Be-Mused — Karen Templeton

. . .about blogging the past few days. As in, I haven’t. Not that I haven’t tried. Several times. But somehow, the tone was never right. Either too maudlin or too flippant. Massive devastation and destruction will do that to the creative process.

It just feels so wrong, going about my normal life when it will be months, if not longer, before so many others even begin to resume something approximating “normal.” It almost makes me wonder if, sometimes, we’re motivated to donate to relief efforts more out of guilt than compassion. A mixture of both, I suppose. Although in the long run, I doubt seriously whether the victims give a damn why people give, as long as they do.

But for all I’ve been glued to the TV or online, becoming more and more stunned about Katrina’s aftermath, I have to remember there’s a 10-year-old in the house. And while nothing says he shouldn’t understand what’s going on, and feel compassion, he is, after all, only ten. Children feel more vulnerable as it is without taking on burdens they’re far too young to understand, let alone shoulder. As it happens, his English assignment — complete sentences vs. sentence fragments — happened to focus on storms. Complete coincidence — that’s just what came up next in the book — but ack! By the time he looked up at me, clearly worried about losing our home or that something would happen to the cats, I realized we needed to back off a bit.

If something horrible happened, God forbid, we’d deal with it. But awful things happen in the world every single day, things that would drive most adults over the edge if constantly dwelled on. Our babies don’t need that. Right now, the biggest issue in his life should be getting his homework done. He’s got seventy or more years ahead of him to deal with all the rest of it.

I’ve tried to blog several times today. Each time, it just sort of fizzled out. I even went over to Romancing the Blog to see if any of the discussions there would spark the ol’ brain to life, but nope. Whatever I had to say, I said there.

I think it’s partly the weather/time of year. By this point in the summer (and here in Albuquerque, fall really doesn’t get going until mid-October, so I’ve got six weeks left, blech), I’m bored with my summer clothes, bored with staying inside because I don’t do heat/sun (hot flashes/fair skin, ’nuff said), bored with salads and “light” summer fare. I want to cook pot roasts, stews, TURKEY. I want to burrow underneath my down comforter like a little hamster; I want to get back into my sweaters and jeans and boots. I want to look out at my brown yard and not feel guilty about it.

I want to go for walks again, breathing in the scent of ripening leaves and fireplace smoke. I want my hot coffee (decaffeinated though it might be) in the mornings and my hot chocolate (Swiss Miss sugar-free) at night. I’m ready for that hectic three months of perpetual anticipation as Halloween gives way to Thanksgiving (TURKEY! Macy’s Parade!) gives way to Christmas (TURKEY! COOKIES! THE TREE!). For three months, I’m both the Mom Who Makes it All Happen and a child again, although since my youngest will be eleven, the magic is fading. A little. To compensate, the older kids now actually eat something besides rolls and black olives at holiday meals (although sweet potatoes still haven’t made the list, save for the marshmallow topping). And take food home, even. I’ll take appreciation in lieu of magic, I s’pose.

Of course, by the time Jan. 1 rolls around, I’m sick of the holidays and the cooking and the shedding tree and the Making It All Happen. And my winter clothes. But right now, at the end of August when it’s too hot to go for a walk, baking cookies and stringing lights and wrapping up in sweaters with a cup of hot chocolate sounds pretty damn good.

Reading: CARPE DEMON by Julie Kenner. Having read and enjoyed Julie’s THE SPY WHO LOVED ME not too long ago, I happened to mention this one to our oldest when we were visiting him in Kansas a couple months ago. A huge Buffy fan, the kid (some kid — nearly 26, former Marine) immediately went to Walden’s and bought a copy, which he brought to me when he came home (and read while stranded in Minneap0lis — twice — going to and from Albuquerque to New York). I traded him my copy of UNDEAD AND UNWED by Mary Janice Davidson. Funny romantic suspense or paranormal, I can do.

#3 returned from his Grand Tour yesterday. Something tells me he won’t be doing that again anytime soon. Guess riding in a van for ten hours to play for six people didn’t really do it for him.

Hmm. Sounds like my booksignings.

Anybody else watching SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE on Fox? Hubby and I are both former dancers (he, ballroom; me, ballet) so this was a no-brainer for us. Although I think if Lauren Sanchez says “Give it up” one more time, my normally mellow husband is going to crawl through the screen and strangle the poor dear. And we could do without taking a half hour and roughly five hundred commercials to tell us which two dancers got the axe. Spare us the sturm-und-drang. Please.

BUT. The dancing is often nothing short of phenomenal. By this point, doesn’t matter who goes on to “win,” we’re seeing most of these gals and guys with nice careers, anyway. As guilty pleasures go, this one’s a winner in our book. Just plain fun to watch.

Speaking of reality shows — we’re gearing up for season four of The Apprentice. Yeah, yeah, it’s shlock, but it’s entertaining shlock. This jury of two is out on whether or not we’ll give Ms. Stewart’s clone a shot. Could be amusing.

Finished Terry McMillan’s THE INTERRUPTION TO EVERYTHING, quite liked it. Felt more focused to me than some of her other books (I’ve read them all), and nobody can touch the woman when it comes to dialogue. Pretty typical menopausal-woman-reassesses-her-life premise, but one that sparkles in McMillan’s voice. Oh, and stumbled across one of Eileen Dreyer’s hardback mysteries in Sam’s Club yesterday — I adored her Kathleen Korbel romances, so will be curious to see if I like her mysteries as much.

Not sure which part of the dream was worse — that I was pregnant — with twins! — or that I was working at Wal-Mart.

Nothin’ against Wal-Mart, it’s just that I’ve done the retailing thing (several times over) and have no wish to do it again. Much prefer the buying end of it than the selling.

Speaking of retailing (as in, kid who works in), this is a wave to #2 (the one in NYC), who said he might peek in when he stopped by school after work this evening.

Watched Zefferelli’s tribute to Maria Callas the other night (CALLAS FOREVER). If you’re even remotely interested in opera, this is one to see. And hear. Fanny Arment, the French actress who plays Callas in the last year of her life is phenomenal, and the movie is chock full of Callas’s recordings from the fifties, when she was at her prime. Anyway, the reason I mention this is, hubby was wondering if Arment seemed old enough to play the role, even though she was the same age as Callas at that point (53). Then he says, “But then, you’re 53 and don’t look it, either, so there you are.”

Earned him some mega-points with that one.

Leaving you now with this pithy little bon-mot from the inside of my Dove Dark Chocolate wrapper: Don’t think about it so much.

Sounds good to me.

Did any of you see that piece in the news about the smugglers who were lured to a fake wedding on a luxury yacht off the Jersey shore (as in, Joisey, all you across-the-ponders), only to find their butts thrown in jail? The sting operation was months in the making, including a pair of undercover FBI agents who posed as a couple, befriended these yahoos (whose stock in trade included counterfeit money, cigarettes, Viagra and blue jeans, with a few semi-automatic rifles thrown in for variety), and then “invited” said yahoos to their “wedding.” The “guests” were guaranteed transportation to the yacht, only there was a slight detour.

I mean, does this sound like a proposal (as it were) for UNDERCOVER WEDDING or what? Sandra Bullock could do the movie. With. . .? Colin Farrell? Hugh Jackman? Jackie Chan? Anybody but Brad Pitt. I’m seriously off Brad Pitt these days. With Jude Law running a close second.

A moment of silence while we all contemplate not nice words of our choice.

Complete track switch ahead.

Two reasons why I love my husband (there are more, but we’ll just deal with these two for now):

1. He gets a phone call from an old friend yesterday, who tells him friends took her out to a play and dinner for her birthday.

“They went to see THE VIRGIN DIALOGUES,” he says.

I blink. “You mean THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

At least he was close.

2. The roar of the vacuum, the pungent scent of pine cleaner, assailing my senses from downstairs. Yes, boys and girls, the man cleans. Without being prompted. Our house will be clean until approximately 3:41, when #5 returns from school.

Bliss.

Actually, strike that. This newsflash just in — our big red cat promptly sprawled his loose-furred self across the clean, dark green carpet (what were we thinking?). Ah, well. At least the bathroom still sparkles.

In anticipation of the release of Harry Potter VI, which I knew was the one in which A Beloved Character Was to Bite the Big One, I decided to catch up on Books IV and V, which have languished in my youngest son’s room lo these many years. (I hadn’t read III, either, but I saw the movie, which — as I stood there, contemplating a pair of books which individuallyweighed more than my cats — I decided was close enough. I knew what happened, I figured I was up to speed.)

In any case, and with a light heart, I dove in. Some 1500 pages later, I had finished both IV and V (impressing the hell out of my non-reading spawn — what’s up with that, anyway?), loved them so much I didn’t even envy J.K. Rowling her millions (not too much, anyway) and couldn’t wait to get into VI, even though it was now some weeks after the book’s release and I already knew who died.

About a hundred pages in, however, I started to feel like a participant in one of those see-who-can-scarf-down-the-most-brats-in-ten-minutes contests. I got slower. . .and slower. . .and began. . .to wonder. . .if it would ever end. So I’m wondering. . .was my ennui due to having swallowed the previous two books practically whole, so that the magic was no longer special (bearing in mind that I do not generally read fantasy, anyway)? Or were Dumbledore’s conversations with Harry really as interminable as they seemed? Did Rowling — who I still truly believe is one of the most brilliant plotters in the known universe, and whose attention to detail, both in world-building and characterization, is unparalleled — resort to as much “telling” as I think she did?

In any case, I think I’m just as glad the last book won’t be out for another couple of years. It’ll take me that long to digest the three I just ate.

Currently reading: THE INTERRUPTION TO EVERYTHING, Terry McMillan

. . .you’d think I’d have the hang of this laundry thing. Like why it’s not a good idea to wash the bathroom rugs with the towels, even if they are virtually the same color. Toweled myself dry this morning and am now covered in a fine sheen of sparkly rug threads (which is not to say the rugs are sparkly — please — just that the whatever-the-heck-they’re-made-out-of threads are).

Realized something about myself the other day: When I said I couldn’t wait until the nest was empty, I apparently lied. Or at least, my concept of “nest” extends past my house. See, three of my sons are currently beyond the reach of my personally making sure they’re getting enough to eat, and that’s keeping me awake at night. Well, okay, the hot flashes are actually doing that, but while I’m lying there heating the universe, I might as well worry about my kids. One’s in New York, one’s in Kansas, and other one is currently on a tour with a rock band from Long Island. I think he’s in Chicago today. Or maybe that was yesterday. Heat waves and tornadoes seem to be cropping up along his path, which makes it easy to follow his progress cross country, but I digress.

Anyway, living in a four bedroom house with five boys. . .and I was an only child. . .you get the picture, I’m sure. So it was with untold glee that I saw the first, then the second, then the third one move out. We’re now down to two, they each have their own bedrooms, I have an office, and there are actually times now when I can actually stand naked in my own bedroom and not worry about being walked in on. But the thing is, they were still around, you know? Their dad and I would be sitting in the living room and we’d hear the back door open, then the refrigerator door open, and we’d breath this little “all is well” sigh. They’d eat, collect their mail, plop down on the sofa and interrupt our movie/TV show to talk to us/figure out a subtle way to ask for money (never mind that there is no subtle way to ask for money) Then they’d go away again, and we’d breathe another “all is well” sigh. But we knew they’d be back in a day or two.

Now, however. . . Yeah, we talk. We’ve on Sprint’s family plan, so the cell phone rings alot. (Sidebar: We recently took our youngest son to the zoo; while we were there, all four of the other kids called us at some point.) But it’s not the same, knowing they won’t be coming in the back door with their laundry baskets in tow, that lean and oh-so-hungry look in their eyes. . .

Damn. I miss the little buggers.

Anyway, since I said I’d use this spot to recommend books I’m reading/have read, I picked up UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS by my AOL board buddy, Elizabeth White. Have to be upfront and say I don’t normally read either inspirationals or romantic suspense, but Beth has done an absolutely terrific job here. Her writing is in the Kathleen Korbel/Virginia Kantra vein, with wonderfully drawn characters, a good dose of humor and a plot that just keeps moving right along. It doesn’t matter what religious slant the reader brings to the table, because the characters are far more than mouthpieces for the author’s own faith. For me, that works. And did I mention how fabulous the writing is? Anyway, if you’d like to read an excerpt, here’s a link to her website.

Laters.

Is it me, or is my finding myself with nothing to say rather an inauspicious beginning to my foray into the blogosphere? While I’m usually okay with jumping into a conversation (often when I shouldn’t, unfortunately), I’m not great at jumpstarting one. Which might seem strange for a novelist, being at a loss for words. Although considering how recalcitrant La Muse often is these days, maybe not so strange at that. Stingy with her words, that one is. Except for the seemingly thousands of worn-out, faded, last-year’s-styles she keeps trying to foist off on me. I’m all for recycling, but there are limits.

Anyway. Here I am, determined to give this blogging thing a whirl. I’ve spent the last hour meandering around Blogsome, trying out “themes” the way most women try on jeans. And like most women, I finally settled for this one, not because I love it, but because my eyes were starting to cross. It’ll do for now. And I can always take it back if I don’t like it, right? The good news is, at least a blog won’t make my butt look big. Or cut off my air supply when I bend over. What I want to know is, though, where are the smilies? Not to mention the tag line which was supposed to say “As good a place as any to corral some of those scattered thoughts”?

So here’s the deal: I’d like this to be someplace where visitors can come for a few chuckles, or perhaps mutual commiseration about the little things in life that, well, bemuse us. Like wondering why certain unnamed members of one’s family find it easier to stick the empty juice container back in the fridge instead of in the garbage can, which is actually closer than the fridge. Or who thought it would be more convenient to press no less than a dozen buttons in the cell phone in order to auto-dial a number (especially when you take into consideration how many times some of us screw up and has to start over). Stuff like that. I promise not to regale anybody with family crises, whine about the publishing industry or use this as a political forum. I do intend to post about books or movies I love (no pans, here), any news about my career I deem post-worthy (like new sales and the like), and other non-controversial tidbits that pop into my head. In other words, I want this to be a Safe Place, albeit a fun one.

Now let’s just see how it works out.