Punching Over a Piece of Cake

        When my brother and I were growing up, our mom regularly baked cakes and batches of brownies. Inevitably, we'd end up with one last piece of cake or one solitary brownie left.

       And every time, my brother and I would both want that last portion of dessert.

       My mother settled the problem in the only equitable way, and she didn't learn it from her mom. My mom was an only child, so she must have dreamed up the perfect solution on her own.

       My mom would have one of us divide the piece of cake or the brownie in half; the other one would get to choose first. It alternated. When it was my turn, I would get a mental ruler in place, because I didn't want to give my brother an extra crumb. Neither one of us ever complained, because it was extremely fair.

      What advice or lesson did you learn from your mom that stuck with you over the years?

(This is a picture of my birth mother, Imogene Gann, who taught me a completely different lesson than my mom, a lesson that changed my entire life. When the "Listen to Your Mother" videos come out on Youtube, you'll have to watch mine to find out how she changed my life.)

Never Say Never

Never say you would never fill a puppymill's pockets with money...if it means getting dogs out of the breeding-reproducing cycle--forever.

Never say you would never write a novel-length manuscript, and you would also never share your writing in an auditorium...you just might have a story that's begging to get out.

Never say you will never get another puppy...because you might encounter a litter of 11 Goldens, and they melt your heart.

We are still in the thinking/vacillating stage--I think--but by
the end of the month, we will have decided yes or no and if it's
a yes, we will pick out a rescued puppy to adopt...and then, heaven help us!

What was the last time you said "never" and then you had to eat your words?

Checklists--Doin' Them Sioux-Style

      

My manuscript--it's been read by the four other WWWPs so far,
plus Smeagol the cat (who chewed on the corners and found it not as delectable as it should be).

 
         Aaah, checklists. They're ever so helpful, especially when you can accomplish lots of items on the list and you get the satisfaction of checking them off.

         Check.

         Check.

         Check. It feels so good.

         But what happens when a checklist goes awry. What happens when the checker is a little delusional? Worst of all, what happens when the person with the checklist is Sioux?

         Egads!

        Check out my guest post at The Muffin this week, to find out all the mayhem that happened when I created a checklist.

        And, it might not be too late to get your tickets for the St. Louis Listen to Your Mother show. There's live jazz music, shopping (a tractor trailer "thrift store" set up in front of the building) and lots of reasons to laugh (and cry). If you're free on Saturday (10:00 or 2:00) go here so you can celebrate Mother's Day with us early.

      

Help! Please!

         Recently I killed my black Crocs. Cause of death: scissors. I cut them up in a fancy shoe store, with my daughter, granddaughter and my friend--all shoe lovers--as witnesses. They cheered and high-fived each other. I sobbed (silently, to myself).

       But I still have my tan pair. They are--as a blogging friend smirked, "well loved." They are still croc-ing along.

        However, I think the tan Crocs are aware of the violent act I committed against their darker friends. Perhaps they were shaking and quaking in their rubberness, afraid I might do the same thing to them? Maybe they let themselves get lured away from the safe confines of my home?

       I thought my tan Crocs were secure in my bedroom, until I saw this picture. Lisa Ricard Claro, a writing friend, alerted me to this horrible situation.

       A crocodile got my Croc-ie.   (Imagine I am Meryl Streep, distraught, in the wilds of Australia, as I say this.)

            To see this horrible, gruesome sight, go here. But beware--you might get ill over what you are about to see.

OoooohNoooo

          Now, if you survived seeing that, what is the funniest animal story you have to tell? I need to laugh, to recover from that scare.



    

And the Winner Is...

       It took hours and hours to count, create, and tabulate the entries...hours, because there were hundreds of people interested in winning a book of poetry.
      Okay, it really only took a minute but the low number of entries isn't due to a lack of interest in Shay, Joy and Kelli's poetry. It's just that I have a small number of followers(but they are mighty).

      Here are the entries:

  

          Notice the fancy font I used to create the slips. My techno-skills are so amazing, I can make things appear like they were handwritten. I'm oh-so-clever that way.

         Who are you tryin' to fool? You wrote those names on slips of paper with some old, fat-tipped marker that you found in a drawer. And don't even waste your breath about using rafflecopter or some computer program to determine the winner. You folded each one in half, closed your eyes, stirred the slips up and then snagged one...

        And the winner is...

        Marcia, if you email your address, I will send the book your way. (And it's ironic that Marcia won this book. She and Shay have competed in at least one writing contest, and Shay swears that some day, she's "gonna get" Marcia.)

       (You'd better watch your back, Marcia.)

Change

       Change is hard for some of us. We try to resist new experiences and new approaches--sometimes--but when we embrace it, it often brings some (initial) discomfort but (eventually) it leads to an improvement. The new experience was enjoyable. The different strategy made things easier.

     Last Thursday I attended a funeral...for my black Crocs. My dog had chewed off one of the straps (years ago) so I cut the strap off the other one so they would match. Another time, I did a decoupage project and dribbled Mod Podge all over those trusty shoes, and still they remained reliable. But when Bronx Diba offered to pop for a pair of shoes for all the Listen to Your Mom performers, I knew it was time to kill those Crocs. (I cut them up--in public at the shoe store so I wouldn't lose my resolve--in front of my daughter and my friend. Those two shoe-loving and Croc-hating women cheered, along with the Bronx Diba employees, who screamed in horror when they caught sight of my trusty Crocs.)

         By the way, have you gotten your Listen to Your Mother tickets? If you don't live in the St. Louis area, have no fear--there are shows all over the country. No matter the city, the show is going to be moving. You'll laugh...you'll cry...and in the end you'll be glad you went.

        Here are the shoes I chose, after spending two hours vacillating.

        They may not appear to be high or scary-looking, but compare them to my tan Crocs (which are shaking in their rubber-ness, since they know good and well what I did to their cousins).

        Wedges are a big step (or misstep) for me. There is a pool going on--how soon will Sioux fall on her face? As soon as she steps onto the stage? As she walks to the center of the stage? Will she save the best for last, and fall when all the performers are taking a bow, taking the whole line of writers down with her?

        You'll have to come to the show to find out. And if you aren't in the area, there's always Youtube later...

        What kind of changes have you embraced lately? Tell. We want to hear all about it...