Franken-Meatballs and Disembodied Iguana Tails

This is a story of the perils of working at home, as the mother of three young sons. This was my afternoon, and I have lived to tell the tale.

At around 4:30 Middle Son (age 8) came bouncing into my home office like a miniature Tigger, chanting in his inexorable way: "Hey mom mom I wanna icicle there's this big icicle outside a my window and I want it mom I want it I want that icicle will you get it for me mom huh huh? Will you get me that icicle mom huh huh?"

"I'm working right now. Can you please wait?"

"I want this one big icicle can I have it now huh huh mom? Can I have it now? Itsa really big icicle and I need to have it I want it I need to have it it's an awesome icicle and I want it now mom so can you get it for me now huh huh?"

My mind nearly snapping like a dry twig, I agreed to acquire the icicle so that the kid would bounce away somewhere else. I opened the window and leaned way out. The icicle was a lot further than it looked. The screen, open above me, suddenly slipped from its frame and banged me on the head and sproinged out onto the rooftop. I yanked it back inside and threw it into the room. I reached way out, hoping I wouldn't slip out onto the rooftop. Success! I got the icicle and snapped it off and handed it proudly to my son. He looked at it and hurled it away into the yard.

"What did you go and do THAT for?"

"That way I can grab it easy from the yard when I go outside! It'll be all nice and cold out there and stuff and won't melt nor anything!"

I was just getting back to work, where one of those painfully cryptic and pithy emails awaited me (you know, the ones that say something like "plz call me!!!!" or "what's ur #????"). I began to hear a soft wailing from Eldest Son, my fifth grader, downstairs, a low moan that devolved into racking sobs. When I came down he was slumped over his math homework and begged me for a calculator.

"I'd give you one, really I would," I said. "But it won't do you any good. You have to show your work. Common Core, you know, and all."

He collapsed in a fresh wave of tears. "These problems are stupid!" he cried. "I know how to do them. They are just a waste of my time. My time! When can I PLAY? Mom, when can I PLAY?" And he looked at me with a hunted look of a trapped animal. He had, by the way, already attended an hour-long "Math Olympiad" enrichment program after school, for students who are advanced in math. It wasn't that he couldn't do the problems. It's that, for him, they were dull. He wanted them over with and gone.

I maybe did one of his 867 math problems for him. Yeah, one. It actually invigorated me as I haven't done paper-and-pencil math in years, so there's that. I destroyed the evidence so you can't prove it on me, you can't PROVE that I did it so, yeah...he did his own work, all of it, sir.

Then he announced that he had a science project due, and it was due tomorrow. We had to get teaspoonfuls of flour on dump them on sheets of black construction paper, and then drip water on the piles of flour from varying heights with an eyedropper. Except I couldn't find an eyedropper. Not only that, it was gluten-free flour and I don't think it reacted the way most flour does. Most flour is light and fluffy; gluten-free flour is stodgy and Lumpen. It just kinda sat there when most flour would have reacted in a more scientific and buoyant manner.

We tried drizzling the water from our fingers, pouring it off a spoon, etc., but it was impossible to aim it right for the little piles of flour. Finally I thought the most effective method might be if I spit the water at the mound of flour. I missed as well. The floor was sodden in water and spattered with flour (gluten-free, of course). Goopy piles of black construction paper lay about. I suggested to my son that he might piddle on the flour. At least then he would have something surefire to aim with.

"I don't care if I fail! This is the stupidest thing I have ever seen!" cried Eldest Son. "And, I'm even supposed to take a PHOTO of this."

It looks like a bird exploded on its way to the potty.

Littlest One, in the meantime (age 5), was swinging around his lovey, Iggy. Iggy is a Beanie Baby iguana. He looks like this but more threadbare:

My tail will be torn off by a vengeful elder brother.

Iggy has grown from being a bedtime snuggle-chum to a completely sentient being with mystical, magical powers who needs to be kissed goodnight and goes everywhere with the Littlest One.

(His other favorite "loveys" are turtles and snakes. Should I be concerned about the reptilian theme?)

So it was quite horrifying when Littlest Son and Eldest Son got in a tussle over Iggy and—the horror!—his tail came quite unattached from his body and lots of little "beads" poured out. The screams were astounding.

"He BROKE Iggy! He BROKE Iggy!" It was like the next 18 years of therapy in one terrifying session.

"Iggy is real hurt," sobbed Littlest One, as I stitched him up with my poor 4-H sewing skills so that his tail looked like a Frankenstein monster. He then quickly proceeded to accidentally drop Iggy into the toilet post-pee, such that Iggy needed to be bathed and laid upon a towel for recuperation. The screams, then, were also terrible.

Meanwhile, our houseguest, who will merit a few blog entries of his own, was serving meatballs and pasta for the boys' dinner. He is an exceptional cook and very gifted in the kitchen, which was welcome help at this time. Unfortunately, he is not as gifted with cleaning as he is with cooking. It looked like a meatball explosion. And these meatballs were GINORMOUS. There were meatballs dangling from every surface and a thick crust of detritus under the kitchen table. A meatball rolled from the counter into the leftover "gluten-free" flour from the science experiment. Fettucine noodles were adhered to the table. Little bits of cheese floated in the air like motes in God's eye. A smoke alarm was wanly beeping, and needed new batteries.

I heard an ominous "ding" from my work computer and shuddered. There was no doubt another cryptic email, this time saying something like "u have been gone for 45 minutes, where r u???!!!"

Eldest Son saw weakness, and he made his move like an adder.

"Can we watch one of those shows Mom, can we can we? Can we watch just one of those shows? Y'know just one? Just one?" and he smoothed his new, long, girl-magnet hair and added, "So you can get your work done, you know."

"Yes," I said, giving him a bit of the grateful stink-eye. "By all means, yes!"

50 Things That Make Me Happy

December, January, and February are very terrible months. I thought that writing this list might help.

50 Things That Make Me Happy

1. Throwing a baseball with my sons, the afternoon sun blinding me for a moment
2. Shoveling snow, pushing the planes of whiteness ahead of me like surf
3. Finding a hidden pane of winter ice in a wheelbarrow and pressing it with my hand until it cracks and the cold water floods out onto the surface
4. Snipping scallions
5. The accidental tangle of my five-year-old's hand in my hair and his gentle efforts to pull it free
6. Writing a paragraph that I never saw coming
7. Writing an entire book that I never saw coming, either
8. Birds wheeling in symphony over the buildings
9. Early crocuses, confused by temperature changes but startled up alive nonetheless
10. I have recently noted that my Christmas lights, still hung, look rather like droopy breasts

11. The scent of lavender
12. Thinking of packing for summer camp. Which happens in July.
13. My child threw a gobbet of bubbles at me from his bath and it stuck in my eyebrow.
14. That same child needed help with his undies because his skin was "sticky."
15. He also said he had to "port-a-potty" his troops ("fortify") during a game of Risk.
16. There is a small leaf-shaped birthmark on my right calf; it is something constant and unchanging. How many times have I changed over, like water, and still that birthmark remains?
17. Green olives with pimentos inside them
18. The same olives inside a chilled martini
19. The taste of a grapefruit, cut into slices

20. Kneesocks that don't fall down
21. The softest blanket in the world ( I OWN it!)
22. A fresh shipment of The Hundred to my doorstep, to be sold and given as gifts
23. The cashiers at the Larchmont Trader Joe's, ever cheerful
24. Capture the Flag with my boys, the territories Upstairs and Downstairs in the house. Front and back stairs neutral ground. High stakes!
25. Very, very small turtles—especially peevish ones!

26. Uni, especially at Hajime in Harrison, NY
27. The Hundred: Book Two (Working title: The Vision and the Clock). Every word I write is a surprise to me.
28. Playing "Karma Police" on the antique Chickering Baby Grand piano. And then playing "Gavotte." And then maybe "Minuet in G" followed by "Jet Plane."
29. Extreme weather events. Provided no one gets hurt.
30. Hot showers in my 54-degree FREEZING FUCKING COLD SIEVE of a house
31. This. Note the date, people. JANUARY.
32. I'm having a hard time getting to 50 things on my list. Did I mention that it was January, and people generally just keel over and die with despair during this most awful of months? Okay...thinking hard...how about lemons? They are fine. And they are yellow. They smell nice. Fuckeroo. I am getting desperate.
33. This morning's poo was well-formed and attractive. (It was not my poo, it was my son's. But I was pleased to find it floating in the toilet exhibiting gleaming evidence of good health on its pelt.)
34. I only hyperventilate in certain places. I totally stop hyperventilating as soon as I go to the Caribbean.
35. When I went to make my tea this morning the teabag stayed intact.
36. Cheese is nice.

37. Somewhere in this world, a child may be having a birthday party right now. With ponies! And atop the ponies are clowns. But I dislike clowns. Now I am having a panic attack. This 50 Things list sucks.
38. I have two kneecaps.
39. I have never been to Abu Ghraib.
40. My middle name is not "Marmaduke," "Ton-o-Lovin'," or "Pol Pot."
41. I don't own anything that poos on the ground. Mwa-ha, poo scoopers!
42. The mosquitos are all absent. But there are crickets in my basement during the winter! Bad bad bad.
43. I didn't accidentally hammer any nails into my duodenum today.
44. Butter atop a slab of lobster
45. I did not name any of my children "Oofhy," "Unmentionable," or "Tudleriffic." Including middle names.
46. Tiny....turtles? No, I already mentioned them, the lil' fuckers. How about tiny OWLS! No bigger than a thumbprint. Or tiny cattle? Bonsai cattle? Or tiny goats!

47. I have not started any fires nor burnt myself on an errant grilled cheese sandwich today.
48. Beans cause gas.
49. Little shirts and suits for tiny turtles. Sewn by arctic maidens wearing lovely wool sweaters and playing zithers.
50. I am still alive. I am waiting for the thaw, and I will never, ever give up.

My New Children's Fantasy Novel, The Hundred, Is Published!

I'm excited to announce the publication of my new YA/MG fantasy novel, The Hundred: Fall of the Wents! 

Best for ages 10 and up, the book takes readers on an epic journey into a future where humans no longer exist. Evolution has produced a host of wondrous and intelligent beings: shape-shifting Fantastic Grouts with globes of light atop their skulls; creatures descended from flowers; and massive swarms of bees that can bore perfect holes through metal or bone. 

But some seek a way to bring the humans back into the world—a world filled with creatures like twelve-year-old Tully, a young, amphibious Eft who imagines humans as nothing more than old bones and fairy stories. When his beloved guardian is stolen by a menacing black shadow, Tully must embark on a journey to a cruel, northern land to save her and his entire species. In an adventure that blends time travel, magic, and science, Tully learns whom he can trust, and who will betray him—for the price of reawakening the Hundred.

It's already received a positive response on Amazon, but the most amazing reward for me are the early and personal notes from parents. Among them:

"In the future please consider publishing your books during school vacation. I had to wrestle the Kindle from my daughter's grasp 1 hour and 5 reminders past her bedtime. If her grades suffer it is on your head!"

"My daughter and I just read the first chapter of your book...hooked! It's brilliant!"

"Your descriptive writing made the book SO GOOD! The plot really held her attention, and that is something that is sometimes lacking in YA fantasy books!"

You can find the book here on Amazon:

Print version

Kindle version

Add it to your Goodreads "to read" list!

(Are you a blogger who is interested in reviewing a copy? Email me at jennyphresh (at) yahoo (dot) com.)

Please let me know what you think, and spread the word to any young (and old) readers you know. Thank you for all your support. My next blog post will tell the story of how this book came to be. 

Kinsman Pond

Be here now with the softest breath of wind, the flur and buzz of the dragonflies circumnavigating the pond. The light skims south over the water with the myriad insects nicking its surface and purling strange shapes and spirals. Absolute silence but for the beating of some heavy thing down the mountain way, and the droves of wings.

Know that you are contoured to fit all that you can hold, like this pond, like the palm of God cupping the world. If you watched long enough you could see the slow turning of the mountain in its deliberate arc eastward, bringing that sun to earth. Do you think you are not blessed, a wild and bright thing of skin and substance? You try too hard to find miracles when you alone are the holiest of happenstance, a living thing upon a rock. You have come here to be alone in the swimming, earthen sea, and something trembles on your shoulder and kisses you awake for an instant. You will never be forsaken. You understand now that you will never die. Cease looking for signs when every instant breathes one up and drops it heavy and warm into your waiting and ever-present body.

--Written at Kinsman Pond, White Mountain National Forest, July 31, 2013

YA Book Giveaway: Cassandra Clare Collector's First Edition

Dear friends old and new,

It's been a wee bit silent here at the home o' the pony, and for that I apologize. I've decided to devote my evenings to completing my current work-in-progress, querying a second, and readying a third novel for publication. In the process, I am learning all about the power of self-publishing. If you're considering it, an excellent resource is Guy Kawasaki's Author, Publisher, Entrepreneur, which I discovered at Social Media Marketing World 2013 in San Diego. It's a very empowering read that demonstrates the advantages of controlling one's own destiny as an author, and that sometimes the grass is browner on the other (traditional publishing) side.

There's a quote in the Kawasaki book that I particularly liked, by G.K. Chesterton: "I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder."

In the spirit of feeling deep gratitude for my fellow writer friends (online and off), I'm giving away this hardcover Cassandra Clare collector's first edition of Clockwork Princess (Book Three of The Infernal Devices), published in March of 2013. (Value: $19.99)

It's easy to enter: Just follow my blog, add a comment below (make sure I know how to contact you), and Tweet about and/or link to the giveaway (shouting from your rooftop is also encouraged!) I'm @feralpony so be sure to @ me if you're on Twitter.

The giveaway will end next Friday, May 3, 2013, at 8 p.m. EST. Good luck! I'll plan on more exciting giveaways soon, so stay tuned. I have a teetering pile of YA books including some juicy-looking ARCs.

While you're here, linger over some of my older posts. (Warning: Other followers have suggested that you must not eat rice pilaf or drink milk whilst reading.) The posts under MANY DREADFUL THINGS HAVE OCCURRED HERE are particularly dangerous.

And let me know what YOU'D like to see here on this blog. What can I share that might change your day or make you laugh? You just might inspire me to reinvigorate the blog...at least a little bit.

Have a thoroughly wonderful week!

5 Ways to Stop Panic Attacks While Driving

Conquering a panic attack is tough to begin with, but dealing with one while driving seems impossible. Any clever techniques one might have found in ordinary circumstances, such as doing "the plank," tossing ice cubes down one's pants, standing on one's head, and indulging in distractions like knitting and piano-playing, simply don't work while moving at 60 mph on the highway. 

As my faithful readers know, I've struggled with panic attacks for years, and the very worst of them have happened on the highway. Until recently, even the thought of driving on the highway could send me into a nervous agitation for days in advance. 

But today—suddenly, weirdly—I'm not scared. Does that mean I'm cured? Not likely, but I'm onto something. Here are my five pieces of advice for those whose panic seems to strike behind the wheel of a fast-moving vehicle.

1. Don't ask for help, ever. For a long time I would allow others to chauffeur me around, remarking that "I just didn't like to drive" and "it's easier to carpool." I let my husband drive whenever we went on a trip, which suited him just fine. When I simply had to drive, I'd beg a friend to ride shotgun to talk me through it. All this avoidance solidified a message in my mind: "You are weak. You can't drive." Every time you ask for help, that message gets stronger. Instead, try this mantra: "I don't need any stinking help, because I am a leader among men, defender of the weak. I AM the help, damn it. So gimme the keys and stay out of my way."

2. Find the worst stretch of highway you can, and drive it. Do it now, and stop hesitating. It is this very stretch of highway that keeps you in thrall to your fears. Head into NYC or Austin, TX, at rush hour, and then go back to the same stretch when cars are streaming through it at a rapid clip. Take it slow and then take it fast. Drive until it becomes boring. Drive it again. Nothing else will ever seem as bad, and your fear of future drives will start to collapse. 

3. If an attack comes on, welcome it. The worst thing you can do is to be afraid when a panic attack strikes. Your fear will spawn further fears and fears of those fears until your fear is a layered as a teetering, malevolent sandwich. Understand that you are controlling the panic, not something else. Yours is the hand that turns the screw. So crank it up! Try to bring on the panic as fast and fierce as you possibly can. Pretend you are an actor in a play experiencing a panic attack. You want to win an Oscar for this performance. Really chew the scenery! Start screaming and cursing if you must, and use words like "doo doo" and "poo poo." Your kids will forgive you and will be amused. By riding into the eye of the panic attack and whooping as you beat your steed, you are owning it.

4. Stop taking bears on as passengers. I'm just saying, it's a stupid idea to ride around with assholes or bears. They will make you nervous and will probably gnaw on your arms while you drive. Your own personal "bear" might be that asinine baggage you're dragging around—you know, that mantra of yours that goes: "I am a weakling and a fool, and will always be such. I deserve to be eaten by a large animal." Ditch that, sister. Toss that bear out at the next rest stop.

5. If all else fails, stop the car and do jumping jacks. Pull over to a safe spot at the side of the road and do jumping jacks until the attack passes. You will look like an outright fool and will probably begin laughing at yourself, at which point you can get back in your car and drive. If you don't like jumping jacks, try the Charleston, the Macarena, or the horsie dance from Gangnam Style. I can almost guarantee that a panic attack will wither in the face of your extreme public shame at dancing to "hey, sexy lady"on the side of the road. N.B. Your kids may not forgive you if you need to use this technique. 

What about you? Do you have any tips for managing panic attacks while behind the wheel or elsewhere?

Terrifying and Dismal Valentine's Day Gifts

Valentine's Day approaches! And once again, my local drugstore has offered up a myriad of beautiful and touching ways to tell my loved ones that I mean them grievous bodily harm but can only communicate that sentiment through something plush. Here, a selection of products and the meaning behind them.

I wish to murder you.

I love you theeeeeiiiissss much...ughghgh. Damn stubby little arms!  

My winker has now deflated to the size of a vienna sausage.  

My nethers are in a state of surprised and oily arousal at the thought of your arrival in my pants.

Owl Luv U 4 Eva, as you can tell by the heartfelt expression in the doleful and buggy eyes of this Lesser Saw-Whit Owl, caught and stuffed for your pleasure.

Is it okay if I snurfle at your crotch in public gatherings?

My boyfriend sniffs at my pubic area in public places and I am seriously skeeved out.  If I come live with you will you ignore my incessant weeping?

Hey, HEY, where you going? I just had me 18 liters of Night Train Express and slathered myself in choco pudding and I am ready for some ACK-she-oh-nee! What? When did I last bathe? I dunno. 

Nothing says "I love you" like 2 1/2 pounds of chocolate stapled to your thighs. This isn't a sampler, it's the entire product line.

Seriously, we have to break here and ask: If you got this grotesque purple elephant for Valentine's Day wouldn't you just punch the stuffing out of whomever gave it to you? And why is there an elephant theme in 2013? Is this something sexual or something? Gross.

I am planning to rape you in a parking lot in a few days.

This tiger is more animated than my penis.

So what's the worst Valentine's Day gift you ever received?