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and son.



THE PERFUME COLLECTOR
by Kathleen Tessaro
HarperCollins Publishers
469 pages