Flourishing Plants

This summer, Earl cleared the garden in front of the garage and planted strawberry plants. Strawberry plants come back every year and they spread. They shouldn't be allowed to grow fruit their first year. Instead, Earl had to pull off any flowers so the plants would grow well.
After the first few weeks, a couple of volunteer plants stuck their heads through the soil in the strawberry patch. A tomato plant began to grow in the front corner away from the strawberries, so we left it. Then some sort of melon began to grow right in the middle of the strawberry bed. We love a good melon at my house, so we let it grow too.
We weren't too surprised about the volunteer plants since we had grown tomatoes and melons there the previous year.

Here's a picture of the leaves on the melon plant.
All of a sudden, the melon plant began to grow up instead of crawling along the ground. And then it sprouted this:

Something that was not a melon was definitely on its way.
And mid-morning, the plant would flower into a tiny yellow bloom with a reddish center.

It closed again before noon, so I was the only one in my family who ever saw it since everyone else slept most of the morning.
One morning, before the sun became ferocious, my neighbor Sandy joined me in the garden with a couple of wildflower books. We searched until we found the same bloom with the same leaf shapes. It was called "Flower of an Hour." Well, that made sense because it only bloomed for an hour. And it was a wildflower from "Eurasia." Truthfully, it was a weed.
Earl asked if he could pull it since it was a weed. I said no.
"Why?"
"Because it's pretty."
And in spite of its beautiful blooms, as it grew, it began to look weedier -- tall and rangy.
Finally, when Earl asked his weekly question about pulling the Flower of an Hour, I told him to do it.
Now our nobbly strawberry patch is without the gangly weed in the middle.
Here are a couple of actual flowers growing around our house. I'm not going to let Earl pull them. This is a Chinese bellflower, or a baloon flower, and I love it.

This is how it looks before it blooms, like a Chrysler symbol.
We also have a rose bush for the first time at this house. It has bloomed for nearly a month now.
I don't spend a lot of time on flowers. I usually plant some things in the spring and hope they continue through the summer. About this time of year, I run out of color in my garden. Before long though, the mums will begin to bloom and I can stop worrying about whether the neighbors are whispering about my garden or lack of it.

Happy

Today I am filled with joie de vivre. So many things have gone my way, starting with my morning when I wrote the end of my novel. I still have to go back and add a chapter, along with editing. I'm sure many things will change, but it makes me so energized and thrilled to know that I'm nearly there. Things have really come together the past few days.
Grace asked if she could edit for me and I explained that my experience with Earl as an editor when I was a journalist had convinced me that family shouldn't edit each other's work. I remembered arguing about specific words and big ideas. Nevertheless, I printed off the 280 pages today and handed them to her in a file folder. When she came home from work, she sat alone and ate her dinner of chicken sausage with apples. She read page after page. I walked past and assured her that she didn't need to read it all now. I still planned to write that extra chapter and get it to her. She read more than 80 pages as she crunched on carrots and sat at the table long after she'd finished her dinner. I know she has to tell me that she likes it, but she claims she would be honest if she didn't.
And now, as evening falls, the kids have dispersed and I am home alone. I love being home alone. Probably because I don't get the opportunity very often.
Since I had kids, I have worked from home. We home schooled so I never had time home alone while they were gone to school. They all started school about two and a half years ago then more than a year ago, Earl's job changed and he is home during the day while the kids are at school.
It's not like I do anything special when I'm home alone. Sometimes I do housework, sometimes I exercise, sometimes I surf the web, watch mindless tv or read a book. It's just nice to be alone occasionally. And tonight, I can pour myself a glass of wine and feel satisfied that my writing is progressing.
Then it's back to my papers that are waiting to be graded.

Family Night Rides Again

With the temperature in the mid-80s rather than the mid-90s, we decided that a bike ride would be a perfect family night.
It was a little complicated with five people and five bikes. We ended up taking two cars because the bike carrier holds three bikes, so we put the top down on the convertible and stuck two bikes in the back of it. Of course, one of our bikes was missing because Tucker had ridden it to a friend's house and left it where it was locked in a garage. We borrowed a bike from Earl's sister's husband.
Spencer was focused on getting family night over with. "How many miles?" he asked.
Eleven there, eleven back with ice cream in between, I told him.
And he took off. The bike trail runs from Johnstown to Granville. The trail is shared with walkers and runners and crosses several roads, most of them not too busy.
As we started off, we came to a wooden bridge. A squirrel ran onto the bridge at the same time Spencer rode onto it. The bike scared him and he scurried across Spencer's path then ran and dove off the edge, hopefully onto a tree.
That was about the last we saw of Spencer as he decided to ride ahead. He later told us he managed the whole 11 miles in 35 minutes. He turned around and came back to find us since he didn't know where the ice cream shop was.
The path goes through woods and farm fields. It was full of strong odors, like skunk and cow manure. It also had butterflies and birdsong. The woods were protecting and ominous. The fields full of corn that stretched as high as an elephant's eye.
Tucker's bike has issues. Earl says it's because he throws it on the ground when he finishes using it. I say they should have put a kick stand on it if they didn't want kids throwing it to the ground. Nevertheless, he would be riding and the chain would just pop off and he would pedal going nowhere until it reattached.
I found this hilarious. Him, not so much.
Some swear words were thrown around when we left the flat path of the trail to climb the hill up to Granville. It's a steep hill and I called "every man for himself" before we got to it.
Earl and I rode on the street, but the kids all headed for the sidewalk, which meant they couldn't pass each other so were limited to the speed of the person in front of them. Anyway, they all made it to the top without stopping to push their bikes, which is more than I could say for myself the first time I did it.
The ice cream parlor in Granville served up floats and milk shakes that helped get us the 11 miles back to the cars.

This guy fed ice cream to his dogs. He made them take turns and share a spoon. He used a different spoon and somehow thought that was sanitary, even though they were all eating from the same bowl. Ick.
After ice cream, Tucker needed a grilled cheese.
Grace and I headed back to the trail while he waited for his food. We knew we would be slower than the guys. We rode steady for a total 64-minute ride on the way back, along with a few stops for photos. I figure less than a 6-minute mile isn't bad for us.
The boys stayed at the ice cream parlour to eat the grilled cheese sandwich then took off at a pace that might have done the peloton on the Tour de France proud. They shoulted a hello and Spencer's red shirt billowed in the wind as they passed and rode toward the lowering sun.

The sun was setting as we finished at the grain mill in Johnstown.
We were all pretty tired when we got home, except Spencer who of course ventured out to "hang" with his friends at "the turf" which is the high school football field.

Au Naturel

I know that it is healthier for me and my family to eat locally grown foods fresh from the garden. That's why I stopped by our pitiful excuse for a Farmer's Market yesterday where there are two vegetable stands and two homemade soap stands, along with some fresh-baked goods.
I bought some peppermint, tea tree hand soap and then got down to the business of buying vegetables.
Not a lot is ready to be harvested here in Ohio. I bought two zucchini with shiny green peels, two tomatoes that need a little more time on the window sill to ripen, some small red potatoes and a big green cabbage.
When I got home, I pulled off a few of the showy outer leaves of the cabbage and flushed it with water to get rid of the dirt that gathers around the stalk. Then I set it upside down beside the sink where it stayed until I got home about 8 p.m. from a marathon swim meet.
Around 9:30, when I thought I had the energy to get up and eat something, I decided a few slices of cabbage would be a healthy snack. I pulled off another outer leaf of the cabbage and it felt a little slimy underneath. How many of the outer leaves are you supposed to pull off, I wondered. Then I saw a couple of tiny, quarter-inch slugs. They really were too small even to be considered slugs, more like snail wannabes.
So I pulled off their leaves and a few more then a few more just to be sure.
At this point, having dealt with dirt and slugs, I really didn't want to eat the cabbage. I was feeling a little queasy.
I reminded myself that the reason cabbage in the grocery store doeosn't have slugs is that it is sprayed with toxic chemicals to kill things, which is probably much worse for me than anything left behind by the slugs.
I forced myself to eat a wedge of cabbage sprinkled with salt.
I guess it's a good thing I didn't grow up on a farm. Then again, I'd probably be much thinner if it were down to picking off bugs and slaughtering chickens.

Motherhood Changes Everything

I was working tonight in a tutoring session with a couple of other teachers. One of them is in her 20s, recently married. The other, a single man in his late 40s, was wondering how to handle a situation where a woman left his class repeatedly to take cell phone calls. She said she had to answer her phone because her son was epileptic and the school might try to reach her.
This could be a reason why she needed to check to see who was calling her, but the school probably hadn't called her twice during that hour. The male teacher wondered what he should do about it.
The earnest young teacher turned to me first and asked, "Do you have kids?"
I said yes and she said, "I will probably offend you then."
She turned to the other teacher and said, "I would tell that woman that having kids is her hobby and not my problem."
I was biting my lip to keep from laughing. I wonder if I ever felt that having kids was a "hobby."
This woman was so sure that she was right. Her students' personal problems, even if it was epileptic children, had nothing to do with her.
I remember talking to another teacher who now has two young children. She lamented that she had been so unfeeling toward her students who were single mothers who worked fulltime and took care of their children.
I told the young teacher, "Someday, you'll look back and cringe that you said having children was a hobby."
She didn't believe me.
That's okay.
Was I ever that naive about being a parent? Probably. The more vehement they are, the harder they'll fall when they have their own kids.
BTW, I don't allow my students to leave in the middle of class for cell phone calls either, but not because I don't respect their dedication to their children.
It's disrupting to the class.
"If you have to take a call, just take your things with you and go," I tell them so you don't interrupt the class again by coming back in.

Showtime

Lights. Camera. You're on!
I stand blinking in front of a new college class.
More and more, teaching feels like acting to me. I have to be "on" in front of the class. I have to be prepared. I have to be entertaining yet informative.
Truthfully, I love it.
Last quarter and again this quarter, I've had four online classes at the main college where I teach. This week a new semester started at my back-up university. I have two classes where I get to be in front of actual students.
I'm always nervous before I start.
I have my lesson plans. Is this enough to get me through four hours and keep them awake? Where will I add the ice breaker that makes them get up? Where should I include the small group sessions so they start to know each other? How about the youtube videos that will make them laugh?
I dressed carefully. A linen dress with a straight skirt that nips in slightly at the waist and pooches out a little where my belly isn't quite flat. My Jambu shoes that are comfortable to stand in for four hours. My hair is curly, pulled back from my face.
The first few minutes are chaos. Students who have been reassigned to my class coming from another class. Conferring with the other professor. Done. 21 students sit before me. Some like baby birds ready to be fed. Others like Missourians with their arms crossed daring, "Show me."
There is Mulu who was in my class last session.
"How'd you get stuck with me again?" I tease.
"I knew it was going to be a tough session," he replies. "I asked for you."
I smile but I'm flattered. Mulu is from Africa and English is his second language, although his speaking and writing are excellent.
I begin class.
The computer isn't working so I can't flash the syllabus onto the screen. I move on to the next thing on my lesson plans. I ad lib. If students start to look bored, I tap dance faster, trying to keep their attention.
By the end of the evening, by 9:30 p.m. as we move to the computer lab, they are approaching me individually to clear up questions. They are handing me their prewriting for their first essays. They are asking for confirmation that they're on the right track.
I soothe them. I flash smiles. I offer words of reassurance.
And then they are gone. I sit alone in the computer lab, plugging in attendance and going over the successes and failures for the evening.
Probably 15 years ago I took a personality test that confirmed I was an introvert. That means I gain energy from being alone rather than being in a crowd. But these things can change, I think as I walk toward the car.
I call Earl so his voice can keep me company through the dark parking lot. I regale him with my performance.
The voices of the students echo in my head like so much applause.
I'll be back for an encore the following week, perhaps to a more receptive audience or to a tougher audience as they judge how successful I am at performing.

Sock Shortage

This morning for my run, I wore yellow fuzzy socks with lady bugs on them.
I knew it was probably a mistake as I put them on and felt the seams along the toes, but my drawer was empty of athletic socks.
I had only walked out the back door and taken time to locate a quarter moon, shaped like the one that is always used to illustrate "the cow jumped over the moon" and a single star/planet shining in the 5 a.m. sky, when the seam on the sock started to rub.
I sat down on the hammock, took off my shoes and turned the socks inside out before putting my shoes on again. Then I went for a run and figured I'd just live with the socks.
Obvioiusly, they aren't running socks. Apparently athletic socks are at a premium in my house.
Just last week I caught Tucker, size 12 men's shoe, wearing my running socks, size extra small womens. They were running footies with pink at the heel but he had stretched them over his giant feet. The day before he'd had on my Thorlo socks, which are padded at the heels and balls of the feet.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I needed some socks," he shrugged.
He claims they were laying on the dryer, which is where we pile the boys' clean clothes for them to put away.
I either need to step up the laundry or find a boy who won't wear pink-trimmed socks.

Runner's Hangover

On Saturday morning, we ran 9.5 miles.
When I left the house, I was already tired and dreading it. If my friends hadn't been waiting for me, I would have skipped. That's the reason to exercise with friends, isn't it?
I took some vitamin B12 for energy and ate two shot bloks on the way to meet my friends. Shot bloks are like gummy candies that are "electrolyte chews" to give energy and replenish the things we sweat out.
Princess joined us for our morning run, so there were four of us. Princess just bought a new house and moved so she has a legitimate excuse for missing some of our runs. She also is a single mom with a son, so she always has a good reason to sleep in rather than run with us.
We ran our normal route of 7.5 miles, talking and laughing the whole way. I ate two more shot bloks at the turn around, but I wasn't feeling as miserable as I had anticipated.
We went on past the parking lot an extra mile south before we turned around. That made for a total of 9.5 miles. The training schedule called for 9 miles and we're trying to keep that .5 edge.
I "sprinted" the last half mile or so, but only because if I didn't run faster and finish then I was going to stop and walk. I felt good at the end and relieved it was over.
When I got home, I drank more water and sat down to finish reading a book. Slowly I began to feel like a dishrag that had been rung one way then the other. Nothing really hurt, I was just exhausted.
My husband got up and came into the living room where I was lying on the couch. I explained why I was taking a nap at 9 in the morning. My daughter got up and I repeated the scenario.
The rest of the day, the headache slowly built. Dehydration? Possibly. Maybe I should have had Gatorade after my run. Allergy headache? Always a possibility in Ohio. Hormonal-related? The timing was right.
I pulled myself together for a cookout at Earl's sister's house then spent the rest of the day doing nothing. Grace and Tucker stayed home with me since they had been out late the night before and I was in bed early, hoping to vanquish the headache with a good night's sleep.
The next morning, a trace remained, but I didn't even notice it as Grace and I did our morning core workout.
Is it worth it to continue training for the marathon, even though I don't plan to run the marathon, if I'm going to face days when I feel like a limp noodle?

Just Keep Swimming

This morning I didn't write from 5 to 7 a.m. That's because Grace and Tucker had to be at a swim meet at 6:15. Waking teenagers to swim at 5:45 a.m. is never a cheery event.
Tucker has been swimming year round since he was 8 years old. Even that first year, he showed promise, making a "star time" in back stroke and free style. Now as he wrestles his way through his thirteenth and fourteenth years, he wants to give up swimming. He has fought me about practices since last fall, complaining each time that I send him out the door with his black Speedo backpack. He swam for the middle school last year and is already faster than most of the high school boys.
Today was a USA meet rather than a YMCA meet. That means the fastest swimmers from around Ohio, southern Michigan and northern Kentucky gathered at Ohio State to swim this morning.
The air was cool as I dropped Grace and Tucker before parking in the garage. They both dogged it on their 100 free, their first events. Then came the 50 frees.
Tucker ended up fifth overall for the 13-14 boys. That means he made it into the finals this evening. USA swimming uses the times in the morning for preliminaries. The top 8 come back to swim the finals and the next 8 come back for a consolation round.
From the stands, I told his coach that he wouldn't want to come back. Tonight Columbus celebrates Fourth of July with Red, White & Boom. Tucker asked earlier this week if he could go to a party to watch the fireworks.
The coach talked with him for a minute, turned toward me in the stands and said, "He wants to come back."
"Okay," I said.
As soon as we left the building, he told me, "I don't want to go back tonight."
"You already told the coach you'd go," I replied. I really didn't want to hash this out. The coach had talked to him; he'd agreed, why did we have to talk about it. Or, more precisely, why did I have to listen to him complain. He is four-tenths of a second behind the first place finisher. Hundredths of a second behind the second through fourth place finishers. He could win this.
Sometimes I wonder if it is worth the constant arguments about swimming.
Pat, one of the dads in the stand with me, said, "If I were as good at anything as Tucker is at swimming, I'd keep doing it forever."
That's just it. When you're 14, you're pretty sure you can be good at anything you want to. You may not recognize that this is a special talent you have.
As we headed back to the pool at 4:30, Tucker said, "I'm not going to do as well as I did this morning."
"Why?" I asked suspiciously. Was this his plan?

"I'm tired," he said.
"I'll let you stay out until midnight tonight if you swim a faster time than you did this morning," I offered.
Game on. Usually he has to be home at 11.
He warmed up then sat and waited. He went to the diving well and warmed up some more.
Finally, it was his turn to swim.

They were swimming long course, which means they swim 50 meters all the way down. Most pools have a lane that goes 25-yards across then they come back 25 yards.
Tucker climbed on the blocks, his cap a bright green.

He dove in the water and moved his arms fast. He was ahead for much of the race. He finished in second place overall and dropped more than half a second. For anyone who cares about swim times: he had a 27.66 in meters long course. That translates to a 23.79 in short course yards.
I could tell he was proud afterward as he walked me through the race.
"Those other guys were all wearing Speedos and I wanted to show them I could beat them not wearing a Speedo." Tucker hates those little suits like underwear. He wears the suit that comes down tight to his knees. The guy who won wore a suit like Tucker's.

As we walked through campus, emptied by the holiday weekend, Tucker was satisfied with his hard work for that day. That doesn't mean that we won't argue again on Monday when it is time for swim practice again, but I plan to make him stick with it.

American Heroes

My friend Dream Girl is making me feel depressed. You remember her. She's the one who found out she has breast cancer. I was all worried about whether I would act differently around her, what I would say. And, of course, I was worried because I want her to get better.
I see her every Saturday for our weekly runs and we stay in touch by email the rest of the week. Her emails have depressed me and it's taking a toll on my body.
I've already eaten a small box of malted milk balls and I just ordered pizzas for dinner. I haven't run this week at all either. I left the house two mornings to run and ended up walking around the block before coming back.
Today was Dream Girl's echocardiogram to make sure her heart wasn't affected by the heavy duty chemotherapy she has taken. Here's part of the message we receieved from her afterward:

So I ran far and did 6 hill repeats this morning to crank my heart up before my echo. I bombarded Janise, the girl who did my echo, with questions about how high a score I could get on my echo. Average/a good score is 55, and she said my previous 62 was really good, but I wanted to know what the best number would be. She said a younger person could get like 75-80, and that there were people my age that could get up to 70-75.

See, some people might think, "I have cancer. I need to treat my body gently." But Dream Girl thinks she should whip her body into its best shape ever while going through chemotherapy. She's running 60 minutes a day and doing extra hills, plus riding her bike on paths that run through corn fields. She's swimming laps without needing a swim cap (since she's bald).
She doesn't know the score on her echocardiogram yet, but here was the follow up message she sent:

I don't know my new score yet. I have to wait until I go back to the Dr. I'm hoping for a 70! Hee hee! It probably would be too if I had been swimming. Dang.

And you can probably see why this level of activity by someone healing from breast cancer can be disheartening from those of us who are complaining about plantar's warts or heavy periods.
Really, can any excuse stand next to the woman who is having chemotherapy, the woman who got jabbed five times at the doctor's office last week because they couldn't get a good vein. As she left the office, she reassured the lab technician that it wasn't his fault that he couldn't get a vein. Can Mother Theresa have been reincarnated into my friend's body if she was already alive when Mother Theresa died?
Some people might see this kind of reaction to breast cancer and be inspired to try harder. I wish it had that kind of effect on me. Instead, I feel defeated before I begin.
So, I'm eating malted milk balls and pizza before a night on the couch watching bad sit coms.
Don't get me wrong. Dream Girl is amazing. She's my hero. She's just flown so far out of my realm that I can barely see the soles of her feet any more.

Writing Sex Scenes

To be honest, I have written sex scenes in all three of my novels. In the first two, I later edited them out.
I have just finished writing a sex scene in my current novel so it is still there -- for now.
Here are the possibilities:
The sex scenes are gratuitous and don't carry the story so I cut them out.
I'm mortified by the fact that my children and parents may someday read the book with the sex scenes, so I cut them out.
I'm just not very good at writing sex scenes, so I cut them out.
I'm a prude and get embarrassed at the idea of sex scenes, so I cut them out.
For my latest sex scene, I tried to make the lead-in exciting and then jumped over the details. I mean, everyone knows how those things work, so I probably don't need to go into great detail. It's the emotion and the reason behind the sex scene that I want to focus on.
In my current novel, following great sex that involves chocolate mousse, the Frenchman tried to convince the stalwart Midwesterner to sell the multi-million dollar painting that her uncle took during World War II. So, is it a seduction for the sake of sex or for the sake of manipulation? See, it might actually play into the book.
At least, that's my story for now and I'm sticking to it.

Family Night, The Sequel

I wish I could say family night was a hit. It was better than last week. This photo may have been the high point, but I had to tell them to smile.

We went to a Clippers baseball game. I've blogged before about how great this field is, and we had nice seats in the second row. Unfortunately, it was one of those 95-degree days so we were dripping sweat in the sun.
My favorite part of a minor league baseball game is the hot dog races. I don't know why they have hot dog races, but the hot dogs -- one with mustard, one with ketchup, and one with relish -- race down the first base line. So far this season, mustard has won no races. Oh, my heart goes out to mustard who fell again during this race and still has zero wins.
I did get this great photo of one of the other hot dogs jumping over the fallen mustard hot dog.
When I try to explain something like hot dog races and call them mustard hot dog or relish hot dog, it feels like maybe I've fallen down the rabbit hole with Alice. So strange.

Biking to the Birds

Today the weather turned cool after a week of mid-90 degree days. Earl and I decided to go for a bike ride. We realized that we didn't need to limit our bike rides to trips to Monet's Garden -- our last recreational bike ride. And, lest you forget, that trip was full of mistakes, like missing a train and following the wrong man down the road. You can read about it here: http://paulita-ponderings.blogspot.com/2010/04/jai-trompe.html (I don't know why my links won't work in my posts, but it is frustrating.) .
From our house we rode to the bike trail that follows the Olentangy River. Workers are fixing the highway over the trail and I caught a picture of the sparks cascading down the concrete.
The bike trail leads to the confluence of the Olentangy and the Scioto rivers before it heads toward downtown Columbus. The bike trail is like a tourist guide. It leads past COSI, the museum of Science and Industry. It also goes past the Santa Maria, a replica of the ship that Columbus took on his first trip to the New World. The trail also streaks past the Ohio Supreme Court building, which has some gorgeous painting and architecture.
Unfortunately, that's where we ran into trouble and had to take to the streets instead of the bike trail because the city is building a promenade along the river. We had to ride through a construction zone then a busy street in the brewery district before we got to the park.
Earl rode on to the Audubon building while I checked out the park. If my kids were still little and we were homeschooling, this place would be my new hangout. There are sand volleyball pits, a climbing wall and playgrounds over rubber surface. I walked up to the third stage of a tower to survey my kingdom, well, the park around me.
While Earl waited for me to catch up, he sat in a chair in front of the Audubon building. That is him waving wildly. I told him it looked as if he was being attacked by the giant bird statue.
The audubon building is full of photos of birds that have been spotted along the river, wetlands and fields of wildflowers in the area. This section of the river has been known by bird watchers for a long time because migrating birds stop here every spring and fall.
The park has started growing fields of wild flowers, and birds flitted among the plants. The park also had some more orderly flower gardens, again not quite rivaling Monet's Garden, but it is the first year for the metro park.

We found a less circuitous route home and managed to avoid much of the road construction. Here's the new Main Street bridge that is not open yet, but has a sleek look to it in front of the skyline.
Trying to keep the whole vacation motif going, we stopped at a coffee shop before we returned home. Earl had an iced tea and I had a lemonade, squeezed fresh and so bitter that it made me pucker.
It wasn't a vacation day for either of us, but I'm glad we got to snatch some of the enjoyment that we find as tourists in other cities.

Writing

I am a writer. At least that's what I say. I have two finished (yet unsold) novels to prove it. And I am 60,000 words into my third novel, thinking "this is the one."
Yet, during this two week break from classes, I have written very little.
I'm kind of stuck. I'm not sure I really believe in writer's block. I know what I want to happen in the book but I've just been unsure how to get there. I tried jumping ahead to write the scenes I know, but they were falling flat.
This book, The Summer of France, started out as women's fiction. A woman with twin teenagers wants to build a close family before they leave for college and careers. She, her husband, and the twins go to France to run a bed and breakfast for her uncle who married a French woman after World War II. So, it sounds like the book will be all about feelings and rebellious teenagers and marriage angst in a foreign country. Then suddenly I find my characters in the middle of intrigue as the main character discovers that her uncle has a famous painting that went missing in World War II. Black market art dealers are trying to get their hands on the painting and the police can't be far behind. What should she do with the painting and how can she save her uncle and his reputation?

I'm in the middle of a chase scene and I have no idea how to write a chase scene. After two weeks of dithering, I happened upon a writing book at the library. It's a book by Maeve Binchy called The Maeve Binchy Writers' Club. I opened it yesterday afternoon and read the first few chapters on the front porch with a thunderstorm blowing through. Earl sat on the porch reading his own book and was willing to put down his book when I wanted to talk through the stuck parts in my novel.
Amazingly, we fleshed out some scenes to get me through the hard spot and increase the intrigue. Sometimes, just reading about writing or talking about writing can break through that barrier.
This morning, I wrote nearly 2000 words and I have set the calendar on my phone to wake me every morning at 5 a.m. so I can write until 7 a.m.
Thank you, Maeve Binchy, for reminding me that I can find the time to write and I need to be consistent about using that time.
I like Maeve Binchy's books. They're set in Ireland and I love to travel so peeking into the Irish culture is fun. Her books always have intriguing characters, so I enjoy travelling with them. I don't think you have to love the author to learn from their writing books.
Stephen King has a great book called On Writing. I don't read horror books, but his writing book was very helpful when I read it a few years ago. I probably needed to pick it up again to be inspired.
Anne Lamott also has a writing book called Bird by Bird. Lamott has such a wry, witty sense of herself that it is always a joy to read her books, evening something that could be as dry as a writing book.
If I stay on my writing schedule, I could be finished with my book by the end of July. As a matter of fact, there's no reason I can't be finished. I hope someone will hold me to that.
Being a writer though, that's between me and my computer, me and my conscience.
How about you? Do you have a favorite book on writing? If you aren't a writer, do you ever get stuck when you're trying to finish something, whether it's making a quilt or training for a marathon? What do you do to energize yourself and get back on track?
(These book covers come from www.amazon.com. If you click on them, you can't actually look inside, but you can go to Amazon and do that.)

The Effects of Gravity

My bellybutton has become an emoticon.
You know, those little faces that people use in text messages and emails.
My bellybutton use to be simply a circle, sometimes deeper sometimes more shallow. Three different times it became a taut dot on the mound of my stomach swollen with baby.
Just this morning, as I stepped out of the shower, I noticed that it has taken on a distinctly different look.
It looks like this on the top: ^
And the bottom is like a parentheses turned on its side. A smile. So at least my bellybutton is a happy emoticon.
I imagine that the emoticon at the top right of the photo is the closest to my belly button image.
Now what does this have to do with gravity? Well, I actually tugged on either side of my belly button and pulled it upward. The ^ disappeared. Which means gravity has had its way with the skin on my stomach which I consdered fairly tight.
Something else for me to worry about, or I could just accept that my belly button is trying to express itself. It has gotten over the look of surprise 0_0 and moved on to happiness and acceptance.

Books That Raise Questions

I just finished reading a book called This is Where We Live by Janelle Brown. It took me awhile to get into it, but this morning, with nearly half of it left, I sat down and read the rest of the book.
The book focuses on an artistic couple in their mid-thirties. She writes and directs films. He has been in a successful rock band and is trying to start another one. Some bad luck lands them in trouble with their mortgage on their Arts & Crafts house in Los Angeles. Of course, I live in an Arts & Crafts-style house, so I can immediately feel a bond with them.
They had a balloon mortgage that ballooned out of reach. The husband wants to walk away from the house to travel. He feels the debt and the house are a ball and chain pulling him down. The wife, a midwesterner by birth, is desperate not to lose the house.
And that's what got me thinking. I found myself agreeing with the husband. This couple had no kids, no obligations, and I thought, of course they should give up the house. Sell it or let the bank repossess it. Move on without the trappings that weigh you down.
I remember as a woman in my 20s I was so anxious about finding the right man and buying a house, starting a family. Now I wonder what that urge, that need is all about.
I wouldn't give up my kids, and maybe I can say this now because I have three kids, that this couple shouldn't sacrifice their creativity for a house and a family. Maybe I've just moved into my mid-life crisis where I'm ready to sell the house and travel the world.
What would you advise a young couple, or even a single person in this predicament? Do you think the young people you know feel too eager to marry and settle down?

Milestones

Twenty years ago today in Daniel Boone National Forest in Kentucky, Earl and I were married. The day was sunny and warm, but nowhere near as warm as it is today in Ohio -- 89 humid degrees.
I wonder if it's a bad sign that we can't find our wedding album anywhere? I've searched and Earl has searched. I found some snapshots that friends gave us so you can see how fresh-faced and naive we were in 1990.

My parents owned a blueberry farm in a holler in Kentucky. We were married in front of a meandering creek with the tiger lilies in bloom. On the left side of the photo is Grandad Ish, who has since died. Earl's brother Art was the best man and the priest, Father Al, has gone on to write books about being a priest in Appalachia.
Look at my face. I really love that man. I'm amazed that he's marrying me.
After the ceremony, we stood there by the whispering creek and people moved along to congratulate us.
You can't see me in this photo, but you can see Tracey, my best friend from high school and maid of honor laughing.

Twenty years ago, I had no idea how to make a marriage work. I got very lucky in a number of ways. One of those ways was my choice. I think it's nearly impossible to make a good choice this young (and I was 27!). I chose a man who treated others well. When a waitress dropped a tray, he'd get up to help her. When a woman was panhandling and he turned her down, he later knocked on her car window and gave her money. He cares about other people, and that includes me.
It hasn't been 20 years of bliss. We've had fights that lasted for weeks. We've learned to swallow hurtful words.
We've gone through childbirth together three times (okay, I bore the brunt of that) and find our biggest arguments are about parenting.
We've lived in seven houses and owned four. We've moved from Florida to Michigan to Ohio. We've been to Europe six times and traveled throughout most of the United States.
We have dreams together -- dreams of owning a bed and breakfast, dreams of moving to France, dreams of publishing novels.
Most of our day-to-day lives focus on paying bills and raising kids.
We've already celebrated our anniversary with a trip to France this spring, but today we'll find a table in a restaurant and open a nice bottle of wine. We'll toast ourselves and our great luck to have fallen into each other's arms twenty-two years ago and to have pledged to stay together twenty years ago in front of a small gathering of friends and family.

Furry Visitor

This spring Grace has been walking the dog of a friend who I teach with. The woman has a stress fracture in her leg and can't walk her five-year-old golden retriever. She pays Grace to walk him five days a week. On days when Grace has to work and has swim practice, or during the craziness of graduation, I would sometimes walk him. He's a nice dog and I didn't think twice when she said she needed someone to watch him while she goes on vacation. (She has a husband and an 18-year-old son who are both home but won't help with the dog.)
I agreed to keeping the dog here and didn't think about it again, until I mentioned it to Earl and he said, "I don't want a dog in the house."
That put me in quite a pickle. I felt like I had committed to keep the dog, so I told Grace we would have to brush the dog and clean up dog hair everyday to alleviate the hair situation.
Grace drove his gates and bowls and foods home in the car while I walked him the mile and a half to our house. He got a bath in the backyard and quite a bit of brushing before we let him inside. Here are the clumps of hair we removed from him.

He's a good dog although he has gotten us up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom both nights. I think he sleeps in my friend's bed, so isn't used to being alone at night.
Well, he isn't exactly alone. He has the cats, who, as you can see, feel right at home with him.

Family Night Fiasco

I declared Sunday nights as family nights this summer. After all, Grace is getting ready to leave for college and the boys hang out with their friends most nights of the week. I wasn't expecting a night with the Walton family, but apparently, my expectations were a little high.
We started with a family dinner of chicken and vegetables on the grill. Normally, it would have been shish kebab, but we skipped the sticks. So with a bowl of grilled chicken and a bowl overflowing with zucchini, summer squash, tomatoes, mushrooms, onions and carrots on the table, Tucker declared himself not hungry and refused to eat. He sipped on a glass of water and pondered whether he could add mint syrup to it. I vetoed that idea since he wasn't even eating dinner. He informed me he didn't like shish kebab. What's not to like about chicken? And I know he eats carrots. I didn't argue though, just made him turn forward and get his elbows off the table. He had spent the night at a friend's house so I wrote off his bad behavior to tiredness.His silence and refusal to eat as he sat sullenly at the table pulled a wet blanket over the beginning of family night.
After dinner, we chose a game to play. Since it was father's day, we let Earl choose poker. It wasn't Texas hold em, but five card draw and five card stud with a few hands of black jack thrown in. I couldn't find the poker chips, so used these colorful plastic tokens that the kids sorted when they were little. We started with 25 and I quickly lost all of mine, so we added some more.
As Tucker won a few hands, his mood improved. As Grace lost every hand, she grew morose.
"Why can't we play euchre?" she asked. She listed other card games she would be willing to play -- Egyptian ratscrew, spoons. To no avail.
The poker continued. She said it didn't bother her to lose, she just hated that it all seemed to be about the luck of the cards instead of skill. I suppose the skill is a little more subtle than in a card game like euchre.
As they got into the game, the guys put on their poker faces. Some more successful than others.
Finally, the pain of the poker game finished and we took up Spencer's suggestion to walk downtown for ice cream. Of course, I told Tucker he couldn't have any since he hadn't eaten dinner. He wanted to stay on the couch and watch TV. Nope. I told him he had to come along. He spent several minutes explaining in a condescending voice why this was not logical, stupid even. But since I was walking to the ice cream store and not planning to get any ice cream, I was not swayed by his arguments.
Thus began the three-quarter mile walk to the ice cream shop, where the line on this sweltering father's day was out the door. Tucker had a gift certificate to the store and he had walked with Earl part of the way, so I knew that the two of them had hatched a plan that allowed him to buy the ice cream himself and eat it. I decided not to fuss about it. The point wasn't about who would pay; it was about eating healthier. At 14, those points get lost in the fog of adolescence.
Grace came out with a waffle cone with a dip of chocolate and mint. Spencer had a trio, three small scoops of different flavors. He'd ordered Buckeye and Belgian chocolate then "I panicked," he admitted. The pressure of ordering ice cream with the long line waiting behind him made him choose strawberry as his third scoop. He didn't regret it, he said. Earl came out with a scoop of goat cheese and sour cherry. Hmmm. My favorite ice cream from this shop that specializes in strange flavors like salty caramel and thai chili.
When we got home, we decided to choose a "movie on demand." That's a movie that is out on video, but when we order it from home, the cost goes on our cable bill. Grace and Spencer voted for Youth in Revolt while Tucker pushed for The Blind Side. We erred in the favor of the majority. Spencer kept saying, "I thought it would be funnier." It was pretty raunchy with pictures of sexual positions floating out of books and sex tips between 16-year-olds. Tucker headed to the basement. I decided to abandon family night and Grace was right behind me. Earl and Spencer made it through the end of the movie. I'm glad it only cost $4.99 for that mistake.
Next week, we'll try family night again. Maybe I'll order pizza. Everyone likes that. Now to come up with a game everyone can agree on.

Accidental Un-Blog

My blog is called an accidental blog because I started it one day without intending to. Someone in my Yahoo group sent an email. I clicked on the blog related to the email and I wanted to leave a comment. I couldn't figure out how to leave a comment without registering for a blog myself. Thus, an accidental blog was born.
Today, I accidentally removed my blog and for a few frantic hours, I thought it was lost forever.
When I started this blog, back in August 2006, a gmail account wasn't required. I began with my own personal email. This spring, I started a gmail for an alter ego account to write some racy fiction under another name. That name immediately became connected to this blog. I lived in fear of my alter ego making comments on other people's blogs. I know, it makes you think, "How unsophisticated is she about technology?" Pretty naive.
Well, the racy fiction was rejected and I was tired of seeing the alter ego's name at the top of my blog, so I decided to delete the Facebook page and the gmail account. When I did, my blog disappeared.
When I clicked on it, the message said, "This blog has been removed."
Yikes! All of those years of posting. All of those visitors stacked up one by one. Gone.
I started searching for answers. I couldn't get on Google accounts to ask questions because I didn't have a google account anymore. I opened another one. Then I found the answer to reinstating the alter ego's account, which should bring back my blog.
I sent the message to the Google elves.
A few hours later, they replied that they couldn't reopen my account because I'd started another one. I deleted the new one and sent another message.
Finally, after about five crazy hours, they sent me an email telling me that I could change my password.
Aaaargh! I didn't want to change my password. I wanted to get my blog back.
I found an old email from my website designer and started constructing an email. I would give him all the details and my emails and passwords to see if he could fix it.
I needed to give him my blog address. I clicked on it to copy the link, and there was my blog reinstated.
All of my stories about my unruly or successful children. My complaints about teaching college. My love affair with France. My resolve to be a more dedicated writer. My gripes about exercise and gaining weight. My stories about friends and families. They were all reinstated.
The only thing different that I could see, was that I am now a "follower" of my own blog. I'm not sure how that happened and I can't figure out how to undo it, so I'll live with it.
I promise never to take you for granted again, dear blog, now that you've been taken from me and brought back from the dead.
I still plan to get rid of that alter ego though -- as soon as I figure out how.

Electronics Crisis

Last year, right around this same time, in the middle of grading final exams, my computer stopped working. Guess what? It happened again on Sunday. The screen just went black and it turned off.
That evening, as Tucker was begging for more time on his XBox, I asked him to work his magic on my computer. Whenever anything in the communication world goes down, I turn to Tucker -- television, cable, DVD player, computer, iPods, phones. He's my go-to guy.
So, he unplugged everything, blew on it and plugged things back in.
It worked. For about three days.
Yesterday, it succumbed again to the black screen.
I had deduced that the problem was either the battery or the cord, because when the computer came back on Sunday, the battery charge was very low, okay, nonexistent.
So this morning, with the black screen facing me, I unplugged and replugged. I took out the battery and replaced it. I turned to Tucker. Nothing worked.
I had grades to finish for the other college where I teach, so I completed those on Earl's computer then hoisted my computer into its bag.
I took it to IT department at the college.
The computer geeks there suggested that -- since the cord had been kittenized -- I should probably start with a new cord. The kitten chewed on the cord when he was little. We have it wrapped in electrical tape and it has carried on for nearly a year.
This evening, after some amazing swims at a swim meet, Tucker, Grace and I returned home.
"Can I have more time on the XBox?" he asked, his hair still wet and his trunks soaking through his shorts.
"Fix my computer," I ordered as I picked up a dish towel and began to dry the "clean" dishes from the dishwasher.
He unpacked it from the case and 30 seconds later said, "Mom, I got it to work."
I walked in and, sure enough, the lights were glowing and the battery was charging, slowly but surely.
"Can I play XBox?" he asked again.
"Have at it," I said.
Could it be that he does something to the computer so that he can fix it and gain more time on his video games? Very possible. For now though, he's just the electronic miracle worked.

Joys of Motherhood

My kids can be so annoying and so funny. That really hasn't changed much since they were little.
Spencer is trying to redeem himself after his run-in with the law by volunteering at a basketball camp this week.
"It's horrible," he moans. He's coaching the third and fourth graders.
"Horrible for you or for the kids?" I ask on the drive there this morning.
"Both," he says.
Apparently the kids don't listen and just run amok. I had advised him to be firm with them, but this apparently hasn't helped.
"Just try to make a difference for one kid," I advise this morning as he gets out of the car.
"I do," he says. "I give them fun nicknames, like Slick Rick."
Then he loped across the field, all six-foot, three-inches of him. Making a difference, one nickname at a time.
All three of my children were home last night, which is unusual. One or all of them are generally "hanging out" with their friends somewhere in our small town. But following a day of swim practices and basketball scrimmages, they were all fairly lethargic.
About 11 p.m., I heard a sound outside and thought I saw movement. I pulled aside the curtains and saw the wind was whipping through the trees. I heard a rumble of thunder and saw a flash of light. Thunderstorm.
Then I remembered the convertible.
"Grace," I called to her. "Did you put the top up on the car?"
She hadn't.
"Come on," I yelled. "Thunderstorm."
The convertible top motor has given out. It won't put the top up or down. And, since it's heavy, it takes two people to put the top up.
We ran through the dark down the alley to the street where the car was parked.
"I'll work from the outside. You start the car," Grace yelled above the wind, flinching as thunder boomed again.
I started the car and tried the button that puts the top up. Nothing. Grace was tugging and pulling on the top.
I got out of the car and grabbed the other side. We pulled up then pushed it forward before I hopped the car to finish the job. Then we sprinted to the house again, with only a small scream from Grace when the lightning flashed again.
Never a dull minute at my house.

Which City Would You Choose?

Charlotte, North Carolina or Salt Lake City, Utah?
Those are my choices this fall for attending conferences.
First, let's deal with the obvious -- surprise that the college wants to send me to a conference. But, the people in charge picked me, so I, of course, said yes. It's not like I'm sick of hotels and airplanes because I travel so much for business.
Then the director of the Writing Center said I should choose between these two conferences.
Information isn't up about the presentations and the discussions, so I'm really left choosing based solely on the city.
Everyone in my family said they would choose Charlotte. I think we are predisposed towards the east -- kind of prejudiced in its favor.
Its closer -- about nine hours away by car. Salt Lake City is a couple of days away by car. But I'm not driving to either one. I'm flying. So why do we lean toward North Carolina?
It's beautiful. The Appalachian Mountains, lots of old trees, forests actually, people with slow southern drawls. Earl and I honeymooned in North Carolina.
Of course, just as my family is drawn to the East, some people are drawn to the West. Earl's sister's family goes out west every chance they get. His niece lived in Colorado for awhile. They vacation in New Mexico and Arizona whenever they can.
We've visited Salt Lake City as a family once. I think it was beautiful too in a different way, like the unending sky and a sharp mountain backdrop. In the West, the mountains don't seem to start like rolling hills and work up to high peeks. Instead, the plains run right up to high mountains.
While we were in Salt Lake City, Earl toured the Mormon temple with a friend while I herded kids. There is something a little uncomfortable about being in such a religious city. I remember that the restaurant we went to didn't serve alcohol -- a Mormon influence.
Still the prevailing religion shouldn't dissuade me from choosing Salt Lake City.
The flight from Columbus to Salt Lake would take anywhere from five to eight hours with at least one plane change. The flight to Charlotte could be as short as an hour and a half if I book the non-stop flight. Of course, the college is in charge of booking the flight, so it might go for a cheaper flight that takes up to five hours with layovers.
So, all things being equal, which would you choose -- Salt Lake City or Charlotte?

Party Flower

The bee balm is blooming.

I'm not sure if this flower has any special powers, but, to me, it seems like it should be an antidepressant. Who could be sad when looking at this flower?
This flower is obviously the life of the party.
My friend Ruth, in Michigan, gave me some of her bee balm, and it's thriving here in Ohio. Hers aren't blooming yet, but mine are already mid-party.
This is the kind of flower that Dr. Seuss drew in his books.
This flower should have a soundtrack from the 1980s: "Celebrate good times, come on...."
Look at its crazy top with the "court jester" hat tendrils that stick up in the air.
This flower screams summer barbecues, the coconut smell of suntan lotion, and frosty drinks of pineapple.
Celebrate! Thanks for your encouragement, Bee Balm.

Middle of the Night Visitor

At 3:38 a.m., I heard a voice outside my bedroom window.
"Mom? Dad?" Spencer's voice called from the front porch.
"Everything's okay. I just need to be let in," he said.
He was supposed to be spending the night at a friend's house. I scrambled out of bed and wondered if he was sick. Maybe the boys had decided to drink alcohol or experiment with drugs, so Spencer came home. All of these thoughts flitted through my mind as I scrambled out of bed to the front door. I never suspect the worst of Spencer. I never think he'll make the wrong choice.
As I turned the key in the lock, I saw someone standing behind Spencer. Someone big and I became worried. This man, because it was obviously a man, was standing with his feet spread wide, both hands in front of him in a military "at ease" position. This was a cop.
I opened the front door and the young police officer began to explain.
"Why don't you come inside?" I suggested, aware of the short exercise shorts and tank top I'd worn to bed and wishing I'd had a little warning of a night time visit from the police.
I could see Spencer was fine. Just in trouble.
So they came into the living room and Spencer collapsed on the couch, running his hands over his face.
The officer explained that he had found Spencer and a couple of other boys outside after curfew. When they spotted the boys, they ran and hid in the bushes. Then a car picked them up and they drove away. The police pulled the car over.
I was picturing a high-speed pursuit through our little town.
The boys said they hid because they saw the police. They claimed they weren't doing anything wrong.
"I'm so sorry, Mom," Spencer said from his perch on the couch.
"What about telling this officer your sorry that he has to bring you home instead of doing his job?" I asked.
"I'm so sorry, sir," he said.
Then he moans and rubs his face again.
The officer said the boys aren't being charged with anything, just curfew violation. And he warns that the school is very strict about taking away sports and extracurricular activities if the boys had been charged with a crime. Then he asks me to sign that a paper that says he delivered my son home in the middle of the night after curfew. In our town, anyone under 18 can't be wandering the streets after midnight.
We'd been standing in the dark of the living room, a light from the top stairs of the basement giving us just enough light to see. I turned on a lamp by the front window and signed the document on a clipboard. I shook hands with the officer who didn't let his eyes stray to the wild curls standing around my head.
I switched on the front porch light as he made his way down the 24 steps to the street.
I held my hand out for Spencer's phone, which he was wildly texting on.
"Have you heard from the other boys?" I asked. "Is everybody home safely?"
"Yes," he said.
So I took the phone and turned it off.
"Have you guys done this before?" I asked.
Yes again.
"We'll talk in the morning," I said. "Are you sleeping here on the couch or going to your room?"
Tucker had two friends spending the night and they were sprawled in the basement main room.
"Don't tell them, okay?" he said desperately, settling on the couch.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be an object lesson for many boys," I told him.
I climbed into bed next to my still sleeping husband. I nudged him awake and gave him an update on the police and our now delinguent son.
"He's grounded," my husband mumbled before he fell back to sleep.
I lay there for over an hour before I finally drifted off.
Our children's first brush with the law.

Curly Girls Unite

On our run this morning, talk turned to hair, which is strange because currently, DreamGirl has no hair. She ran without a cap, her bald head still nubbly in spots as the chemotherapy continues to work its magic.
I thought I was being petty as I twisted my hair into a braid to control the frizz created by the humidity. I reminded myself even as I tucked the braid in a cap that DreamGirl will be starting from scratch when her hair starts to grow out, so I should quit complaining. I thought I might feel uncomfortable talking about hair problems with a bald woman, but I didn't.
I asked her how she could resist telling bald men that she likes their hairstyle. She just smiled.
Then she told me that her daughter is having hair issues. When she brushes it, it grows huge.
"Tell her not to brush it," I urged.
"She doesn't have curly hair," DreamGirl said.
"Trust me. If her hair is getting big and frizzy, she has curly hair if you just allow the curls to emerge."

This is still a novel idea to many people, but if you have curly hair, brushing is not the way to go. I should know.
For years I brushed my hair and dealt with weird bumps that I tried to smooth down. When I read the book Curly Girl by Lorraine Massey, I became a convert.
I know what you're all thinking. Isn't this the same woman who loves to straighten her hair? Yes, that's me. But in this humidity, there's no sense pretending I have straight hair. I have to let it curl and control the frizz the best I can.
I start in the shower. I don't use shampoo. I haven't for years. Curly hair has open follicles and shampoo is bad for it. Curly hair also doesn't get greasy.
So I rub my scalp and add conditioner. I spread the conditioner from my scalp to the ends, removing all the tangles with my fingers. It's important to remove the tangles because I don't brush it, remember.
In humidity like this, I also leave some of the conditioner in. It isn't leave-in conditioner, but I only rinse the top of my head and leave conditioner on the ends.
When I get out of the shower, I don't wrap my head in a towel. Instead, I use a towel to scrunch it and get out the excess water. Then I add a hair product. I use Aveda Confixer. Then I let my hair dry. That's it.
I'll pull down my bangs and try to dry them, but they usually curl up again.
I got to thinking about curls after I went through old pictures for Grace's photo album. I saw some pictures of myself that I loved. My hair was really long, down to my elbows, and dark. The curls had taken over in long rolls that looked almost Rastafarian. This was at the height of my Curly Girl phase.
Before I read Curly Girl, my hair looked wavy instead of curly. That's because I used a pick to comb it every day after my shower. Not combing or brushing it makes a huge difference -- and can even lead to the Rastafarian look.
That's why I told DreamGirl that her daughter should stop brushing her hair. The more we curly girls brush our hair, the more we'll resemble Rosanne Rosannadanna from Saturday Night Live.
I even have a favorite curl. No matter how many times I straighten my hair, once I let it curl again, a curl on the right side down below my ear always emerges. It falls in a perfect long loop. Why can't all of my hair do that? Then I would truly have Romance heroine hair.
My hair is much shorter now, which is a problem for curls. The shorter the hair, the less weight, which means it has a tendency to frizz up. I like the weight of long hair to help control the frizz.
That's where straightening my hair has foiled my plans again. The more I straighten it, the more I damage it and have to cut the ends, thus resulting in shorter and shorter hair.