Is 'abracadabra' the new magic word? (Or: Where are our manners?)

"We're moving to the country to raise llamas," I announced to my family the other day. "We are going to start living a slow, simple lifestyle."

My husband hurriedly grabbed his breakfast and scurried down to his office, not at all eager to discuss my new edict.

My son barely looked up from his iPod, but I thought I saw him roll his eyes.

My daughter, getting milk from the refrigerator, paused thoughtfully. "I don't think you want to raise llamas," she said. "I think you might be thinking of alpacas - I hear they're nicer. Llamas spit."

Well that's just great. Spitting. It's that kind of behavior that's pushing me to my isolated country home in the first place. See, I just decided the other day I couldn't take it anymore.

You know what I mean:

• The angry guy behind you who honks as soon as the light changes.
• The receptionist who cuts you off mid-sentence.
• The driver who practically takes off your front bumper as she cuts into your lane.
• The surly customer service guy who has absolutely no interest in customer service.

The complete and utter lack of civility.

You know, my son wanted a cookie the other day; I asked him for the magic word. He said "Abracadabra." He might be right. Because I think all the other ones have been forgotten.

In a previous job, I was standing by a bank of elevators when the doors opened and a young woman got out, a little unsteady on her feet. She smiled shakily at me, and told me she'd just given blood at the blood drive downstairs.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Sure," she said.

 Then she took a few wobbly steps and collapsed like a sack of potatoes - down for the count. Not two seconds later, a manager came zipping down the hallway at breakneck speed, his eyes intent on his mobile phone. I'm not making this up - he STEPPED OVER HER and continued down the hall.

Wow. Not good.

Hey, let's change that, you and me. Let's make behavior like that unacceptable. Let's say please and thank you, chew with our mouths closed  and help little old ladies across the street.

Let's bring back niceness. At least a little of it.

Because really, I'm not too sure about the whole alpaca thing. Not yet, anyway.

We can think in 140 characters - but can we really write anymore?

The other day, I was telling my kids about my childhood. I mentioned I didn't have a computer.

My son looked at me in amazement. My daughter gave me a pitying look.

"Were you, like, really poor?" she asked gently.

After I stopped laughing I told them, no, I wasn't really poor. We just didn't have that technology - we didn't have Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or Vine or  well... heck, we didn't even have a remote control for our television set.

My son, who has a Vulcan mindmeld with Minecraft, was amazed. "What did you ...do?" he finally sputtered.

We had an interesting conversation then - wherein I reminded
the kids about nature and books and sports, and all that exists outside of circuitry.

But the talk started me thinking about technology, and the effect our ever-changing world has on writers. We can think in 140 characters. We can text in shorthand. We know how to add links and photos and videos and easily hyperlink to our sites ... but can we still create a beautiful narrative? Can we write poetically, with emotion?

Can we offer the type of prose that gives readers goosebumps, the kind that brings a lump to their throat, that stays in their memory for days?

It's harder for me, I know that. It takes more concentration, more effort to switch gears, to feel I've succeeded.

I have a few days off. I think I'll spend them buried in a few good books, just to remind me how it's done.

Happy Easter - from Bloody the Blood Drop

Every year I set up a little Easter vignette in the picture window in the living room.

I gather all the appropriate stuffed animals - you know, bunnies, ducks, lambs - from downstairs, and I arrange them in a sweet little pile along with some appropriate Easter books to help set the mood for the holiday.

This year, time got away from me, and I was running behind - digging in the depths of the basement late at night for apparently non-existent rabbits while my two uninterested children watched TV and played on the computer instead of helping me.

As I slogged through piles of plushies previously considered precious, I could feel my spirits drop. Apparently, nobody remembered any of these little guys. Nobody cared about decorating, nobody but me.

I was all set to have a little pity party.

And then I found him. There, at the bottom of the last bin, smiling up at me.

Bloody the Blood Drop. Yep, that's his name. The little plushie that I quite literally paid for in blood. He's a little beanbag in, you guessed it, the shape of a blood drop. He has a belt buckle that boasts "BB," and he wears a very cool black cape with a medical cross on the back.

He was the prize at a Red Cross blood drive at my daughter's elementary school when she was in second grade, and she wanted to win him SO bad. (Who wouldn't, right?) For every sponsor who would give blood, your name was put in a bowl ... and then maybe, just maybe, you - lucky you - would win Bloody the Blood Drop.

But Katie didn't have any sponsors. She comes from squeamish stock - I'll admit I'm not big on blood donating. I do it - I just don't like it. But she begged and pleaded and I finally relented. So her name was placed in the bowl - once.

Usually, my donations are uneventful. But this time I became so nauseous the nurses flipped the gurney I was on so my feet were higher than my head. Lying there, sick and inverted, I heard my daughter's name called; turning my head, I got to see her jump for joy. I figured it was worth it.

I carried Bloody up the stairs. "Do you remember this guy?" I asked my daughter as she sat at her computer. Her  face lit up immediately.

"Bloody the Blood Drop!!" she cried. "I love that guy!'

I might just have to add him to my Easter vignette. You know, somewhere in the back.

Writing inspiration from frosting and anxiety . . . .

I've never really believed in the necessity of writer's angst.

You know what I mean - the belief that a writer can't churn out the copy unless she's dreadfully unhappy. Sure, you hear all about these authors with tortured souls - and I'm sure they have their reasons - but most of the writers I know are pretty even-keeled. Funny, even.

Yes, they may get kind of cranky, but that's mostly because of the paychecks they're pulling down.

That type of angst I find completely understandable. The other kind truly mystified me ...  until last week, when my daughter was leaving on an out-of-state school trip. She and I are very close - and I'm horrendously overprotective - so when she and her dad left for the airport and the house was silent and still, I felt close to tears.

At loose ends, I grabbed a cupcake from the kitchen. I ate off all the frosting. Then I sat down listlessly at my computer, dawdled a few minutes, then started to write. And suddenly, I was able to come up with the intro to a new project I've been wanting to try  - a romance. I've never written one before, and though I had an outline, the beginning was stumping me. Having a place to start my story made me feel (a little) happier that day.

Maybe that's how the whole writer's angst thing works.

"He was gone. And I couldn't stop eating.

Grief does strange things to you, you know. It keeps you up late at night as you sweat and turn and tremble, it makes your eyes glaze over with memories,  it forces you to obsessively search your inbox for messages you know will never arrive.

And it makes you eat. A lot."

I'm back to blogging ... with some fun 'Chicken Soup' news to share

Blame it on Disney.

You know, that show - "Dog with a Blog?"  Maybe that's why I stopped blogging for awhile. I figured that if canines were blogging, maybe it was time for us humans to give it a rest.

Or maybe my blogging muse was simply on vacation. I wish I would have known; I'd have asked for a postcard. Regardless, I took a little break. But now I'm back. And I have some exciting news.

I just found out that a short story I wrote, "Word by Word," will be included in the new "Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for Writers" book, which will be released on May 21. I found out about a month ago I was a finalist, and then last week that I'd actually made it in.

The story focuses on how I lost - and found - my creativity with the help of my family after my sister died. I hope it shows other writers that even if/when you hit a dry patch, it's okay - it doesn't mean your writing days are all behind you.

In the meantime, I'll be doing most of my blogging on this site, and so I hope you'll give me a follow. I promise I'll keep blogging - no wonder what species Disney has blogging next.

Mom Tales - 30 essays that show motherhood isn't for the weak

Coming soon to virtual bookstores ... my newest book:  Mom Tales: Stories of Parenting, Potties and Post-Partum Panic.

It's a collection of 30 essays that show motherhood isn't just about the coos and smiles. In fact, in my humble opinion, being a mommy is not for the weak - of stomach, heart or resolve.

Here's an excerpt from one of my favorite essays ...

I ushered my supervisor into the little office and eased myself into a chair. I could barely keep the grin off my face. I took a deep breath.

“I’m pregnant!” I announced.

She looked at me without saying anything. The silence stretched out between us. Finally, a tiny smile forced her lips apart.

“What?” I said, somewhat startled at her lack of enthusiasm. Yes, she was my supervisor, but she also was my friend. I’d worked for her as a reporter at this newspaper for several years. We knew each other fairly well; I thought she’d at least be a little excited for me. “What?”

She recovered her composure quickly. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, waving an arm gracefully. “It’s just …” she hesitated again.

My mouth fell open. “WHAT?!” I almost shouted.

She shrugged. “Diane,” she said finally. “It’s just that you don’t seem very … ‘family-friendly.’”

I stared at her, dumbstruck. Of course, I would have been more insulted if I hadn’t been getting similar messages – from friends – ever since I announced that I was with child.

Let me explain. This was my first child, yes. And I was perhaps a little older, in my mid-thirties, to be exact, so I could be a little set in my ways, but I didn’t think I was that bad. I wasn’t an alcoholic, a workaholic or a raging drug addict. In fact, I had a good job, a nice house and a great husband.

Sure, I had a few too many cats, but we could deal with that later, I figured.

But the way my friends were talking, I was falling far short in the mom department.

In fact, when I’d assembled a few of my good friends together a few days earlier, my fantastic news had been met with desultory congratulations – and more than a few words of caution.

Now, no one knows more about the troubles and travails of babies, of course, than a group of stylish, childless career women. Especially the women in my circle.

“Babies smell,” one friend warned me. “And remember when I made that Reuben sandwich and you said the smell of sauerkraut almost made you throw up? Baby poop smells worse than sauerkraut.”

I frowned. “I doubt that very much.”

My other friend shook her head. “And you like to sleep,” she said. “Babies don’t sleep.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed. “Are you saying I’m lazy?” I asked

.

She raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “No,” she said. “I’m just telling you; my sister had a baby and after three months with hardly any sleep she started acting completely crazy.”

I shrugged. “Your sister was kind of crazy anyway,” I informed her crisply. “Remember when she gave us a ride home from the mall in her POS car, and she wanted everyone to think it had air conditioning so she made us keep the windows rolled up?” I frowned. “We almost all died from heat prostration.”

She had the grace to look away, but she didn’t look terribly chagrined.

But then my best friend from work put a hand on my arm. “Diane, what do you keep in your crisper?” she asked gently.

I was confused. “Chardonnay, of course,” I answered. What the hell else would you keep in a crisper?

What was wrong with these people? And what did refrigerated items have to do with being a good mom?

My friend just sighed. “Honey, crispers are actually for vegetables,” she said. “I was going to tell you when we were alone, but you might as well know now."

I sat back in my chair “Seriously?” I said. “That’s so gross.” ...

From: 'Excuse me ...Are you 'family friendly?' (From 'Mom Tales,' coming soon to Amazon and Barnes & Noble).

Oh, dear! Miss Charlotte's Pie is missing!

I'm a sucker for church cookbooks.

You know the ones; they're brimming with down-home recipes organized by congregation members and put together into books that are sold as fund-raisers for the church.

I just love them. They have the most interesting recipes and the most fun little stories inside.

Now, I need more books like we need more hot weather, but sometimes, I just can't resist. And so when I was at the library used bookstore the other day (just looking - really!) and I saw a cute little church cookbook, I had to check it out.

It was called "Collard Greens, Watermelons and Miss Charlotte's Pie," and it had been put together by the ladies of the Swansboro United Methodist Church in Swansboro, North Carolina, which, incidentally, is nowhere near where I live.

I couldn't help myself. I was intrigued. The recipes sounded yummy and besides, I really wanted to know about Miss Charlotte and her pie. So I bought it.

It was great. I loved reading all the delicious recipes in it, from Ruth's Chili to Susan's Mushroom Chicken to Southern Peanut Butter Pie. I enjoyed reading about Miss Charlotte, the  lovely and talented town matriarch.

But when I went to find the recipe for Miss Charlotte's Pie, I got a rude surprise. It's not there. Nope, it's gone. Page 52 has been neatly removed.

No pie for me.

Apparently I'm not the only one who was intrigued by the wonderful Miss Charlotte.