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.

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.

Be sure to tuck in your shirt and eat your veggies - it's the Mother of all Character Interviews month here on my blog! A new author & mom character will be featured every few days - plus there's a giveaway! Today author Ann Everett's Pattie McAlister steps out of the pages of the Tizzy/Ridge trilogy and takes over my blog.

Tell us, Mrs. McAlister, what do you see as the most challenging aspect of motherhood?
 
I think the answer to this changed over time. When the kids were small, it was keeping the peace, but as they got older, I think it became giving them freedom. I’ve always liked to keep my chicks close to the nest, so letting go was difficult.
 
 What is your proudest mom moment?
 
After Tizzy went to college, she wrote a letter to me and her dad to say what a good job we’d done leading by example. On days when I get overwhelmed, I take the letter out and read it again!
 
 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 making me crazy!”  “Excuse me, I forgot you know everything!”
 
 Tell us about your kids. Do they take after you at all?
 
That’s a hard one. In appearance, I think Dan looks like his dad and Tizzy looks like me. In personality, I’m not sure either take after me or their daddy! They’re both a little head strong and stubborn.
 
This or That?  

Themed party or meet for drinks?
Since I own a bakery, it’s definitely themed party. We host many of those at the shop. I’ve also been known to throw a wing-ding at my house!
 
Mini-van or Cooper mini?
Mini Van. A mini Cooper wouldn’t begin to have enough room for all of my stuff!
 
Home cooked or take out?
Home cooked most of the time, but getting take out now and again is really nice.
 
Neiman Marcus or Walmart?
My daughter, Tizzy loves a sale at Neiman’s, but I rarely have time to make the trip. The closest one is in Dallas, which is about two hours away, so I have to do most of my shopping at Walmart or online.

Thanks so much for stopping by, Mrs. McAlister. To read more about this character, check out Laid Out and Candle Lit:

Tizzy Donovan is having a run of bad luck. A bakery delivery gone wrong. A bar fight with an old classmate. The discovery of a dead body in the cemetery.

Texas Ranger Ridge Cooper’s luck isn’t much better. He’s finally gotten his first solo case, and it’s in the Podunk town of Brownsboro, Texas. But when he meets local beauty, Tizzy, he thinks his luck is about to change, until she becomes the prime suspect in his case! 

For more about author Ann Everett ~ NYT Best Selling Author (that’s New York, Texas, population 26):
Website: http://www.anneverett.com
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Twitter     http://www.twitter.com/TalkinTwang
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Amazon author page   http://www.amazon.com/author/ann.everett 

Don't forget to enter the rafflecopter to win Ann's Cookbook, Sweet Thangs plus four other ebooks!

​Much to my dismay, texting has become a part of life. Oh, I suppose it’s fine for quick question/answer situations, but for conversation purposes, it’s excruciating. You have to be brief while still getting your point across. This can easily lead to misunderstandings, especially for someone who frequently speaks sarcasm. My tone of voice speaks volumes. How does one convey tone of voice in brief textual interactions? Oh right, that’s what emojis are for. Except when I pull up the sizable list of possible round, yellow faces, I find myself frozen in confusion and indecisiveness.
​

​Take this one, for instance. Does it mean ‘That sucks,’ or ‘I’m constipated?’

​And this one. Does that mean ‘I’m just being a brat,’ or ‘I want to lick you?’

​Does this mean ‘kiss my ass’ or ‘I wanna make out?’

​And the one with the teeth. ‘I’m hoping you will overlook my mistake and find me endearing,’ or ‘Watch out, I bite?’

​I thought this was the sarcasm icon. Apparently it has sexual connotations. So instead of telling my co-worker ‘yea, right!’ I said, ‘you know you want me.’

​I’m not sure if that means I’m embarrassed or I’m delirious with fever, but one works as a reaction, one as an explanation, so I figure I’m covered either way.

​Why does this guy have a snot bubble coming out of his nose?

Don’t get me started on all those non-face options. We all know that swirl of brown does not mean chocolate pudding, but what does the robot mean? ‘I’m the terminator?’ And what possible reason could I have for using a pink poodle? An old school Atari joystick? Is that one sexual? And those food icons are oddly specific. Don’t panic everyone, we have emojis for prawns AND yams for all of your seafood and tuber needs.
 
Maybe that’s the fun of emojis, the uncertainty. Maybe they’re being a smart ass, maybe they’re coming on to you. It’s a mystery. Well, I’m not a mystery writer, so I think I’ll stick with the standard 70s smiley face and cryptic text responses. Oh, and non-virtual human interaction. That works too.

​With the crazy weather around here this winter, we’ve had some power outages. The first one happened at midnight. I was in the shower. Sounds like a bad horror movie, right? Yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking as I stood there in a darkness so completely absent of all light, there was no slow emergence of shapes in the shadows as my eyes adjusted. Just darkness. And silence.
 
I called for my husband, but got no response. This is when panic kicked in. The zombie apocalypse was upon me and I was naked, wet, and still hadn’t gotten my ninja training in yet. Naked & afraid, just like the show. Ok – I have never watched the show. I feel like giving them a pair of boxer shorts would leave them equally as vulnerable and save a lot of editing.
 
But as I fumbled around in the dark, I started to ask myself, what do I have to offer, in the event of an undead holocaust? I read somewhere that beer makers, hunters, and gardeners will be the most valuable members of society in dystopia-type situations. In other words, I’m poised to be a serious waste of resources. I don’t even drink beer, let alone make it; I get grossed-out cleaning the turkey before Thanksgiving; and I kill even the heartiest of plants on a regular basis. I’m pretty sure my role will be something along the lines of ‘bait,’ ‘meat shield,’ or ‘target practice.’
 
So you can imagine my relief when the lights came back on. Plenty of time to learn how to build a solar panel, filter ground water, and master karate. Except I’m pretty sure I’d be the only person over the age of eight at the local beginning karate course, and the idea of taking some kind of eco-science class in my spare time is not exactly appealing. So the next time the power went out I was back to accepting my fate as cannon fodder.
 
Then I watched my children, who bicker over everything from who gets the last muffin to who has to sit in the back seat for a ten minute car ride, take all of thirty seconds to create a game and agree on the rules. It was some combination of hide & seek and capture the flag, involving Halloween masks, strobe lights, and a time machine. They played for hours, and when the lights came back on, my youngest begged me to turn them back off.
 
As I listened to these boys, who had been glued to screens for days, whisper, giggle, and run around in the dark, it occurred to me that instead of learning how to butcher a pig or build a still, maybe a better skill to cultivate would be learning to make the best out of a bad situation. Instead of bemoaning the things I can’t do, enjoy the things I can.
 
But I think I’ll start DVRing Survivorman, just in case.

-We had some serious weather around here the last two months - serious enough to close school 12 times. I have chronicled my snow day experience as a teacher and mom…
 
Snow day #1 – Hallelujah! Three days of professional development was enough to make my brain melt. If I had to show up again today I might have ended up needing a lawyer.
 
Snow day #2 – Ok, a three day week is a nice way to ease back into school after Christmas vacation.

Snow day #3 - Break out the sweats & fuzzy socks! I’m ready to binge watch Walking Dead until I become immune to the jump scare.
 
Snow day #4 – I didn’t feel like getting dressed today anyway.
 
Snow day #5 – I have officially watched everything on my DVR. How is that even humanly possible?
 
Snow day #6 – While I love sleeping in and wearing my pajamas all day, I’m starting to forget what day of the week it is. Tuesday? Thursday? I know it’s one of the T-days.
 
Snow day #7 – Maybe I should re-caulk the bathroom. Wait, I don’t have any caulk. Can a 4WD Subaru make it through a three foot snow drift? (Two hours and a lot of digging later) No. Not if said drift is twenty-feet long. Maybe I could use toothpaste as caulk. It dries like cement, plus it smells minty. Genius.

Snow day #8 - Crap. I've done so much laundry I can't fit anymore clothes in our dresser drawers. If it's a choice between overflowing laundry hamper or overflowing dressers maybe I should quit doing laundry and go take another nap.

Snow day #9 – Pretty sure everyone under this roof had some kind of emotional melt down at some point today. Who knew Minecraft versus Terraria would elicit such an emotionally charged debate?
 
Snow day #10 - Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of our summer. June, we hardly knew you.
 
Snow day #11 – Red-rum is not just murder spelled backwards. It’s a magic potion that makes one feel warm and fuzzy when it’s cold outside. Yo ho ho.
 
Snow day #12 – All work and no play makes Audra a dull girl. AllworkandnoplaymakesAudraadullgirl. AllworkandnoplaymakesAudraadullgirlAllworkandnoplaymakesAudraadullgirlAllworkandnoplaymakesAudraadullgirl…
 
It was a long stretch, but I’m happy to report that no axes were wielded during our snow day marathon.

​I finally caved. My cheap throw-away flip phone is gone and I now own a smart phone. I resisted for years, because I hate them. The texting, the being constantly tethered to the Internet, the cost. It really wasn’t for me.
 
But not having a smart phone definitely had its drawbacks as well. Like it or not, the vast majority of the people in my life text. Trying to text using number keys is akin to trying to operate a rotary phone - laborious, time consuming, and inevitably infuriating. Not to mention the cost of being held hostage by group texts. I appreciate the convenience of it – like say when a coach needs to let us all know when practice is. But I could care less that little Freddy will be at practice, and without a texting plan, I really didn’t appreciate having to spend a dollar to find out. And there’s at least fifteen little Freddy’s each time. Then I’d have to spend ten minutes deleting all the “Little Freddy will be there!” messages because my phone had no storage and would constantly remind me that my memory was full and if I didn’t delete something I wouldn’t be getting messages I actually cared about. Not that I understood many of those. Texts mean nothing when you can’t pull up the photos attached and the emojis show up as blank squares. ‘Ted came to visit today (blank square). Check out this picture of him (black screen).’ Yeah – I don’t even know if Ted is human let alone how my friend is feeling about him.
 
So I was at Costco recently, stocking up on toilet paper and trail mix (because apparently I need to store enough supplies to survive a zombie apocalypse) and I left with a smart phone. I’m not sure what happened – the whole incident is a blur, not unlike being awakened out of a sound sleep to get hazed for a fraternity.  I recall walking by the cell phone station, holding up my flip phone and saying, “I should probably upgrade. My camera died recently and people keep texting me…” There was a sales lady with a thick accent, she’d ask me questions about what I needed and I would shake my head in confusion and hold up my flip phone. “I have no frame of reference.” I was a cave man at Radio Shack.
 
She would sigh and say, “Okay, okay. Here’s what we do...” Upon looking at the numbers she scribbled on the sheet of scratch paper – it seemed as though this new phone and services would not cost me much more than my current plan, considering the texting fees I was accruing. I needed a new camera anyway, and the carrier was having a big sale. There was a rebate, it was buy one get one free, and I got a free tablet thrown in. Of course that was the last day of the sale and it was near closing time. I needed to make a decision right then. As we proceeded, more things kept getting scribbled on that scratch paper. A start-up fee and of course I needed a protective cover. She suggested insurance, and let me know I had to pay tax for the full price of everything. I remember signing more paperwork than I did when I bought my house. I confess I didn’t take the time to read it all – I left wondering if I had promised them my first born.
 
It was fun playing with my new phone, I must admit. My son helped me customize my ring tone (Paperback Writer – the Beatles). I could emoji like a champ. The voice mail-to-text function was thoroughly entertaining (apparently my name is Andrew and nobody speaks in complete sentences). I could take pictures and videos easily. Mostly it was convenient and I could properly communicate with my friends and family.
 
Then the bill came. I knew it was going to be awful given the flashbacks I was having, but sweet baby Jesus in a diaper! I about had a stroke. As if the sum of all the fees I knew about weren’t bad enough – apparently Sales Lady has an entirely different definition of ‘free’ than I do. When I called to complain, they said if I had bothered to read the fine print I would have known that in order to get my tablet ‘free,’ it was given a phone number. A phone number that came with a start-up fee and monthly bill of its own. There’s a fee if I cancel this number I never knew about, so either way that ‘free’ tablet will end up costing me the full retail value of the tablet. I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of a con. I mean, what reason would I have for turning a tablet into a phone if I just bought a freaking smart phone? I never would have gotten the tablet, especially since I already have one! Silly me, I thought ‘free’ meant it cost me nothing. Either phone carriers like them are falsely advertising or Webster’s needs to update their dictionary.
 
You’re laughing at me right now. You could have told me phone sales are worse than used car sales, because you probably had a similar experience five or more years ago. Seriously, you could have told me.
 
Well, believe me, I have learned my lesson. Next time a sales lady hands me a stack of legal documents to sign, I will read every word and make her sit there and explain it all to me as I go. On second thought – I think I’ll keep this phone until I die. I paid enough for it – it should last that long, right?