Friday, August 31, 2007
Emergency Surgery
Hi, this is April's sister Angel. You've all met me I'm sure through April's many stories. Unfortunately, this past Monday April had to be taken to the Emergency room with severe abdominal pain. What we thought was a kidney stone turned out to be an ovarian cyst which had to be removed immediately. She had surgery on Tuesday and seems to be doing fine, however she has been left with out any way to blog. As soon as we can get her hooked up with a laptop I'm sure she will be back at it. She wanted me to let you know she will announce the winner of her latest contest as soon as she has access to a computer. Thanks for being patient. Check back soon, I know she's anxious to visit with you all again. -Angel
Friday, August 24, 2007
Why Hubble should stay open
Song Stuck on the Brain: I Can Only Imagine by Mercy Me
Like they need a reason. Why in the world would we want to close the Hubble telescope? Ah well, such is the insane society of scientists. I thought the cartoon was cute. Enjoy and have a fantastic weekend.
A.
Like they need a reason. Why in the world would we want to close the Hubble telescope? Ah well, such is the insane society of scientists. I thought the cartoon was cute. Enjoy and have a fantastic weekend.
A.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Somethin's buggin' me
Song Stuck on the Brain: Big Enough by Tobymac and Ayiesha Woods
Thank goodness it's Thursday. My poor little fevered brain is drawing a blank at to what I should post. I've got a little bug that's dragging me down and all I want to do is go to sleep.
I did finally come to the decision that it's time to donate my hair to Locks of Love. I've got an appointment set with the hairdresser for next Thursday, so I'll post pics then of the before and after. I'll be sending 11 inches to the charity and hope that it will do someone a world of good. I anticipate still having shoulder length hair (cuz any shorter and it's not a pretty look.)
Okay, sorry to be so brief and boring today. I'm off to bed and the rest of Legend of the Firefish.
A.
Thank goodness it's Thursday. My poor little fevered brain is drawing a blank at to what I should post. I've got a little bug that's dragging me down and all I want to do is go to sleep.
I did finally come to the decision that it's time to donate my hair to Locks of Love. I've got an appointment set with the hairdresser for next Thursday, so I'll post pics then of the before and after. I'll be sending 11 inches to the charity and hope that it will do someone a world of good. I anticipate still having shoulder length hair (cuz any shorter and it's not a pretty look.)
Okay, sorry to be so brief and boring today. I'm off to bed and the rest of Legend of the Firefish.
A.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
CFBA: The Void by Mark Mynheir
Song Stuck on the Brain: Puppy Love by Donny Osmond
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
ABOUT THE BOOK:
The Truth Chasers Book Three
Someone’s trying to play God…and he’s turning Palm Bay into hell.
Florida Department of Law Enforcement Agent Robbie Sanchez devotes her life to crime prevention, and it shows: She has no personal life and doesn’t know the meaning of a day off. After all, someone has to be around to clean up the mess crime leaves behind.
So when Officer Brad Worthington is brutally murdered, Agent Sanchez is called to the scene along with Brad’s best friend, Detective Eric Casey. The two turn to Lifetex, the genetics lab near the scene, hoping their elaborate security system might have captured the crime outside.
But what’s going on inside the lab is far worse: a renegade scientist is cloning humans! As Robbie and Eric pursue clues–and a growing attraction–they are caught in a deadly battle as the clones begin to act on their own volition…but this battle threatens to claim more than human life; the clones are vying for human souls.
WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING:
The Void is nothing short of a page-turner. Mynheir is truly hitting his stride as one of our industry's most notable Christian novelists. This latest book has it all: suspense, humor, intrigue, realistic police action, and one thought-provoking story line. - Creston Mapes Author of Nobody
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Mark Mynheir is a cop writer. He has authored Rolling Thunder (The Truth Chasers Book One) and From the Belly of the Dragon (The Truth Chasers Book Two).
During his career as a police officer, Mark has worked as a narcotics agent, a S.W.A.T. team member, and a homicide detective. Mark and his wife, Lori, live with their three children in central Florida.
CONTEST:
Don't forget to enter to win a copy of Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn. Click the book cover at the top of the side bar to email me your entry before midnight August 31, 2007.
A.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
ABOUT THE BOOK:
The Truth Chasers Book ThreeSomeone’s trying to play God…and he’s turning Palm Bay into hell.
Florida Department of Law Enforcement Agent Robbie Sanchez devotes her life to crime prevention, and it shows: She has no personal life and doesn’t know the meaning of a day off. After all, someone has to be around to clean up the mess crime leaves behind.
So when Officer Brad Worthington is brutally murdered, Agent Sanchez is called to the scene along with Brad’s best friend, Detective Eric Casey. The two turn to Lifetex, the genetics lab near the scene, hoping their elaborate security system might have captured the crime outside.
But what’s going on inside the lab is far worse: a renegade scientist is cloning humans! As Robbie and Eric pursue clues–and a growing attraction–they are caught in a deadly battle as the clones begin to act on their own volition…but this battle threatens to claim more than human life; the clones are vying for human souls.
WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING:
The Void is nothing short of a page-turner. Mynheir is truly hitting his stride as one of our industry's most notable Christian novelists. This latest book has it all: suspense, humor, intrigue, realistic police action, and one thought-provoking story line. - Creston Mapes Author of Nobody
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Mark Mynheir is a cop writer. He has authored Rolling Thunder (The Truth Chasers Book One) and From the Belly of the Dragon (The Truth Chasers Book Two).
During his career as a police officer, Mark has worked as a narcotics agent, a S.W.A.T. team member, and a homicide detective. Mark and his wife, Lori, live with their three children in central Florida.
CONTEST:
Don't forget to enter to win a copy of Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn. Click the book cover at the top of the side bar to email me your entry before midnight August 31, 2007.
A.
Monday, August 20, 2007
CSFF: Legend of the Firefish by George Bryan Polivka
Song Stuck on the Brain: Your Auntie Grizelda by The Monkees
Today the Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy Tour is Featuring:
Today the Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy Tour is Featuring:
book one of The Trophy Chase series (Harvest House)
by
ABOUT THE BOOK:
The Legend of the Firefish is a timeless tale of the pursuit of faith and honor.Packer Throme longs to bring prosperity back to his decaying fishing village by discovering the trade secrets of a notorious pirate who hunts the legendary Firefish and sells the rare meat. Armed with the love of the priest's daughter and a noble purpose, Packer stows away on the ship Trophy Chase bound for sea. But many tests of his faith and his resolve follow.
Will belief and vision be enough for the young man to survive?
Captivating action, dialogue, and insights into the heroic struggle of faith make this an ideal read for fans of adventure, fantasy, and well—told tales of honor.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
George Bryan Polivka has been a successful, award–winning writer for many years, crafting professional articles, newscasts, television scripts, and screenplays. He won an Emmy for his first documentary “A Hard Road to Glory.” Polivka lives near the small, seafaring village of Baltimore, Maryland with his wife and two children.
PIRATE CONTEST:
Talk Like a Pirate Contest—Reach Out to a Pirate and Win!
Eugene, Oregon—August 15, 2007— Most pirates routinely plunder and pillage and all that nasty stuff, and have earned the reputation of being an overall mean and grumpy lot with bad teeth. However, pirates are people, too!
Harvest House is pleased to announce the Talk Like A Pirate Contest—Reach Out to a Pirate and Win! Winners will receive copies of The Trophy Chase Trilogy by George Bryan Polivka, and other pirate-related books! Arrgghh! *The rules are simple me hearties! Write a short essay/message (200 words or less) on how you would positively impact a pirate’s life through one or more of the following actions:
a) Friendship/Fellowship (invite a pirate to an activity, outing, concert, church)
b) Prayer
c) Persuasion (as in persuading them to consider another line of work altogether!)
Arrgghh! All you have to do is write up yer message, and submit it between August 20 and Sept. 17 to: talklikeapiratecontest@harvesthousepublishers.com. Make sure to include yer email address and a good phone number (for verification and contact purposes only). Savvy?! We’ll make ye walk the plank if ye submit more than one entry, so if ye wants to avoid an untimely visit to Davey Jones’ Locker, pay attention ye land lubbers and follow the orders o’ yer fearless captain!
To effectively reach a pirate, you need to speak their language. So, your essay must be written in Pirate-speak! (hint: humor is good!) You can even choose a character from George Bryan Polivka’s Trophy Chase Trilogy to write about, or make someone up! Characters include: Fishbait McGee, Skewer Uttley, Conch Imbry, and/or Belisar the Whale—all notorious pirate captains of Nearing Vast (for ideas on pirate-speak, look up National Talk Like A Pirate Day, which is September 19).
Three winners will be selected, with the three winning essays to be posted on author George Bryan Polivka’s blogsite www.nearingvast.com/capspub on September 19. The winners (chosen by a scurvy band of judges whose honor and character are questionable) will receive a veritable pirate’s treasure chest of plunder, including: The Trophy Chase Trilogy (The Legend of the Firefish and The Hand That Bears the Sword, as well as the third book in the series, **The Battle for Vast Dominion). Other titles include When It’s Fourth and Long by Josh Bidwell (punter for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Arrgghh!), and Captives and Kings by Craig and Janet Parshall.
For more contest details click here.
MY TAKE:
I'm still reading, because I'm behind in my TBR stack, but I can say this much so far. I LOVE IT. Bryan has a great voice and a real knack for bringing you into this new world he's created. The characters are colorful, but have heart and depth as well. Packer Throme is becoming a very real person for me. I have no doubt that the rest of the series will be just as fantastic.
Enjoy!
A.
Please take time to visit these other members on the blog tour:
Trish Anderson
Brandon Barr
Wayne Thomas Batson
Jim Black
Justin Boyer
Grace Bridges
Amy Browning
Jackie Castle
Valerie Comer
Karri Compton
Frank Creed
Lisa Cromwell
CSFF Blog Tour
Gene Curtis
D. G. D. Davidson
Merrie Destefano
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Beth Goddard
Marcus Goodyear
Russell Griffith
Jill Hart
Katie Hart
Sherrie Hibbs
Christopher Hopper
Jason Joyner
Kait
Karen
Dawn King
Tina Kulesa
Lost Genre Guild
Terri Main
Rachel Marks
Karen McSpadden
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Eve Nielsen
John W. Otte
John Ottinger
Lyn Perry
Deena Peterson
Rachelle
Cheryl Russel
Chawna Schroeder
Mirtika Schultz
James Somers
Steve Trower
Speculative Faith
Jason Waguespac
Daniel I. Weaver
Janey DeMeo
Thursday, August 16, 2007
New Contest - Win Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn
Song Stuck on the Brain: Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani
It's time for a new contest. From now until August 31, 2007, you can enter to win Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn.
About the Book:
C’est magnifique!
SISTERCHICK n.: a friend who shares the deepest wonders of your heart, loves you like a sister, and provides a reality check when you’re being a brat.
When they were little girls, Amy made Lisa promise her that someday they’d go to Paris and walk down the Champs-Elysées together looking tres chic. After all, Amy’s classy grandmother was from Paris. Then over the years, they drifted apart. But some promises seem to be held for safekeeping in the courts of heaven until the time is right, and these reconnected friends-for-life are handed the opportunity to see Paris together!Lisa’s only response to her patient friend is, “Oui oui, mon ami!”
The City of Lights turns out to be all Amy ever promised, with world-class shopping, flaky croissants, the Eiffel Tower, Monet’s Water Lilies, and food running the gamut from frog legs to fabulous chocolate. Of course, there are also con men, indignant waiters, and spring cloudbursts. But nothing deters these Sisterchicks as they set out to climb a few personal “ Eiffel Towers” in this next season of life. The only way to go is step by step together under the careful protection of their Heavenly Papa, who showers them with grace upon grace.
Reader’s guide included
Story Behind the Book:
“Each of the Sisterchicks books portrays the reality of how a close friendship between two women can draw them closer to God, and reveal clear direction for their futures. In Sisterchicks Say Ooh-La-La!, readers discover the value of rekindling an old friendship and replacing old, incorrect assumptions with new truth. I hope readers will take away a sense of God’s immense plan for His children and His unending grace in every season of life.” —Robin Jones Gunn
It's time for a new contest. From now until August 31, 2007, you can enter to win Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn.
About the Book:
C’est magnifique!
SISTERCHICK n.: a friend who shares the deepest wonders of your heart, loves you like a sister, and provides a reality check when you’re being a brat.
When they were little girls, Amy made Lisa promise her that someday they’d go to Paris and walk down the Champs-Elysées together looking tres chic. After all, Amy’s classy grandmother was from Paris. Then over the years, they drifted apart. But some promises seem to be held for safekeeping in the courts of heaven until the time is right, and these reconnected friends-for-life are handed the opportunity to see Paris together!Lisa’s only response to her patient friend is, “Oui oui, mon ami!”
The City of Lights turns out to be all Amy ever promised, with world-class shopping, flaky croissants, the Eiffel Tower, Monet’s Water Lilies, and food running the gamut from frog legs to fabulous chocolate. Of course, there are also con men, indignant waiters, and spring cloudbursts. But nothing deters these Sisterchicks as they set out to climb a few personal “ Eiffel Towers” in this next season of life. The only way to go is step by step together under the careful protection of their Heavenly Papa, who showers them with grace upon grace.
Reader’s guide included
Story Behind the Book:
“Each of the Sisterchicks books portrays the reality of how a close friendship between two women can draw them closer to God, and reveal clear direction for their futures. In Sisterchicks Say Ooh-La-La!, readers discover the value of rekindling an old friendship and replacing old, incorrect assumptions with new truth. I hope readers will take away a sense of God’s immense plan for His children and His unending grace in every season of life.” —Robin Jones Gunn
HOW TO WIN:
Just click the book cover at the top of the side bar and email me your entry.
Good Luck!
A.
And the Winner Is...
Congratulations Brenda S.!
Brenda won Michael Barrett's CD You Alone Are Worthy.
Enjoy!
A.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
CFBA: Off the Record by Elizabeth White
Song Stuck on the Brain: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
(Zondervan August 15, 2007)
ABOUT THE BOOK:
Ambition is on a collision course with a secret from the past.
Judge Laurel Kincade, a rising political star, is announcing her candidacy for chief justice of the Alabama Supreme Court. Her aristocratic Old South family, led by her judge grandfather, beams as she takes the podium. Then her eyes light on a reporter in the crowd…and suddenly her past becomes a threat to her future.
Journalist Cole McGaughan, religion reporter for the New York Daily Journal, has received an intriguing call from an old friend. Private investigator Matt Hogan has come across a tip…that Laurel's impeccable reputation might be a facade. Matt suggests that Cole dig up the dirt on the lovely judge in order to snag his dream job as one of the Journal's elite political reporters.
There's just one problem: Cole's history is entangles with Laurel's and he must decide if the story that could make his career is worth the price he'd have to pay.
A sensational scoop becomes a rollercoaster ride of emotions. Can Laurel and Cole find forgiveness and turn their hidden past into a hopeful future...while keeping their feelings off the record?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Beth White is the author of Fireworks and Fair Game, as well as the critically acclaimed Texas Gatekeepers serie from Love Inspired Suspense.
In her own words, she appreciate her most valued roles as wife and mom. Beth is also a second-grade Sunday school teacher, church orchestra member (She plays flute), and artist. She loves to read, crochet, sew, go on mission trips and avoid housework.
Beth lives in Mobile with her minister husband, and is currently on staff at First Baptist Church of North Mobile (fondly known as NoMo), in Saraland, Alabama.
CONTEST:
Today is your last chance to enter to win Michael Barrett's CD You Alone Are Worthy. If you haven't entered yet, click on the CD cover on the right and email me your entry. You have until midnight. Good Luck!
A.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Tire of your old drapes? Here's a new use...
Song Stuck on the Brain: Crying by Roy Orbison
I was flipping through a Spiegel catalog that came in the mail today, when I spotted these pants.
I about choked. They look like Julie Andrews' attempt at drapery fashion, only worse. I mean really, doesn't fashion require you to do more than take down the drapes and wrap them around your waist? To top it off, I think they stole the leftover couch upholstery for the jacket.
The catalog advertises these as 'Pleated Wide-leg pants'. That's three words that make anyone bigger than a size four cringe.
Why in this toothpick thin driven world would you design a pair of pants destined to make you look a minimum of 4 sizes bigger than you are? An elephant could use these as leg warmers.
I don't get it. Some of the clothes in the catalog are adorable, and despite all the models being a size 0, most of the styles could be adapted for a wide range of sizes and still look good. But these? Come on! They're ugly as window treatments, they do nothing for your figure, and they could cause someone to mistake you for a picture window.
The terrifying thing about these pants, is not just that they're the harbinger of bad fashion, but that they could lead to more home decor/fashion mistakes. What's next? Mini blind skirts? It wouldn't surprise me, seeing as we have plenty of 'peek-a-boo' fashion already.
It's just too sad. With so many style options available, why would you choose grandma's drapes?
Signed,
Straight Legged and Satisfied
(A.)
I was flipping through a Spiegel catalog that came in the mail today, when I spotted these pants.
I about choked. They look like Julie Andrews' attempt at drapery fashion, only worse. I mean really, doesn't fashion require you to do more than take down the drapes and wrap them around your waist? To top it off, I think they stole the leftover couch upholstery for the jacket.The catalog advertises these as 'Pleated Wide-leg pants'. That's three words that make anyone bigger than a size four cringe.
Why in this toothpick thin driven world would you design a pair of pants destined to make you look a minimum of 4 sizes bigger than you are? An elephant could use these as leg warmers.
I don't get it. Some of the clothes in the catalog are adorable, and despite all the models being a size 0, most of the styles could be adapted for a wide range of sizes and still look good. But these? Come on! They're ugly as window treatments, they do nothing for your figure, and they could cause someone to mistake you for a picture window.
The terrifying thing about these pants, is not just that they're the harbinger of bad fashion, but that they could lead to more home decor/fashion mistakes. What's next? Mini blind skirts? It wouldn't surprise me, seeing as we have plenty of 'peek-a-boo' fashion already.
It's just too sad. With so many style options available, why would you choose grandma's drapes?
Signed,
Straight Legged and Satisfied
(A.)
Monday, August 13, 2007
I've been dreaming again
Song Stuck on the Brain: Beautiful One by Jeremy Camp
Sorry to short you on posts again, buy my Internet was down for a while. Cable was too. Talk about torture! Thankfully, they're both up and running again. However, I'll warn you now that Friday won't have a post. I'll be unable to access a computer that day.
Since you've been so patient with me being behind on posts, (Okay, maybe you've not been patient, but since I can't hear you complain, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt) today I'm going to share with you my latest weird dream.
The whole night was rather odd. I started off dreaming about being at work in the bat cave.
Everything was wonky though, we were filing in the parking lot and all kinds of other weird things. Towards morning, I began dreaming that the accounting office had been changed into a massage treatment room. I was the only one running it. It looked like my office had been turned into a small bathroom, with out a toilet. I had shelves full of towels and lotions and stuff. The room was divided in half by a shower curtain.
Everything was wonky though, we were filing in the parking lot and all kinds of other weird things. Towards morning, I began dreaming that the accounting office had been changed into a massage treatment room. I was the only one running it. It looked like my office had been turned into a small bathroom, with out a toilet. I had shelves full of towels and lotions and stuff. The room was divided in half by a shower curtain. At first, people were just coming by and dropping off the things they wanted massaged. So I had a shelf full of feet, a few head and shoulders, some hands.
This did not seem strange in the least.
Then things shifted again (as they so often do in dreams) and I now I am pulling back the shower curtain to find a client standing in the shower/tub on the other side. It's John Cena. Shirtless. Don't ask if he was wearing anything else, cuz I don't know. I never looked down. I'm gonna assume he was wearing swim trunks. Anyway, He tells me that he's really hurt his shoulder wrestling and needs me to work him over. In my mind, I'm trying to figure out how I can do this and not get drenched in the process. So, I grab a clear plastic raincoat and rain hat, put them on, then start the shower. I'm really getting in to the shoulder massage, and he just keeps saying, "Man that feels so good. Wow, I really needed this." I can't say that I was complaining. Just as I was switching shoulders, my alarm clock went off. Talk about bad
timing.
timing. I don't have a clue where all that came from. Yes, I find John Cena an incredibly attractive guy, but a shower massage in a raincoat? Freud would have a hay day with that one.
The night before I dreamed about a guy stalking me. Again, don't have a clue why. It's not something I have to worry about, that's for sure. I'd take John Cena wet over a crazy stalker any night though.
Maybe tonight I can give Dominic Purcell a rub down. :)
Sweet Dreams,
A.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
CFBA: And If I Die by John Aubrey Anderson
Song Stuck on the Brain: Don't Stop Believing by Journey
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
ABOUT THE BOOK:
AND IF I DIE is the third book in the Black and White Chronicles. The first was Abiding Darkness (August, 2006), the second was Wedgewood Grey (February, 2007).
In 1945, a spirit voice told Mr. A. J. Mason to “Be ready.”
In 1960, the spirit drew near and said the same words to the same man. “Be ready.”
On both occasions Mason ended up in bloody battles with the forces of evil. On both occasions, he saved the life of a young girl named Missy Parker. And on both occasions good people died.
It’s 1968.Missy Parker has been married to Dr. Patrick Patterson for nine years; they live in Denton, Texas. Missy plays tennis and golf; Pat is chairman of the philosophy department at North Texas State University.
Mose Washington, a black man Missy refers to as her almost-daddy, is hiding behind a new name—Mose Mann. Mose and the young black man who poses as his grandson have spent eight years successfully evading the FBI, a murderous congresswoman, and creatures from the demonic realm. They now live in Pilot Hill, Texas—fifteen miles from Pat and Missy. Mose is committing the autumn of his life to the pursuit of the knowledge of God and the protection of his “grandson”. His “grandson” is interested in honing his skills as a bull rider.
Close friends see portents of danger in events of the early summer and converge on Pilot Hill to warn the two black men that yet another confrontation with malevolent beings may be looming.
In the pre-dawn hours, on the second day of the North Texas Rodeo, the voice of an invisible being speaks to Missy Parker Patterson. The voice warns her that it is now she, not A. J. Mason, who has been chosen as the person who needs to “Be ready” . . . and Missy doesn’t want the job.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
John grew up in Mississippi cotton country. After graduating from Mississippi State, he received an Air Force commission and has recently retired after flying twenty-eight years for a major airline. He lives in Texas with his wife, Nan.
CONTEST:
Don't forget to enter to win Michael Barrett's CD You Alone Are Worthy. Just click on the CD cover at right to email me your entry. Hurry, the contest ends at midnight on August 15th. To learn more about the CD go HERE.
A.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
ABOUT THE BOOK:
AND IF I DIE is the third book in the Black and White Chronicles. The first was Abiding Darkness (August, 2006), the second was Wedgewood Grey (February, 2007).In 1945, a spirit voice told Mr. A. J. Mason to “Be ready.”
In 1960, the spirit drew near and said the same words to the same man. “Be ready.”
On both occasions Mason ended up in bloody battles with the forces of evil. On both occasions, he saved the life of a young girl named Missy Parker. And on both occasions good people died.
It’s 1968.Missy Parker has been married to Dr. Patrick Patterson for nine years; they live in Denton, Texas. Missy plays tennis and golf; Pat is chairman of the philosophy department at North Texas State University.
Mose Washington, a black man Missy refers to as her almost-daddy, is hiding behind a new name—Mose Mann. Mose and the young black man who poses as his grandson have spent eight years successfully evading the FBI, a murderous congresswoman, and creatures from the demonic realm. They now live in Pilot Hill, Texas—fifteen miles from Pat and Missy. Mose is committing the autumn of his life to the pursuit of the knowledge of God and the protection of his “grandson”. His “grandson” is interested in honing his skills as a bull rider.
Close friends see portents of danger in events of the early summer and converge on Pilot Hill to warn the two black men that yet another confrontation with malevolent beings may be looming.
In the pre-dawn hours, on the second day of the North Texas Rodeo, the voice of an invisible being speaks to Missy Parker Patterson. The voice warns her that it is now she, not A. J. Mason, who has been chosen as the person who needs to “Be ready” . . . and Missy doesn’t want the job.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
John grew up in Mississippi cotton country. After graduating from Mississippi State, he received an Air Force commission and has recently retired after flying twenty-eight years for a major airline. He lives in Texas with his wife, Nan.
CONTEST:
Don't forget to enter to win Michael Barrett's CD You Alone Are Worthy. Just click on the CD cover at right to email me your entry. Hurry, the contest ends at midnight on August 15th. To learn more about the CD go HERE.
A.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
I Wanna Make You Blush...
Song Stuck on the Brain: Wake Me Up When September Ends by Green Day
There's a new reality show on VH1 called Mission: Man Band. Their mission is to bring four former boy banders together to form a new group and hope they can make it big - again.
I wouldn't watch it, except that Chris Kirkpatrick of NSYNC is one of the four. The other three are Rich Cronin of LFO, Jeff Timmons of 98 Degrees and Bryan Adams of Color Me Badd. The first episode was interesting. We'll have to see how the show plays out, it's too early to say whether it's good or not.
It's interesting to see the guys again after so many years. And to be honest, it's a little unnerving to realize just how long it HAS been. Nsync was probably the most recent to still be cranking out the tunes, and that's still been like 5 years ago. The one that really threw me though, was Color Me Badd. I really only knew one of their songs. Who didn't know this one? I Wanna Sex You Up was a huge hit and a huge scandal. I think the only reason that song really sticks out in my mind though, is because of where I heard it.
I was 13 when that song hit the top 40, and I wasn't allowed to listen to it. Not that I didn't still hear it. They played it everywhere. One night Angel and I were coming home from the Mall. Traffic is always heavy around the Independence Center, with a lot of teens just out cruising. Noland Rd was the main drag strip, but there was still carry over by the mall. So, we're sitting at the stop light on 39th street, when a pickup truck pulls up beside us. I've got my window down and I look over to see two hot, older teens. The driver smiles at me, cranks up his radio and I Wanna Sex You Up comes pouring out of his truck. He gives me the "Hey baby" nod and I turned six million shades of red. I just turned, looked straight ahead and pushed the window button. I could hear them laughing as the window slowly slid closed.
I was so mortified. They did it just to embarass me and boy did they. Now days I'd probably just roll my eyes and ignore them, but back then it was way easier to make me blush. To top it off, every time I hear that song, I feel like I'm 13 and pushing that window button all over again.
They really were very Badd boys.
A.
There's a new reality show on VH1 called Mission: Man Band. Their mission is to bring four former boy banders together to form a new group and hope they can make it big - again.
I wouldn't watch it, except that Chris Kirkpatrick of NSYNC is one of the four. The other three are Rich Cronin of LFO, Jeff Timmons of 98 Degrees and Bryan Adams of Color Me Badd. The first episode was interesting. We'll have to see how the show plays out, it's too early to say whether it's good or not.
It's interesting to see the guys again after so many years. And to be honest, it's a little unnerving to realize just how long it HAS been. Nsync was probably the most recent to still be cranking out the tunes, and that's still been like 5 years ago. The one that really threw me though, was Color Me Badd. I really only knew one of their songs. Who didn't know this one? I Wanna Sex You Up was a huge hit and a huge scandal. I think the only reason that song really sticks out in my mind though, is because of where I heard it.
I was 13 when that song hit the top 40, and I wasn't allowed to listen to it. Not that I didn't still hear it. They played it everywhere. One night Angel and I were coming home from the Mall. Traffic is always heavy around the Independence Center, with a lot of teens just out cruising. Noland Rd was the main drag strip, but there was still carry over by the mall. So, we're sitting at the stop light on 39th street, when a pickup truck pulls up beside us. I've got my window down and I look over to see two hot, older teens. The driver smiles at me, cranks up his radio and I Wanna Sex You Up comes pouring out of his truck. He gives me the "Hey baby" nod and I turned six million shades of red. I just turned, looked straight ahead and pushed the window button. I could hear them laughing as the window slowly slid closed.
I was so mortified. They did it just to embarass me and boy did they. Now days I'd probably just roll my eyes and ignore them, but back then it was way easier to make me blush. To top it off, every time I hear that song, I feel like I'm 13 and pushing that window button all over again.
They really were very Badd boys.
A.
Yummy!
Sorry to post Monday's late...
Song Stuck on the Brain: Levon by Elton John. He's coming to town for a concert at the new Sprint venue and the radio has been playing the heck out of this song. It's okay. Not one of my favorites. I'd rather here Candle in the Wind, Daniel, Benny and the Jets, or Goodbye Yellow Brick Road... just to name a few.
A friend emailed me this recipe and it looked so yummy and fun, I thought I'd share it. It's for Root Beer Float cupcakes. I can hear Angel in the background making gagging noises. She hates root Beer. I love it. One of the few things we disagree on. I got her really good a few months ago, and it wasn't even intentional.
We take lunch together every day and I happened to be driving. We went to some fast food place. We usually don't drink a lot of pop, but occasionally we'll get a combo that comes with a drink (and you can't sub water... which is ridiculous, but that's another post.) and if I do order pop, it's usually Dr. Pepper. That's what Angel prefers too. Anyway, on this particular occasion I ordered Root Beer.
We get our food, drive back to the Bat Cave and park in the lot to eat our lunch. Angel, who didn't order a drink this time, grabs for my pop. I don't think anything about it, I don't care if she drinks some. She takes a good sip and then gags.
"Blech!!!" she looks like she just drank a liver and onion milk shake.
"What's the matter?" I'm clueless.
"It's Root Beer!"
"Yeah. So?" Still clueless.
"I hate Root Beer!" She's still making faces and little gaggy noises.
I start laughing. Hysterically. "Well then why did you drink it?"
"I thought you ordered Dr. Pepper."
"You were sitting six inches away from me when I ordered it." Still laughing. Now getting teary.
"I wasn't paying attention. And you shouldn't laugh so hard. I almost spit it back into the cup on reflex."
Ugh! Not laughing now. "Thank you for not backwashing into my drink. Yuck!"
Now she asks before she takes a sip. Maybe it was a good lesson after all.
Root Beer Float Cupcakes from YumSugar.com
Cake Ingredients
1 cup root beer schnapps
1 1/2 cups old-fashioned style root beer (like A&W or Dads)
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 cups dark brown sugar
1 cup butter
2 eggs
3 cups all purpose flour
1 Tbs. baking powder
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
Root Beer Glaze
4 cups confectioners sugar
1/3 cup root beer
3 Tbs. root beer schnapps*
3 Tbs. vegetable oil
*for a more kid friendly version, replace schnapps with more root beer
You will also need some extra root beer schnapps (1 Tbs. per cupcake)
Or for the kiddies use root beer (again 1 Tbs. per cupcake)
You will also need some basic Vanilla buttercream ( there are many recipes online to try J)
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350ºF.
2. In a bowl, mix together root beer schnapps, root beer, and vanilla extract. Set aside.
3. In a separate bowl, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
4. Add eggs, mix until smooth
5. Sift in flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt.
6. Mix with hand mixer on low, while slowly pouring in root beer mixture.
7. Mix until smooth and lump free.
8. Pour into lined cupcake pan. (Use foil cupcake liners to avoid "leakage" later.) Fill nearly to the top, you may think its over-filled, but it puffs up perfectly this way. Don't be tempted to use more than 24 cupcake cups... trust me.
9. Bake for 15- 20 minutes, until golden brown and cake springs back when touched.
10. While cupcakes are baking, prepare your butter cream and root beer glaze. For glaze, put all ingredients into a bowl and mix with a wisk until smooth and lump free.
11. To assemble, start by letting cupcakes cool, still in the pan.
12. While still slightly warm, pour 1 Tbs. of root beer schnapps over each cupcake. Pour on slowly to allow schnapps ( or regular root beer for the kiddies) to soak in.
13. Once the schnapps has soaked in and let sit for a few minutes, pour a couple tablespoons of glaze over each cupcake.
14. When the glaze sets up a bit and isn't too runny, put a "scoop" of buttercream atop each. For an added touch, you can even place a root beer barrel candy on each one.
Makes 2 dozen cupcakes.
Song Stuck on the Brain: Levon by Elton John. He's coming to town for a concert at the new Sprint venue and the radio has been playing the heck out of this song. It's okay. Not one of my favorites. I'd rather here Candle in the Wind, Daniel, Benny and the Jets, or Goodbye Yellow Brick Road... just to name a few.
A friend emailed me this recipe and it looked so yummy and fun, I thought I'd share it. It's for Root Beer Float cupcakes. I can hear Angel in the background making gagging noises. She hates root Beer. I love it. One of the few things we disagree on. I got her really good a few months ago, and it wasn't even intentional.
We take lunch together every day and I happened to be driving. We went to some fast food place. We usually don't drink a lot of pop, but occasionally we'll get a combo that comes with a drink (and you can't sub water... which is ridiculous, but that's another post.) and if I do order pop, it's usually Dr. Pepper. That's what Angel prefers too. Anyway, on this particular occasion I ordered Root Beer.
We get our food, drive back to the Bat Cave and park in the lot to eat our lunch. Angel, who didn't order a drink this time, grabs for my pop. I don't think anything about it, I don't care if she drinks some. She takes a good sip and then gags.
"Blech!!!" she looks like she just drank a liver and onion milk shake.
"What's the matter?" I'm clueless.
"It's Root Beer!"
"Yeah. So?" Still clueless.
"I hate Root Beer!" She's still making faces and little gaggy noises.
I start laughing. Hysterically. "Well then why did you drink it?"
"I thought you ordered Dr. Pepper."
"You were sitting six inches away from me when I ordered it." Still laughing. Now getting teary.
"I wasn't paying attention. And you shouldn't laugh so hard. I almost spit it back into the cup on reflex."
Ugh! Not laughing now. "Thank you for not backwashing into my drink. Yuck!"
Now she asks before she takes a sip. Maybe it was a good lesson after all.
Root Beer Float Cupcakes from YumSugar.com
Cake Ingredients
1 cup root beer schnapps
1 1/2 cups old-fashioned style root beer (like A&W or Dads)
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 cups dark brown sugar
1 cup butter
2 eggs
3 cups all purpose flour
1 Tbs. baking powder
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
Root Beer Glaze
4 cups confectioners sugar
1/3 cup root beer
3 Tbs. root beer schnapps*
3 Tbs. vegetable oil
*for a more kid friendly version, replace schnapps with more root beer
You will also need some extra root beer schnapps (1 Tbs. per cupcake)
Or for the kiddies use root beer (again 1 Tbs. per cupcake)
You will also need some basic Vanilla buttercream ( there are many recipes online to try J)
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350ºF.
2. In a bowl, mix together root beer schnapps, root beer, and vanilla extract. Set aside.
3. In a separate bowl, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
4. Add eggs, mix until smooth
5. Sift in flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt.
6. Mix with hand mixer on low, while slowly pouring in root beer mixture.
7. Mix until smooth and lump free.
8. Pour into lined cupcake pan. (Use foil cupcake liners to avoid "leakage" later.) Fill nearly to the top, you may think its over-filled, but it puffs up perfectly this way. Don't be tempted to use more than 24 cupcake cups... trust me.
9. Bake for 15- 20 minutes, until golden brown and cake springs back when touched.
10. While cupcakes are baking, prepare your butter cream and root beer glaze. For glaze, put all ingredients into a bowl and mix with a wisk until smooth and lump free.
11. To assemble, start by letting cupcakes cool, still in the pan.
12. While still slightly warm, pour 1 Tbs. of root beer schnapps over each cupcake. Pour on slowly to allow schnapps ( or regular root beer for the kiddies) to soak in.
13. Once the schnapps has soaked in and let sit for a few minutes, pour a couple tablespoons of glaze over each cupcake.
14. When the glaze sets up a bit and isn't too runny, put a "scoop" of buttercream atop each. For an added touch, you can even place a root beer barrel candy on each one.
Makes 2 dozen cupcakes.
Enjoy,
A.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Lyrically Endowed
Song Stuck on the Brain: The Birdie Song (Good Morning Song)
Way up in the sky, The little birds fly.
While down in the nest, The little birds rest.
With a wing on the left, And a wing on the right.
The little birds sleep, All through the night..
Sshhhhhhh! They’re sleeping!!
When the bright sun comes up, The dew falls away.
Good morning, good morning, The little birds say.
Way up in the sky, The little birds fly.
While down in the nest, The little birds rest.
With a wing on the left, And a wing on the right.
The little birds sleep, All through the night..
Sshhhhhhh! They’re sleeping!!
When the bright sun comes up, The dew falls away.
Good morning, good morning, The little birds say.
I open my eyes, I get out of bed,
I open my window and SMASH THAT BIRDS HEAD!
That last little verse is so demented. Some guy at junior high camp taught it to me and now I can't sing the song without adding it. The nieces and nephews like it too. It's their favorite part of the action song. They get to pound their fists on the last line.
Angel and I have a talent for spouting song lyrics at the drop of a hat - or word. (Some call it annoying, but really, it's much more a gift.) On a good day, when we're on a roll, we can sing a phrase for pretty much any sentence we hear. My oldest nephew is particularly frustrated by this. Especially when we pop up with the songs in unison. It interrupts his train of thought, and in stereo to boot.
We have kind of freaky twin like ESP thing, even though we're 11 years apart. It's uncanny how often we start singing outloud the song that the other has running through their head. Or finish each others thoughts - or just say them out loud together.
Anyway, when I saw this 44 Union cartoon, it made me think of Angel and I's wonder twin powers and I had to share it.
It's finally Friday (oh wait, I'll sing that too.) I'm so glad to see the weekend here. Have fun, ya'll.
A.
P.S. Don't forget to enter to win Michael Barrett's CD, You Alone Are Worthy. Click the cd cover on the right to email your entries. This contest ends August 15, 2007.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
CFBA: Return to Me by Robin Lee Hatcher
Song Stuck on the Brain: I Try by Macy Gray
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
by
ABOUT THE BOOK:
Discouraged and destitute, her dreams shattered, Roxy Burke is going home. But what lies beyond the front door?
Rejection...or a bright future?
A lot has changed since Roxy Burke escaped small town life to become a Nashville star. Her former boyfriend Wyatt has found Christ and plans to become a minister. Her sister Elena, who comforted Wyatt when Roxy ran away, is now his fiancee. Her father Jonathan, a successful businessman, is heartbroken over the estrangement of Roxy from the family.
Now Roxy...her inheritance from her grandmother squandered, her hopes of stardom dashed...finds her way home...not by choice but because it's her only option. Her father's love and forgiveness surprise her, but her very presence throws the contented Burke family into turmoil, filling Roxy with guilt and shame.
Elena is shocked to discover doubt and resentment in her heart after her father's easy acceptance of Roxy into the family circle. Wyatt wrestles with doubts about marrying Elena. And Roxy struggles to accept forgiveness. Isn't she more deserving of rejection? As the story of the prodigal plays out, each member of the Burke family must search for and accept God's grace.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Robin is the author of over fifty novels, including Catching Katie, named one of the Best Books of 2004 by Library Journal.
Winner of the Christy Award for Excellence in Christian Fiction, two RITA Awards for Best Inspirational Romance, and the RWA Lifetime Achievement Award.
Robin, who is also one of our CFBA members, lives in Boise, Idaho.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing:
by
ABOUT THE BOOK:
Discouraged and destitute, her dreams shattered, Roxy Burke is going home. But what lies beyond the front door?Rejection...or a bright future?
A lot has changed since Roxy Burke escaped small town life to become a Nashville star. Her former boyfriend Wyatt has found Christ and plans to become a minister. Her sister Elena, who comforted Wyatt when Roxy ran away, is now his fiancee. Her father Jonathan, a successful businessman, is heartbroken over the estrangement of Roxy from the family.
Now Roxy...her inheritance from her grandmother squandered, her hopes of stardom dashed...finds her way home...not by choice but because it's her only option. Her father's love and forgiveness surprise her, but her very presence throws the contented Burke family into turmoil, filling Roxy with guilt and shame.
Elena is shocked to discover doubt and resentment in her heart after her father's easy acceptance of Roxy into the family circle. Wyatt wrestles with doubts about marrying Elena. And Roxy struggles to accept forgiveness. Isn't she more deserving of rejection? As the story of the prodigal plays out, each member of the Burke family must search for and accept God's grace.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Robin is the author of over fifty novels, including Catching Katie, named one of the Best Books of 2004 by Library Journal.
Winner of the Christy Award for Excellence in Christian Fiction, two RITA Awards for Best Inspirational Romance, and the RWA Lifetime Achievement Award.
Robin, who is also one of our CFBA members, lives in Boise, Idaho.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
FIRST: Bad Idea by Todd and Jedd Hafer
Song Stuck on the Brain: For Once in My Life by Stevie Wonder
It is AUGUST 1st, time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!
Todd and Jedd Hafer previously teamed up to write Snickers from the Front Pew: Confessions of Two Preacher's Kids, which has now sold
more than fifty thousand units.
Todd is editorial director for the inspirational book division at Hallmark Cards in Kansas City, Missouri.
Jedd is director at The Children's Ark in Colorado Springs, Colorado, a home for troubled teens, and travels the country as a standup comedian.
Visit them at their website.
MY TAKE:
LOVED this book. I suppose you could say it's my penchant for cheering on the hometown boy, but that certainly isn't the only reason I'd encourage you to read this book. The Hafer brothers have a fantastic voice. The characters were real, they were fun and I enjoyed every minute of the book. Especially the part with the Coyote.
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter 1
“We should totally drive!” Rhonda said, wagging a limp french fry for emphasis.
I clenched my teeth. I hate it when adults try to talk like teenagers. Rhonda does it all the time. Her efforts are particularly grating to me because she does, in fact, employ the teen vernacular, but always, always at least one season too late.
Thus, my father’s 28-year-old fiancée didn’t say “Congratulations!” when I was inducted into Quill & Scroll (the National Honor Society for high school journalists) early in my senior year. She said, “Big ups to you, G!” And when I was named Honorable Mention All-Area in track and field (small-school division), she didn’t say “Way to go!” She said, “Big respect, G-Man! You got the mad wheels, homey!”
If she says, “I’m feelin’ you, dawg,” during one more of our Dad-initiated dinnertime theological discussions, I’m going to puke on her shoes.
Fortunately for Rhonda, and all of the people at the Big Bear Diner on the night the road trip was conceived, I didn’t barf when she said, “We should totally drive!” I raised my eyes to the ceiling and said, “I don’t think we should totally drive. I don’t even think we should partially drive.”
I looked across the booth to my dad to accept the disapproving glare I knew he would be offering. I smiled at him. It was my infuriating, smug smile. I practice it in the bathroom mirror. It’s so irritating that when I see my reflection doing it, I want to punch myself in the face.
My dad didn’t hit me. That wasn’t his style. He just nibbled his bottom lip for a while before saying calmly, “I think we should give the idea due consideration rather than reject it out of hand.”
“Okay,” I said, sipping my bitter iced tea, “let’s hear why we should cram ourselves into a car and drive for, what, three or four days to Southern California, stomping on each other’s raw nerves all along the way and probably breaking down somewhere near the Kansas-Colorado border. Or maybe getting in a wreck.”
Rhonda looked at my dad, giving him her Wounded Face, all droopy eyes and puckered chin and poofed-out lower lip. You know the look.
He looked at her, then at me. “Griffin, please . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay—you’re right, you guys. Yeah, you know, now that I consider The Rhonda Eccles-Someday-To-Be-Smith Plan carefully, it’s sounding better. I mean, why would I want to enjoy a quick, economical, and stress-free flight when we could all cram into a tired old vehicle and drive? Let’s go with the option that means more time, more money, more risks, more headaches.”
Rhonda tried to smile, but she couldn’t get the corners of her tiny heart-shaped mouth to curl upward. “Well,” she said quietly, “I just thought it would be bomb to make a road trip of it. See the country. Stop at mom-and-pop diners, like the Big Bear here. Maybe spend a day in Denver—hit an amusement park or catch a Rockies game. Griff, please be more open-minded. Think of the time it would give us to kick it.”
“We talk now,” I observed.
“Yessss,” she said, drawing the word out as though it had sprung a slow leak. She wrapped her long, slender fingers around her coffee mug and took a sip. “But in the car, you wouldn’t be able to run away from the convo whenever it got too intense for you.”
I pushed my chair back from the table and popped up like a piece of toast. I was ready to wad my napkin and spike it like a football on the table before marching out of the Big Bear. Then, only a half second before the Great Napkin Spike, I realized that would be proving her point.
Rhonda was studying me. I scrolled my mind for options on saving face, because since she had unofficially joined our family, I had lost more face than Michael Jackson. But I scrolled in vain. My brain was nothing but blank screen.
Now other patrons were watching me too. I could feel their stares. An idea began to emerge. It wasn’t a good idea, but it was all I had, so I went with it. I said, with an air of dignified indignation, “Well, I’m going back to the buffet for another muffin. Would anybody else care for one?”
This is why I’ll never be a politician, a courtroom litigator, a public speaker—or a success in anything that requires more than a modicum of human interaction. I have my moments, but rarely can I think on my feet when I’m around people. Half the time, I can’t think off of ’em either. Maybe this is why track is the only sport I’m good at. All you must do is keep alternating left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, and turn left every once in a while. I found football and basketball too taxing mentally. They say Larry Bird was a hoops legend because he could foresee plays unfolding before they actually happened. So he always executed the perfect pass, put himself in position for nearly every rebound, stole inbounds passes at will. The game didn’t take him by surprise. Not the case with me. I played organized basketball in junior high and the first two years of high school. And every time I got a jump shot swatted back in my face or ran into a hard pick, it was like a new, albeit unpleasant, experience. So I became a track man. I run the 1600 and 3200 meters—that’s the mile and two-mile for those of you still holding strong in the anti-metric resistance.
I should note that I’m also adequate in cross-country. I often panic before races, though, because many of the courses are complicated. Even after reading the maps posted near the starting line, I don’t understand where I’ll be going. And you know those diagrams at big malls, the ones that assure that YOU ARE HERE? I study them, stare at them. Then I look around the actual mall and become convinced that the diagram has no concept of where I am. The diagram is mighty presumptuous, if not outright cruel and dishonest. How can it purport to know where I am? Half the time, I don’t know that myself.
Luckily, at a mall I can always find some low-rise-jeans-wearing Mall Girls to lead me to the Food Court, and in cross-country I can follow the other runners. If I’d ever lead a race, I’d be in trouble, but this was never a problem in four years of high school, so there’s no chance it will be a problem in college. Assuming I can even make the team. Sure, I did receive one of Lewis College’s supposedly prestigious Scholar/Athlete scholarships, but I suspect it was part of some Be Kind to Kansas White Boys quota system. I’m not convinced I won’t fold like a beach chair during my first college race—or first final exam.
Anyway, I give Rhonda credit (or in Rhonda-speak, “mad props”) for not snort-laughing at my pathetic muffin excuse. She said she could “totally go for another blueberry” and smiled at me as I left the table.
When I returned, she waited as I carefully peeled the pale yellow corrugated paper away from my muffin, then hers, being careful not to break off the stumps. I hate when that happens. Destroys the integrity of the muffin.
“Before you dis the driving idea,” Rhonda said after buttering her muffin, “there’s something you should know.”
I looked at her and arched my eyebrows.
“I talked to Cole yesterday. He’s totally down with the plan. We can drop him off at Boulder on the way to So-Cal. Think of the time you guys will have together. You’ll really be able to kick it, ya know.”
I nodded toward my little brother. “What about Colby?”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping chocolate milk from his upper lip with his shirtsleeve. “What about me?”
“You’ll stay at Aunt Nicole’s crib in Topeka, my little dude,” Rhonda said cheerfully.
Colby crinkled his nose. “Crib? I’m not a stinkin’ baby! I’m five. I won’t sleep in a crib!”
“Her house,” I clarified for Colby. “‘Crib’ is what they call houses back in da ’hood where Rhonda is from. Rural Wisconsin.”
“Oh,” Colby said.
I looked to Dad for a scowl again, but he was busy patting Rhonda’s hand and whispering reassurance to her.
“I’m just kidding, Rhonda,” I said without looking at her. “Don’t get all sentimental. Hey, it was a good idea to call Cole. And if he’s ‘down widdit,’ so am I.”
Rhonda’s eyes were moist, but now they were shining-hopeful moist, not somber-moist. “So it’s a road trip then?” she said.
I sighed. It sounded like one of my dad’s sighs. Too long and too loud. Heaven help me. “Sure,” I said, “why not.”
I was quiet on the drive home. All I could think of was how I was going to talk Cole out of the trip. First, of course, I’d need to find something to calm myself down so I wouldn’t go Rant City on him. He tends to shut down when I do that. I hoped I hadn’t exhausted my supply of vodka, that I still had a bottle or two tucked away in my sock drawer. Otherwise I’d have to resort to NyQuil and Peppermint Artificial Flavoring again. And let me tell you, that’s a rough way to get yourself mellow. (Of course, it does provide the side benefits of the clearest nasal passages and freshest breath in town.)
***
“What kind of Midwest mojo did Rhonda use on you?” I asked Cole as soon as I heard his flat “Hullo?” on the other end of the phone line. “A road trip with my dad and his cliché? I mean, this is a joke, right?”
I watched the seconds morph by on my LCD watch. After eighteen of them passed, Cole said, “You need to relax, dude. The trip will be cool. It’s more time together before we have to go our separate ways. And it’s a real road trip—not just some one-day, there-and-back thing. We’ve always talked about doing something like this, remember? To be honest, I thought you’d be all over this thing.”
“But this isn’t a normal thing, Sharp. This isn’t going to St. Louis to see the Cardinals at Busch, before they tore it down, with a bunch of guys from school. There is a bona fide adult in the equation—one-point-five if you count Rhonda. So it’s no longer a road trip; it’s a chaperoned ordeal. You understand that there will be no hard music on the CD player? No Hatebreed. No Gwar. Dad listens to only classical and old-school rock. And Rhonda likes those guys who are like twenty years old but sing like sixty-year-old opera stars. That crap freaks me out, man. And there will be no mooning busloads of girls’ volleyball teams along the way.”
“It’s not volleyball season yet,” Cole said. This was no attempt at a snappy retort on his part. The way he said it, he was just pointing out a fact, such as, “Augusta is the capital of Maine.”
I sensed I was losing the argument. “You won’t be able belch in the car, or swear. My dad ‘abhors profanity.’ You know that.” I wondered if I sounded as shrill and desperate as I felt.
“His ride, his rules. Besides, you like old-school rock, and it’s kinda starting to grow on me.”
“Okay, but consider this: Before we go, my dad will make us circle up and hold hands while he blesses the stupid SUV before the trip. And since we’ll probably have to rent one of those small trailers to haul all our stuff, he’ll probably get on a roll and bless that, too: ‘Father God, please bless this little U-Haul and all of its contents.’ Those words probably have never been uttered in the history of the English language. And he’ll make a plea for ‘traveling mercies.’ Traveling mercies! That sounds like the name of a really bad folk-rock group. Are you understanding how all of this is going to go down?”
“Praying for our trip—I’m cool with that.”
“Did you hear me say we’ll have to hold hands?”
“Dude, I would hold hands with Rhonda any day. She’s a fly honey.”
“What about me? Or my dad?”
“The team held hands in football huddles all the time. It’s only a problem if you’re insecure in your masculinity.”
I did my involuntary Dad-sigh again. “Okay, man. I guess it’s on, then.”
It’s on, then? I wagged my head in disbelief. That was something Rhonda would say. I don’t talk like that.
Thus, my father’s 28-year-old fiancée didn’t say “Congratulations!” when I was inducted into Quill & Scroll (the National Honor Society for high school journalists) early in my senior year. She said, “Big ups to you, G!” And when I was named Honorable Mention All-Area in track and field (small-school division), she didn’t say “Way to go!” She said, “Big respect, G-Man! You got the mad wheels, homey!”
If she says, “I’m feelin’ you, dawg,” during one more of our Dad-initiated dinnertime theological discussions, I’m going to puke on her shoes.
Fortunately for Rhonda, and all of the people at the Big Bear Diner on the night the road trip was conceived, I didn’t barf when she said, “We should totally drive!” I raised my eyes to the ceiling and said, “I don’t think we should totally drive. I don’t even think we should partially drive.”
I looked across the booth to my dad to accept the disapproving glare I knew he would be offering. I smiled at him. It was my infuriating, smug smile. I practice it in the bathroom mirror. It’s so irritating that when I see my reflection doing it, I want to punch myself in the face.
My dad didn’t hit me. That wasn’t his style. He just nibbled his bottom lip for a while before saying calmly, “I think we should give the idea due consideration rather than reject it out of hand.”
“Okay,” I said, sipping my bitter iced tea, “let’s hear why we should cram ourselves into a car and drive for, what, three or four days to Southern California, stomping on each other’s raw nerves all along the way and probably breaking down somewhere near the Kansas-Colorado border. Or maybe getting in a wreck.”
Rhonda looked at my dad, giving him her Wounded Face, all droopy eyes and puckered chin and poofed-out lower lip. You know the look.
He looked at her, then at me. “Griffin, please . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay—you’re right, you guys. Yeah, you know, now that I consider The Rhonda Eccles-Someday-To-Be-Smith Plan carefully, it’s sounding better. I mean, why would I want to enjoy a quick, economical, and stress-free flight when we could all cram into a tired old vehicle and drive? Let’s go with the option that means more time, more money, more risks, more headaches.”
Rhonda tried to smile, but she couldn’t get the corners of her tiny heart-shaped mouth to curl upward. “Well,” she said quietly, “I just thought it would be bomb to make a road trip of it. See the country. Stop at mom-and-pop diners, like the Big Bear here. Maybe spend a day in Denver—hit an amusement park or catch a Rockies game. Griff, please be more open-minded. Think of the time it would give us to kick it.”
“We talk now,” I observed.
“Yessss,” she said, drawing the word out as though it had sprung a slow leak. She wrapped her long, slender fingers around her coffee mug and took a sip. “But in the car, you wouldn’t be able to run away from the convo whenever it got too intense for you.”
I pushed my chair back from the table and popped up like a piece of toast. I was ready to wad my napkin and spike it like a football on the table before marching out of the Big Bear. Then, only a half second before the Great Napkin Spike, I realized that would be proving her point.
Rhonda was studying me. I scrolled my mind for options on saving face, because since she had unofficially joined our family, I had lost more face than Michael Jackson. But I scrolled in vain. My brain was nothing but blank screen.
Now other patrons were watching me too. I could feel their stares. An idea began to emerge. It wasn’t a good idea, but it was all I had, so I went with it. I said, with an air of dignified indignation, “Well, I’m going back to the buffet for another muffin. Would anybody else care for one?”
This is why I’ll never be a politician, a courtroom litigator, a public speaker—or a success in anything that requires more than a modicum of human interaction. I have my moments, but rarely can I think on my feet when I’m around people. Half the time, I can’t think off of ’em either. Maybe this is why track is the only sport I’m good at. All you must do is keep alternating left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, and turn left every once in a while. I found football and basketball too taxing mentally. They say Larry Bird was a hoops legend because he could foresee plays unfolding before they actually happened. So he always executed the perfect pass, put himself in position for nearly every rebound, stole inbounds passes at will. The game didn’t take him by surprise. Not the case with me. I played organized basketball in junior high and the first two years of high school. And every time I got a jump shot swatted back in my face or ran into a hard pick, it was like a new, albeit unpleasant, experience. So I became a track man. I run the 1600 and 3200 meters—that’s the mile and two-mile for those of you still holding strong in the anti-metric resistance.
I should note that I’m also adequate in cross-country. I often panic before races, though, because many of the courses are complicated. Even after reading the maps posted near the starting line, I don’t understand where I’ll be going. And you know those diagrams at big malls, the ones that assure that YOU ARE HERE? I study them, stare at them. Then I look around the actual mall and become convinced that the diagram has no concept of where I am. The diagram is mighty presumptuous, if not outright cruel and dishonest. How can it purport to know where I am? Half the time, I don’t know that myself.
Luckily, at a mall I can always find some low-rise-jeans-wearing Mall Girls to lead me to the Food Court, and in cross-country I can follow the other runners. If I’d ever lead a race, I’d be in trouble, but this was never a problem in four years of high school, so there’s no chance it will be a problem in college. Assuming I can even make the team. Sure, I did receive one of Lewis College’s supposedly prestigious Scholar/Athlete scholarships, but I suspect it was part of some Be Kind to Kansas White Boys quota system. I’m not convinced I won’t fold like a beach chair during my first college race—or first final exam.
Anyway, I give Rhonda credit (or in Rhonda-speak, “mad props”) for not snort-laughing at my pathetic muffin excuse. She said she could “totally go for another blueberry” and smiled at me as I left the table.
When I returned, she waited as I carefully peeled the pale yellow corrugated paper away from my muffin, then hers, being careful not to break off the stumps. I hate when that happens. Destroys the integrity of the muffin.
“Before you dis the driving idea,” Rhonda said after buttering her muffin, “there’s something you should know.”
I looked at her and arched my eyebrows.
“I talked to Cole yesterday. He’s totally down with the plan. We can drop him off at Boulder on the way to So-Cal. Think of the time you guys will have together. You’ll really be able to kick it, ya know.”
I nodded toward my little brother. “What about Colby?”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping chocolate milk from his upper lip with his shirtsleeve. “What about me?”
“You’ll stay at Aunt Nicole’s crib in Topeka, my little dude,” Rhonda said cheerfully.
Colby crinkled his nose. “Crib? I’m not a stinkin’ baby! I’m five. I won’t sleep in a crib!”
“Her house,” I clarified for Colby. “‘Crib’ is what they call houses back in da ’hood where Rhonda is from. Rural Wisconsin.”
“Oh,” Colby said.
I looked to Dad for a scowl again, but he was busy patting Rhonda’s hand and whispering reassurance to her.
“I’m just kidding, Rhonda,” I said without looking at her. “Don’t get all sentimental. Hey, it was a good idea to call Cole. And if he’s ‘down widdit,’ so am I.”
Rhonda’s eyes were moist, but now they were shining-hopeful moist, not somber-moist. “So it’s a road trip then?” she said.
I sighed. It sounded like one of my dad’s sighs. Too long and too loud. Heaven help me. “Sure,” I said, “why not.”
I was quiet on the drive home. All I could think of was how I was going to talk Cole out of the trip. First, of course, I’d need to find something to calm myself down so I wouldn’t go Rant City on him. He tends to shut down when I do that. I hoped I hadn’t exhausted my supply of vodka, that I still had a bottle or two tucked away in my sock drawer. Otherwise I’d have to resort to NyQuil and Peppermint Artificial Flavoring again. And let me tell you, that’s a rough way to get yourself mellow. (Of course, it does provide the side benefits of the clearest nasal passages and freshest breath in town.)
***
“What kind of Midwest mojo did Rhonda use on you?” I asked Cole as soon as I heard his flat “Hullo?” on the other end of the phone line. “A road trip with my dad and his cliché? I mean, this is a joke, right?”
I watched the seconds morph by on my LCD watch. After eighteen of them passed, Cole said, “You need to relax, dude. The trip will be cool. It’s more time together before we have to go our separate ways. And it’s a real road trip—not just some one-day, there-and-back thing. We’ve always talked about doing something like this, remember? To be honest, I thought you’d be all over this thing.”
“But this isn’t a normal thing, Sharp. This isn’t going to St. Louis to see the Cardinals at Busch, before they tore it down, with a bunch of guys from school. There is a bona fide adult in the equation—one-point-five if you count Rhonda. So it’s no longer a road trip; it’s a chaperoned ordeal. You understand that there will be no hard music on the CD player? No Hatebreed. No Gwar. Dad listens to only classical and old-school rock. And Rhonda likes those guys who are like twenty years old but sing like sixty-year-old opera stars. That crap freaks me out, man. And there will be no mooning busloads of girls’ volleyball teams along the way.”
“It’s not volleyball season yet,” Cole said. This was no attempt at a snappy retort on his part. The way he said it, he was just pointing out a fact, such as, “Augusta is the capital of Maine.”
I sensed I was losing the argument. “You won’t be able belch in the car, or swear. My dad ‘abhors profanity.’ You know that.” I wondered if I sounded as shrill and desperate as I felt.
“His ride, his rules. Besides, you like old-school rock, and it’s kinda starting to grow on me.”
“Okay, but consider this: Before we go, my dad will make us circle up and hold hands while he blesses the stupid SUV before the trip. And since we’ll probably have to rent one of those small trailers to haul all our stuff, he’ll probably get on a roll and bless that, too: ‘Father God, please bless this little U-Haul and all of its contents.’ Those words probably have never been uttered in the history of the English language. And he’ll make a plea for ‘traveling mercies.’ Traveling mercies! That sounds like the name of a really bad folk-rock group. Are you understanding how all of this is going to go down?”
“Praying for our trip—I’m cool with that.”
“Did you hear me say we’ll have to hold hands?”
“Dude, I would hold hands with Rhonda any day. She’s a fly honey.”
“What about me? Or my dad?”
“The team held hands in football huddles all the time. It’s only a problem if you’re insecure in your masculinity.”
I did my involuntary Dad-sigh again. “Okay, man. I guess it’s on, then.”
It’s on, then? I wagged my head in disbelief. That was something Rhonda would say. I don’t talk like that.
CONTEST:
Don't forget to enter the contest to win a free copy of Michael Barrett's CD You Alone Are Worthy. Click the CD cover on the right to email me your entry - and be sure to get it in by August 15th.
It is AUGUST 1st, time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!This month's feature author(s) are:
and their book:
BAD IDEA a novel (with coyotes)
(NavPress TH1NK Books, August 22, 2006)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR(s):
Todd and Jedd Hafer previously teamed up to write Snickers from the Front Pew: Confessions of Two Preacher's Kids, which has now sold
more than fifty thousand units.Todd is editorial director for the inspirational book division at Hallmark Cards in Kansas City, Missouri.
Jedd is director at The Children's Ark in Colorado Springs, Colorado, a home for troubled teens, and travels the country as a standup comedian.
Visit them at their website.
MY TAKE:
LOVED this book. I suppose you could say it's my penchant for cheering on the hometown boy, but that certainly isn't the only reason I'd encourage you to read this book. The Hafer brothers have a fantastic voice. The characters were real, they were fun and I enjoyed every minute of the book. Especially the part with the Coyote.
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter 1
“We should totally drive!” Rhonda said, wagging a limp french fry for emphasis.
I clenched my teeth. I hate it when adults try to talk like teenagers. Rhonda does it all the time. Her efforts are particularly grating to me because she does, in fact, employ the teen vernacular, but always, always at least one season too late.
Thus, my father’s 28-year-old fiancée didn’t say “Congratulations!” when I was inducted into Quill & Scroll (the National Honor Society for high school journalists) early in my senior year. She said, “Big ups to you, G!” And when I was named Honorable Mention All-Area in track and field (small-school division), she didn’t say “Way to go!” She said, “Big respect, G-Man! You got the mad wheels, homey!”
If she says, “I’m feelin’ you, dawg,” during one more of our Dad-initiated dinnertime theological discussions, I’m going to puke on her shoes.
Fortunately for Rhonda, and all of the people at the Big Bear Diner on the night the road trip was conceived, I didn’t barf when she said, “We should totally drive!” I raised my eyes to the ceiling and said, “I don’t think we should totally drive. I don’t even think we should partially drive.”
I looked across the booth to my dad to accept the disapproving glare I knew he would be offering. I smiled at him. It was my infuriating, smug smile. I practice it in the bathroom mirror. It’s so irritating that when I see my reflection doing it, I want to punch myself in the face.
My dad didn’t hit me. That wasn’t his style. He just nibbled his bottom lip for a while before saying calmly, “I think we should give the idea due consideration rather than reject it out of hand.”
“Okay,” I said, sipping my bitter iced tea, “let’s hear why we should cram ourselves into a car and drive for, what, three or four days to Southern California, stomping on each other’s raw nerves all along the way and probably breaking down somewhere near the Kansas-Colorado border. Or maybe getting in a wreck.”
Rhonda looked at my dad, giving him her Wounded Face, all droopy eyes and puckered chin and poofed-out lower lip. You know the look.
He looked at her, then at me. “Griffin, please . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay—you’re right, you guys. Yeah, you know, now that I consider The Rhonda Eccles-Someday-To-Be-Smith Plan carefully, it’s sounding better. I mean, why would I want to enjoy a quick, economical, and stress-free flight when we could all cram into a tired old vehicle and drive? Let’s go with the option that means more time, more money, more risks, more headaches.”
Rhonda tried to smile, but she couldn’t get the corners of her tiny heart-shaped mouth to curl upward. “Well,” she said quietly, “I just thought it would be bomb to make a road trip of it. See the country. Stop at mom-and-pop diners, like the Big Bear here. Maybe spend a day in Denver—hit an amusement park or catch a Rockies game. Griff, please be more open-minded. Think of the time it would give us to kick it.”
“We talk now,” I observed.
“Yessss,” she said, drawing the word out as though it had sprung a slow leak. She wrapped her long, slender fingers around her coffee mug and took a sip. “But in the car, you wouldn’t be able to run away from the convo whenever it got too intense for you.”
I pushed my chair back from the table and popped up like a piece of toast. I was ready to wad my napkin and spike it like a football on the table before marching out of the Big Bear. Then, only a half second before the Great Napkin Spike, I realized that would be proving her point.
Rhonda was studying me. I scrolled my mind for options on saving face, because since she had unofficially joined our family, I had lost more face than Michael Jackson. But I scrolled in vain. My brain was nothing but blank screen.
Now other patrons were watching me too. I could feel their stares. An idea began to emerge. It wasn’t a good idea, but it was all I had, so I went with it. I said, with an air of dignified indignation, “Well, I’m going back to the buffet for another muffin. Would anybody else care for one?”
This is why I’ll never be a politician, a courtroom litigator, a public speaker—or a success in anything that requires more than a modicum of human interaction. I have my moments, but rarely can I think on my feet when I’m around people. Half the time, I can’t think off of ’em either. Maybe this is why track is the only sport I’m good at. All you must do is keep alternating left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, and turn left every once in a while. I found football and basketball too taxing mentally. They say Larry Bird was a hoops legend because he could foresee plays unfolding before they actually happened. So he always executed the perfect pass, put himself in position for nearly every rebound, stole inbounds passes at will. The game didn’t take him by surprise. Not the case with me. I played organized basketball in junior high and the first two years of high school. And every time I got a jump shot swatted back in my face or ran into a hard pick, it was like a new, albeit unpleasant, experience. So I became a track man. I run the 1600 and 3200 meters—that’s the mile and two-mile for those of you still holding strong in the anti-metric resistance.
I should note that I’m also adequate in cross-country. I often panic before races, though, because many of the courses are complicated. Even after reading the maps posted near the starting line, I don’t understand where I’ll be going. And you know those diagrams at big malls, the ones that assure that YOU ARE HERE? I study them, stare at them. Then I look around the actual mall and become convinced that the diagram has no concept of where I am. The diagram is mighty presumptuous, if not outright cruel and dishonest. How can it purport to know where I am? Half the time, I don’t know that myself.
Luckily, at a mall I can always find some low-rise-jeans-wearing Mall Girls to lead me to the Food Court, and in cross-country I can follow the other runners. If I’d ever lead a race, I’d be in trouble, but this was never a problem in four years of high school, so there’s no chance it will be a problem in college. Assuming I can even make the team. Sure, I did receive one of Lewis College’s supposedly prestigious Scholar/Athlete scholarships, but I suspect it was part of some Be Kind to Kansas White Boys quota system. I’m not convinced I won’t fold like a beach chair during my first college race—or first final exam.
Anyway, I give Rhonda credit (or in Rhonda-speak, “mad props”) for not snort-laughing at my pathetic muffin excuse. She said she could “totally go for another blueberry” and smiled at me as I left the table.
When I returned, she waited as I carefully peeled the pale yellow corrugated paper away from my muffin, then hers, being careful not to break off the stumps. I hate when that happens. Destroys the integrity of the muffin.
“Before you dis the driving idea,” Rhonda said after buttering her muffin, “there’s something you should know.”
I looked at her and arched my eyebrows.
“I talked to Cole yesterday. He’s totally down with the plan. We can drop him off at Boulder on the way to So-Cal. Think of the time you guys will have together. You’ll really be able to kick it, ya know.”
I nodded toward my little brother. “What about Colby?”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping chocolate milk from his upper lip with his shirtsleeve. “What about me?”
“You’ll stay at Aunt Nicole’s crib in Topeka, my little dude,” Rhonda said cheerfully.
Colby crinkled his nose. “Crib? I’m not a stinkin’ baby! I’m five. I won’t sleep in a crib!”
“Her house,” I clarified for Colby. “‘Crib’ is what they call houses back in da ’hood where Rhonda is from. Rural Wisconsin.”
“Oh,” Colby said.
I looked to Dad for a scowl again, but he was busy patting Rhonda’s hand and whispering reassurance to her.
“I’m just kidding, Rhonda,” I said without looking at her. “Don’t get all sentimental. Hey, it was a good idea to call Cole. And if he’s ‘down widdit,’ so am I.”
Rhonda’s eyes were moist, but now they were shining-hopeful moist, not somber-moist. “So it’s a road trip then?” she said.
I sighed. It sounded like one of my dad’s sighs. Too long and too loud. Heaven help me. “Sure,” I said, “why not.”
I was quiet on the drive home. All I could think of was how I was going to talk Cole out of the trip. First, of course, I’d need to find something to calm myself down so I wouldn’t go Rant City on him. He tends to shut down when I do that. I hoped I hadn’t exhausted my supply of vodka, that I still had a bottle or two tucked away in my sock drawer. Otherwise I’d have to resort to NyQuil and Peppermint Artificial Flavoring again. And let me tell you, that’s a rough way to get yourself mellow. (Of course, it does provide the side benefits of the clearest nasal passages and freshest breath in town.)
***
“What kind of Midwest mojo did Rhonda use on you?” I asked Cole as soon as I heard his flat “Hullo?” on the other end of the phone line. “A road trip with my dad and his cliché? I mean, this is a joke, right?”
I watched the seconds morph by on my LCD watch. After eighteen of them passed, Cole said, “You need to relax, dude. The trip will be cool. It’s more time together before we have to go our separate ways. And it’s a real road trip—not just some one-day, there-and-back thing. We’ve always talked about doing something like this, remember? To be honest, I thought you’d be all over this thing.”
“But this isn’t a normal thing, Sharp. This isn’t going to St. Louis to see the Cardinals at Busch, before they tore it down, with a bunch of guys from school. There is a bona fide adult in the equation—one-point-five if you count Rhonda. So it’s no longer a road trip; it’s a chaperoned ordeal. You understand that there will be no hard music on the CD player? No Hatebreed. No Gwar. Dad listens to only classical and old-school rock. And Rhonda likes those guys who are like twenty years old but sing like sixty-year-old opera stars. That crap freaks me out, man. And there will be no mooning busloads of girls’ volleyball teams along the way.”
“It’s not volleyball season yet,” Cole said. This was no attempt at a snappy retort on his part. The way he said it, he was just pointing out a fact, such as, “Augusta is the capital of Maine.”
I sensed I was losing the argument. “You won’t be able belch in the car, or swear. My dad ‘abhors profanity.’ You know that.” I wondered if I sounded as shrill and desperate as I felt.
“His ride, his rules. Besides, you like old-school rock, and it’s kinda starting to grow on me.”
“Okay, but consider this: Before we go, my dad will make us circle up and hold hands while he blesses the stupid SUV before the trip. And since we’ll probably have to rent one of those small trailers to haul all our stuff, he’ll probably get on a roll and bless that, too: ‘Father God, please bless this little U-Haul and all of its contents.’ Those words probably have never been uttered in the history of the English language. And he’ll make a plea for ‘traveling mercies.’ Traveling mercies! That sounds like the name of a really bad folk-rock group. Are you understanding how all of this is going to go down?”
“Praying for our trip—I’m cool with that.”
“Did you hear me say we’ll have to hold hands?”
“Dude, I would hold hands with Rhonda any day. She’s a fly honey.”
“What about me? Or my dad?”
“The team held hands in football huddles all the time. It’s only a problem if you’re insecure in your masculinity.”
I did my involuntary Dad-sigh again. “Okay, man. I guess it’s on, then.”
It’s on, then? I wagged my head in disbelief. That was something Rhonda would say. I don’t talk like that.
Thus, my father’s 28-year-old fiancée didn’t say “Congratulations!” when I was inducted into Quill & Scroll (the National Honor Society for high school journalists) early in my senior year. She said, “Big ups to you, G!” And when I was named Honorable Mention All-Area in track and field (small-school division), she didn’t say “Way to go!” She said, “Big respect, G-Man! You got the mad wheels, homey!”
If she says, “I’m feelin’ you, dawg,” during one more of our Dad-initiated dinnertime theological discussions, I’m going to puke on her shoes.
Fortunately for Rhonda, and all of the people at the Big Bear Diner on the night the road trip was conceived, I didn’t barf when she said, “We should totally drive!” I raised my eyes to the ceiling and said, “I don’t think we should totally drive. I don’t even think we should partially drive.”
I looked across the booth to my dad to accept the disapproving glare I knew he would be offering. I smiled at him. It was my infuriating, smug smile. I practice it in the bathroom mirror. It’s so irritating that when I see my reflection doing it, I want to punch myself in the face.
My dad didn’t hit me. That wasn’t his style. He just nibbled his bottom lip for a while before saying calmly, “I think we should give the idea due consideration rather than reject it out of hand.”
“Okay,” I said, sipping my bitter iced tea, “let’s hear why we should cram ourselves into a car and drive for, what, three or four days to Southern California, stomping on each other’s raw nerves all along the way and probably breaking down somewhere near the Kansas-Colorado border. Or maybe getting in a wreck.”
Rhonda looked at my dad, giving him her Wounded Face, all droopy eyes and puckered chin and poofed-out lower lip. You know the look.
He looked at her, then at me. “Griffin, please . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay—you’re right, you guys. Yeah, you know, now that I consider The Rhonda Eccles-Someday-To-Be-Smith Plan carefully, it’s sounding better. I mean, why would I want to enjoy a quick, economical, and stress-free flight when we could all cram into a tired old vehicle and drive? Let’s go with the option that means more time, more money, more risks, more headaches.”
Rhonda tried to smile, but she couldn’t get the corners of her tiny heart-shaped mouth to curl upward. “Well,” she said quietly, “I just thought it would be bomb to make a road trip of it. See the country. Stop at mom-and-pop diners, like the Big Bear here. Maybe spend a day in Denver—hit an amusement park or catch a Rockies game. Griff, please be more open-minded. Think of the time it would give us to kick it.”
“We talk now,” I observed.
“Yessss,” she said, drawing the word out as though it had sprung a slow leak. She wrapped her long, slender fingers around her coffee mug and took a sip. “But in the car, you wouldn’t be able to run away from the convo whenever it got too intense for you.”
I pushed my chair back from the table and popped up like a piece of toast. I was ready to wad my napkin and spike it like a football on the table before marching out of the Big Bear. Then, only a half second before the Great Napkin Spike, I realized that would be proving her point.
Rhonda was studying me. I scrolled my mind for options on saving face, because since she had unofficially joined our family, I had lost more face than Michael Jackson. But I scrolled in vain. My brain was nothing but blank screen.
Now other patrons were watching me too. I could feel their stares. An idea began to emerge. It wasn’t a good idea, but it was all I had, so I went with it. I said, with an air of dignified indignation, “Well, I’m going back to the buffet for another muffin. Would anybody else care for one?”
This is why I’ll never be a politician, a courtroom litigator, a public speaker—or a success in anything that requires more than a modicum of human interaction. I have my moments, but rarely can I think on my feet when I’m around people. Half the time, I can’t think off of ’em either. Maybe this is why track is the only sport I’m good at. All you must do is keep alternating left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, and turn left every once in a while. I found football and basketball too taxing mentally. They say Larry Bird was a hoops legend because he could foresee plays unfolding before they actually happened. So he always executed the perfect pass, put himself in position for nearly every rebound, stole inbounds passes at will. The game didn’t take him by surprise. Not the case with me. I played organized basketball in junior high and the first two years of high school. And every time I got a jump shot swatted back in my face or ran into a hard pick, it was like a new, albeit unpleasant, experience. So I became a track man. I run the 1600 and 3200 meters—that’s the mile and two-mile for those of you still holding strong in the anti-metric resistance.
I should note that I’m also adequate in cross-country. I often panic before races, though, because many of the courses are complicated. Even after reading the maps posted near the starting line, I don’t understand where I’ll be going. And you know those diagrams at big malls, the ones that assure that YOU ARE HERE? I study them, stare at them. Then I look around the actual mall and become convinced that the diagram has no concept of where I am. The diagram is mighty presumptuous, if not outright cruel and dishonest. How can it purport to know where I am? Half the time, I don’t know that myself.
Luckily, at a mall I can always find some low-rise-jeans-wearing Mall Girls to lead me to the Food Court, and in cross-country I can follow the other runners. If I’d ever lead a race, I’d be in trouble, but this was never a problem in four years of high school, so there’s no chance it will be a problem in college. Assuming I can even make the team. Sure, I did receive one of Lewis College’s supposedly prestigious Scholar/Athlete scholarships, but I suspect it was part of some Be Kind to Kansas White Boys quota system. I’m not convinced I won’t fold like a beach chair during my first college race—or first final exam.
Anyway, I give Rhonda credit (or in Rhonda-speak, “mad props”) for not snort-laughing at my pathetic muffin excuse. She said she could “totally go for another blueberry” and smiled at me as I left the table.
When I returned, she waited as I carefully peeled the pale yellow corrugated paper away from my muffin, then hers, being careful not to break off the stumps. I hate when that happens. Destroys the integrity of the muffin.
“Before you dis the driving idea,” Rhonda said after buttering her muffin, “there’s something you should know.”
I looked at her and arched my eyebrows.
“I talked to Cole yesterday. He’s totally down with the plan. We can drop him off at Boulder on the way to So-Cal. Think of the time you guys will have together. You’ll really be able to kick it, ya know.”
I nodded toward my little brother. “What about Colby?”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping chocolate milk from his upper lip with his shirtsleeve. “What about me?”
“You’ll stay at Aunt Nicole’s crib in Topeka, my little dude,” Rhonda said cheerfully.
Colby crinkled his nose. “Crib? I’m not a stinkin’ baby! I’m five. I won’t sleep in a crib!”
“Her house,” I clarified for Colby. “‘Crib’ is what they call houses back in da ’hood where Rhonda is from. Rural Wisconsin.”
“Oh,” Colby said.
I looked to Dad for a scowl again, but he was busy patting Rhonda’s hand and whispering reassurance to her.
“I’m just kidding, Rhonda,” I said without looking at her. “Don’t get all sentimental. Hey, it was a good idea to call Cole. And if he’s ‘down widdit,’ so am I.”
Rhonda’s eyes were moist, but now they were shining-hopeful moist, not somber-moist. “So it’s a road trip then?” she said.
I sighed. It sounded like one of my dad’s sighs. Too long and too loud. Heaven help me. “Sure,” I said, “why not.”
I was quiet on the drive home. All I could think of was how I was going to talk Cole out of the trip. First, of course, I’d need to find something to calm myself down so I wouldn’t go Rant City on him. He tends to shut down when I do that. I hoped I hadn’t exhausted my supply of vodka, that I still had a bottle or two tucked away in my sock drawer. Otherwise I’d have to resort to NyQuil and Peppermint Artificial Flavoring again. And let me tell you, that’s a rough way to get yourself mellow. (Of course, it does provide the side benefits of the clearest nasal passages and freshest breath in town.)
***
“What kind of Midwest mojo did Rhonda use on you?” I asked Cole as soon as I heard his flat “Hullo?” on the other end of the phone line. “A road trip with my dad and his cliché? I mean, this is a joke, right?”
I watched the seconds morph by on my LCD watch. After eighteen of them passed, Cole said, “You need to relax, dude. The trip will be cool. It’s more time together before we have to go our separate ways. And it’s a real road trip—not just some one-day, there-and-back thing. We’ve always talked about doing something like this, remember? To be honest, I thought you’d be all over this thing.”
“But this isn’t a normal thing, Sharp. This isn’t going to St. Louis to see the Cardinals at Busch, before they tore it down, with a bunch of guys from school. There is a bona fide adult in the equation—one-point-five if you count Rhonda. So it’s no longer a road trip; it’s a chaperoned ordeal. You understand that there will be no hard music on the CD player? No Hatebreed. No Gwar. Dad listens to only classical and old-school rock. And Rhonda likes those guys who are like twenty years old but sing like sixty-year-old opera stars. That crap freaks me out, man. And there will be no mooning busloads of girls’ volleyball teams along the way.”
“It’s not volleyball season yet,” Cole said. This was no attempt at a snappy retort on his part. The way he said it, he was just pointing out a fact, such as, “Augusta is the capital of Maine.”
I sensed I was losing the argument. “You won’t be able belch in the car, or swear. My dad ‘abhors profanity.’ You know that.” I wondered if I sounded as shrill and desperate as I felt.
“His ride, his rules. Besides, you like old-school rock, and it’s kinda starting to grow on me.”
“Okay, but consider this: Before we go, my dad will make us circle up and hold hands while he blesses the stupid SUV before the trip. And since we’ll probably have to rent one of those small trailers to haul all our stuff, he’ll probably get on a roll and bless that, too: ‘Father God, please bless this little U-Haul and all of its contents.’ Those words probably have never been uttered in the history of the English language. And he’ll make a plea for ‘traveling mercies.’ Traveling mercies! That sounds like the name of a really bad folk-rock group. Are you understanding how all of this is going to go down?”
“Praying for our trip—I’m cool with that.”
“Did you hear me say we’ll have to hold hands?”
“Dude, I would hold hands with Rhonda any day. She’s a fly honey.”
“What about me? Or my dad?”
“The team held hands in football huddles all the time. It’s only a problem if you’re insecure in your masculinity.”
I did my involuntary Dad-sigh again. “Okay, man. I guess it’s on, then.”
It’s on, then? I wagged my head in disbelief. That was something Rhonda would say. I don’t talk like that.
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