Favorite summer chuckle

Here's one of my favorite laugh out loud moments from the summer of 2011... As we were leaving a family reunion, I hugged my niece good-bye and wished her good luck with her upcoming MCAT exams. My youngest son, standing behind me, heard this. Hours later, he was being unusually quiet so I asked what was wrong and he said, in a sad voice, that he was disappointed in her. "I just don't understand why she wants implants."

Frame of mind is everything...

I love this print. Matter of fact, I wish I had a copy hanging in my office, that's how much it speaks to me.

From my standpoint, it looks like this guy's walking into a dense fog. That he can't see what's ahead, but he's moving forward anyhow. Of course, it also looks like he may have popped back some whiskey first, but I still admire him. Probably because, at this moment, it seems he's set his mind to a task and will not be swayed from it. I get the sense he'll be okay even if he falls, don't you? That if he does, he'll find the strength to heave himself back up on that wall and keep going.

I admire his frame of mind. Matter of fact, I've decided to adopt it myself. You see, for more than a month now my husband has been ill and we haven't been able to pin down why. I feel as though I've been going through each day like this guy in the print -- teetering to the left and then swaying to the right before struggling to find some kind of balance for my family. Today, though, I've decided I've had enough with all the doom and gloom. As my husband keeps telling me, I need to change my frame of mind and look at things differently.

By the way, when I asked what he saw when he looked at this print, he said: "Looks like a guy who got pulled over for drinking and now he's walking a sobriety test line, why?"

Not hard to tell who writes fiction in our family, huh?

I'm not who they think I am

Each afternoon at 3:30 when my boys get off the bus, I meet them at the door, give them a hug, and then head back into to my office to write. I’m usually wearing a sweatshirt, carrying a chapter I just printed out, but clearly they see someone else -- possibly someone wearing an apron, carrying a tray of still-warm tarts. I know this because not long ago my youngest said, “Mom? Why don't you bake anymore?”

I hesitated. It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped baking. I couldn't recall ever starting!

I admire people who bake, but it's not my thing. I tried years ago and got the same results over and over again. My cakes either sank into oblivion, came out like extra large hockey pucks or bubbled like volcanos and made my eyes burn when I opened the oven (it took three failed attempts at that recipe before I realized it called for 1 TBSP of vinegar, not 1 CUP). Eventually I admitted defeat and gave away every cake pan, pie plate, and rolling pin I owned, happy to spend my time writing instead.

But back to now... and my boys, who were standing at my desk waiting for an answer. Why don’t you bake anymore?

I didn't have the heart to point out that I never had, so instead I decided to morph into whoever they imagined me to be, and when I promised I’d bake a cake this week their faces lit up like I'd just parted the red sea. Then after they'd disappeared upstairs, I scribbled CAKE MIX on my grocery list -- the easy kind, where you drop in an egg, a cup of water, bake 30 mins and serve (apron optional).

Now I just need to borrow a pan!