Welcome to New Year Dreams [RANTINGS]

I have a few hours left to resolve my goals for 2016. I find myself reflecting on a talk I have heard numerous times that reminds us that when you put the most important goals first, everything else falls into place. With that in mind, I think I shall keep my goals simple. That should also keep my daughter from missing me too much while I type out a years worth of potential frustrations or successes.

So my hobbit-sized goals for 2016 include but are probably not limited to:

1. Be the best mother I can be.
2. Remind my husband every day how lucky I am to have him.
3. Read and watch more inspirational stories and talks.
4. Make the world I live in a better place.
5. Sort through the recipes that keep inspiring me and find the very best ones. (Anyone want to volunteer to help me eat my creations?)
6. Spend less time on frivolous things and people.
7. Follow little promptings even when they seem illogical or take me out of my comfort zone.

Given my lack of success with previous resolutions, I won't distress us with a longer list. What are your major goals for next year? Will they help the little goals fall into place?

Now get out there and ring in the new year. I will be doing so in the warm swaddle of my freshly laundered sheets unless my sweet little boss wakes me for some momma daughter time. May your plans be equally wonderful.

Boo [REVIEW]

Lack of sleep made my befuddled mind take a little prompting to get into this story, but Richard Laymon offered me an assist by throwing in a character dressed like Yoda. The little troop of trick or treaters made the terrifying journey from well lit front porch to next inviting house with the normal amount of enthusiasm. Even an unusual occurrence didn't stop them, though it probably should have. It even led to a longer night of collecting. To find out what happens, you'll have to find a copy and read it yourself.

I made some buckeye brownies, but my half asleep mind didn't compute the ingredients efficiently, so the final product was not photogenic. I baked a box of Ghiardelli double chocolate brownies and topped it with a mixture of butter, peanut butter, and too much powdered sugar. I topped that with a basic chocolate ganache of milk and semi-sweet chocolate. My husband assures me the flavor far outweighs the mess made by the super crumbly peanut butter filling.

Clearly, I thought I would eventually take some pictures and make the photogenic version of those delicious brownies. The holidays and momming clearly won the day and the following day and the day after that... You get the picture. May your holidays be filled with Star Wars awesome but very little terror. (I also have moved the identifying tags to the end of each post's title. I think it should clean up a few issues for me. Thanks for your understanding.)

[REVIEW] Delusion

Peter Abrahams received a rave review from Stephen King. With that endorsement, I couldn't resist reading Delusion. The first page introduced me to a prisoner named Pirate who identified people by the sounds of their footsteps. The description of his person, including some infirmities one would expect for a pirate, affirmed my reading selection, so I settled in for an entertaining read.

A hurricane unearthed evidence that Pirate was innocent of the crime that sent him to jail. Since she was the eyewitness who sent him away for the murder of her boyfriend, everything Nell Jarreau knew dissolved into disorder . How could she trust anything if she couldn't trust her own eyes? Her doubts sent her searching for more information about what she witnessed twenty years earlier. While Nell tried to find evidence that would make her memories more clear, Pirate sought some form of retribution for the years he had lost.

Then a local reporter contacted both of them time after time in hopes of getting a scoop. Information she brought to light brought more questions for Nell and Pirate as their lives continued to intersect.

Nell's own amateur investigations produced more evidence that caused her to question who she could trust. She even grew distrustful of her husband, the local sheriff, as her memories blurred. Somehow, she found answers in places as far away as the Bahamas, but all the answers brought her back home and back to the place where she watched one man she loved die.

I found the flashback scenes interesting because the author referred to Nell as Nellie which softened her. Somehow this made her younger and more carefree. He also dropped enough hints to piece together where her memories end and delusions begin while weaving enough action into the plot to make you still want to read to the very last word.

Time to clean up some of my old posts, so here is one that never got posted because I never found a recipe to attach, so I shall post it as a solitary critique. Enjoy!

The Christmas Season [RANTINGS]

Clearly, National Novel Writing Month was a bust for me this year. I'd feel more guilty if I were not the only one keeping tabs on where that tale was going. Still, I feel the need to open up my brain and share for the holiday season, particularly since I realized I have some old posts that I started writing and forgot to finish. This December, consider what I hope will be a plethora of posts my Christmas present to you.

The title of this first post promised to address thoughts on the Christmas season. I feel equipped to speak since my giving began already. While other people were pushing each other through department store doors and scrambling for alleged bargains at major shopping centers, I presented my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law with gifts that needed to be given at the beginning of the holiday season, advent calendars made with my own hobbit hands. They were both pleased and grandma even leaned in conspiratorially to encourage me to keep thinking up gifts to make for her. While I always have a small part of my mind searching for great gift ideas that say I love you, I hope to to focus on some of the more important aspects of Christmas this year.

My to seasonal do list includes:

1. Reading the scriptures in search of my own perfect advent scriptures for future holiday celebrations. I borrowed some from another website this year since I was pressed for time when I remembered that I had begun work on this project at the end of last December. (I always get inspired during the holiday and never find time until it is over to put forth the effort required to make more Christmas magic.)
2. Make a mix of Christmas cookies and candy for those special people on my list who always inspire me to be a little sweeter. I fear I will not have the time or energy to make all of my favorite candies from chocolate covered cherries to maple creams, but we will see. If you just realized you are on the coveted candy list, cross your fingers and pray for me.
3. Get enough sleep to fend off the invasion of sicknesses that circulate at this time of year and be pleasant to those around me.
4. Be grateful for my everyday blessings and the gifts I receive, even the ones that confuse me such as the year I was given a bottle of wine.
5. Commit to a few ideas for future Christmases that will make wonderful memories for my daughter and bring our family closer together.
6. Stop worrying so much about lists and enjoy time with those I love.

I wonder what goals my astute readers would like to share with me...

(P.S. In case you didn't notice, I have moved the identifying tags to the end of the title of each post. I hope this helps clean up the look of this journal.)

[NANOWRIMO] Day 13

As I stand gaping at her, Faun throws her arms open wide. As she envelopes me in a back-crunching hug, the aromas of sage and cinnamon assail my nostrils. I cough lightly and she laughs again. She releases me and steps back into the hall as her dark eyes survey me from hair to heels.

"Oh, Becca, you know I love you, but you worry too much."

"Mom does need us."

"You know she only needs you. Is this about Larry?"

I inhale sharply. "Why would I call you about him?"

"Because I am the only person who understands you." She grins as she grabs the handle of her bag and wheels it into the room.

I close the door and follow in her wake. She sits down on my couch, a queen on her throne, and gestures elegantly for me to sit down beside her.

"Have a seat on my couch and Dr. Freud and I will help you with your issues."

I frown at her but find myself seated beside her. "I don't..."

"...really want to talk about it." She reaches out to take my hand, flipping it over to peer at the lines on my palm. "That's okay. Your lifeline tells me everything I need to know, but maybe you should tell me what you need to know."

I try to wrap my head around her statement, find myself more confused, and shake my head. She leans in to stare deep into my eyes.

"It's okay, Becca. You will talk to me eventually, but I didn't come in response to all your messages."

"What?" Something about her gaze made me uncomfortable.

I tried to draw away, but she grabbed my other hand. Her eyes widened as she spoke softly. "I recently found out something about myself...about us..."

As she paused, I tried again to reclaim my hands. She held them tighter and continued. "We have a destiny. I want to embrace it , but we have to embrace it together."

I opened my mouth but lost my will to speak as her voice washed over me again. "I just need your blood to get things started."

"My blood?" Words found their way to my lips at last. "Should you be taking some sort of medication?"

"No. Just be quiet and close your eyes."

I don't want to obey, but something in the tone of her voice hypnotizes me. As she disappears behind my eyelashes, her smile falters. Then my eyelids block out the light and I wait. My heart beats faster in the darkness and I wait. Her grip on my hands loosens, but she doesn't let them go. Even if she did, I know I couldn't pull away now. Something draws me in. Curiosity?

What is she about to do? A part of me feels like I always knew her words to be true. We are meant to do something great or terrible. With my sister, I fear she might choose the terrible and drag me into the darkness with her.

Called away again by the hungry, but I finally posted. Tell me how excited you are or share your questions or comments below. It might inspire me.

[NANOWRIMO] Day 6

Clearly, a real try for 50,000 beautiful words would have proven a failure this month, but I have returned for another installment. Post any thoughts in the comments below.

"Faun?" I shudder slightly at the desperate sound of my voice.

"Yes, Becca." I can hear the smile in her voice. "Miss me?"

"Why haven't you called?"

"Right to business then?"

I don't respond. I know she is baiting me. After a minute of silence, she sighs. Another minute and she clears her throat loudly. I wait. She waits. I hit the mute button so she can't even hear me breath.

"You called me..."

I bite my lower lip and wait.

"...so what did you want?"

I click the mute button again. "You have to learn to listen to your messages."

"I did, but you didn't say what you really want."

"I did. I want you to come home." Annoyance forces the words out in short, clipped bursts.

"You can tell me whatever it is over the phone."

"I shouldn't have to. You..." A loud knock on the door cuts off my rant. "Hold on."

As I walk toward the door, Faun laughs. I frown and grab the knob. As I pull the door toward me, I peer into the hallway. My frown deepens as the gypsy girl standing there grins at me.

"Someone's at the door." Faun's voice floods over me. "Happy to see me?"

Have more to type, but my boss needs food. :)

[NANOWRIMO] Day 1

Not a lot of sparks were generated by my comments, which kind of leaves me to my own devices. Clearly, my readers don't realize how dangerous that can be. Let me shake my head and let some ideas bounce into each other.

The whir of the blender pulls me back out of my troubled thoughts. I didn't realize I hit the button and now my attempt at a milkshake has become thick, chocolatey milk. I shake my head and turn it off. I dump the frothy mixture into a large milkshake glass and open the top drawer, reaching to the back until I feel a straw. I pull it out, disinterestedly observing the lime green hue as I drop it into my concoction.

As the chilled chocolate rolls across my tongue, my mind wanders again. I close my eyes and picture a scene thousands of miles away. I wonder how accurate my vision can be with no response to dozens of emails and almost as many phone calls. I open my eyes and reach for my phone.

"No new messages."

Words that wound my heart flash across the screen. I flip it over so the unkind, unblinking face can't continue to scream my rejection. To further taunt me, the phone rings. The shrill tones inform me that the call is not the one I want. I sigh and turn away, refusing to let the real world pull me out of my attempts at prognostication.

As I step into the living room, I realize I have downed the entire milkshake in record time. I set the glass down on the end table and sit on the couch. I stare blankly at the television, willing visions to splash across the dark screen. Once more I am denied. I sigh and reach for the remote. The landline phone rings. I stare at it, waiting for the mechanical voice to break the silence.

"Faun's cell."

I jump for the phone.

Where do you think this should go?

NANOWRIMO: Busy Mom Edition

With an exciting new array of duties at home, I know I won't succeed at writing a traditional nanowrimo piece this year. I thought I would try something a little different: writing a short story, novella, or novel just for my readers. This means I need you to inspire, influence, and encourage me. The more interaction I get from my readers, the longer and more interesting the tale will become. I will read your posts and respond by writing something inspired by your thoughts, comments, or weirdness, so post themes or ideas for me in the comments below and let's get this story started.

My writings will start on the 1st of November, assuming I don't end up sleeping through my potential writing time.

[REVIEW] [RECIPE] Mask Game

Mask Game started out wanting to be a novel but never got quite enough attention. Even in its incomplete state, it evoked the promised feelings of horror.

A blended family puts aside their complicated family relationships in order to celebrate Halloween. Part of the festivities included a game brought by a mysterious cousin. Her game involved delicate handcrafted masks and shafts of moonlight. As the game unfolded, the participants realized that the game might prove a little too revealing. 

The masks brought the worst of the family secrets out into the moonlight. They also had other interesting effects, but you'll have to read it to find out more. I guess John Shirley wanted to leave our imaginations free to weave our own terrifying tales about what skeletons might be revealed if we placed these masks over our own faces.

Masked Peanut Butter Cookies

1 cup peanut butter
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 cup toffee bits

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Cream together peanut butter, sugar, and egg.
3. Add toffee bits.
4. Scoop out into a dozen big spoonfuls on an ungreased cookie sheet.
5. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes.
6. Allow to cool for a couple of minutes before transferring to cooling rack until they cool completely.
7. Top with chocolate glaze:

Chocolate Glaze

4 tbsp butter
1 tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup confectioner's sugar
1 tbsp cream soda (or milk)

1. Melt butter over medium high heat.
2. Add cocoa and stir until smooth.
3. Remove from heat.
4. Add confectioner's sugar and cream soda and stir until smooth. Add the cream soda slowly. You may need a little more or a little less to get it to the right thickness. I made mine just thin enough to pour and spread. The glaze hardened over time, but the cookies should be stored in a single layer. (Putting them in the fridge might help, but mine didn't last long enough to test that.)

[REVIEW] Three Tales of Terror

As I snuck in a few moments of spine-tingling reading over the past week, my mind noticed what seemed like an interesting similarity between three of the short pieces that I read. I should observe at this moment that my anthology contains poems and memoirs as well as short stories. It gives me s chance to explore that quote about reality being stranger than fiction, so I like it. The "My Favorite Halloween Memory" word art denotes the third story as one of these.

The first story focuses on the potential for terror that results from visiting Whitby, which apparently played home to Bram Stoker when he worked on his most famous tome. A romantic evening turns into something else as the heroine of this tale remembers that this night is mischief night. Constant rapping on the doors of her apartment remind her of this fact while she prepares for a quiet dinner at home with her husband.  As pranksters continue to plague her and her plans go awry, she comes closer and closer to addressing a fear she never realized she had. (This was my favorite of these three tales, but that shouldn't affect your opinion.)

This story follows the Halloween happenings of a man who finds his life in turmoil and returns to his hometown seeking peace. Despite his attempts to bury himself in his sorrows, an opportunity presents itself that gives him a chance to look back on Halloween past. He reflects on the joy he once felt creating the perfect costume in preparation for the big evening. Somehow his remunerations bring him face to face with his past in an unexpected way.

The writer of this snippet of memoir, reflects on the joy he once felt at piecing together a costume to go out seeking sugary treasure. He sadly recounts how that enthusiasm faded as the years passed and he grew too old for trick-or-treating. Even still, one Halloween found him making a costume from the cast-off remains of others he had once worn with more relish. In so doing, he somehow found a costume that haunts him still. Or is he haunted by something buried deeper in his subconscious?

For my treat, I decided to go quick and simple. I whipped up a batch of cookies following the directions on the bag of chocolate chips (Nestle, of course, and they are welcome to contact me about sending me free samples ;)). Then I decided to add a twist inspired by my reflections on tricks and treats. I flattened out a cookie dough ball and placed a chunk of peanut butter cup on top. I covered that with another smooshed cookie. Then I baked them for 13 minutes in honor of the mysticism surrounding that particular number.  If you feel like making treats to wow Harry Potter, you could tuck something less desirable into your cookies (boogers, wasabi peas, a slice of carrot, a chunk of beef jerky, vomit, any flavor bean you want) and make your cookie more of a trick than a treat, but I'll stick with my cookie-appropriate sweet stuffing.

[BOOK] [RECIPE] The Black Pumpkin/Cookies

A dear friend invited me to participate in a spooky cookie bookie event. The idea is that we read a book a week, make a cookie that somehow goes along with the major theme of that piece, and share with the group. Recent events have convinced me that I will not be able to read a whole book each week and may barely be able to slap together a whole batch of cookies without becoming distracted. However, I can't resist the doing my best to join the fun. Since my reading backlog contains an anthology of spooky short stories, I decided to read at least one a week and find or create a recipe that loosely relates to the reading material.

Dean Koontz's The Black Pumpkin got me started on the path of reading and yum. Having read other works by this author, I know his writing to be solid though I am still wary of what content he might slip into the pages. I once read one of his novels that addressed disturbing topics that my innocent young mind still doesn't want to completely understand. While this short story also disturbed me, it featured the normal "bump in the night" kind of creepy as opposed to "mental illness" disturbing that still has me shuddering.

As this was a short story, I fear giving away too much. Thus I offer a few cryptic statements.  I would describe this piece as an allegory of the rottenness of a soul finally showing through the outer shell. It could also be called a cautionary tale about buying carved pumpkins from someone else instead of carving your own. Intrigued enough to give it a read?

Feel free to make some cookies to sweeten your reading as you dive in:



Blackened Pumpkin Sandwich Cookies

These were supposed to be spritz cookies (those uniform little shaped cookies that you whip out with a cookie press), but I had to take a break to feed my little pumpkin and putting the dough in the fridge made it uncooperative, so I altered my method slightly. It gave the cookies more of a terrifying misshapen look that goes well with the story.

1 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice
1/3 cup canned pumpkin
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 cup whole wheat flour
cocoa
Nutella

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. 
2. Cream butter in mixer for about three minutes.
3. Add sugar and pumpkin pie spice. Scrape sides of bowl a couple of times to fully incorporate the spices into the butter.
4. Add pumpkin, egg, and vanilla and mix until fully blended.
5. Add flour and mix until dough forms.
6. This is where you can pop the dough into your cookie press and press out your perfectly shaped cookies onto an ungreased cookie sheet. I scooped out 1 inch balls of dough and pressed them flat with a fork dipped in cocoa powder (just like you do to make traditional peanut butter cookies).
7. Bake the cookies for 6 to 8 minutes.
8. Allow to cool and fill two cookies with Nutella to make a yummy, dark-souled sandwich.

[FICTION] Too Big for My Fishbowl

No one understands the plight of a fish. You can't stop swimming unless you also wish to stop breathing. Aside from that, the environment in which you thrive makes you salty, and most people find salty personalities unappealing. Luckily, my personality hasn't saved me from moving in with some crazy humans. They seem like nice people. Really, I mean that. But that doesn't mean they don't do things that make me uncomfortable. I am hoping that if I list my complaints here, I can release the stress that has rippled through my fins since my arrival.

1. The female keeps grabbing my nose and calling it an anomaly. She also can't keep her hands off my fins. She reaches for them while declaring how "shiny" they are as her pupils dilate and a mindless grin consumes her lips.

2. They live with penguins. They plan to eat me. I even heard them discussing how easy it would be to "make my acquaintance" when the humans go to sleep.

3. I have lost count of how many times the female has screamed "kitty" just to watch me dive for cover. This is no small feat when one is a fish out of water.

4. Then there are the comments about putting me in the fish reader and reading all the pretty words. I have no idea what it means. She laughs when she says it. I am petrified.

5. And she spent an hour telling me what words rhyme with my name. Thus she has begun calling me Silly Gilly and telling me that I must love Milli Vanilli. Once more, I have no clue what she means.

6. Also, this happened:

Really? Do I look like I belong in this particular fishbowl? Personally, I think it makes me look fat.














Rescue me! (I think she needs friends to talk to who aren't quite as fishy as me.)

[PREACHY] Free To Be Me

People like to assume they know the inner workings of each other's minds because they know a few details about them. Girls only like pink, fluffy, lacy things. Men only think about naked women and beer. All Mormons are just trying to convert you. All people who disagree with us are terrorists. We pride ourselves on our intelligence, but we don't take time to learn more before we pass judgment on people.

I mention this because I was reflecting on how I react to people. I have quite a few friends who possess  model-worthy beauty. When I first saw them, I hesitated to talk to them because I couldn't imagine them wanting to talk to me. When they post pictures of themselves, I find myself amazed at how beautiful they are, inside and out. Luckily, these beautiful women approached me and invited me to be their friends.

On the other hand, people who wear their individuality on the outside put me at ease. I can walk right up to them and start a conversation. It could be any number of attributes that might make the norms uncomfortable that brings me out of my shell.

Dyed hair.

Unique clothing.

A warm smile for a stranger.

An unusual book clutched in their hands.

A comment that shows deeper than average thought.

At times, this part of my personality can be at odds with my own beliefs. I personally don't believe in getting tattoos and piercings that leave a hole big enough for me to peer through freak me out a little bit (a lot when I am certain I could put my fist through the hole), but I understand that people choose to express their individuality this way.

In my desire to just be respected for being me, I can't tell other people not to do what makes them happy. As long as they think through their choices and respect me and my rights, I could care less. Of course, if you have piercings or tattoos, I can't promise I won't stare. I take a closer look at paintings, architecture, and clothing, and my mind sees no difference in trying to to learn more from the stories people get printed in their skin.

A while back, I found a blog that says this better than I ever could (mainly because it is a different perspective):

http://alfoxshead.blogspot.com/2013/04/tattooed-mormon.html

[POETRY] Bonds

You don't see the bond between us
The blood that makes us one
And I fear you won't remember
How our link was begun
Before I breathed or met you
Or smiled to see your face
But in my heart, you always have a place
Will you open up your heart
Forget wrongs that you barely remember
So you can think of me fondly
More than once a December
But I fear most you just don't know
The truth that binds me to you
But would it change anything
If you finally accepted, finally knew

The 50s Housewife Experiment: Update 2

As the opening montage of The Donna Reed Show floated across my screen the other day, I realized I neglected an important scene of the ideal family life. I overlooked Donna seeing Alex off to work with a smooch on the cheek, well-wishes, and a warm smile. In order to see my husband off to work, I need to get up a little earlier in the morning, so this may become my greatest trial.

In addition to that, I came across an article that reminded me of the importance of family dinner. Traditionally, the family gathered around the table and talked about their days. Talking to each other and finding out what is going on when family members are apart happened naturally without needing to be reminded to do so. Sadly, most of us are too busy checking email, watching television, or playing games to look up and notice the people around us even at dinner time. This takes away a daily chance to connect with those around us and follow the advice to counsel together oft.

I hope your own experiments and resolutions continue to uplift you and improve the happiness of your heart and home.

[FICTION] The Gift of Surprise

Like all the best moms, I let my children watch television with me. Had I sent them outside to play while watching my favorite forensics show, we’d have never discovered the family secret.

As my son Tom’s birthday drew closer, he watched each episode more intently. Tiny gears spun behind his eyes. They stopped spinning one day as we stood in the kitchen waiting for the popcorn to finish popping. As the last kernel exploded and I reached for the handle, he cleared his throat. I paused with my hand on the handle and looked down at him.

“My birthday is coming up…” He paused to offer me his most winning grin. “And all I want is a forensics kit.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I opened the microwave and poured the popcorn into a bowl.

 

Tom didn’t repeat his request. He knew he only had to tell me once if he was only asking for one item. I scoured novelty and toy stores while the kids attended school. I opted for a cheaper kit, which included an inkpad, ten fingerprint cards, some clear tape, black powder, and a puffy brush. I added a travel container of cotton swabs with a handmade label, “DNA Swabs”.

Tom’s birthday arrived and he tore through the wrapping concealing clothes, some books, and even a new calculator. He mumbled his thanks and kept tearing. Finally, he found what he wanted. He tore off the top of the box without registering that it had already been opened and ignored my attempt at humor, pushing it aside to sort through the contents of the fingerprint kit.

In a matter of minutes, everyone in the house possessed matching ink-stained fingertips. Tom lined the fingerprint cards up on the table and scanned the room with eager, blue eyes. He turned pleading eyes toward me until I nodded consent. He stepped into the kitchen and surveyed each shiny surface in search of the perfect area to lift prints.

Powder plumed up as Tom pressed the brush firmly against the handle of the refrigerator. He grinned up into my mortified face and pushed harder. My eyes followed clumps of powder falling toward my clean kitchen floor. From there, he moved to the wooden cabinets that my father had installed against the opposite wall before I was born. As Tom collected fingerprints with the clear stickers, the rest of us watched, pulled in by his enthusiasm. Finally, he sat down at the head of the table and began evaluating his findings. He narrowed his eyes as he compared the family’s prints to the ones from the fridge, setting them down next to my fingerprint card.

“Looks like mom was the last one in the fridge.” He grinned at me.

“That explains a lot.” My husband grinned and poked me in the ribs.

“Hey.” I squealed.

“Shh. You’re breaking my concentration.” Tom shushed us.

He turned his attention to the prints from the shelves. After a couple of minutes of further inspection, he set the prints down and looked up at me. We watched each other in silence. I felt my husband John stiffen up as we waited for Tom’s report. Tom glanced back down at his evidence.

Finally, I broke the silence. “What are your findings, CSI Thomas?”

“Mom, who visited us last?” He leveled his most serious gaze on me.

“Your Aunt Martha.” I offered.

“That was weeks ago.”

“She was the last person to visit.” I shifted uncomfortably as a list of people I should have invited for dinner spilled into my head.

Tom looked down at the fingerprints again. John stepped forward to peer over his shoulder, examining the loops and whirls for a few minutes. They both turned concerned eyes on me as my husband spoke.

“Tom’s right. These prints don’t match any of ours.” His dark eyes scanned the shelves.

He stepped forward and pressed his fingers into the fine powder still clinging to the wood. The shelf slid over noiselessly to reveal a narrow doorway. I joined him in the doorway, peering into a narrow stairwell leading down under the attached garage.

“Did you know this was here?” John asked.

“No.” I peered into the dimly lit stairwell.

A single, bare, bulb illuminated the stairs from below. John and I exchanged questioning looks.

“Should we?” He asked.

“It’s our house.” I replied and placed a foot on the top step.

My husband followed me closely as we descended into the hidden basement. I marveled that it seemed to have less cobwebs than my living room. The walls were painted the same soft cream color the living room had been in my youth. As we reached the last step, my ears picked up the faint sounds of a cartoon. A soft laugh followed the sounds of someone being whacked in the head and then serenaded by the ensuing birds.

I froze, but John took one more step. He fell against the wall in his attempt to not push me through the curtain that hung in the doorway a few feet beyond the light.

The cartoon cut off abruptly. Something squeaked and groaned. Then tentative footsteps approached the curtain. The footsteps stopped and the curtain moved away from us until a stout form filled the doorway.

In the harsh light of the overhead lamp, I looked directly into my father’s eyes buried amid a much fleshier, less world-weary face. Tears formed in the corners of those pale, blue eyes as he lowered his head in shame. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t quiet enough. Tommy told me to stay quiet. He said to never let anyone but him see me.”

“Tommy? My father?”

He nodded slowly. “Your father. My brother. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I’m not scared.” I reached for a kitchen chair, pulling it out and sitting down. “But, I’m confused.”

“My name is Lohman. I’m your uncle.” He grinned at this realization and extended his hand.

Without thinking, I placed my hand in his. He wrapped his long fingers around my palm, which disappeared into his soft grip. He held my hand gently for a minute as a smile stretched across his round cheeks. He finally let go of my hand and turned his eyes back toward the faded linoleum under our feet.

He glanced back up at me shyly. “Do I have to go now?”

“Go?” I turned to John as feelings of my connection to this man flowed through me.

He shrugged. “You inherited this house and everyone in it. I support whatever you think is best.”

I squeezed his hand and turned back to Lohman. “Why did my father hide you down here?”

“He wanted me close but his wife was afraid of me.”

I pictured my nervous mother meeting this gentle giant and nodded my understanding. “But I’m not afraid of you.”

“You aren’t?” He looked up at me in surprise.

I stepped closer. “And I bet my sons wouldn’t be afraid of you either?”

“Your sons…?” Overwhelmed by his feelings, he began to cry before he could finish speaking.

I held out my hand to him. “Would you like to meet them?”

He nodded and put his hand in mine. I tightened my grip reassuringly. We slowly mounted the stairs with my husband trailing behind.

The 50s Housewife Experiment: Update 1

The first week of the experiment went slowly. I started the new year at my in-laws house. Anyone with in-laws knows that you can't begin a journey to a new and better you with your spouse's parents in the mix, particularly since I am a firm believer of trying not to draw too much attention to myself when someone is gracious enough to let me live in their house for a couple of days. Besides, how could I greet my husband at the door with a smile on my face and dinner on the table when he was already in the house with me?

We travelled home on Saturday and spent Sunday getting used to our the morning church time slot, rooting through our Christmas prizes, and relaxing. This meant Monday was the first day I could begin my magical experiment. I didn't get to greet my husband at the door with his slippers in hands, since he needed me to pick him up from the train station, but I did hold back my complaints about how other people drive after he got in the car.

With the new year, I lucked into some research opportunities. A local television station swapped The Donna Reed show into their regular schedule. As you can imagine, I instantly started doing my homework by watching each episode as it became available to me.

In order to pay homage to Rory Gilmore, I shall make a couple of lists of my observations.

Observations of the Life of Donna Stone

1. I have yet to see her cooking while wearing pearls, but she does wear an apron. Maybe I should use one of the ones hanging on my wall for more than decoration.

2. She spent a lot of time selecting a hat for a lunch date. I don't think I am ready to wear hats. I barely remember to brush my hair.

3. One of her friends made a joke about domestic abuse. I guess some concepts are universal.

4. She actually knew her neighbors. In fact, their son would just drop by and devour anything edible. I am not sure I want to know my neighbors that well. I may be antisocial.
5. She conferred with her husband before making big purchases. My husband may wish I'd stop doing this, since my idea of a big purchase is anything over twenty dollars. (I really may have been born in the wrong era.)

Observations of the Life of Annabella Ordena  in 2015

1. Suddenly, I have a lot of household sewing projects, like hemming curtains. It is like the universe knows about my experiment and really wants to test my ability to become a domestic goddess.
2. My house does seem to be shaping up despite a sudden influx of ideas for next Christmas. (Since I tend to forget the great ideas I have at the end of the holiday season, it's best to work on them now rather than waiting until Christmas rolls around again.)
3. I still need to work on dressing up for my husband. I did put in earrings yesterday (I know--midweek), but he didn't seem to notice.

I am working on a fiction piece for your eyes, but this update demanded to be written.

The 50s Housewife Experiment

I may still be in recovery from the cancellation of "Gilmore Girls". Luckily, I have the whole series on DVD so I can relive the finest moments over and over again. One of those memorable episodes featured Rory dressing up like a 50s housewife for a date, complete with pearls. She greeted Dean at the door and proceeded to do her best impression of Donna Reed. She greeted him and ushered him in for a home-cooked meal. While our impressions of that time come from television and clips of articles advising women to wait patiently for the return of their husband because he is their world, we can take away some useful tips from these articles that tend to set off the feminists. As part of my 50s Housewife Experiment, I want to work on doing the following:

1. Have dinner ready. I have this one covered. I usually have dinner ready or close to ready when my husband arrives. I realize not everyone has the good fortune of being a stay at home spouse or partner, but slow cookers and preparing meals ahead of time so that you just need to warm them up can help with this.
2. Make myself presentable before my husband's arrival. I have a tendency to greet my husband in whatever grubby t-shirt I've been wearing all day and equally grungy jeans. I sometimes wonder if wearing something a little classier would brighten his day after long hours at work and unpleasant travels on the train.
3. Tidy up the house before my husband gets back from work. My house tends to look like a tornado of terror ripped through it, leaving a trail of thread, paper, and other miscellany in odd places. My husband never complains, but I bet he'd be thrilled not to be greeted by so much chaos when he returns to his castle.
4. Make sure the house is peaceful. Lately, I've been rocking out to excessively loud music as my husband enters the door. This doesn't deter him from trying to talk to me, but it does make it harder to carry on a conversation. I need to work on my timing, so the music goes off before he pulls into the driveway, so he and I can chat upon his arrival, which leads to the next point:
5. Complain less. While we all have difficulties in our day, I have many outlets to voice my aggravation with people who didn't respond to my emails or tried to get me to walk their dog three times a day because they didn't feel like it and they assume I have nothing going on. Here for instance. So I shouldn't annoy my husband with those complaints when he gets back from a job where he frequently has to defy logic to get things done because his coworkers are not Vulcans (in other words, don't use logic.) It wouldn't hurt me to be a little more positive, right?

Just to reassure you, these aren't exactly new year's resolutions though that last one is definitely on my list. I'm rushing to get this in before my deadline, so I may glance at it tomorrow or see a comment and update or elaborate as needed. Also, the original article phrases some of this advice in a way that I felt negated the needs of the housewife. While our husband's happiness is important to us, our happiness is important to them. These changes that I wish to make are to benefit myself and my husband...not to make him feel like I am subjugated to his every whim. Based on my interpretation of the life of a 50s housewife, does anyone care to join me in my experiment?