Stage 1: Denial- It’s a relevant topic. I should be able to get some useful information and ideas from this one. But I’d better top off my coffee, just in case.
 
Stage 2: Boredom- How old is this Powerpoint presentation? I’m pretty sure she has it saved on a floppy disc. It’s got to be close to lunch. Nope. 8:30. I’ve been here thirty minutes. This presenter is magical. She has the ability to make time stand still.
 
Stage 3:  Hostility- How many acronyms and buzz words can one person spew in the span of an hour? Enough to make one hour feel like SEVEN, that’s for damn sure. I swear to all that is holy if she says “rigor” one more time I’m going to punch her face.
 
Stage 4: Loopiness- If she dyed her hair green she’d look like a human Chia pet. Ch-ch-ch-chia!
 
Stage 5: Sleep- I’m just gonna rest my eyes for a minute. Just for a minnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn….
 
Stage 6: Feedback- Organization – well, she wasn’t unorganized, I guess I have to give her a 5 out of 5 on that one. Clearly stated goals – Well, she stated her goals, I guess that’s another 5, Provided adequate breaks – Another 5. Where the hell is the “Bored the crap out of me” scale? They’ve designed this rubric to make anyone look good. Comments: Okay, here we go. Be civil, use my teacher words. “The speaker would benefit from exercising more rigor in order to present twenty-first century skills with a growth mindset.” There. That makes no sense whatsoever, just like her presentation.

​Why is the Internet obsessed with what people over 40 shouldn’t wear? Life is hard. If a person makes it to forty, they should be able to wear what they want without being harassed by Popsugar, Cheatsheet, PureWow, or the like. Who writes these rules anyway? What makes these authors the gods of fashion that we’re supposed to obey them?
 
According to Cheatsheet, I am not allowed to wear hoodies. Also, I can’t wear patterns on my clothes; everything I wear needs to be subdued. I guess the author figures once you turn forty you have one foot in the grave already, so you should dress as if you’re going to a funeral at all times.
 
According the Oprah media world women over forty should never wear shorts or capris. I guess my only warm weather option is a skirt or dress, but I then have to be careful about length. Anything above the knee is considered inappropriate for my age, and anything hitting the wrong part of my calf is going to make my legs look chubby, so I guess that leaves me with full-length skirts. Wait – so there’s no warm-weather options for women over forty?
 
An MSN article says not only should I never wear headbands, charm bracelets, leggings with prints, wristlets, or peasant blouses, but I shouldn’t own a bulletin board or use colored pens. It’s not just about fashion, the Internet is now policing my office supplies.
 
Don’t get me wrong, I realize that not every outfit is suitable for every occasion. It’s probably not a great idea to wear daisy dukes and a stained t-shirt to a job interview. Wearing a bikini to church in the middle of winter doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But these articles aren’t trying to teach us 40-somethings how to dress for a specific venue or climate. These articles are saying women over 40 should no longer feel free to wear what suits our personal preferences. They tell us getting old means we need to hide ourselves away, blend into the woodwork, disappear.
 
Personally I’m not a fan of sweats with the word ‘Juicy’ across the butt or shirts that put bra-straps on display. So I don’t wear them. I do not, however, discourage others from doing so. I wish people wearing sandals would clip, scrape, and lotion before exposing their nasty feet, but I’m not going to tell people what to do. If they want to let their crusty feet out in the open, that’s their business. I can look away and gag in silence.
 
And that’s what I wish these fashionistas out there would do when it comes to what women over forty should wear. Be silent. Hide your opinion away. Now that I’m over 40, I’m old enough to make my own decisions about what I should or should not wear.

"How are you doing?"

It’s a common greeting in most cultures, usually meant to elicit a simple response. It throws people off if you answer with more than one or two words, which makes it difficult to know what to reply when someone asks you in the midst of a crisis. It seems appropriate to say a bit more, but nobody’s really signing on to be your therapist. During my son's first go ‘round with cancer, I would say, "we’re doing ok" or "hanging in there," but I changed my answer after he relapsed.

It's like that joke where a man falls from a skyscraper. Someone calls out from one of the windows as he passes, “How’s it going?”

​The falling man says, “So far, so good.”

That has been my 'go to' answer this time around.

When your child is diagnosed with cancer, you feel like you are falling from a building. You hope and pray that the ground is a lifetime away, but you just don’t know.

So my pastor calls me the other day, and asks me to say something poetic about our cancer journey, expressing our thankfulness. At first, all I could think was, how do I talk about thankfulness, when I’ve been falling from a building? When I’ve watched other families hit the ground? What could I say?

Then the punch line came back to me. I’ll say, “so far, so good.”

I’m thankful that my oldest son was able to donate his marrow.
I’m thankful that the bone marrow transplant was successful, without serious complications.
I’m thankful my son and my husband were able to come back home before the holidays.
I’m thankful that he’s off most of the medications.
I’m thankful that his one year tests were clear, and that he gets to start school in the fall.
I’m thankful for the support of this community, family, and friends.

So far, so good.

One thing this experience has taught me is - you can’t focus on the ground.

Come on, keyboard! Make words. They don’t have to be stellar. I’ll fix it later. Give me some bones to build on, edit, tweak. Something. Anything. Let’s go. Start typing. I before E except after C. You know, words. I need some.
 
The cursor stops blinking after a while. Like it gives up on you. Like it’s flat-lining or something. Blip, blip, blip, blip, bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
 
OK, let’s think. Why is someone trying to kill my main character? I worked it out the other night. It was midnight, I scribbled some notes. Let me see what I wrote. Yep. Completely illegible. I think this says ‘director.’ Right. OK, that makes no sense whatsoever. So much for midnight inspirations.
 
Edit. I’ll edit that chapter I wrote last week. OK, it’s more like three paragraphs. Ugh. This is terrible. Is the whole book this bad?  Maybe I’ll minimize this and research murder weapons. Oh look, an article about somebody who ate oatmeal for a week. What did they learn? Answer – nothing interesting. Who writes this crap?
 
Oh yeah, I was writing. Or not writing. Words. I need words.
 
So, someone wants to kill my character. Who, exactly? Ugh. I do, right now. Die! If you’re not going to talk to me, just die. But how do I kill her? Let me research that on-line. Oh look, an article about what women over forty should never wear. Because Popsugar is the god of all fashion choices and I must conform to whatever they decide is fit for me to wear. Tomorrow I shall wear a bedazzled message t-shirt and look fabulous doing it.
 
What am I going to wear tomorrow? Did I put those clothes in the dryer yet? I should do some ironing. Maybe I’ll just buy some new clothes. I haven’t gambled with on-line clothes shopping in a while. No, wait, I need to get at least one paragraph down.
 
Damn. The cursor just died on me again. Ok, I’m calling it. Time of death, seven thirty.

​Church. A weekly reminder that in my old age I have developed the attention span of a toddler.
 
Opening songs. Far be it from me to show up on time. That’s what opening songs are for right? Let us filter in to account for the five minute lag between any given clock? Anyway, I made it in time for announcements. A friendly reminder of all the things I have not signed up for.  Whatever, I’ll have my pen handy once I retire.
 
Oh good, songs again. I like this one. Now’s my chance to roar like Katy Perry. I’m gonna channel my inner Aretha. Why not? You can’t give a person funny looks for being tone-deaf if they’re singing a hymn. I’m pretty sure that’s in Leviticus somewhere.
 
Scripture reading. Ugh. Why the monotone? With feeling, folks. This isn’t a funeral.
 
Sermon time. Come on, Audra. You can do this. Pay attention. I should be able to summarize this thing when I leave here. Ok. Love. It’s about love. Right. Good message. Uh oh, he’s quoting CS Lewis again. I’m more of a Tolkien fan myself. I mean, you either prefer one or the other right? Like Star Trek versus Star Wars or Coke versus Pepsi. Wait, he’s making a point and I’m missing it. I should love my neighbor. Right. I should have the neighbors over for a barbecue. Except our barbecue died. We could have dinner inside, but it seems a shame since the weather finally turned nice. I should get my haircut. Long hair sucks in the summer. I’m getting old anyway, maybe I should get it short like the lady sitting in front of me. There’s some serious helmet hair. I bet I could bounce a quarter off of that stuff. Ugh, dammit. Focus. Did he just say ‘disenfranchised’? Do I know what that word means? At least he’s not talking about circumcision this week. One does not expect to walk into church, sit in a pew, and listen to the pastor talk about penises. Anyway, love. I need to love more. Got it.
 
Communion. Why did we switch to the Styrofoam discs? Seriously, when I die they’re going to cut me open and find every one of these things I ever consumed stuck in my craw. Wait – everyone is serious right now. This is a sacrament, right? I should be serious. Instead, I’m being irreverent. I know. I should listen. Really listen. It might do me some good.
 
But here’s the problem. When I really listen I don’t hear the pastor’s message or the song lyrics. I hear an infant crying in pain for hours. I hear a woman in another room sobbing, deep, harrowing sobs for twenty solid minutes. I hear my friend crying in anguish because there was nothing more that could be done. The sounds heard in a children’s cancer ward stay with you. Always.
 
So I fidget. I make grocery lists. I count how many times blood is mentioned. (Five, usually, unless the sermon’s about circumcision. Then there’s a bit more.) If I have some tissues with me, I even venture to I ask why. What possible reason could there be for giving a child cancer? The answer never comes.
 
And then I enjoy the company of my church family. The people who supported and stood by us through our medical ordeal. The people who prayed when I was too angry to pray. I eat their baked goods, shake their hands, answer their questions. They seem happy and kind. There’s something here for them, and that gives me hope that there will be something here for me again too someday.
 
I may not have answers to my questions, but I leave with a sense of community, a song in my heart. I will go back again next week, because it’s a good place, whether I’m paying attention or not.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my ‘Mother of all Character Interviews’ – a literary tribute to motherhood. Thanks so much to all of the lovely mothers who visited my blog this month! It’s always a pleasure to feature fantastic indie/small press authors & their characters.

Thanks to all who entered the giveaway! Congrats to Amie, who won the following ebooks:

Middle Eight & Dragon Cookie by Audra Middleton, Purgatory by Susan Stec, Sweet Thangs Cookbook by Ann Everett, Fortune Teller's Secret by Ron D. Voigts, Diamond Moon by Celia Breslin, Thin Ice by JS Marlo, Killer Dolls and Christmas Eve by Angelica Hart & Zi.

The moms are still here on my blog and there's still time to enter the giveaway! Today we have a rare opportunity to speak to a Doppelgänger mother from Susan Stec's novel, Purgatory.

Tell us about your kids. Do they take after you at all? 
I've had hundreds. Elders are the guardians of a fledgling until it reaches legal age. Doppelgängers all look the same, a shadow, smoke cloud, a demon's blunder with no name, no sex, no flesh, and no identity unless we wear one of you. However, we each have a will of our own. 

What is your proudest mom moment? 
I have none. Motherhood is a deplorable burden.

My mom used to say “I’ve had it up to here!” and “Who do you think you are?” a lot. What is your go-to momism?
"You're a demon's creation, not a human. Act like one!"  and  "Do you want me to find a bottle with an air tight lid?"

What is the most valuable thing your mother taught you?
Not to leave any evidence of our existence. I try to instill the importance of this as well. It's fairly simple. Kill the hosts. Wear the body until it is no longer fresh. Shed, and find another. My current ward is my only challenge in this respect. She insists on doubling up, while leaving the real human to continue on without knowledge of a carbon copy wandering about. She will be the death of both of us. 

What do you see as the most challenging aspect of motherhood? 
Keeping my wardrobe fresh during a heated disciplinary discussion.. 
 
How about some This or That?:

June Cleaver or Morticia Adams?
MORTICIA
Bacon & eggs or cereal & milk?
NEITHER. WE DON'T FEED.
Themed party or meet for drinks?  
I CAN BE QUITE FESTIVE.
Curlers to bed or lucky to remember a morning comb through?
I PREFER A WELL COIFFURED CADAVER 
Cosmopolitan or beer?
COSMOPOLITAN   
Mini-van or Cooper mini?
WE HAVE INSTANT TRAVEL TOKENS. 
Home cooked or take out?
TAKE OUT OF COURSE. 
Neiman Marcus or Walmart?
BOTH CAN BE AMUSING
Wash your mouth out with soap or pay the swear jar?
I TRY NOT TO USE FOUL LANGUAGE.
Seinfeld’s Estelle Costanza or Lorelai Gilmore?
I'LL TAKE BOTH. I BORE EASLY.
 
Thanks so much for joining us, Ms. Doppelgänger, it was enlightening! And now, here's more about PURGATORY, a place Down Under - A New Adult paranormal romance/humor:

They were outcasts...

The doppelgänger: a myth, a night fright, as singular as an individual's nightmare—a demon's blunder in search of a love that can never be.

The wendigo: a half-breed, an abomination that hides from his own race. They won’t let him forget what he did, he can't fight who he is and a desire that ends in disaster.

...until they met.

Can two very different creatures find love in a world where hope leads to disappointment, and relationships end in death? They’ll have to fight all that is Down Under to find out.

To Purchase:
All of Susan's books are free with Kindle Unlimited.
Book 2 is scheduled to release in July.

For more info about Susan and her projects:
AMAZON: http://amzn.to/1NjkU6B
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/GratefulUndead
LANDING PAGE http://www.authorsusanstec.com/store/c1/Featured_Products.html
TWITTER: https://mobile.twitter.com/suesan0814
GOODREADS: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4556170.Susan_Stec

Lock up your diary and turn down that music! The moms have taken over my blog this month. Today we have Katrina "Kit" Cante from Angelica Hart and Zi's novel, Naked Twister.​

Thanks for joining us, Kit. Tell us, what do you see as the most challenging aspect of motherhood?

Raising my three year old daughter, Jessy, as a single mother while hiding her existence from a sadistic cult leader, David Masters.

Excerpt:
     Folding her arms across her full chest, Katrina stood very straight and very still.  She didn’t owe him any explanation.  Yet, she felt she owed him something, since he had stood between her and disaster tonight.  Besides, he wasn’t about to let it go, and Katrina couldn’t allow that.  For the sake of her little girl and her own sanity, she had to make sure the mesmerizing Caleb McBride left her world as quickly and as suddenly as he had entered it.  She relented, “It’s about my daughter, Caleb.” 
     She understood, though suspected he did not, that was more the euphemism than the cruel truth.  “One would think it would be because of your daughter you’d help.  I know being a mother you must understand the pain my sister’s child is feeling.” 
     “You don’t understand.” 
     “Help me understand.” 
     “I can’t.” 
     “You can.” 
     “Please…” 
     “What does your daughter have to do with this?” 
     “I can’t help you because David Masters is her father.”
 
What is your proudest mom moment?

There isn’t a moment that goes by that I am not proud of Jessy. She is bright, vivacious and for being so young, she sees the good in people that others might miss.

Excerpt:
     Before either said a word, Jessy ran into the kitchen, jumped into her mother’s arms kissed, and asked, “Who’s that?” 
Donna followed behind and responded, “Ah, Mister Wonderful-eyes.” 
     He nodded an acknowledgement.
     Jessy stared and then ran up closer to stare even more closely.  “Mommy, they are hug me eyes.” 
 
What is the most valuable thing your mother taught you?

When you give love, it is unconditional and forever.

Excerpt:
     Jessy asked Caleb to re-sing his Nosey song.  “For you gentle-eyes anything.”   And he did.
     She giggled. "Mommy's sleeping," Jessy said in a quiet voice as she began to regale Caleb with tales of bunnies and armadillos.  He'd glance at her every now and then in the rearview mirror to check to make certain her seat belt stayed secure and, oh, of course to sip of her glorious smile.  They stopped at an intersection.  He turned in his seat to face her.  She had unzipped her jacket and for the first time he noticed Jessy wore a unique, obviously handmade stone amber-tone arrowhead necklace attached to a woven fine hemp cord.  "Where did you get that necklace, sweetie-button-nose with the gorgeous eyelashes?"
     She giggled.  "Mommy gave it to me.”
     “It looks special.”
     “It is.”
     “Did she tell you where she got it?”
     “Uh-huh!” 
     “Where sugar eyes?”
     “From her box of memories.”
     “Did she say how she got?”
     “Uh-huh.” “How giggle face?”
     “She said it was from her first love." 
     A flash of something entered Caleb's gaze.  He shook his head in wonderment, stared down at Katrina's ethereal beauty and felt a smile grow from the inside out.  Jessy quickly reverted to her ‘dillo story, and Caleb listened, but part of his mind drifted elsewhere, wondering about that first love.
 
Tell us about your daughter. Does she take after you at all?

Jessy has amazing instincts and seems to notice things on a different level. Somehow, though, the haunting I sense in our apartment doesn’t seem to affect her adversely. It is as if she understands it’s a kind spirit.
As for being like me, I was always more bashful and self-conscience than Jessy, and not as quick to laugh. My Jessy, throws herself happily into every situation and has an independent streak that I fully admire. However, now and then, she worries about acceptance and she probably does get that from me.

Excerpt: (dialogue about meeting Caleb’s four year old nephew)
     Jessy pursed her lips thoughtfully.  “He’s a big boy.  Big boys don’t like little girls.”
      “Are you fun?” asked Caleb.  His voice was inquisitive. 
     “Yes.” 
     “Do you laugh?” 
     “Yes,” she giggled. 
     “Show me!” 
     She tried, “You are silly.” 
     “Can you run?”  “Fast!”
     “How could he not like such an adorable and perfect little girl?” Caleb refuted.  “I know I do.” 
     A bright smile widened Jessy’s lips, and she initiated an animated conversation that lasted over fifteen minutes.  Finally winded, Jessy plucked her stuffed gray and black ninestriped armadillo off the seat next to her and hugged it close as she stared out the window.  
 
OK, how about some This or That?  

June Cleaver or Morticia Adams? 
I think the way I approach life is more like June Cleaver, but the circumstances surrounding my life resembles Morticia Adams’ life.

Curlers to bed or lucky to remember a morning comb through? 
When it comes to curlers to bed or lucky to remember a morning comb through, I am more the knot it up and forget gal.

Carol Brady or the Dowager Countess? 
Oh definitely I am more a Carol Brady than a Downton Abbey dowager countess. Having said that, give me a good old period piece to watch and I am hooked.

Home cooked or take out? 
Owning a restaurant makes it easy to gather up a home cooked meal, but I don’t mind when Caleb shows up with take out, or cooks a meal for me. For someone so manly, he certainly knows his way around a kitchen.

Fine China or paper plates? 
I adore fine china over paper plates, and the older the better. Only, I like my china mismatched and never complain about a chip.

Wash your mouth out with soap or pay the swear jar? 
Though my own mother would certainly grab the lavender soap to wash out my mouth or my sister’s, I go the sear jar route. Everything takes like soap for days, and I couldn’t do that to my little Jessy. Then again, she would put buttons and Legos in the swear jar.
 
 Thank you so much for the visit, and I hope to see you in the pages of my chaotic and harrowing world.
 ~Kit Cante

So glad you could be here, Kit. Here's more about Naked Twister:

Once a professional cult deprogrammer who had lived on the edge of danger, Katrina “Kit” Cante now devotes herself to a Philadelphia Society Hill restaurant and her three-year old daughter. Caleb McBride, though, needs Katrina to rescue his sister from David Masters' cult and intends to force Katrina out of retirement. 
 
Neither one is prepared for the provocative feelings that they arouses in each other so easily.  At the same time neither anticipated being haunted or being the heinous focus of Masters’ psychotic attentions.

For more about Angelica Hart & Zi and their projects:
angelicahartandzi.com (all books can be bought through the webpage)
http://dawnsreadingnook.blogspot (Writers Write... Writing Partners Feud - Every Thursday)
https://thewritersvineyard.blogspot.com/ (Monthly)
http://champagnebooks.blogspot.com/ (Tattle and Wrye Reviews 1st of every month)