…so posts this week will necessarily be short and sweet.

This “sister trip” started out a little rocky with flight delays/cancellations, during which I got booked on completely different flights from PJ and Kate. We ended up in airports about 1,000 miles apart for a few hours, but finally we reconnected and arrived at our destination only twelve hours later than we anticipated.

All is well now. Sisters are at the grocery buying all kinds of lovely goodies for our stay, and tomorrow I get to see Son and Daughter-in-Law–YAY! In addition, I’m not working at all on this vacation because well, it’s a vacation. I may write some if the spirit moves me, but mostly I intend to swim, drink wine, read for pleasure, and enjoy the company of my sisters.

I’ll check in…

at the Bettyverse (www.bettyverse.com) today. Our own Alpha Betty, a.k.a. Lani Diane Rich (www.lanidianerich.com) is launching two of her novels to epub. The Fortune Quilt and A Little Ray of Sunshine are both available at Amazon.com. I’ve already been to Amazon to order them for my Kindle–go on over and pick up two great summer reads!

Also, Mary Stella is interviewing Lani Diane Rich on her blog (www.marystella.blogspot.com) today. Great chat with Lani about her two books being launched, and her newest novel coming along in 2012, written under her psuedonym, Lucy March (www.lucymarch.com).

Lotsa links, but lotsa fun…so click and enjoy!!

PS: Hey Son, I got every one of those links to work! Your old mom’s getting better!!

…and tonight, I’m pretty whiny about it. Generally, I’m fairly mellow about the weather, but we’ve been in the midst of a sticky heat wave for almost two weeks now and I’m ready to be done. It’s sultry here–I’m talking Tennessee Williams sultry. All that’s missing is Blanche DuBois being surprised by the kindness of strangers and Stanley Kowalski bellowing, “Stella!!” Frankly, the heat is putting me in the mood to bellow something much worse!

We’re just back from the lake and somehow, the heat seems easier to take when we’re there. Although it rained there this weekend, we still got to go for a lovely cruise at dusk last night before scurrying to get the boat covered in time to beat the rain. This morning, we uncovered it in the sunshine, hoping for a quick spin, but clouds moved in before we got the cover halfway off. so we buttoned it back up again. By the time we got done, I was a sweaty mess, so I jumped in the lake to cool off. Wow! That was delicious!

The lake is my refuge–paddling around and then swimming strong strokes out to the middle of the bay is my moment of Zen. No matter how crappy I feel, diving into to the lake eases away all the bad. I’m such a water baby that in the winter, I find my Zen at the gym pool, but the lake is where my heart is. I’m so glad we found this wonderful cottage on the most beautiful bay on the entire lake–cool, clean deep water makes it perfect for swimming.

I know we’re still in the honeymoon phase of lake cottage ownership and maybe we will become people who eventually take it all for granted, but I don’t think so. The dream of having a place on a lake was so long coming, I think the pleasure will be long lasting as well. At least I hope so. I don’t want to get blasé about something I’ve been waiting for all my life…

Got a note from my agent today telling me that a pub she submitted my second novel to passed on it. Hmmmmm…talk about disheartening. I know that lots of authors, probably most authors, were rejected before they finally got “the call.” But selfishly, I want every editor who reads my novels to be bowled over with the genius of my words. I want them to rejoice that they’ve finally gotten a manuscript that makes them shiver with excitement. Yeah, it’s nice in Nan’s world–they know me here and they love me…

I spent about half an hour perseverating over why she said she rejected it. I shed a few tears, but not as many as I thought I would. I whined to my crit partner (Thank, Sandy!) and on FaceBook. I know I can’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m not sure I agree with the editor who passed on my work. The good news is I don’t have to agree with her. My friend, Lani (http://lanidianerich.com/) would say to me, “Just tell yourself that you are a great writer. Believe it–you are a great writer.”

So I said it aloud, “I am a great writer,” and to prove it, I took a deep breath and got busy on my current work-in-progress, even though what I really wanted to do was curl up on the couch with my Kindle, a glass of wine, and the cookie I bought at Panera today. I sent a couple of chapters to my crit partner and I’m moving on. My agent is sending the book out to other pubs and one day, it will be published. My job is to keep writing because…I am a great writer…

I read once that that in the Chinese language, the term for “crisis” is represented by two symbols, one for danger, the other for opportunity. This is the message I want to give to dear Son, who feels haunted by crisis right now–crisis can be both danger and opportunity. This past weekend, it did seem like for him, in Roseanne Rosannadanna’s words, “it just goes to show you, it’s always something.” Although he enjoyed his time with us and loved getting back to fishing and being at the lake, life at his house 2,000 miles away was in a bit of chaos and he, necessarily, had to be present on the smartphone to help out.

Adulthood is hard, there’s no two ways about it and escaping into your childhood for a couple of days can certainly be comforting, but your current adult life is still there waiting for you. For Husband and I, the lake is our reward for years of hard work and for making it through the crises of grown-up life. Another reward is the ability to see more clearly how things do work themselves out. A huge crisis today later becomes, “Oh yeah, that was tough, but wow, we came through, didn’t we?” And all the mini-crises that seem to develop into one big pain in the ass don’t seem nearly so overwhelming in retrospect.

Although he’s very young, Son has become a master at crisis intervention in both his career and his personal life. He has a remarkable ability (that he didn’t inherit from me) to look at a knotty problem, take it apart, and solve it. It’s what makes him so valuable in his job and what will make him a great post-grad student. It’s the reason he’s an extraordinary husband and the reason he’ll eventually be a wonderful dad–just like his own dad.

So ultimately, crises for him do become opportunities…the broken garage door becomes an opportunity to learn how to fix a sprung hinge. The leaking plumbing is a chance to learn a new skill that will serve him as a homeowner. The week-long hassle with the airline shows him how well he stands up for his rights and what a good negotiator he is. Dealing with preparing his thesis proposal while at the same time being called for jury duty, and needing to be present at work and home becomes an opportunity to practice good time management.

I write about my kid a lot on this blog–mostly because he is my heart and when he’s struggling and overwhelmed, I ache. All I want is to spirit him away and take him back into the days when the only choice he had to make was whether to fish with night crawlers or bee moths. Sadly, I can’t do that and I shouldn’t do that. Perhaps the most I can do, the best I can do, is remind him often how capable he is, listen when he needs to vent, and always, always love him dearly.

So, my Son…it was amazing to spend time with you this past weekend. It warmed my mom heart to see you light up when you cast your line into the lake. I loved hearing all about the remarkable life you’ve created for yourself and the wondrous path that’s ahead for you. Take a deep breath and dive into your future–incredible things await!

…really. I’m going to tell you a big fish story. We’re at the lake–the three of us, Son, Husband, and I. It’s Son’s first time here and we were thrilled he could do a fly-by (of sorts) on his way home from a business trip.

He seems as pleased as we are with the new lake cottage–driving up with him was a treat. He began the short journey back to his childhood when we were within twenty minutes of our new place, recognizing old familiar landmarks like the bakery in town, the huge sign for the amusement park, the big lake cruiser, and the drive-in theater. He’s enjoying the water and our new community, but particularly, he’s getting a kick out fishing again.

He hasn’t fished since he was a teenager vacationing on this lake with us over ten years ago, so he was totally jacked to do it again. We stopped at the bait store for nightcrawlers and a fishing license on the way to the cottage. The two guys were out on the pier fishing within half an hour of unlocking the place and dropping our bags.

I’m not a person who fishes, but I’ve happily floated on my raft in the lake as they’ve thrown in their lines. Son even tried to convince me to haul his line back to a more likely looking fishing spot that he couldn’t reach with a cast. Sorry kid, that’s hardly giving the fish a fighting chance now, is it? Plus, it’s creepy under the trees–I’ll stay out in the middle of the bay, thanks.

Late last night, Son and Husband went back down to the dock to fish while I enjoyed some lovely down-time, reading for pleasure. After a couple of hours, I hear Son’s heavy tread on the deck. Then he opened the door and came with in both hands and knees covered in blood. Obviously Mom mode kicked in. “What the hell happened? Are you hurt? Is your dad okay?”

Flexing his fingers at me, he just grinned–the same grin I’d seen on his face hundreds of times before when he’d been fishing as a kid. “Nope, this is fish blood!” He sounded way too delighted. “Dad caught a giant carp–and it got wrapped up in the line and swallowed the hook and it bled all over the dock. I’ve gotta wash this off and get back down there with a bucket and a broom–the dock looks like we slaughtered a pig!!” This was all said in one breath and with great glee.

He washed his hands, wiped his knees off with a wet paper towel and then proceeded to show me pictures on his smart phone of the “catch.” It was a butt-ugly carp, about two feet long and bleeding gruesomely from its gill, where the line had wrapped around its body during the fight to haul it out of the lake.

And apparently, Son wasn’t the only one fascinated enough to photograph the poor fish. Two other men who were having adult beverages next door ran over to share the moment and caught poor old Mr. Carp on their phones as well. I got to hear the whole story in vivid detail when the guys came up from the dock for the night.

The catch has been the talk of the park. This afternoon, one of the other men pulling out of his dock in his boat called to Son and Husband, who were–you guessed it–fishing, “Hey heard you caught a big one last night!”

“Yup,” Husband called back. “It was about a two-foot carp!”

“Yeah, I saw the pictures. The dock looked like a crime scene.” our neighbor chortled as he cruised away.

Son and Husband just grinned at each other–this is lake life…how we’ve missed it! How happy we are to be back in the thick of it again, and how very pleased to have the kid joining us, even if just for a little while… Oh, the photos below are posted courtesy of Son, (who is also my webmaster/guru)–he felt the story worked so much better with visuals!

And here it is. CSI Lakeside…

I’m wondering if as I age, my give-a-shit quotient is diminishing. Here’s the deal: at the moment, we are without AC and our well is acting up. We have water, but one of us has to go out to the garage and keep an eye on the breaker so that if it trips while the other is in the shower, we can switch it back and the water will continue to flow. Our AC is part of a geothermal heat pump, so no water, no AC. It’s a typical Midwestern summer here, so heat and humidity are the order of the day.

In spite of all that, I’m happily working on my editing gigs, critiquing a chapter for my crit partner, and writing, and not really stressing. The well guys are coming on Monday, we’re getting Son at the airport tonight, and then driving up to the lake, where, by the way, we have both water and AC. We can shut things up here and enjoy a long weekend with our kid, whom we haven’t seen in way longer than my mom tolerance can handle, so all is good.

Several years ago, I would’ve been screamingly upset about a lack of AC and water problems. Even an inconvenience like having to stand by the breaker box would have put me at a frustration level close to 10. But today, none of this isn’t worrying me a bit. My dear friend, Connie, taught me: In a bad situation, ask yourself, “is anyone going to die over this?” Nope, nobody’s gonna die. Yep, this is inconvenient and yeah, I’m sweating. But you know, my life is so blessed. I have so many wondrous things happening right now, a little inconvenience is no big deal.

As I get older, I’m realizing how most issues that may have seemed insurmountable before really are just small stuff. Last night, the weather cooled and we got a lovely breeze as we slept. This morning, standing by the breaker box while Husband showered, I got to read another chapter of my latest Bob Mayer (www.bobmayer.org/ ) novel. That was an unexpected treat. Flight delays that stranded poor Son in the Denver airport last night are allowing him to come to me about 6 hours earlier than originally planned. So, I get to mommy him even longer this weekend.

Okay, so it’s a Pollyanna attitude, I admit it. But I think it’s also that age brings wisdom and perspective, as well as crow’s feet and gray hair. I’m learning to relax, to take life at a slower pace, to stop stressing over things I can’t control. It’s a good feeling…

I’m guest blogging on the Bettyverse today, Mes Amis! Come visit–the Bettyverse is always a pleasure! www.bettyverse.com

Okay, I’m prefacing this post with a disclaimer: I love the Interwebs, I’m crazy about my blog, I work electronically from home, my cell phone is always on my person, and I read on a Kindle. So this mini-rant doesn’t come from a place of dial landlines, a typewriter, and snail mail (although I do love to receive letters on pretty stationery…).

I don’t get the need for constant communication and contact. It irritates the crap out of me to sit with someone at a restaurant or even at their home or mine and have them constantly eying their smart phone. They set it next to them on the table (mine’s in my pocket and generally set to vibrate if I’m with others at an event), and within seconds, the chiming or buzzing begins. Then they check out whatever message has come in and immediately respond. Their little thumbs fly over the keys as I sit waiting for them to return to the conversation at hand.

I admit it, texting pisses me off. Not the idea, although I truly don’t get it. I mean, seriously, the phone is in your hand. If what you have to say is so important it can’t wait an hour or two until you’re done with supper or a movie, then just go find a place and call the person. I’ve heard all the arguments for texting: 1) “I don’t have to get involved in a long conversation.” 2) “It lets me tell my friend something without interrupting what I’m doing. 3) “It’s the only way my kids will communicate with me.” There are probably others, but those are the three I’m addressing today.

I’m starting with Number 3 because that one makes me madder than the others. Kids, it’s your mom/dad–your parents. Answer your fucking phone! And if you can’t answer and they leave a message, return the call as soon as you can, not in a couple weeks or whenever you feel like it. These are the people who gave you life, who raised you, who put you through college, and put up with your snotty teenaged years. They deserve your attention. One quick note to parents, don’t abuse the fact that your kid has a phone permanently attached to his fingers. Keep your calls to a reasonable number and try to figure out when it’s most appropriate to contact him.

I guess I’ll go backwards, so Number 2. Trust me when I tell you, there is nothing so important you need to tell anyone that can’t wait for a phone call or until you see them. Not that the the guy in line in front of you at the grocery has a delicious butt; not that the jerk in the convertible just cut you off in traffic (and why the hell are you texting while you’re driving? Stop it immediately!); and not the fact that you just found that perfect shade of lipstick. Oh, and you are interrupting what you’re doing–you’re texting while I’m sitting across the table from you trying to have an intelligent conversation. And if the text is “Nan is boring me to tears,” well then, suck down your latte, say your goodbyes, and I’ll see you later…

Number 1. You don’t have to get involved in a long conversation. But you do get involved in long conversations–you’re just thumbing them instead of talking! What’s the difference? I’m still sitting across the table from you, wondering why the hell you bothered to meet me for coffee when clearly, you need to be somewhere else talking to someone else.

I get that sometimes a text is the absolute best way to communicate–when someone is ill in the hospital, if you’re going to be desperately late for an important meeting…but rarely is that the case. So, just a suggestion: Back away from the smart phone, set it to vibrate, put it in your pocket, and leave it alone. When we part ways, you can pull it out and answer all those crucial texts…you may end up sitting in a parking lot for a few minutes after we say our goodbyes, but at least I’ll feel like you were truly interested in being with me… Thanks a million…

I talk a lot about words on this site—probably because that’s how I make my living and because language is my passion. My mom insisted that we all have strong, extensive vocabularies, so word play is inevitable whenever we have a family event. We are voracious Scrabble and Boggle players, and we just discovered Apples to Apples, a words and definitions game that is loads of fun. So you see, I love words. I collect them the way other people collect Hummel figurines or coins or antiques.

But I’ve always been of two minds about profanity—you know, the bad words. I used them in college because I was away from home and Mom wasn’t around to give me “the look.” That disapproving, over-the top-of-her-glasses look that clearly said, “Puh-leeeze, you have more intelligence than to use that word!” Besides, most all the girls in my dorm cursed. We tried on bad words the way we tried on each other’s blouses and jeans and earrings. It was daring, and the occasional muttered “Fuck” made us feel very sophisticated.

I limited my profanity after I got married and stopped altogether once Son was born. Husband wasn’t quite so cautious with his words, but he tried to be careful around Son. The kid was a quick study and we learned very quickly that if a word came out of our mouths, it would surely come out of his. Imagine our surprise one winter evening as we sat around with my dad and stepmom watching our little 21-month-old angel building with blocks.

He’d gotten quite a tall tower going with the multicolored wooden squares and rectangles. Kneeling beside his structure, he placed on more block on top, giving us a delighted toothy grin of victory. Suddenly the tower wobbled precariously, then crashed to the carpet. Placing his little fists on his diapered hips, he scowled at the pile of blocks and declared, “Shit!”

My dad almost fell off the couch laughing and Husband’s expression was priceless—innocent as a lamb when I gave him the stink-eye. My stepmother, sitting primly on the edge of the sofa said, “Ahem. Well…at least he’s using it appropriately.”

We didn’t even bother correcting him, but we did try to be more judicious in our choice of expletives. We got very creative, “Oh, popsicles!” or “Phooey!” or “Golly Moses!” As he got older, we explained that bad words were tasteless and most people didn’t want to hear them. But when he was about eight or nine, we’d been attending a pretty conservative church (I was going through a phase that will no doubt be the subject of a future post…) and one Sunday, his Sunday School teacher pulled me aside. Son stood in the classroom watching us with trepidation.

“I need to talk to you.” Her expression was deadly serious and my heart sped up. What on earth could she want? “Your son said something this morning I think you need to be aware of.”

“What did he say?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“Well, one of the other children said the ‘c’ word.” Her eyes were huge and her voice dropped to an even quieter level. “You know, c-r-a-p?” she spelled it behind her hand.

“Okay.” I was having a hard time figuring out what this had to do with Son, but from the look on her face, I could tell it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“When Johnny said it, Peter told him that he was going to hell because cursing is a sin. But then your son stepped in and told them, ‘He’s not going to hell. Cursing’s only a sin if you use God or Jesus’s name. Otherwise it’s just bad taste and people don’t want to hear it.’” Her lips thinned to an almost invisible line. “Where do you suppose he got an idea like that?”

I couldn’t help myself, I snickered and the snicker grew into a chuckle and then into a full-blown chortle as the teacher’s lips totally disappeared. When I could speak, I replied, “Probably from us.”

“Well, he needs to understand that God expects us all to use nice words. I won’t have that attitude in my classroom.” Disapproval radiated from her demeanor like heat from a wicked sunburn. “This is the house of the Lord.”

“Thanks,” I said simply, knowing it was pointless to have a discussion with her about appropriate word usage. Besides, my poor little guy was obviously trying to figure out if he was in deep caca or not. “I’ll talk to him.”

Son tucked his little hand in mine and we walked together down the steps and out of the church. I opened the car door and he clambered in. Looking up at me, tears shimmered in his hazel eyes. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” he asked with a sniff. “I’m bad ’cause I told the class that crap’s not a sin word. Teacher gave me a hard stare and told me to be quiet.” He shrugged his skinny shoulders. “She was mad.”

“Yep, she was mad,” I agreed, reaching around him to fasten his seat belt.

He took my chin in his chubby hand. “Mommy, are you mad at me? I just told the truth.”

“No,” I replied and dropped a quick kiss on his freckled nose. “I’m not mad a bit. But you know, sometimes, it’s better to be quiet, even when you think you know what’s right, okay?”

He nodded and smiled through his tears. We sang the Doxology on the way home and when we arrived, Son hurried to tell his dad what had happened. Then he added gravely, “I think we should find another church, Daddy—one where the people know how to use bad words.”

Out of the mouths of babes…