Suspense, She Writes

Friday Yum Yum - Jambalaya

2012-02-10T11:24:00.001-06:00

In honor of my Daddy, who loved all things Southern. This recipe comes from the heart of Bayou country.

2 lb boned Chicken
salt and pepper
3 T cooking oil
2 C celery
2 C green onions
1 C chopped green peppers
1 C uncooked rice
2 C boiling chicken broth
1 t salt
1/2 t garlic salt
1/4 t black pepper
1/4 t red pepper
1 lb hot ground sausage (optional)

Season chicken with salt and pepper. Brown in cooking oil in Dutch oven. Remove chicken and pour off all but 2 T of oil. Add celery, onions, and peppers. Saute until tender. Stir in rice, broth, and seasonings. Return chicken to pan. Cover and bake at 375 degrees (F) for 30 minutes or until rice is done. Fluff with fork. Browned hot sausage may be added now. May substitute 1 1/2 lb beef or pork for chicken. Serves 6.

To Tweet or Not To Tweet

2012-02-09T06:26:00.001-06:00

My life changed for the better last week. I signed with Still Moments Publishing. If you're a writer in today's techno-savvy world, you know that promotion is the name of the game. After I finished doing a happy dance, I had to get serious about my internet presence.

I started this blog months ago, actually years ago. I've deleted the original and reinvented it and tweaked and twisted the thing until it resembles the loveliness that is now Suspense, She Writes.

But my next challenge was defeating the dreaded Twitter. I'd heard about the popular social networking feed with its constant twitting and tweeting. I'd read about how celebrities reveal every detail of their sordid little lives on a series of tweets. But was this for me? My daughter experimented with the site until she posted a picture of her cutely painted toenails and got hit on by a guy with a toe fetish in Venezuela. She was so freaked out, she promptly deleted her Twitter.

So here I was... to tweet or not to tweet. So I tweeted. That's when things got really interesting. Because a tweet is limited to 140 characters, there's a lot of abbreviating going on in cyberspace. I had to catch on to the lingo and quick. I found a nice reference post on Brent Ozar PLF at http://www.brentozar.com/archive/2008/08/twitter-101/.

So I've tweeted a grand total of 15 times. I've even retweeted. What do I think of modern technology? I haven't thought about it, I've been too busy trying to catch up and hang on.

Read more Pondering With a Purpose at
http://brendayoungerman.blogspot.com/

The Excess

2012-02-08T07:02:00.000-06:00

control the razor
slicing away the excess
desires of the flesh

Read more Three Word Wednesday
at http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Bitter Fruit

2012-02-05T09:42:00.001-06:00

reach for the forbidden fruit again

the apple at the end of the branch

stretched arm, fingers twitching with desire

the last bitter lesson lost in instant gratification

the heart wants what the heart wants

that beating, thumping deceitful organ

ignore the cost of indulging the itch

the sticky, sweet moment of satisfaction

turns sour, dripping the acrid aftertaste

regret swirls and then dives and pierces

consequences crammed into deep wedges

of experience, should haves and could haves

Happy Signing Day

2012-02-04T06:23:00.001-06:00

Signed with a publisher last week!

I signed with Still Moments Publishing last week. www.stillmomentspublishing.com. My short story Snow White and the Seven Dogs will appear in their April anthology entitled Unleashed Hearts, a collection of stories where a dog plays a part in bringing together the heroine and her handsome hero.

See more Six Word Saturday at http://www.showmyface.com/

Watch the Patterns

2012-01-30T22:02:00.000-06:00

Watch the patterns

Slipping and twisting and sliding

Warp and weave of life

Embrace the predictable

Steady and comfy and easy

Rhythm and pace of peace

Enter the unexpected

Abrasive and invasive and persuasive

Hammer and chisel of change

Watch the patterns

Pleading and tweaking and kneading

Twists and turns of life

Intolerance

2012-01-30T21:22:00.002-06:00

Never more right

Than when you're wrong

No other opinion matters

Discussion is useless

If you set your mind

Pressing truth 'til it shatters

Take it personally

When confronted by logic

Defensive attitude revealing the hate

Can't argue issues

Without a dose of sarcasm

Bitterness camouflaged as debate

Read more One Single Impression at http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

The Hurricane

2012-01-30T21:18:00.000-06:00

The eerie sound of laughter rang across the landscape, incongruent amidst the ruinand devastation. Marie stopped and listened to the hideous noise of joy. The futilityof struggling to survive pressed against her heart. The storm that raged onlydays ago had taken her last morsel of hope.

She pushed aside a two-by-four, torn from itsstructure and roughened by thewind's fierce onslaught. Beneath a sludge-encrusted sheet, she found the box,still taped shut. A score of memories floodedher soul, yanking at her spirit, refusing to allow her slow descent intodespair.

Her mind rewound the day she stuffed all of Sadie'stoys into the packing crate and sealed it with a kiss. So much anticipation.One more day. Just one. And they would have been on the road to a new home anda new life.

She yanked the tape from the box and tossed toys onthe still wet ground. At the bottom, she found Sadie’s teddy bear. Gulping backher tears, she pushed it against her chest--a vain attempt to keep her heartfrom leaving her, never to return. For although she had lost Sadie to the storm, she refused to lose her memory.

Read more Theme Thursday at http://www.theme-thursday.com/

The Shadow

2012-01-30T21:07:00.000-06:00

It bounced with the beat of my heart. Every time I moved, it moved. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, but the shadow wouldn’t disappear. How could I get past it? Behind me, my self-inflicted prison yawned like an abyss. If I plunged back into the depths, my descent would take me straight back to the pits of hell. Before me, the thing refused me the right of passage.It morphed into grotesque shapes and shifted from left to right. The sweat rolled down my backbone. I clenched and unclenched my hands willing my stubborn digits to cooperate. Grasp the light, my tortured mind demanded. Grasp the light and conquer the fear. My fingers wrapped around the base of an oil lamp. Its blue-black flame flickered, teasing the dark.Now or never, my mind screamed. Take action. Defeat the fear. Rushing the remaining few steps, I faced the shadow and challenged it on its own turf. The ethereal form coalesced into a human shape. As I tossed the lamp at my biggest fear, the fire engulfed the negative image of my soul. My mind cleared, and I stepped into the light.

Read more Sunday Scribblings at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

2012-01-28T23:24:00.001-06:00

Summer Rental by Mary Kay Andrews
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I usually can't wait for a new Mary Kay Andrews to hit the shelves, but it took me a while to get around to reading Summer Rental. I looked forward to this read with anticipation. The book is basic chick lit. Three friends, Ellis, Julia, and Dorie, go to the beach to get away from their lives and find out what they really want from life... sort of.

Andrews usually writes with charm and wit and just a bit of attitude. Her stories are generally full of southernisms and over the top characterizations and just to the edge of belief situations, which is what makes an Andrews read so much fun. But I found this book flat. The characters were predictable, their lives were predictable, the ending was predictable, even the hot romance with the hot guy was predictable. And where were the slices of Southern Americana I was waiting for?

The introduction of a fourth character added the suspense element to the plot, but I found the telling of Maryn's story redundant. First Andrews tells the reader about Maryn and her woes though an information dump, and then she retells her story through lengthy dialogue chunks several chapters later. It would have been far better if Andrews had never added Maryn's POV, but rather told her story through the other characters's interaction with her. Or even better if Maryn's story had been one of the three main character's story, and her character omitted.

The most distracting element of the read was Andrews head-hopping. I'd just get settled into one character's point of view when she'd cut to another character's point of view mid-scene, and then switch back before the scene was over, sometimes bouncing between three points of view in one scene.

I found myself wanting to skip ahead to the end to see what happens because the narrative seemed to drag on and on. This is the first time I've had to talk myself into finishing an Andrews. Would I recommend this book? Well.. If you've never read an Andrews, I'd suggest reading Hissy Fit or Little Bitty Lies first.

View all my reviews

Thirteen 5-7-5

2012-01-27T10:26:00.000-06:00

Human Volcano

tiptoe around me

don’t be loud, Imight erupt

Human volcano

HeartbreakWaterfall

raindrops formtears that

puddle aroundthe remains

Heartbreakwaterfall

MidnightSerenade

no one gets muchsleep

dad saws logswhile mom calls hogs

Symphony ofSound

Doubt

doubtaccumulates

unkind wordsdissolve spirit

fragile likesnow flakes

BitternessErupts

negativefeelings

breakthrough the tranquil surface

Bitternesserupts

Spirit Abrasion

indulgence inhate

like sands blownacross the heart

abrades thespirit

Mimosa Memories

rain of floatingpink

covers childhoodwith laughter

Mimosa shower

Random Words

Random wordsflutter

Through thecorners of my mind

Cling to mypsyche

No Light

looking in orout

life viewedthrough a darkened veil

Finds no lightof peace

Bitter Disease

a bitter disease

jealousy invadesthe heart

Stealthy virus

ConsumingAvarice

grabbing withboth hands

the poison thatsuckles life

Avarice consumes

Edge of Desire

flesh driven tothe

edge ofsensuality

Obsessed bydesire

Consumed byExcess

pushing pastenough

going beyondpoint of need

Consumed with excess

Read more Thursday Thirteen at http://thursday-13.com/

Unbalanced

2012-01-24T12:04:00.000-06:00

One foot here, the other there

Ups and downs of need, speed, greed

Centered over the pointed base of desire

Careful voices call, don’t run too far, too fast to the end of the beam

Desire nudges the counterweight of reason to the edge

Daring to peer into the nothingness void beyond

Trampling on seasoned knowledge, on sound judgments

Morsels of life gathered by wiser, older, been-there, done-thats

Niggling doubt of well-intentioned intentions looks over shoulder of caution

Rejection of discretion fueled by self-indulgence in consuming I wants

Grasp the impossible, push past the sensible, grab the brass ring with outstretched fingers

Impetuous extension, tilting the fragile balance

Merciless slide to the other side

Read more Theme Thursday at http://www.theme-thursday.com/

Behind the Mask

2012-01-23T19:44:00.000-06:00

Facades pretensions posturing front

My vanity hides who I am

Tired of being someone else

Sweeping away debris

Letting go of pride

Pushing past pain

until I'm

left with

With One Smile

2012-01-22T16:59:00.000-06:00

With one smile

The tender heart falls to pieces

at the sight of such a simple gesture,

gathering affection to the soul

like a friend once lost now found

Anger flees as if it can’t

remain in the presence

of that small flicker

of reconciliation

Hope wriggles into the

crevices of dissension,

nudging two wounded hearts

toward healing

Joy binds the fracture

as two spirits realize

what might have been disaster

was averted once more

With one smile

Gone Too Far

2012-01-22T14:54:00.000-06:00

The whispering began shortlyafter the Smith sisters entered the room. With awoman’s instinct born of too many nights doingwhat she should have been too young to do, Jessie the oldest, pushed throughthe crush of spectators hovering around theirold man. This was standard procedure. Jessie knew her lines without a script.She would scald him with words meant to cleansethe befuddled thinking from his whiskey-soaked brain. He would first try to charm her, then he’d invent some story to make his behavior seem reasonable. But therewas no reason at the bottom of a bottle. He knew better than to confront theirmother in his condition.

She held back a moment, stalling when she saw her mother’s ashen face as she stood on the edge of the crowd. Hermother stumbled slightly as a man, a stranger, slid an arm around her waist tosteady her. Her father’s blood decorated the man’s shirtfront in streaks andspatters of crimson. Disgusted by the latest installment of their family drama,Jessie started to turn, but her sister Jackie, always oblivious, pushed onthrough, causing the gawkers to scatter in herwake. Jackie had a knack for never knowing theright thing to do in any given circumstance. Her actions weren’t reactions, butmere acting as if on cue.

She saw what she didn’t want to see over her sister’sshoulder. Their father lay sprawled on the dirty bar floor, shards of broken glass circling his head like a brokenhalo. Jackie’s mouth flew open to question her mother, but it closed hard likea trap door. Her mother was too drunk to focus on the scene in front of her,the pattern of her insatiable urges written allover her haggard face. When she saw Jackie’s horrified face, a happy-go-luckygreeting formed on her tongue, but local law enforcement took control of thetragedy before the habitual confrontation ensued. Jackie looked at the cop andlooked at her father, then decided the act wasn’t worth the effort. This timeher mother had no defense. This time she’d gone too far.

See more Sunday Whirl at http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Just Breathe

2012-01-21T17:28:00.004-06:00

Breathing despite thestruggle to live

Existing betweenheartbeats

As if all of life iswrapped up in

One moment

Is that all there is?

Is more too much to ask?

One life

Swelled to capacity as if

Activity defines being

Breathe for the sake ofliving

All I get is six words?

2012-01-21T10:45:00.001-06:00

I'm a writer. I should be able to do this, right? I can't sum my week up in just six words. But I'll try...

A wordy person sums up week.

Sent rewrite to the publisher yesterday.

Hoping and praying the edits satisfy.

Too many words fill my head.

Must write. Must edit. Must breathe.

I need another cup of caffeine.

Amended per Ron's suggestion. Now They're six by six.

See more Six Word Saturday at http://www.showmyface.com/

Snipdons of Toebridge, a serious poem

2012-01-20T14:15:00.000-06:00

The challenge is to write a nonsense poem.

Oh, the gink of minhoppen stance

smailed by the glimpkin of stope.

Nothing can turn the pindrege of prance

when laken is cause for althenprope.

Except for a few snipdons of toebridge,

peemp and pimpkle will always tilldon.

Mending the fine cantilated mindge

of tankle and burple at oxilated mindon.

Read more Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com

Sliver of Light

2012-01-20T08:08:00.000-06:00

Wedge of hope penetrates the blanket of

all consuming uncertainty

Shadows of doubt curl into the corners of theheart

with freak show fingers of insecurity

Internal roller coaster plunges trust into expectation

on a downhill ride through the darkunknown

Read more Three Word Wednesday at http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

2012-01-18T19:06:00.001-06:00

The Help by Kathryn Stockett
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I struggled with the rating and review for The Help, a story about a white woman writing a book about oppressed domestic help in 1960’s Jackson, Mississippi. Once I started reading, I couldn’t put the book down. Usually, the sign of a compelling read for me. But I never considered giving it a 5. I flip flopped between 1 and 3. The book bothered me (not its subject matter, but its execution), and I couldn’t rest until I’d untangled what kept pushing me toward the lower rating. I admit I settled on 3 simply because I couldn’t put the book down. I kept reading because I wanted to know what Celia’s secret was and what the heck Minny put in that pie. And I think that’s what bothered me. In a book whose underlying subject has so much more relevance than these details, the trivial captured my attention.

With so much about the book and the movie already discussed, I wasn’t sure I could add anything to the public discourse. As a white woman who grew up in the south in the sixties and came of age in the seventies, I don’t feel adequate to address the social issues underlying the debate. I was either too young, or too oblivious, or too sheltered to understand or recognize the racial tensions in our community during that era. Even going to a mixed race high school in the seventies, I had little personal experience with racial conflict. After reading the book, I have a difficult time believing Ms. Stockett has any more personal experience than I do. Not that a writer can’t write about things they know little about. Ordinarily, adequate research solves the lack of knowledge. I do, however, have a difficult time believing Ms. Stockett’s characters, both white and black, are anything more than caricatures or stereotypes.

If The Help is supposed to be a commentary on social injustice or an attempt at recording history through fiction or even a story about overcoming oppression, it fails miserably. If it’s supposed to be a entertaining, fun read, it fails just as much. For me to find the underlying premise of a work of fiction credible, especially one that attempts to address such a charged issue, my disbelief has to be suspended. I have to find the situations and characters, emotions and reactions, believable. The premise of the book has been minimalized by the devises Ms. Stockett chose to move her plot. The conclusion of the book breaks down. For the central characters, everything is wrapped up in a happily-ever-after ending. The way in which Hilly confirms Aibileen contributed to the book is weak. The use of the pie and its secret ingredient is disgusting and unbelievable. The naked man in Celia’s backyard adds little to the plot except some comic relief. The contrivance by which Hilly is silenced and the maids escape retaliation is thin. If this were a true story, recriminations would have been swift and harsh. The subject matter is too serious to be taken lightly.

There is hypocrisy in the way Ms. Stockett portrays her heroine. A lot has been written referring to the character of Skeeter Phelan as another white-savior protagonist. I really don’t see her as a savior. She reads more like a selfish little white girl, anxious to get away from a miserable life and an overbearing mother, whose social mores are skewed to say the least. How many white girls in the south endured similar pressures? Much pressure was placed on little white girls to find a husband. If we dared to desire a career, then we were pushed toward nursing or teaching, traditionally feminine roles. Did the desire to be a catalyst for social change prompt Skeeter to write about the oppression of black maids? No, I don’t think so. Ms. Stockett gave some lip service to this notion, but Skeeter’s true motives were revealed in her actions.

There is nothing heroic about pushing Aibileen and Minny to risk their lives so that Skeeter can get a job in New York in the publishing industry. Without their stories, Skeeter had no book. The social ostracism she endured was nothing compared to what might have happened to the maids. No one forced them to tell their stories. They made their choice despite the threat of great personal harm. Disappointment, anger, frustration, indignation pushed them to cross the lines drawn by powerful people. For me, the real heroine is Minny. She contributed to the book and urged her friends to do so as well at great risk to herself and her family. Then she included the one story that would bring the wrath of Hilly on her head, providing a buffer between Hilly and the other maids. Ms. Stockett’s choice of Skeeter for her main character minimized Minny’s larger role in the story. I think the premise would have benefited greatly if the story had been told strictly through Minny’s point of view.

The real story is the abuse of power by those in authority. There is more than one kind of oppression here. The white women over their black maids. Leroy over Minny. Charlotte over Skeeter. Elizabeth over Mae Mobley. Hilly over Celia. Hilly over the women of Jackson. By submerging her story in the hot topic of racism, Ms. Stockett diminished a more fundamental aspect of the human condition, one human being’s capacity to torment another human being simply because she (or he) can.

View all my reviews

Words Of My Soul

2012-01-15T20:01:00.001-06:00

Where do thewords come from

That expressmy life

My hope

The essenceof me

That my soulspits out

Not sensiblebut making

oh so muchsense

Regrets

Maybe

Not so muchas joy and

Fleetingmoments of happiness

Wrapped up inrelationships and

Memories and

I don't wantmy life to be over

I want tolive for the now

And for thefuture

And I want mywords to flow

To tellstories of my existence

To dump theessence of my soul

With recklessabandon

Where do thewords go

When theyleave my mind

Do theyfrolic and

Dance

And cavortwith intent

So that apiece of me

Makes oh somuch

Sense toanother

Read More One Single Impressions
at http://www.onesingleimpression.blogspot.com

The Heart Of a Giant

2012-01-08T21:41:00.004-06:00

“Come fly with me,” Penelope said and nudged Tucker on his shoulder.

He stretched his long arms and plopped his size twenty feet on her coffee table. “Today’s a bad day, babe. I have thousands of things to do. The fence won’t rebuild itself you know. The stones are heavy, and there’s just me to lift them.”

“You could ask Toggle for help. He’s big and strong and—”

“Are you saying I’m not?” he asked, a hint of injured feeling in his tone.

“I’m not saying that at all,” she replied as she lifted a spare key to the gate from the hearth. Tuck was a sensitive giant.

The fluttering started again. Her breathing increased its fractured pace before it settled into a normal rhythm again. She had almost forgotten the large bump that weighed her abdomen down.

“Come on, Tuck,” she begged. “It won’t be too many days before the baby comes. Then I wont’ be Able to fly for a long, long time.” When he didn’t immediately object, hope began bubbling and bouncing in her tired soul. “You know I can’t fly without you,” she wheedled. “When you’re with me, I feel as if nothing in the world can stop me—”

“Okay, okay,” he said and rose to his full height of ten feet. The top of his head brushed the underside of their thatched roof. He smirked. “Grope around in the storage bin for my crash helmet.”

“Must you use the word grope? It sounds so… so….”

He lifted one eyebrow.

“And must you be so smirky about my flying abilities. I can’t help it if my steering gets a little… off sometimes. At least I can fly.”

“Do you want me to fly with you or not?” he grumbled.

Without another word, she found his crash helmet. Should she dare flash him an appreciative smile? She did and he smiled back. Tucker loved her in his own way. The heart of a giant is larger than most and filled with strange and unusual emotions. He didn't see her the way others saw her. He filtered his view of her through what resided in his oversized heart.

After he smashed the helmet onto his head, he took the key from her hand and led her out onto the open field in front of their small cottage.

“Hang on,” she said.

“I always do. I don’t want anything happening to the baby… or you.” With a boom and a shock they lifted from the ground, veering left, then right to clear a large tree directly in their flight path. He turned to her, squeezed her hand, and grinned. “We both know you couldn’t fly without me.”

It was true. Penelope’s power only stabilized when her hand was in his. Together they were invincible… if she didn’t plow them into a tree.

REad more Sunday Scribbling at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

REad more carry on tuesday at http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/

REad more sunday whirl at http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Frolicking On the Edge Of Normal

2012-01-08T11:30:00.000-06:00

Frolicking on the edge of different

Eccentricity or insanity

Shades of normalcy

Quirky personality or secret insecurity

Defined by cultural norm

Exotic or psychotic

Popular keepers of the social covenant

Who decides what’s normal

(c) 2012 Denise Moncrief

Read more Sunday Scribblings at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Review of Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

2012-01-07T16:10:00.001-06:00

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I would give this three and a half stars, leaning more to the three. The novel started slow, but picked up as the story progressed. Backstory bogged down the first chapter. Most of the narrative in Chapter One could have been woven into the remainder of the novel. There was a lot of narrative and little dialogue throughout the entire book, and the pacing seemed off at times. This is a story that screams for action sequences, fast paced and full of dialogue. The settings are shown to the reader in wonderful detail, artfully written, but the characters reactions in action sequences sometimes read choppy and forced.

This story concept has potential that was wasted. It's a relatively short book, and I can't help but wonder if some of the long passages of Jacob's inner thoughts were added to fluff the word count. I enjoyed the pictures. They added a unique twist to the novel.

As far as plot and characterization, I think the novel suffered from lack of credibility. Not of the situation, but of the characters actions and reactions. If I found myself in such a circumstance, I don't think I'd react as calmly as Jacob. This would be a harrowing situation for anyone, let alone someone of Jacob's seemingly weak character and immaturity. I expect stronger reactions to nightmares come to life.

I would have liked to get a better idea of the inner conflicts Emma might have felt. Her character is important to the story, but so little of her personality was shown to the reader. As was the case with all of the peculiar children. They are written more as caricatures of carnival freaks than humans with real emotions. Their personalities were one-dimentional at best.

Would I recommend this book? Maybe. If you don't have something more compelling waiting.

View all my reviews

Certainty of Change

2012-01-02T09:43:00.004-06:00

Plum(b) lines drift off center,

little by little, creating changes in the level

with slight variations from normalcy

Joy, fine stitches in quality garments

gathering family, faith and friends

like expected blessings in a rich life

Loss, a course pattern of thick, bright

yarn woven into the texture of existence

like aberrations in bulky sweaters

Pain, a shovel that digs deep into the

meaning of survival until it hits a root

like a hard stop in an endless progression of days

Hope, words written in the wind
with bold letters, expressing anticipation
of joy, loss, and pain in the certainty of change

Read more One Single Impression at http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

Read more Sunday Whirl at http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Read more Theme Thursday
at
http://www.theme-thursday.com/

Thoughts On the New Year

2011-12-31T17:13:00.000-06:00

As I was lying on my bed

with capricious thoughts swirling and spinning

in my head, keeping me from the

rest that spawns new dreams

I looked back so I could look forward

Glancing back on the old year

sentimentality tempted me

to view fondly my history

in a rearview mirror

Looking forward to the new year

practicality encouraged me

to prepare diligently for change

on a not-so-distant horizon

Struggling to reconcile what was with

what will be

Facing a future with challenges and

shifting priorities

Glimpsing success just around the corner

into the future

Tracing the faded outlines of hopes and dreams

born in the past

As I was lying on my bed

with capricious thoughts swirling and spinning

in my head, hoping the new year

gives new life to my dreams

I looked back so I could look forward

Read more Carry on Tuesday at http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/

Southern Inquisition

2011-12-30T20:35:00.000-06:00

Leda May sat with her hands in her lap. She didn't know how much the chair beneath her butt cost the Pine Valley Country Club, but she was sure it wasn't cheap. She clasped one hand over the other. Now wasn't the time to indulge in nail biting.

Her husband Elrod settled his large frame into the seat next to hers. He didn't appear to be the least bit nervous. Not like Leda. Her nerves probably looked like a downed power line, all jumpy and sparky.

The membership committee entered the room and positioned themselves in a neat semi-circle facing Leda and Elrod. An inquisition committee couldn't have emitted more threatening vibes. The primmest of the prim spat her question at Elrod. "So, Mr.…" She looked down at something in her hand. "…Smelly, how long have you lived in our fair community?"

Leda cringed. Elrod's family name always produced a snigger from the less refined. She hated the name when it was mispronounced. "Smel-lay," Leda corrected the woman. Elrod jabbed her for her effort.

"Leda has lived here all her life, but I've only been here about four years."

"Really? I don't remember you, Mrs. Smel-lay." Her over-exaggerated pronunciation could have sawed a two-by-four in half.

"Thirty-six years," she beamed.

The Prim One uttered her thinly veiled accusation. "I don't recall having seen you before today."

"Surely, you have. I've lived in Worthington all my life." Leda squinted at the blurry speaking blob. The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't see the woman without her glasses. Elrod had urged her to leave them in her pocket, as he had explained to her that appearances meant everything.

"Oh, I see," the woman simpered.

But Leda didn't think that she did.

The interrogation continued. "How many children do you have?"

She relaxed. This was a comfortable topic for her.

"Two." Elrod answered for them. This was their agreement before the meeting. He would be their mouthpiece.

"Oakridge or Sheldon?"

Eldon shifted in his seat. Six pairs of penetrating eyes stabbed her husband. A crime show would have called it multiple stab wounds. He seemed speechless as the blood drained from his face. It was gross to behold.

The quiet was embarrassing. Leda jumped into the fray. Feigned ignorance might be the best offense. "Pardon?"

"What school?"

The clocked ticked louder than a beating kettledrum as the committee waited for her reply. She knew they knew her children did not attend one of the elite private schools in town.

Leda exhaled a barrage of words. "J.S. Templeton. They're both honor students. They're in the gifted program. Heather is in All City Choir, and Jordan is on the football team…"

"I see," the woman interrupted her.

Leda bit back the rest of her babbling. Did the woman look as pointy as she sounded? She scrounged in her pocket for her glasses. The entire committee stood just as she found the wayward spectacles. The Prim One issued their verdict without discussion. "We appreciate your interest in Pine Valley. But unfortunately, we have no openings available for new membership at this time…"

Elrod rose from his seat. "That's not what Jim told me…"

Leda's eyes focused and settled on the Prim One. "Oh, it's you." She beamed. This might turn out right after all. "How was your trip to the beach?"

Fire flamed up the woman's neck. "My trip to the beach?" she stammered.

"It was such a wonderful week for a beach vacation. The weather was perfect. It's a shame we didn't get acquainted while we were there. But maybe we can now. Your husband is such a nice man…"

Another member of the committee found his voice. "Alice, what is this woman talking about?' A vein popped in the man's cheek as he hurled his question at her.

"Myrtle Beach. Last week. She and her husband make such a handsome couple. You know him, right? He's such a nice man."

"Mrs. Smelly," the man sputtered. Her teeth ground to stifle another correction. The man continued, his anger mounting by the microsecond. "I am her husband."

Leda's eyes grew three times their normal size. "Oops."

The Prim One lost her aplomb. "She's lying. I swear it."

Leda lost her cool. She'd had enough of these people and their condescension. "Why would I lie about that? Our money spends just as well at Myrtle Beach as yours does."

Alice's husband left the room, leaving fiery patches of anger in his wake. The remaining members of the committee turned inquisitive eyes on Alice. She trembled so much that only snatches of incoherency tumbled from her lips.

One of the other women addressed Leda and Elrod. "We apologize for the inconvenience, but I think perhaps we should reschedule this interview for another time." She turned to Alice. "The committee has some things it needs to discuss."

Leda and Elrod left with their dignity intact.

The following week a formal invitation arrived in the mail. Leda May and Elrod Smelè declined the Pine Valley Country Club's gracious offer of free membership, preferring the companionship of the Mountain Ridge Square Dance Association.

Photo courtesy of wiki commons search for Myrtle Beach.

Thirteen New Year's Resolutions

2011-12-29T15:22:00.000-06:00

Lose ~~twenty pounds~~ some weight (hahahaha)

Eat healthier (hahahaha, again)

Exercise (I’ll see if I can work that into my schedule)

Drink less coffee (Um… not happening)

Swear less (Need new co-workers)

Read at least 100 books (This might happen!)

Contract my novel with a publisher (A possibility…)

Keep my blog up (Now we’re talking)

Save money to visit Costa Rica (I can dream, can’t I?)

Catch up on my scrapbooking (Okay, I need three years)

Paint my bathroom (Hum… maybe I’ll start today)

Write some everyday (I can do this)

Eat more chocolate (Finally something I can accomplish)

Read more Thursday Thirteen at http://thursday-13.com/

Design For the Future

2011-12-28T23:15:00.012-06:00

The blueprint of the future

is the pattern of the past

Demolish the weary and worn

constant reminder

of what once was

vibrant and fresh

Transform the tattered and torn

old promise into

a new resolution

clean and whole

Recognize the past as the

original design for the future

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Father_time_7765.jpg

Read more Three Word Wednesday at http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Read more Theme Thursday at http://www.theme-thursday.com/

Festive Festivities

2011-12-26T13:04:00.000-06:00

Deck the halls with boughs of holly

It’s a wonderful life

Bells are jingling, ring ting tingling, too

Voices singing, let’s be jolly

Ignore the stress and strife

Just left the shopping mall, aka the zoo

Gazing on the depth of folly

Despair cuts like a knife

Let’s get it over and face the year anew

Christmas lost in all the commotion

As the world sinks deeper in darkness

Going through the motions

Then…

A Ray of Hope Flickers in the Sky

John 1:4-5 “In him was life,

and that life was the light of men.

The light shines in the darkness,

but the darkness has not understood it.”

Read more Sunday Scribblings at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Flasback

2011-12-23T10:05:00.002-06:00

A flash of lightning rent the sky outside my window, illuminating my room for a moment before dark descended once again. The weatherman forecast clear skies. Guess he was wrong again. I could hear raindrops smacking against the glass panes.

I tossed in bed, twisting the covers into knots, wondering when the phone would ring. Would the police deliver the bad news? Or would the hospital call? Or my husband? Who would tell me what I didn’t want to hear?

I cried. I couldn’t help it. My imagination took me in directions I didn’t want to go. His car hydroplaning. His car running into a tree. His car twisting around a telephone pole. No, his car in a ditch. His car with the water over the roof. Why did I let him join the millions of other teenage boys who drive?

A voice jolted me awake. “Mom, wake up." My youngest son gazed at me, a look of consternation on his face. “Were you having the dream again?”

“Yes, and I’ll keep having the dream until… I don’t dream anymore.”

He smiled, a bittersweet smile. “You know I’m extra careful.”

We both glanced toward the framed photo on my nightstand—the picture of my oldest son, the one I lost.

My Thirteen Favorite Christmas Ornaments

2011-12-22T07:45:00.002-06:00

The Gift

2011-12-22T07:42:00.005-06:00

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gifts_xmas.jpg

Mommy, what did Santa bring me?

Mommy, give it to me now.

Three special gifts I gave her

Wrapped with tissue, box, and bow

Trappings torn and tattered

Tossed upon the floor as if my hard work didn’t matter

From the box she pulled

Happiness and turned it side to side

Good health received a fleeting glance

Before she found her fulfilled life

Enhanced with family, faith and friends

Her cherub face dissolved in tears of disappointment.

Where is my fame and fortune?

Instant gratification?

The triple pack of self-centeredness

Selfishness and self-absorption

My heart was torn between two inclinations

To give my baby what she wants or what she really needs

After looking back on thirty years

I turn my face towards today

My daughter with her children

As she tells them what my mother told me

Dear children, these are the gifts that

Bring more than fleeting pleasure

These fundamental things bring peace, joy, and satisfaction

(c) Denise Moncrief 2011

Read more Theme Thursday at http://www.theme-thursday.com/

Read more Sunday Scribblings at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Give and Take

2011-12-16T06:46:00.002-06:00

The wind off the Gulf whipped streaks of color around Chelsea’s face. Too listless to lift her hand, she let her hair fly about her. Her eyes trailed a fast food cup as it floated downstream, pulled toward the open sea with the straw still captured in the claws of its lid. Looking down into the bilge, she shivered and pulled the hood of her sweater over her head. It seemed a futile action. What did it matter if she froze, right here on the edge of the river?

She cried some more even though she thought she was past that.

How could life have turned so vicious? She dumped her dreams somewhere in Tennessee. Hope vanished in Alabama. Sanity took a hiatus in Mississippi. And now? She couldn’t remember how she arrived in New Orleans. Yet here she stood on the edge of her final solution.

The river smelt like death. “The river giveth and the river taketh away,” she muttered. The hag on Jackson Square had screamed her prophecy into Chelsea’s ear, and she had absorbed the old crone’s truth. The river promised her release from the pain lacerating her heart. “Just close your eyes and take a step…”

A firm hand grasped her wrist. Startled by the unexpected touch, her leg stalled in mid-air. Looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, she backed away from her decision. Her knees buckled. The man’s uncanny resemblance to Mark pulled the last smidgen of sanity from her.

“Why?” she screamed and pounded his chest. “Why did you leave me?”

“It had to be.” Mark’s mouth moved, but his words didn’t match the motion, like a film off track with the audio.

“You left me. You have no right to come back. Not when I’m about to—”

The Natchez blasted its warning, her paddle churning the dark water in her wake. Chelsea’s muscles tightened at the assault on her eardrums. An answering blast from a tanker shook the airwaves around them. Her backbone stiffened into a rigid ribbon down her back.

Mark’s mouth formed another excuse in the midst of the cacophony. “I couldn’t stay.”

She shook her head and tugged. His grip remained firm. Just as during his life, he imprisoned her. Mark owned her. Even in death, he controlled her.

“Let me finish what I started,” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Chels,” he smiled, mockery dancing in the depths of his eyes, the sea of blue drowning her without a drop of water. She hated it when he called her Chels. “You have to live with this.”

“No. I can’t.” The thought petrified her.

“You have no choice.”

A surge of hatred darkened her soul. She did it once; she could do it again. A step to the right. Another. His fingers burrowed into her wrist. “But I do,” she countered with narrowed eyes. One glance at the river confirmed her judgment. Yes, the choice was hers.

“You had no right to take my baby from me.” With her last ounce of strength, she plunged into him, sending them both headfirst into oblivion. To her dismay she emerged, her lungs gasping for oxygen. Bouncing up and down in an awkward dog paddle, her willful body struggled for continued existence, despite her firm resolve to give up the fight.

Death cheated her again.

Mark didn’t surface for a horrid moment or two. Once again she thought she’d forced his absence from her life. A hand and then a head shot out of the water. Horror washed over her as a stranger grabbed a piece of driftwood.

“Who are you? Where is Mark?”

The man sputtered his answer. “Give me your hand.” She didn’t want to touch him. She’d rather sink. “The current is too strong,” he argued, spitting river water out of his mouth. “You’ll drown.”

“I deserve to die.”

“No one deserves to die—”

“I killed him…”

Once again the stranger reached for her, trying his best to save the un-savable. “I know,” he yelled over the approaching storm. The fog over her mind lifted, and she recognized the cop—the one that had been following her for days. "But no one deserves to die like this." His eyes glistened with entreaty, a hopeful gleam that snagged her soul.

The will to live coursed through her. After wiping the hair from her eyes, she grabbed his hand.

(c) Denise Moncrief 2010

Coffee

2011-12-15T13:33:00.015-06:00

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Coffeee_img451.jpg

Thirteen of My Favorite Things…

1. Coffee

2. Coffee with breakfast

3. Coffee in the afternoon

4. Coffee with dessert

5. Coffee with family

6. Coffee in my favorite mug

7. Coffee from that Seattle-based chain that shall remain

nameless

8. Coffee flavored drinks with crushed ice in them

9. Coffee with friends

10. Coffee with co-workers before starting work in the

morning

11. Coffee with my husband

12. Coffee brewed by my husband

13. Coffee before I get out of bed in the morning

Not necessarily in this order…

Read more Thursday Thirteen at http://thursday-13.com/

Ultimate Act of Defiance

2011-12-14T18:58:00.011-06:00

Immobile—my heart stops dead in its tracks. I know I play a dangerous game.

Close proximity to the object of my desire might prove the death of my long held dreams.

Retribution for my act of defiance

will surely come in the morning.

I sigh. One more Oreo won’t hurt, will it?

Maybe I won’t step on the blasted scales tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll let my diet take the day off.

An early Christmas present. Or birthday present.

Happy Birthday to me! Yum.

Photo courtesy of

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Oreo.jpg

Read more Three Word Wednesday at http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Life Lived Well But Once

2011-12-12T20:08:00.004-06:00

Life lived well but once

Trailing discarded firsts

Relived over and over

Impressing memories

Into the far reaches of

The corner of the heart

Unwinding stream of time

Seconds and minutes

And hours and days and

Spiraling and spinning until

Nothing remains but

Remnants of a once-lived life

(c) Denise Moncrief 2011

Read more Carry on Tuesday at http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/

Wake Up Sleeping Beauty

2011-12-11T14:27:00.004-06:00

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:DiademaDuquesaAngulemaLouvre_Ars_Summum_Arte.JPG

Wake up, my sleeping beauty

Not all dreams are crushed by the uncaring

Nor all hopes dashed

Forget him, your prince not charming

Not all dreams are denied a happy ending

Nor every wish unfulfilled

Did the glass slipper fit?

Did the soft kiss awaken?

Did the knight's armor shine?

Or did the coward sneak out the back door?

Did the glitter diminish?

Did the prince turn into a dragon?

Write again, my sweet lyricist

Not all music is inspired by unrequited love

Nor all words empty

Seek the truer heart

Dream the better dream

Write the sweeter song

My Daughter

2011-12-10T22:29:00.000-06:00

The day I discovered I was pregnant with my first child I became a mother. There was no ambivalence; this was something I had wanted desperately and had agonized over in prayer for years. I wanted a baby.

Several months into my pregnancy, my obstetrician scheduled an ultrasound. It was then that the technician pronounced my child a girl. My ears heard the word girl; my heart heard the word daughter. Suddenly the living thing inside me was no longer a baby; this wonderful creation of God was my daughter.

In my mind, my child was never a fetus. Oh no, my child was always a person I would have the pleasure of knowing and loving. Love for this wonderful being was growing within me steadily, day by day. It grew even stronger with those first few fluttery feelings as I began to feel her movements inside of me.

During my pregnancy, I would summon up images of this daughter-to-be. I couldn’t quite picture a newborn or even an infant. The first images my mind created were of a six-year-old girl that looked amazingly like me. In my daydreams, my daughter wore a sweetly feminine Sunday dress, a pair of my high heels, a pair of my white gloves, and my Easter hat. Why? Because my mother has a picture of me at about that age wearing a similar outfit.

The next age my mind could conceive was twelve. At this age, my daughter shares her secrets with me. At this age, my daughter still thinks of me as her best friend. At this age, she is still innocent… some of the time. She is still dressed in a sweetly feminine Sunday dress.

In my dreams I couldn’t fathom a grown daughter or a daughter who had children of her own. It was as if my daughter was stuck in my consciousness as either a six-year-old or a twelve-year-old. Then the day arrived that she was born into this world a living, breathing human being, not some figment of my fertile imagination.

Until the day she was born, I thought I knew love. Then the doctor placed this tiny baby on my stomach. I was too scared to move, afraid that somehow my movements would cause the helpless little thing to fall off of me and slide onto the floor below my bed. With trembling hands, I touched my daughter for the first time. I had only thought I knew maternal love. At that moment, such a burst of love overwhelmed me that I cannot describe in mere words.

I never took a picture of my six-year-old daughter dressed in a Sunday dress in my high heels, wearing my gloves and hat. I don’t own an Easter hat or a pair of white gloves. There is a picture of a three-year-old girl in the hallway. She’s dressed in a blue and white Sunday dress, wearing an Easter hat, a matching handbag, and black patent leather shoes. In my bedroom, hangs a picture of an eleven-year-old girl in a cap and gown. And now this year, she’ll graduate from high school.

Is my daughter all that I dreamed she would be? Oh yes, she’s all of that and so much more. Does she tell me her secrets? I think maybe she does… most of the time. Is she innocent? I think she is… most of the time. Are we friends? We are as much friends as a mother and daughter can be. There is a fine line between friendship and parenting. I have found this to be a fundamental truth of being a girl’s mother.

When my sweet daughter was three months old, I set about learning everything I could about being a good mother. What if I wasn’t doing something right? What if I was scarring her for life? What if there was something vital I should be doing for her that I was somehow overlooking? Was I being a good mother? Could I be?

I researched the subject, reading everything I could find about mothering. Some of it was useful; some of it isn’t worth mentioning. After all my study, I came to one fundamental conclusion about the mother-daughter relationship and the vitally important task of mothering. I realized that I needed to be the kind of woman I want my daughter to grow up to be. That realization hit me hard; because I knew I wasn’t, and I wasn’t sure I could be. Nothing in my life has ever shaken me to the core of my being like that one particular revelation did.

Am I everything I hope my daughter to grow up to be? No. I cannot say that. But I must be doing something right because my sweet daughter tries to emulate her mother, and when she does I am very proud of her. Thankfully, she is reflecting my good qualities and not my bad.

What are my daydreams for her now? Only that she grows up to be a godly woman, nothing more, nothing less. Do I want more for her than I have? I don’t know. I look at my life and I’m content. I guess that’s what I want for her more than anything, to be content with what God gives her in her life. God certainly did well by me when he gave me her.

Wishing Makes It So

2011-12-09T07:38:00.007-06:00

I try to focus, peering through the clouds drifting over the fuzzy dreamscape. “Where am I?” I ask the man on the cloud next to mine.

“This is the land of wish fulfillment,” he proclaims as his jeweled headpiece shifts.

“How did I get here?” I ask.

“You made a wish, didn’t you?” he answers.

“Am I dreaming?” If my subconscious is manufacturing this scenario, I need to make some adjustments. Surely, this man should be better looking. All the men in my dreams are gorgeous. Tall. Tanned and ripped.

“No, you are not dreaming. I’m not a figment of your limited imagination.” He sneers and rolls his eyes—one green eye and one blue eye—very distracting. And that piercing in his lower lip reminds me of the waiter at TGI Friday’s last night. That’s it. I had one too many sweet potato fries. Overindulgence explains the surreal state.

Okay, I know what’s happening here. My psyche is playing another horrid mind game. “How many wishes do I get?” I ask with a knowing smirk.

“Wishes? What do I look like? A genie in a bottle? You don’t get three wishes. You only get one wish, and you’ve already wished it.”

I feel cheated. “What did I wish?”

“Don’t you remember?” he snaps.

My nose tilts upward. I don’t like his attitude. How am I supposed to know what’s going on? Isn’t this smarmy, little twerp invading my lullaby land? He should tell me how the deal works without the fuss.

“If I remembered…” I begin my rant and stop. Right before I fell asleep, didn’t I wish I could retract those awful words I uttered so many years ago? I ponder my self-revelation, tapping my pointer finger on my chin.

“You see, you do remember. Now, I’m going to grant your wish,” he says with a hyena-like laugh. I expect him to wave a wand or blow magic dust in my face, but he doesn’t. His raucous cackling sends shivers of dread down my spine.

“Wait!” I yell.

“Not changing your mind, are you?” He growls with disgust, inspecting me as if he’s seen my type.

Hope skitters across my heart. “Can I?”

“Look, lady, I have twenty cases to oversee tonight. I don’t have time for your self-doubt. This isn’t the land of indecision. This is the land of wish fulfillment. It’s too late to take your wish back.”

“Before you do this, you should know that I didn’t know my wish would come true. I was ignorant of the process. Surely, you should cut me some slack. I am a beginner at this—”

He beams with impish delight. “Hah. Ignorance is no excuse. Wishing makes it so.”

“I wish—”

He shakes one gnarly finger at me. “Ah, ah, ah. No more wishing. One wish per customer,” he barks before I can wish him out of my dream.

My mind gropes for an exit strategy. “But I didn’t mean it. I was mad, and I spoke those words in the heat of the moment.”

“Just as you spoke those silly words on impulse so many years ago? Hum?” Condescension slithers from him and wraps around me.

“What?” I sputter, attempting to shake off his disdain.

“Don’t you remember telling your husband he should beef up like John Cena?” I wince. My conscience stings. Whatever possessed me to say such a thing? Now after years of early mornings and late nights at the gym, I want my husband to spend more time at home with me. Is that too much to ask?

I retreat from my belligerent position. Bluster will not sway this pseudo-genie to reverse my blunder. “Will this send me back in time?”

“Of course not. You should be so lucky.”

Before I can blink, I face the consequences of my impetuous wish. Reality slaps me in the face. Disbelief slams me in the gut. I awake to find my nightmare is more than a nightmare. My husband no longer resembles a pro wrestler. The man sleeping next to me looks like… Oh, wait …He is the science geek from my tenth grade biology class.

Surrender

2011-12-07T15:24:00.003-06:00

Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the bad feeling this morning. You know the one. That precursor of things that arrive in threes. Bad luck. Bad planning. Bad judgment. Passive isn’t my style. I am the wind and circumstance is a pile of leaves. I didn’t wait for life to come at me hard. Into the chill of the day I ventured, confident of overcoming any malady or misfortune that came my way.

My intuition proved correct. Now on the other side of the gang of three, I’m tempted to unfurl the flag of surrender. My body aches. My ego suffers. My soul longs for quiet. I could call it a day. Start fresh tomorrow. My warm bed beckons.

But before I can crawl into my cocoon, I have to do the dishes.

(c) Denise Moncrief 2011

Read more Three Word Wednesday at http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Will No One Invite Me In

2011-12-04T13:55:00.011-06:00

Will no one invite me to the hearth

to raise a cup of cheer

to share in joy and song and mirth

to pass a day so drear?

Doth hide within my cold, cold soul

a raging forlorn swell

a desire to thaw, to find a role

a place in which to dwell

I cannot rest, destined to roam

I knock upon the door

I creep into the swaddled home

To slide across the floor

No entrance to the fold I gain

No quarter to be found

No wonder I turn drops of rain

To ice flung to ground

(c) Denise Moncrief 2010

Read more Carry on Tuesday at http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/

Joy To the World

2011-12-04T13:15:00.003-06:00

When I was a pre-teen, I would imagine that someone had given me several thousand dollars. Then I would study the Service Merchandise catalogue and choose which pieces of jewelry on which to spend my newly acquired wealth. After I calculated the cost of the pieces I wanted the most, I had never given myself enough pretend money. So I just pretended myself some more. This sounds like a silly child's game, and it is. But during this season of extravagant consumerism, I wonder if sometimes adults play this game for real, assuming that more is better. That more will somehow satisfy. Maybe even that more is the key to happiness. Will buying more make a more joyous Christmas? Will acquiring (fill in the blank) bring happiness, fulfillment, satisfaction, success, etc.?

There is a huge difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is fleeting; joy is foundational. Real joy settles deep down in the soul, in the essence of my being, regardless of circumstance. Joy is an overwhelming sense of well-being, of hope in the face of hopelessness, of contentment when life is in flux, of being settled and comfortable with my "self"--the essence of who I am. Joy bursts into my life when I find that place of spiritual definition.

Things cannot give me joy, or even happiness. A healthy spirit can.

Read more Sunday Scribblings at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

In Search Of Black Friday

2011-12-03T23:49:00.001-06:00

The day after Thanksgiving, that wonderful, terrifying day that only comes once a year. I'd always avoided it. Preferred the comforts of home to the madness of consumerism. I scoffed at those who camped outside the electronics store in freezing cold, waiting for a chance to buy the latest gizmo. I mocked the insanity of arriving at the toy store before any sane person would arise from slumber the day after eating so much.

But this year was different. "Let's do something we've never done before," I said to my daughter. "Let's dive into the chaos that is Black Friday." After all, how could we call ourselves real shoppers if we didn't do shopping extreme?

She said, "Oooh, sounds like fun."

She and I are super shoppers. It's our thing. We've done three malls and two shopping centers in less than twelve hours. We are masters of the art of acquisition.

"What are we shopping for?" she asked.

"Whatever. I'm looking for chaos," I said, displaying my bravado.

We set off in search of the perfect Black Friday experience. Of course, it was after lunch before we made our fateful decision, so needless to say, much of the hysteria of the midnight grab had already passed. But surely the shopping centers and malls were still brimming with frenzied Christmas shoppers. Right?

At the first center of American consumerism, I found a parking spot three spaces from the door of JC Penney. This couldn't be right. No, surely I should have to park in the next state. To our dismay, the aisles were passable. People were courteous. Merchandise was properly folded instead of laying on the floor. What was this?

"This won't do," I told my offspring. "We must continue our quest for shopping madness."

We didn't find it at the shoe store two doors down, so we moved on to the mall in the middle of town. Once again, I parked too close to the door to make the experience authentic. The mall was busy, but I'd seen it busier. The Saturday before Mother's Day. Before Easter. Heck, most Saturdays in fact. What was wrong? Where were the crazed buyers? Why was no one shoving me out of the way to get to that cute handbag before me?

In New York & Co., the clerk asked us if we were almost done Christmas shopping. My daughter and I laughed. "Oh no," I told her. "We shop on Black Friday for us!" We walked away with clothing and accessories we probably didn't need. But the forty percent discount was too deep to ignore.

Our trip to the mall in an adjacent town didn't meet our requirement either. By now, it was dark-thirty.

"I know," my daughter said. "Let's go to the toy store." I agreed, despite the fact there are no small children in our family any longer.

Just across the parking lot, the Toys R Us beckoned us like a beacon in the Blackness of that Friday. We had to park at the back of the lot.

"Yeah," I said. "This is more like it."

By the time we arrived, the store had that bedraggled look, like it'd been through hell and barely survived. Still, the shoppers were civil. Tempted to provoke a confrontation over something inane, I opened my mouth, but my daughter gave me that look. The one that discourages public humiliation--hers not mine.

I bought two sets of glass dominoes for my mother and my mother-in-law and left the scene.

"Black Friday is a bust," I announced.

My daughter nodded in agreement.

"Next year, let's got to Wal-Mart at midnight."

"Are you nuts?" she asked.

Maybe I am, but come next year, the day after Turkey Day, she'll be right there with me. Because she and I are expert shoppers, gold medal winners in shopping Olympics.

(c) Denise Moncrief 2011