Fodder

It's a running joke in my family - when something weird or over the top happens, someone asks, "so is this going to show up in your next book? In fact, my sister got me a t-shirt for Christmas that says, "Be careful or you'll wind up in my next novel."

Some things are just too good to pass up, like the story of how my husband and brother-in-law had to use a coffee can to pee in on family trips because their dad didn't like to stop... and the fact that one of their older sisters had to hold the can for them. That one made it into my first novel under slightly different circumstances.

My fascination with flying objects and UFOs also made appearance in that book. So did the story about a well-off college acquaintance with shop-a-holic tendencies who became a stripper after her parents cut her allowance in half. Life can be stranger than fiction - it also makes good reading.

There are a few things that are harder to find a place for, like the friend who had an acid flashback and exited a car at 60 mph (or who was pushed by her boyfriend - and he's not saying). I feel like I need to use that one as not only a cautionary tale but also to make sure she's not forgotten by people other than her family. The story of my father-in-law's courage and will to live as a POW in Germany after the Battle of the Bulge is another. Had he not survived, my children would not be here. Capturing part of his bravery in words is the least I can do.

Sometimes I wish I had more of a vengeful streak when I write because there are some people I'd like nothing better than to draw and quarter in print. My roommate my junior year of college... a couple of old boyfriends... my fourth grade teacher, to name a few. But since my characters tend to be fucked up as opposed to assholes, it just doesn't happen.

Of course the danger of using so many things from real life is that the things that are just plain made up makes me feel like I have to explain that no, that's nothing something I've done. So, just for the record, I've never had sex on my brother's grave. In fact, he's alive and well in Ft. Wayne, so that just wouldn't be possible.

Home for the Holidays... or how to beat the too small a house, too much shit blues

Compared to 87.4% of the world (yeah, I made that up) I have no reason to complain. In fact, I probably have it pretty good in most people's eyes. I'm healthy, gainfully employed, have a great family, lots of friends, etc. I don't take any of it for granted, believe me, having skated on the fringes of not-so-great in areas of my life - my oldest son's asthma attacks, the financial woes of owning a not-quite-successful enough business. 

So why does one aspect of my life have the power to drive me absolutely nuts? I don't know... but I do know that if we try to cram anymore toys, gadgets, paper or other type of clutter into the 1,100 sq. ft. shared by four humans, a large dog and a cat I'm going to have the largest (illegal) bonfire ever in the city of South Bend, IN.

I know I'm not the only person who's faced this insanity. My sister, friends and other moms gripe about the same thing. We spend hours combing through reams of paper sent to our homes; we purge our closets and drawers of old clothing at least two or three times a year. We plead with well-meaning relatives not to purchase our children toys they don't need. We send garbage bags of barely used toys to Goodwill regularly.

You know what I think? I think this stuff breeds at night, when the lights are out and the doors are closed. The GI Joes are reproducing asexually. Legos? I know they multiply geometrically. Toy cars? I think they congregate like NASCAR fans in the infield and go out it.

I wish I had an answer to the madness... well, other than the bonfire. Let me know if you do.