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?

Monarch Madness: Attracting & Raising Butterflies in Your Yard

If you buy milkweed, butterflies will come.

In droves. Or a flutter. {A group of monarchs is called a flutter. A group of butterflies can be called a swarm, flight, rabble, or my fav a kaleidoscope.}

Back in March, I innocently bought two milkweed (a.k.a. butterfly weed) plants at our favorite annual garden show. Why not? I like butterflies. Not only did the plants have cheerful yellow and orange flowers, they seemed like something I wouldn't immediately kill. Butterflies showed up immediately, and I patted myself on the back.

On Father's Day, I noticed the plants looked scraggly and bare. Upon closer investigation, I discovered why.

They were infested covered in Monarch caterpillars. 

I counted at least twenty brightly striped critters devouring our plants. Within a day, the two plants were stripped to their stems. Holy hungry caterpillars! Eric Carle knew what he was talking about. Not wanting our newest family members to starve, I hunted down more more milkweed for our very hungry caterpillars to munch. These rapidly growing little guys are extremely finicky—they ONLY eat milkweed. Luckily, our local Lowe's had some in stock.

Quite by surprise, we had our own summer biology class. Not bad for a slacker parent who planned no educational enrichment for the summer. 

We researched how to keep our new pets alive. A few years back, my kiddo received a butterfly cage from Santa. I dug it out, dusted it off, carefully added a few of the largest caterpillars. He'd been begging me to order some online. It couldn't get any more natural (or cheap) then just plucking them from the yard, right? 

Mama Monarch lay her eggs (estimated 100 - 300 in her short lifetime)  on the milkweed plants yard.







 
 

When the eggs hatch in 3 - 4 days, the itsy-bitsy caterpillars (larvae) are only about 2-6 mm. 



Then they start eating. 

And eating.

And eating.

{and pooping, as you will discover, if you raise them in a cage}



After approx. 10 - 14 days, they reach the size of their final shed {about 2 inches}.  


 


They attach themselves to a stem or a leaf {or the top of the cage} with silk and start metamorphosis. After hanging upside down for a day or so, they shed their caterpillar skin to reveal a green cocoon. It happens in about a  minute —amazing!

   



Seven days later (although all the research says it takes 10-14 days) our butterflies emerge from their cocoons. You have to be quick if you want to catch it—the ones we watched this morning popped out in less than a minute.  The new butterflies unfurl their and dry their wings. 

The first beauty to hatch didn't want to fly away. We coaxed her onto flowers, tempted her with nectar and blooms, but she wouldn't take to the air. After careful inspection, I noticed she had a broken wing. 

Guess she will be spending her short life cycle with us.

We'll be kind.  

Want Monarchs in your yard?  In most areas, they follow a distinct migration pattern. Here in Florida, they seem to be around for a large chunk of the year, possibly even overwintering in some locals. 

Before the migration hits your area, BUY MILKWEED. These beauties are desperate for it. The caterpillars only eat milkweed, so if the female can't find any, she won't lay her eggs.

See—this guy was so enamored by it, he went after the flowers on the plant tag.

Too many Monarchs fell in love with our tiny milkweed patch. We don't have enough plants to sustain all the caterpillars. I've already started milkweed seeds in pots, and I'm going to plant it all around the yard.

This time next year, I will oversee a mammoth butterfly colony.

Save the Monarchs. Buy some milkweed. Your kids will think you're a hero. So will I.


For more information on how to raise butterflies, click here.  I followed the guide provided by My Monarch Guide. She even includes the simple household items you can use to create a Monarch habitat. It's easy. You can do it. The Monarchs & your kids will thank you.

lady luck

“When I was a little girl, I used to run around in the fields all day, 

trying unsuccessfully to catch ladybugs. I’d get tired and lay down for a nap. 

When I awoke, I’d find the ladybugs walking all over me.”

 ~Under the Tuscan Sun

Some days you just need to take a break from the never-ending chase, 

relax, smell the salt air, read a book by the shore.

Take a moment to clear your head, savor a moment of pure kismet,

forget to keep score.

Hot Air Balloon Rides at the New Smyrna Beach Ballon Fest

A hot air balloon ride is on everyone's bucket list. When I saw the ad for the New Smyrna Beach Balloon Festival, I knew we had to go.

I'd been looking forward to it for weeks, examining the schedule, charging my camera battery, and dreaming.  The weather looked iffy though — the balloons could only inflate if the winds stayed below 8 mph. The fest was being held close to the beach where winds gusted stronger than that daily.  AND a storm front was scheduled to move through over the weekend. Iffy.

We decided to go up for two nights, because I knew if I went up for only Friday OR Saturday, the show would not go on.


Friday night we ate a delish surf-Mexican dinner at the Taco Shack, a totally casual open-air place where cats strolled below the wooden benches, the food was quick and hot, while the beer was cheap and cold. Perfect.  We felt as if we were back in Costa Rica. We'll be going back.

We met up with some friends and family at the Balloon Fest. The place was crazy. Normally, New Smyrna is a sleepy little beach town — I think the city by-laws state you must be retired or surf to live there.  Half of Central Florida must have filled the muddy airport parking lot that day.

Vintage planes sat parked along the runways, displays for the airshows taking over the skies all weekend.  Nearly a hundred vendor booths took up far too much space, and of course Kiddo talked his Grandma into buying him a souvenir. The obligatory greasy food court was jammed with people eating anything imaginable that could be fried or stuck on a stick {or both}. But they had REALLY cheap beer — win!  A giant Ferris wheel and a bustling, overpriced carnival lit up the evening sky.

But I didn't care about any of that. I bee-lined it straight for Balloon Island.

A few withered nylon bags were strewn across a field, their colors and shapes not clear in the twilight. People tugged wicker baskets from the backs of vans and trailers. They were so much smaller than I had imagined, only 4 x 5 or so, just big enough for four people to squeeze into, and small enough to easily fit into the back of a pick-up truck.

The winds gusted far higher than the allowed speed, but a few brave crews tried to get their balloons up.  The basket and balloon started down on its side, while the mouth was held open to capture the wind. Once enough air filled the nylon balloon, the flames turned on, sporadic bursts lighting up the sky.

But the balloons never left the ground that night. It was just too windy. We watched jets flare like sparklers, parachutes fall with flaming trails, and a jet-engine rigged school bus roar past at 200+ mph.

We missed the full airshow Saturday, but as we sat on the beach we caught glimpses of the jets and biplanes practicing along the coast, cruising by in tight formation above the sand and sea.

A front threatened to cancel all the night's activities, and rain chances went up as the day grew long. The afternoon brought a few brief showers, but a few of us decided to brave it anyway.

I could see the outlines of balloons as soon as we neared the entrance.  We raced through the crowds, eager to get in line for a ride.  My wonderful Hubby joined the queue while a friend and I took our boys to explore — but not before we enjoyed a smuggled-in champagne toast {shhh}.

Now, this was a tethered balloon ride.  While we would LOVE to go for the hour-long ride gliding high above the Florida countryside, we didn't have the $200 bucks a person to shell out.  I'll save that luxury for a ride over wine country or some foreign destination, thanks.  Heavy ropes connected the balloons to trucks and vans. I would have loved to have ours break free, escaping above the crowds, but that wasn't going to happen.

Tickets in hand, we let Kiddo pick our balloon.  We were third in line. He was impatient, dying to get into the sky — so was I.   It was actually tough to climb into the basket, find the foothold low on the wicker, and I was barely able to swing my leg over the top. Inside, there wasn't any room to maneuver, and I thanked the stars that I vetoed my skirt at the last minute.

The three of us just barely fit in there with the captain. 

The flames burned hot against my slight sunburn, they were close, bright, and blinding as the sun.

The inside of the nylon dome was huge,

 a brilliant hollow Easter egg holding us suspended in the air.

Storm clouds closed in on us, and lightening flickered in the distance. Our time up in the air was far too brief, but the lines snaked across the field, others waiting {some rather impatiently} for their time in the sky.  Kiddo scored a second ride with our friends, and not minutes after they descended the rains came.

We grabbed a cheap beer and stood in the rain watching the balloons deflate. There were going to be many disappointed people that night, but we would not be amongst them. We had a blast.

The Booze Canoes {or it must be St. Paddy's Day}

If you want to test a relationship, go canoeing.

I'm serious. I see it happen (and live it) every year. That fine line between this is the most lovely, relaxing day with my significant other and I'm going to kill him.

We have a lovely, near pristine piece of old Florida not far from our home. Far enough that I can't hear the traffic, the constant hum of air conditioners, and the whirl of sirens. Close enough that we still get emergency cell phone service (in case we are eaten by an alligator or bear) and only have a twenty minute drive home.

Source: myscienceproject.org via Vinobaby on Pinterest

Each St. Patrick's Day we gather with a large group of friends from Hubby's soccer team and our local English pub for the St. Paddy's Day Paddle.

The jello shots start at 9 a.m.

Yes, I know. But in pre-kid days, it used to start earlier — as in everyone meet at 8 a.m. for a few beers, but most of us are too old for that now.  And it really does help with whole relationship thing. A little liquor tends to tune down the urge to throw your spouse or significant other overboard.

A  pack of 12 to 20 canoes gather annually for this 8 mile river run. From families to single swearing Scotsmen still drunk from the night before, it's a diverse bunch.  Some paddlers have experience. Some don't know which end of the paddle goes in the water. Those are the guys who drink the most. And tip the most.  And are the most entertaining to watch.

Steering a flimsy fiberglass boat through alligator-infested waters is enough to make some people nervous. Add in hairpin twists and turns, dark water riddled with underwater obstructions which can snag and dunk you, and swampy shoals where you can easily run aground, and the REAL fun begins.

Someone has to steer. Someone has to navigate and listen. And when do couples ever work in such harmony?

Shouts echo down the river.

Why didn't you tell me we were going to hit a log?

Steer right, right, no your OTHER right! {crash}

Ackh! Spiderweb, you steered me into a giant spiderweb!

Watch the damn water, and stop trying to catch jello shots!

You DO NOT jump and lean in the boat when we see a gator. 

What do you mean you forgot the toilet paper? Am I supposed to use a leaf?

If you tip us, so help me God, you will be sleeping on the couch until NEXT YEAR'S paddle.

Paddle faster. Paddle faster!  I hear banjos... {Not really, but I did find a teen serenading three girls with an acoustic guitar.}

Usually, if a couple survives the comedy of errors, their relationship is bound to last. Canoeing should be a part of mandatory premarital counseling, a mini-Survivor, where only the strong-willed and strongest relationships will make it off the island and down the isle. Everyone bickers, from couples just dating to those who have persevered through decades of marriage.

During those moments when things are under control, it's an absolutely lovely day.  No noise but bird calls, frog croaks, and the breeze blowing through towering cypress trees.  Over the years we've spotted otters, snakes, alligators, zillions of water birds, wild turkeys, and resting turtles along the Wekiva River. Deer and black bears frequent the area also, but we've yet to spot one along the river (I'm guessing the banging boats and wild Englishmen's swears scare them away).

Our St. Paddy's Day tradition — booze, canoes, and wilderness. What could possibly go wrong?

You & Me: Wordless Wednesday

Setting: Manual Antonio, Costa Rica

Words: Dave Matthews Band, You and Me

Dream: To be there, right now. 
(and, once again, it ties in with my novel. . .) 




 

Novel Inspirations & Memories Captured

I've been focusing on editing my manuscript lately. I've been loosing myself in the lush rainforests of Costa Rica, dreaming my toes are sinking into the black sand beaches where much of the story takes place.  I look back on the photographs of my journey through that wonderland daily, coaxing memories of the sound of howler monkeys in the treetops, the scent of orchid blooms mixed with gallo pinto, the feel of the pregnant air, heavy with with imminent rain.

Since I wasted spent an afternoon playing with my photos on Picnik, I lessened my guilt by using images that would inspire my writing, and words to go along with my characters and story.

Inspiration is everywhere

if you just take a moment to look...

I'm linking up again with Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This  

for the Memories Captured meme. 

Check it out!

Memories Captured

I once dreamed of roaming the world, photographing awe-inspiring natural wonders for National Geographic or charismatic celebrities as the next Annie Leiboviz.

In time, I discovered I fare better shooting house cats and husbands.{With a camera, people, not a gun.}

I still love taking pictures anyway.

My parents bought me my first camera when I was somewhere around age eight or nine. With that Kodak Disc, which looked more like a deck of cards than a camera,  I captured pandas playing at the National Zoo, buffalo roaming across the Black Hills, and the last Dusky Seaside Sparrow before the species faded into extinction. Good stuff. Things I can only recall now because of my aged photos.

By my tween years, I upgraded to a Minolta 35mm, a treasure I still yearn to experiment with, if only I could find film. I took a couple of photography classes in college, learned how to coax images from film to paper, and went through several more cameras before I bought my current Nikon.

The art of photography transformed with the arrival of the digital age. I am now utterly spoiled by my 8 gig memory card, which allowed me to take 2,500+ pictures over a ten day vacation in Costa Rica. Unreal. Compare that to the twelve rolls of film I shot while on my wedding and honeymoon journey through Italy — only 288 chances to record a momentous journey, and no knowledge of if the images turned out until weeks later when the glossy 4x6s were finally in hand.

But I just can't keep up. The technology advances at break-neck speeds and the costs are, well, prohibitive. I don't own a digital SLR camera or Photoshop. Yet.  But I do adore my little Nikon P90 and Picassa, so when I saw Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This decided to host a Memories Captured link up, I simply couldn't resist.

 

Pure joy captured: a boy, an ice cream cone, a gorgeous day at the park with his parents. I should have used this for my holiday cards last year.

I couldn't decide which version I adored more. I could have kept playing on Picassa for hours, but I do have a few other things with which to occupy my time. I love the timelessness of the first image; it could have been taken in 1960, 1985, or yesterday.  The second image captures the vibrant sparkle and deep indigo of Kiddo's eyes. They get me every time.

Which do you prefer?

Just for today...

Source: google.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

I fully resolved not to make any resolutions this year.  But while perusing the Sunday paper this balmy New Year's Day morning, I came across Dear Abby's list of New Year's resolutions. She adapted these credos from the original Al-Anon manifesto, so technically, they are twice over NOT my resolutions. They are pretty dead on, so I've only slightly modified them to suit my place and time.


Just for today: I will live through this day only. I will not brood about yesterday or obsess about tomorrow. I will not let all of the hooplah about the Myan Calendar freak me out.  I will not set far-reaching goals or try to overcome all of my problems at once, but not because I believe the world is going to end on December 21st.

I know that I can do something for 24 hours that would overwhelm me if I had to keep it up for a lifetime. But if I can just do it for one little day, it will be enough.

Just for today: I will be happy. I will not dwell on thoughts that depress me. If my mind fills with clouds, I will chase them away and fill it with sunshine (or images of lounging on a Costa Rican beach, or my son's smile). I will not let rainy days and Mondays get me down. I will go to yoga and actually try to breathe instead of using the time to dwell on mental to-do lists.

Just for today: I will accept what is. I will face reality. I will correct those things I can correct and accept those things I cannot. I am not an alchemist; I cannot turn lead to gold.

Just for today: I will improve my mind. I will read something that requires effort, thought, and concentration. I will not be a mental loafer. I will not rot my brain watching reality television or Fox News. I will not waste too much time on Pinterest. I will write something.

Just for today: I will make a conscious effort to be agreeable. Even if it nearly kills me. I will be kind and courteous to those who cross my path, even if they are cutting me off in traffic and flipping me the bird. I will improve my appearance, speak softly, and not interrupt when someone else is talking. I will strive to make my fake smile seem genuine, and to learn to bite my lip without causing pain.

Just for today: I will refrain from improving anyone but myself. Except for my kid. I'm a parent. That's kind of my job. Adults, however, are not my responsibility. They are on their own.

Just for today: I will do something positive to improve my health. If I'm a smoker, I'll quit. (Are there really still smokers out there?) If I am overweight, I'll eat healthfully — if only for today. If I'm at a good size, I will try to eat more veggies and less crap. And not only that, I will get off the couch (or desk chair) and take a brisk walk, even if it's only around the block instead of to the gym (where I'm paying for a membership anyway).

Just for today: I will gather the courage to do what is right and take the responsibility for my own actions. I will treat people as I want to be treated. Karma is a bitch, but only if I am. I will be enough.

Namaste, my friends, 

and best wishes for a happy, healthy, and sane 2012.

Source: someecards.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

Prom Dress Confidential

 This is perhaps one of the most humiliating posts I recall writing. But I know all of you women out there in the  blogosphere must have some pretty hideous skeletons prom dresses in your closets as well. Tacky prom dresses are a feminine right of passage, like attempts at big Jersey hair and blue eyeshadow duos or your first hangover, bikini wax, and walk of shame. It wasn't pretty, but we've all been there.


Dress #1
It's 1989 (yes, I'm THAT old). I'm 14 and I had never been asked on a date or kissed a boy. I have more books than friends. I'm just a shy, pale L-O-S-E-R.

Suddenly, I was cast into a leading role in the school play. I ditched the bad perm and braces. And I started dating the play's director — a SENIOR ! {gasp} With long hair! {gasp}  And an accent!
{cue Dad breaking out the shotgun}

Late one night after a performance, he knocked on the front door. I was still covered in white hair spray and old lady stage make-up. He danced me to his car while his friend played the sax in my candlelit driveway. He asked me to prom (of course I said YES) and I finally experienced my first French kiss. (ooh la la)

I believe the next day was recorded in our family history as the day I gave my mother her first grey hair. And she will never let me forget about it. 

Because of this sudden twist of fate, all the pages of dreamy satin and taffeta I had ripped out of the Seventeen Magazine Prom Edition became extremely important. Vital. A matter of life and death. I was a bookworm Cinder-fecking-rella going to the cool kid's ball.  I had to find a dress. THE dress.   My favorite was a royal blue Jessica McClintock (for Gunne Sax?) number I drooled over in the teen fashion mags. It was only two weeks until prom, my mom was utterly UN-thrilled I was going, and I was desperate to find the dress.

Somehow, we managed to find the last one. In my size. I had my dream dress. And the matching royal blue pantyhose. And the matching dyed satin shoes. And probably the matching eyeliner as well. Now I want to gag at this over-coordinated ensemble, but back then, I thought I was the bomb.

A very, VERY nervous bomb.

The prom was uneventful. I was absolutely petrified. I was far too naive to hunt down some spiked punch in the ladies room to calm my nerves and force my tongue to work. I vaguely remember dancing to Madonna and trying to melt into the walls. My date was a perfect gentleman (despite nail polish and an off stuffed duck) and dropped me back home by my strict 12:30 curfew. Then he most likely went out with all his friends and got trashed.  I bailed on him before the prom pics even came in. I was not ready to leap from Girl Scouts to groping in a relationship with someone far older and wiser.

But at least I can say I went to Senior Prom as a Freshman.

Which is a good thing, because my actual Senior Prom blew corn nuts.

I went stag with a couple of girlfriends. I did not have a date.

But by then I had learned that poofy prom dresses were passe, for mere children, and not my style. I upgraded to reading Vogue and Glamor. I wanted to look stylish, sleek, and as sexy as I could get away with (which was not very). I wanted a dress they guys would notice, so they would not see the giant "L" glaring from my forehead. I scoured stores in probably six to ten malls in four counties until I found the one.

Dress #2
A little black sequence cocktail dress. Classic. Chic. Sparkly. Different. It was rather rebellious at the time. I freaking loved it.

(The snippet of neon satin, lace, and crinoline on the left was much more the norm still in 1992.)

So I went to prom stag. I don't remember much: dancing with some popular girl's boyfriend, trying to entertain my self by rating boys attempting the African Anteater Dance in their matching pink bowties and cumberbunds, sitting in a South Beach cafe after we escaped the cheesy prom venue, swinging on a sandy beach playground under the stars....

But I still have that dress.  

And I can still fit into it 19 years later without Spanx

(although a stronger bra might be beneficial).

So all those smug girls whispered about my lack of a date can just bite me.

I do mean that in the nicest way, of course.

Join in my moment of embarrassing female bonding. Do you have an ugly prom gown story to share?

Thanks to Mama Kat for inspiring this moment of weakness I shall most likely soon regret.

Wish You Were Here

Heaven.

 

Did I mention there is a hammock, a book, 

and cloudless blue skies involved as well?

Cheers & wish you were here...

These Magic Moments {Costa Rica Edition}

Last night Kiddo was telling us how he wanted to move to Costa Rica. As much as we dream of that as well, we tried to explain that is just isn't feasible.

"But I still have all our Costa Rica money," he said. "We can move there and be rich." He ran to his room and dug through his fire engine bank. He proudly presented me with 350 Colones...the equivalent of 69 cents.

Maybe not this year...

Looking back at photos, it's easy to see why he was so utterly enchanted by that distant land full of magical moments...