'Tis the Season (dammit)

If there is one thing I'm betting all single moms can agree on, it's this:

Putting up Christmas lights is one of the most heinous activities of the entire year, let alone Christmas.  Listen, I realize in most dual-parent families that it's the husband/father to whom this task is relegated.  Let me tell you, I feel your pain.  Every year, since 2007, I have been single-handedly decorating my house for Christmas.  And every year I swear my neighbors close their windows, lock their doors and turn the televisions up a little louder.  Because really, who wants to hear the poor, crazy, single mom across the street cussing her brains out as she attempts to hang a few hundred strands off lights?

Mind you, I don't even attempt to hang lights on the house.  God knows, that would be a task straight from hell.  It's bad enough to adorn bushes.  Every year it's the same thing.  I've learned to test the lights, which is good, but inevitably there are a few strands that don't work.  And every year I promise myself I'll do a better job next year: more lights, more merriment, faster, easier, smarter.

So this year, I bought an extra 400 feet of lights.  I have no idea how many I already had.  Oh, and last year I got the bright idea to buy "those easy net lights you just throw over a bush."  Not.  Unless you have midget bushes, they only cover the top third of the damn thing, which makes me look like an incompetent ass.  I may have a bit of a complex, but I refuse to not give my kids a decorated house for Christmas.  And just because I am a chick, doesn't mean that I can't do this.  And do it well.  I'm doing it up right this year if it kills me.

I come home from the store and lay out all the lights.  And remember the cute plastic candy canes that lined the walkway last year.  That was a last-minute desperate purchase to make the half-ass bushes look a little better.  I pull them out of the box to find half of them broken, the stakes torn from the plastic.  Now I remember: last year, on December 26th, I was so ready to get those damn things down, that I gave the first one a yank and they all came flying, leaving mud-caked stakes in the ground.

I spend ten minutes trying to fix the lights and then with a great big four-letter crash, I dump them in the trash.  Enough of that.

I plug in the first outdoor extension cord and begin stringing the lights over the bushes on the front of the house.  I make it around 2 medium-sized bushes by the walkway, then turn the corner to the front of the house and start on the first evergreen tree (okay, bush, but it's very tall).  I run out of lights, grab the next 200 foot strand, plug the male into the female and start on the first of four smaller bushes that run across the landscaping before making it to the matching tall evergreen tree (bush) on the other side.  I get one fourth of the way up that bush... and run out of lights.

This is where I take a very deep breath.  Throw up my hands and stomp away. Funny that on the day I decide to take on this Godforsaken project, it's a balmy 72 degrees.  I am sweating.  Profusely.  I am pissed.  Granted, usually it's 45 degrees and my four-letter words fly out of my chapped laps in a puffy white cloud.  I should be glad.  I'm not.  I need a break.

I move my car and begin sweeping out the garage.  This feels good.  I can do this.  I organize, throw away, sweep and straighten until my garage is fairly clean.

Back to the lights. This time I start on the other side of the garage.  I've got two small bushes and another tree.  There are two "crappy ass net lights" and two 100 foot strands of lights.  Easy-peasy.  I'll connect them to the other extension cord and run that wire over the garage door later (Oh, yeah, that's some foreshadowing...).

I head back to the BS other side of my house and unwrap most of those f'ing lights.  Since I don't have any additional lights, and I'll be Damned if I'm going back to the store, I decide to wrap the lights just around the front of the bushes.  Hell, you can't see the back anyway!  This is what I call "poor decorating."  But hey, don't knock it 'till you've tried it (or you're desperate).  Finally, I'm finished.
Except that now I can't find the other f*ing extension cord.  Luckily, I have a very kind elf who brings me several of these so that I don't have to spend more money.

I get home after work tonight, run my kids to physical therapy, stop to pick up a "lost" phone charger, and make a run to the bank, then stop for carry-out pizza (mom of the year award, here I come!) before finally getting home at 6:45pm.  I eat, announce that it's homework time and head back outside.  All I have to do is plug those lights in on the "easy" side of the garage, and then run that extension cord over the door so that it doesn't catch on the opener, and plug the sucker in.

Twenty minutes later, I've hit my head on a light fixture and taught the neighbor kids a few new "sailor" words before I say, quite loudly, "Screw This," and run the damn cord along the floor of the garage and plug the f*ing thing in.

Done.  Merry &*%^ Christmas!

Author's note:  
I LOVE Christmas, it's just this one task that I despise.  So, what about you?  Is there one thing you hate doing, despite your love of the season?  Go on, share it, it'll make me feel better...

It's Official...

Well, the press release is out.  And low and behold, it looks like I'll be collecting cans and signing copies of Chicken Soup: Finding My Faith, in which one of my stories is published. I'd love for you to stop by The Book House on December 8th, between 4-6pm ... see below for more information.

A shout-out to my fellow WWWPs - Tammy, Linda and Sioux (Sioux - we are going to have so much fun!) who will also be signing copies of the Chicken Soup books in which they are featured, and Lynn, who received a contract from the "50 Shades of Santa" anthology for her story!  I am so proud to be a member of such an amazing, talented group of writers!!

But I digress... here's the press release.  Hope to see you there!

Fourth Annual “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body” Book Signing

Ten local Chicken Soup for the Soul writers will sign books at three independent bookstores in the St. Charles/St. Louis area on Saturday, December 8, 2012. The annual combination book signing and canned food drive has expanded this year from its original venue at Main Street Books in St. Charles to include the other two stores in honor of Chicken Soup for the Soul’s upcoming twenty-year anniversary. Customers may bring in a canned good to be donated to area food pantries and receive 20% off their entire purchase that day. Participating stores and authors are:

10-12 AM, All on the Same Page (Contact: Robin Tidwell, owner)

11052 Olive Blvd., Creve Coeur, MO 314-567-4144 http://www.allonthesamepagebookstore.com/

Nina Miller, former Children's Area Specialist at Borders Creve Coeur, has just finished The Ultimate Storytime Guide, to be published soon by McFarland & Co. This book will offer parents, teachers, booksellers and librarians information on creating a complete story time experience that includes music, art, movement, food and literature.

Theresa Sanders is a frequent Chicken Soup for the Soul contributor, with fifteen stories published by the series. An award-winning technical writer and former manager of a documentation and training department, she is currently completing a novel.

T’Mara Goodsell is an award-winning multi-genre writer who has six stories in Chicken Soup for the Soul books as well as other anthologies and newspapers. More of her writing can be found at http://messageinabloggletheartofbeingbroken.blogspot.com/.

1-3 PM, Main Street Books (Contact: Vicki Erwin, owner)

307 South Main Street, St. Charles, MO 636-949-0105 http://www.mainstreetbooks.net/

Cathi LaMarche is the author of the novel While the Daffodils Danced. Her stories appear in eight Chicken Soup for the Soul books, as well as other anthologies. She currently teaches composition and literature, and she writes in her spare time.

Linda O'Connell has been published in seventeen Chicken Soup for the Soul books and many other anthologies, magazines and books.

Lynn Cahoon is an Alton, IL contemporary romance author with a love of hot, sexy men, real and imagined-ranging from rogue witch hunters to modern cowboys. She blogs at her website (www.lynncahoon.wordpress.com) about writing, lessons learned while surviving breast cancer, and living the dream.

Pat Wahler resides in St. Peters with her husband, dog, and cat. She is a grant writer by day and freelance writer by night and has been published in dozens of local and national venues. A life-long animal lover, Pat ponders critters, writing, and life's little mysteries at www.critteralley.blogspot.com.

4-6 PM, The Book House (Contact: Michelle Barron, owner)

9719 Manchester Rd., St. Louis, MO 314-968-4491 http://www.bookhousestl.com/

Beth M. Wood is a mom of three, marketing VP and freelance writer. She is a devout reader, semi-fanatic editor, and not so great golfer. Follow along at bethmwood.blogspot.com.

First-place winner of the 2012 Erma Bombeck Global Humor Writing Competition, Donna Duly Volkenannt lives in St. Peters with her husband and grandchildren, who inspire her and fill her with joy. Learn more about Donna at http://donnasbookpub.blogspot.com.

Sioux Roslawski is a 3rd grade teacher with the Ferguson-Florissant School District. A freelance writer, she also rescues dogs for Love a Golden Rescue. Her writing can be found at http://siouxspage.blogspot.com.

Since 1993, more than 112 million copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies have been sold in the United States and Canada alone, with titles translated into more than 40 languages. Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC, is a world leader in life improvement. For more information, please visit: www.chickensoup.com.

I've got your back (and your pen)

Last night, I attended a book signing for my friend, Jean Whatley.  She was signing copies of her first (of many, I am sure) book, "Off The Leash."  The event was held at Subterranean Books in the Loop (for those of you out of town, it's a trendy, eclectic neighborhood in St. Louis).

But I digress, I went for two reasons.

One: I wanted to meet Jean.  While I consider her a friend we've never met - not in person anyway.  We met through a writer friend we have in common - Linda O'Connell.  Of the I-write-every-day-and-everything-gets-accepted O'Connell's (okay, I'm kidding, but she's GOOD folks!). And someday, I hope to finish my own novel and stand behind that podium. And maybe, just maybe, Jean will be there to hand me a pen.

Anyway, I arrived just a few minutes late, and walked into a darling little book shop.  Ya know those books shops that just ooze character? It could be in a movie, this book store.  You know, like the one in "You've Got Mail"?  It's that quaint.

So, I walk in, and Jean's voice floats down from the second-floor loft (okay it didn't float - she has a much more commanding voice that that). People stand on every step of the staircase, lean over railings, and crowd around listening to Jean read from her book.

When she finishes, someone from upstairs calls down, "we need pens!"  Someone from the store pulls one out of her purse, and since I am standing right there, I say, "I'll take it up to her." I do.  I am like Moses walking up those stairs, people parting to the left and right (boy, I'm on a role today, huh?) and as I reach the second floor landing, I see a swarm of people.  Men, women, kids - even a dog!  Sitting, standing, waiting to talk with Jean.  I walk through the throngs, and past a tv camera and stand in front of Jean and her podium, holding up the pen.  "Jean," I smile.

"You're Beth Wood!" She recognizes me - I guess from my facebook or blog profile picture.  We hug like old friends. And because she thinks I'm even "cuter in person" I think I like her even more. I truly feel like I've known this woman for a great many years.

Writing will do that to you.  It brings like-minded artists together.  We share the misery, the stress, the defeat, the joys, the understanding, man that it's what we gotta do.  Like it or not.  Good or bad, blood on the keyboard or no, we just get it.  We stick together.  Like my WWWPs and me.

Which is Reason #2 for me attending last night.  Because we writers have to support each other, dream for each other, critique, help, motivate, each other.

But I digress.  Again.  Jean is, how do you say? One. Hell. Of. A. Writer.  Really.  She is.  She had me from the very first blog post I read of hers.  She has a way of getting right to the heart of things with no drama (and believe you me,  she has reason to be dramatic if she wants to), no pity, just real, raw emotion.  But the real reason I am in awe of her writing is because she can DIGRESS like nobody's business.  The woman can swing from north to south and back again and we're just ... along for the ride.  Nodding our heads, like yeah.  

One of my favorite things to write about on my blog is books.  I'm my own little book review club over here.  I've just finished Jennifer Niven's "Becoming Clementine" and am working on that review.  And now I've got our very own Jean Ellen Whatley's book to enjoy, and review.

Jean, I hope I do ya proud, because I've just started reading, and I am hooked.

So proud of you.  So happy for you.  And looking forward to buying you a margarita over at Nacho Mama's very soon...

crazy coaches and throwed rolls.

We drove to Memphis this past weekend for my son's soccer tournament.  This is the same tournament my oldest son played in years ago, so as we neared the city, those memories came flooding back to me.  In fact, we stayed at the very same hotel.  That was about 6 years ago, and much has changed since then.  Jack's dad and I have been divorced for more than five years now.  So we drove in separately, with our respective partners.

But while some things have changed dramatically, others have, sadly, remained much the same.  Back when Connor played (mind you, he was about 9 years old), his team took first place in their age bracket.  Back then, the boys had raced over to the brick enclosure to receive their trophies.  The team they'd beaten was there too, they'd come in 2nd place and would receive trophies, as well.  We all circled around the tournament director's table, kids sitting on the ground, parents behind, beaming.  The two teams sat next to each other.  All dirty, tired boys. Happy.  Proud of their achievements.  The 2nd place team's coach stood up to accept their trophies.  He thanked our team for a game well-played.  But that wasn't enough.  In front of his own players, he went on to say how much better our boys played.  He told our players that they deserved to win - they'd played a much better game of soccer.  And then told his own players that he was disappointed.  That they should be taking a lesson from our boys...and on and on.  It was, in a word, sad.

Whether or not his players had played their hearts out or given up halfway through the game, did these fourth graders deserve to have their hearts trampled on in front of the competition? In front of their parents?  Was it not enough that they'd lost?  That they'd taken 2nd place? I was embarassed.  For that coach.  For the players.  Really, for everyone within ear shot.  Those boys were already smarting enough to take 2nd place.  I don't think our players took any pleasure in that coach's verbal abuse of his own team.

This time around, Jack's team didn't fare as well.  They did make it to the semi-finals, and got to play on the stadium field - a treat in and of itself.  But they got beat.  And as we sat and watched the game, I wondered about this other coach.  He stood on the sidelines screaming at his players.  Mind you, they were winning.  In fact they were up 2-0 at the half, but that coach was literally jumping up and down, waving a shirt (or a towel - something) in the air and screaming.  At the players, at the refs, hell, probably at God himself.

I watched our coach (who happens to be Jack's dad), hands behind his back, pacing the sidelines.  Occasionally he'd yell a player's name, and as the player looked over, he'd use a silent motion to get his thought across.  A point to his head might have meant "get your head in the game,"  Both hands waving towards himself, meant "move back," you get the idea.  As the players were subbed out, he'd hive five each one.  As one came off the field after a less than stellar performance, he'd stop him, hands on small shoulders, and talk for a moment, eye to eye.
Maybe you think this wasn't enough.  Maybe, you think, this is why your team lost.  I don't think so.  Not for a minute.  This team won one of their toughest games this weekend with this same coaching style.

Maybe it was a good thing that the other team went on to the finals (and won, by the way).  I can't imagine how their coach would have acted had they lost.

But I digress.  Parents are still coaching from the sidelines.  Screaming at refs.  Fighting amongst each other.

To what end?

Are they afraid of what will become of their child if they lose?  Do they feel so much pressure to update their facebook status with a "win" that they would make a scene in front everyone?  I'd like to know how many players on the field are listening to the parents over their coach.  I wonder how many coaches wish the parents would just shut up already and let them do their jobs.

One year, when Connor was playing select ball, his team picked up a new player.  Nice kid.  Good ball skills.  His father, on the other hand, was another story.  This guy was a screamer.  If his son missed a goal, he'd scream.  If he lost a 50-50 ball, he'd scream.  And when his son got hurt?  He'd scream at him to quit being a wuss, pick up his purse and get up already (I shit you not).  The man would frequently bring his older son to games, and wouldn't you know it?  The poor kid's older brother would scream at him, too.  The coach let him go at the end of the season.  Not because of the boy's performance, but because his father was so incredibly disruptive on the sidelines.  It made all the parents nervous.  Hell, not only did he fight (loudly) with parents on the opposing team, but he'd yell at us, too.  Not what you'd call good sportsmanship.

I'll take this just one step further into insanity. True Story:  My 1st grade daughter is taking her first soccer camp through the same select club for which her older brother plays.  I did not sign her up for select ball...I signed her up for a learning camp, and did so through this club because it allows her to practice on the same night as her older brother, on the field right next to him and her dad (who is his coach).  It also allows her oldest brother to help coach the team, and assist other coaches and staff.  A win-win for all.  The night of their second game, sweet Ella served as goalie.  She was adorable, alternately waving to me on the sidelines, and shouting encouragements to her teammates.

She made some great saves, and let in a few, too.  At one point, after the second ball sailed past her into the goal, the mom sitting next to me said loudly to no one in particular, "can we change goalies!?"  This out-of-shape hoosier then proceeded to tell the people around her that she had played select soccer in high school and college.  Enough said.

Refs are going to make bad calls (football, anyone?).  Players are going to make mistakes on the field.  Every team will win some and lose some.  So if you're sitting on the sidelines and have the urge to scream at a ref, a coach, a player, stop and think.  What good will this do?  Is the ref going to hear you screaming and reverse the call?  Is he going to be afraid and call the game in favor of your son's team.  Does he care?  Or are you just modeling atrocious behavior that your child will certainly pick up later in life?

But I digress.  On the way home from the tournament, we stopped at Lambert's...home of the throwed rolls (you know the place, right?).  Fun atmosphere, great food, and yes, hot rolls thrown right to you.  My daughter stood up in her seat and held her hands high over her head.  The server saw her and launched a hot roll right to her.  It was one hell of a throw.  Of course, as soon as it started sailing towards her, Ella did what most seven year old girls would do...she ducked.

So I screamed and yelled at her for not keeping her eye on the roll.

KIDDING!  We caught the roll and handed it over.

(author's note: Listen, I'm not saying that the losing team should get trophies, too.  While that might be nice when they're little, at some point, and especially if kids choose to play at a select level, they are going to know what it feels like to lose.  And guess what? That's okay!  It makes the victories that much sweeter. And pushes them to work harder.  I just don't think parents - and even coaches of young kids - need to be quite so... ignorant.)

Ever witnessed an out of control coach or parent?

And now in a scene right out of Sixteen Candles...

Jake Ryan knocks on the door, only to be told (by Long Duck Dong), that she got married.

The unforgettable Jake Ryan (married?)

Married?
Married.
Married?
Married!
Good Stuff. You can watch it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGJfruLLiyk

But I digress.  The other day, the news reported that an historian of early Christianity at Harvard Divinity School had identified a scrap of papyrus on which is written, in Coptic (a fourth century greek language), “Jesus said to them, `My wife ...’ ” 

Is it so incredible to think that Jesus might have been married?  Was he not a man?  Did he not live among us? Breathe, eat, sleep, God forbid... poop, like the rest of us?   And why should we think he didn't also fall in love, get married even?  

I realize that every religion picks and chooses portions of scripture around which to build their business model (yes, that's what it is, it's a business with a model, just like anything else.  That doesn't make it bad, or good, by the way.  It just is).  What is the travesty in considering that Jesus may have had female disciples?  

That maybe there was something to that theory in "The Divinci Code" - that right there in the painting of The Last Supper, was a woman, seated at the table, among the 12 Disciples chosen by Jesus.  Well, surely, he was born of Mary, right?  She's pretty spectacular, no?  And if there is a God, and He is, in fact, Man, as we understand that term to mean, well then, he came from somewhere, did he not?  And let me tell you folks, he sure as heck didn't come from another man.  I guess you could argue that if Jesus can be born of a virgin, then God can be born of... what? Nothing?  
It's a crap shoot, I'm telling ya, because we just don't know.  We can all proselytize till we're blue in the face, but: We. Just. Don't. Know.  Ya know? 

Ah, but what we do have is Faith.  Can't see it.  Can't smell it, touch it, hear it even.  But, it's there, man.  Because if there is one sense we can engage to find faith, it's touch... because we can feel it.  

Faith that what?  What's important here?  Do you need the knowledge that God is a man to have faith? Do you need to know for a fact that no way, no how, did Jesus allow women at that table? Is that what you need to believe?  Or is it the idea that something much greater than you - God - as we call Him - is out there...somewhere.  That He holds you in his palm.  That He loves you as you love your own children. That in times of great sorrow, great need, great joy even, you can call out to Him, pray to Him, talk with Him?  

Does it matter, really, whether or not the people around him that last night of his life on earth could pee standing up?  Does it?  

Do you think in your heart that if Jesus promised to devote all he had to God, that he couldn't possibly love someone here on earth, too?  'Cause I don't.  Not for a minute.  It's part of what really gets me about the Catholic church.  And I can say that because I was raised Catholic.  Baptized into the faith, received all the necessary sacraments, the whole ball of wax.  And it's how I raise my own kids, too.  Not because I need them to have some organized religion making rules for them.  But because I believe they need a foundation from which to someday be able to make their own decisions re: religion.  And, more importantly, I want them to have Faith.  That illusive creature, that helps them through the bad times, picks them up off the floor, crying, bleeding, broken, and helps them get on with the business of living.  I want them to know that there is something greater out there than themselves.  That they are loved.  That there is good in the world.  

But I digress (again).  I suppose the knowledge that Jesus really did have a wife would change the whole foundation on which the Catholic church was built.  Why, they might even have to allow priests to get married and let women become priests. 

I don't know a whole lot about the business of religion, but I do know that I can sit in church and listen to a man (the priest) speak eloquently about our God, about Jesus and his disciples and feel that faith.  But I'll tell ya what, I could just as easily sit in that pew and listen to a female speak to me about my God.  What difference does it make?  Didn't God create EACH OF US in his OWN LIKENESS?  Well, then, I ask you, does it matter?  

We were having this discussion at dinner last night, my kids and I.  And my oldest was telling me about how they discussed this news of Jesus possibly having a wife in his religion class.  Connor was adamant that it does not matter.  But he also struggles with the idea of faith.  "How do you know He's real," he was saying, "if you can't see Him, talk to Him..." As he was saying this, my daughter (age 7) piped up, saying in her sweet voice, "But you can talk to God, Connor.  Like when you're feeling sad, or you need help with something..."

Leave it to the little ones, right? Truer words, my friends... God love her ; )

But I'm very curious, what's your take on this bit of news?