A book deal

 "How about a book? Alice's Agent, Kathy, suggested. 

Alices scoffed, "And who in the hell wants to hear about a washed-up athlete that once upon a time was World Champion but doesn't even have a medal?"

"Alice, you're not exactly selling yourself here." Said Kathy. 

Alice stood silent on the other end and finally said, "Selling myself? What am I a hooker or an athlete?

"I think a lot of young aspiring female athletes would love to hear from you?" Kathy said.  

"From who Kathy the hooker or the athlete? Because honestly those young girls whether they're talented racers or not will indeed have to prostrate themselves. And Lord knows that wasn't my strength." 

Sigh. "Alright, Alice. You've had your fun. Will you just say you'll think about it? 

Alright. Fine. I'll think about it. And Kathy you really are a marvelous pimp. Has anyone ever told you that? 

"Just you Alice. Just you. "

Click 

The Pitcher's Mound

 Alice stood on the pitcher's mound, all four feet and five inches of her. Alice was the tiniest no matter what, in school and in sports she was always a head shorter than anyone else. She had heard every short joke under the sun and man we're there a lot of them. Being the brunt of the joke, Alice always had something to prove. If people assumed she was a joke, she had to do more than anyone else to prove them wrong. She had to be the smartest and the toughest. Not naturally gifted or talented Alice learned to practice harder, study more and grind her way to excellence no matter the toll. 

 She warmed up with the coach throwing the ball as hard as she could. She loved hearing the sound of the ball slap into her coach's mitt. 

"Nice Alice!" Said the coach as the fifth strike in a row slapped his mitt. 

There was no better player than Alice, at practice, anyway. Every practice her pitches were accurate, her form impeccable. When she stood up to hit every single hit went right over the third baseline. Alice was fast, sometimes she could get away with a shotty hit and still make it to first, outrunning the ball was risky but she loved it, and she was the only one on the team who could do it. 

Yet when it came to games, her confidence didn't come so easily. Her stomach would churn the night before, making her sick. The lack of sleep would catch up to her and by the time game time rolled around she hadn't even been able to eat a thing. Alice never said anything because this is how she'd always been, this is what it was like to play a game. She thought everyone must feel this way. 

It was game time, her white pants perfectly cleaned and bleached thanks to Camille's expert skills. A purple scrunchy held her slicked-back ponytail. Yes, Camille had made a scrunchy especially to match her uniform. Her team, the fighting grapes, had struggled at the beginning of the season but was quickly making a comeback, playing tougher teams and holding their own. 

Alice ran to the pitcher's mound for the first inning, took five deep breaths, and looked right into the catcher's mitt. Focus Alice, focus.  She threw the first pitch. 

"Ball!" The ump proclaimed. 

Focus Alice, Focus! Come on Alice. 

She threw the next pitch. 

"Ball!" said the ump. 

Focus Alice, focus! Come on Alice, you're better than this! Don't let your whole team down!

Alice wound up and threw the third pitch a bit below her strike zone but the batter swung her bat, with no contact. 

"Strike!" The ump yelled. 

Focus Alice, if she wouldn't have swung, it would have been another ball. Come on Alice! You need to do better! 

Alice threw two more balls and walked the batter. 

Alice wiped the sweat on her forehead with her mitt leaving a bit of dirt on her face. She thought she may cry. 

The coach clapping his hands, "Shake it off Alice. Shake it off." His face stern and serious said otherwise. 

Not okay Alice. Not okay. 

When Good Enough is Good Enough

I’m probably a lot like you. I strive to do my best. Whether that’s within mothering, the workplace, or doing something where progress is measured like a sport or a hobby. But are there certain times in our lives in certain situations where it would be best to not give our very best? To simply say, “good enough”, and be satisfied? I think so. 

A couple of months ago I headed out with a cycling group that I had ridden around with before. By before I mean two years ago when I had one less kid and was a much fitter and more capable cyclist than I am now. I was a little nervous but I thought, hey it’s the beginning of the cycling season, how fast can they be? The answer? Fast!

Before the ride, we all met up in the parking lot of our local bike shop. The ride leader told us the route. It was a route I had done before and I knew it was about a 40-mile bike ride. I thought, oh shit how am I going to back out of this? Here I am in the parking lot all spandex-ed up, on time, and ready to ride. I couldn’t make a justifiable excuse. So I decided I’d tough out this one ride. 

As the group started pedaling I looked down at my trusty bike computer I thought, OMG why in the world are they pacing at 20 mph? I didn’t know how I was going to maintain this kind of speed. I was suffering. 

Enter self-defeating thoughts. How did I let myself get this out of shape? I should lose more weight, then I’d be faster? I should have done more indoor spinning through the winter? I should have put in more miles by now. I should. I should. I should. 

I reached a point in the ride where I dropped off the back of the group, I simply couldn’t keep up. A couple of other ladies dropped with me. A generous and stronger rider hung back with us to help pull us through the rest of the ride. 

I made it home just before dark and reported how the ride went to my husband. In his ever logical mind he said, “Well, it sounds like you’ll have to put in more time on the bike.”  I then said, “I think I’ve reached the point where I need to decide how important it is to me to be that fast again.” 

I want to keep riding my bike because I love it. I want to keep riding because I feel it’s healthy for me and for moms in general to have hobbies and interests all of their own. I want to keep riding because it’s great exercise and most of the time I come home with a clearer mind. But at this point in my life, as a mom of three young kids, just getting out there might have to be good enough. 

The next week I went out to pedal around with a good friend. I told her about my experience. I noted that I was probably the youngest one on that group ride while simultaneously being the slowest. But in my new self-forgiving state I told her why I thought that was. I said, “The thirty something’s, like myself, are having babies. We are up to our eyeballs with homework, sports, diapers, laundry, and all the other goings-on of having older kids, plus babies.” 

I haven’t been with that group again, call me a quitter. I know I would have in my past perfectionist, high achieving, self-diminishing state of mind. But this time I’m going to forgive myself. I’m going to recognize and respect where my life is at. I’m doing a lot of wonderful things and I don’t have the capacity, energy, nor the time to be the best at all of them. So in this season of my life good enough is going to have to be good enough. 

I have no interest in quitting the things I love. I do have an immense interest in doing what I love and quitting the high expectations game. The game where I never won, only felt bad about myself and let it tarnish the things that brought me joy. 

I’m still out there pursuing my passion, filling my cup, and letting those ever addicting endorphins run throughout my body and that is GOOD ENOUGH for me.  

A Turned Down Bed

Camille liked a turned-down bed, even if she was the one turning it down. She folded the bedspread and creased the sheet down just a bit and re-tucked it under the mattress assuring its security. She took the decorative pillows off and placed them on the bench at the end of the bed. She then propped the pillows, the ones actually designed for sleeping, up against the headboard and sat atop her carefully curated turned down bed with her back up against the pillows and a quilt over legs, let out a deep sigh and cracked open her book, much like she did every night.

Camille always had a book she was reading. She preferred fiction, mostly, she used the stories of fictional characters to transport her to other worlds. Worlds without endless piles of laundry, book reports, homework assignments, and carpooling. She loathed the self-help preachy books Conrad seemed to pick up but never finish. Camille couldn't wind down without a book. Barnes and Noble knew her by name as she had just about read every book in their local library, a selection Camille constantly complained about.

By the time Conrad entered the bedroom after a rather eventful night of the police searching their home Camille was as calm as she could be. In part, due to her reading ritual and part due to the Gin she tossed back a half-hour earlier. Camille was not a drinker, but she decided on the night that an officer enters your home with all children present is a night that merits hard liquor.

Conrad passed through the bedroom into the bathroom as if it was any other night. Right as his feet transitioned from the warm cushioned carpet to the cold tile bathroom floor he heard his wife.

"Con, mind telling me what that was all about?"

Conrad exited the bathroom headed toward Camille and sat on the edge of the bed perched by one knee on the bed and one leg stabilizing beneath. That was Conrad. He looked like he was all in, yet beneath there was always an exit strategy.

"It was a misunderstanding." He smirked as he explained to Camille that police, much like all people, make errors in their work.

"What exactly was the misunderstanding? What were they searching for?"

"Listen, they thought they heard the sound of my voice on a tape. I suggested, rightly so, that voices sound differently on tape than they do. Certainly, you've heard a recording of your voice on the tape and thought my goodness that sounds like a child, and yet it was you. Isn't that a weird phenomenon?"

"Okay. But, what made them search here, at our home?" Surely there was something other than a voice?" Surely someone had to suggest the voice sounded like yours? They got your name from someone? Right?

"Yeah, I don't know how all that came about. It was interesting. I had the officer record my voice while he and I were down in my study. Then I had him play both recordings. And, wouldn't you know it! They didn't sound alike. Not even close. The officer apologized and that was that."

Conrad spoke with a certain finality. Camille thought she knew what he was saying as he said it. He explained everything thoroughly with an arrogant sort of confidence. He went on and on about the tape and that it was obviously not his voice. He was casual, laughing, but his eye contact was unflappable. By the end of this one-way conversation Camille didn't have any questions for him. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she questioned him. How could she?

Yet, the next morning when her nosy neighbor called just to see if everything was okay over there?  She realized she couldn't repeat, in the same authoritative detail, what Conrad had told her. She didn't actually understand what he had told her. She didn't understand why they would come to her house and question her husband. She couldn't connect the dots. And going into the whole voice recording debacle seemed as if it would require her to answer the same questions that Conrad had somehow been able to avoid.

So instead, she said, "It was a misunderstanding. Hah! A big one. I'm sorry if it alarmed you. Hey while I've got you on the line, I've been meaning to ask you about that pasta salad you made last month for book club. The one with the olives and some sort of Italian seasoning. Can I get the recipe? It was fabulous!"

While Camille wasn't as cunning as her husband she did know how to change the subject. Sure enough, Lori was beaming at the compliment and continued to recite the recipe, almost in its entirety.  Camille never made that salad. Lori was notorious for leaving out a key ingredient, so no matter who tried to replicate her recipes, they were never quite as good as Lori's.

Camille hung up the phone and picked it right back up to call Conrad. She punched the first number and then couldn't get herself to dial the last six digits. What would she ask? How would she ask it? He probably wouldn't pick up, anyway. He never liked being disturbed at work. Camille put the phone back up on the wall. With her hand still weighing heavily on the phone, she wondered if maybe she was making too big a deal of this. Misunderstandings happen. People make mistakes, even the police. All her suspicions, her questions, her worries, they were just hers now. She wasn't going to get anything more from her husband. she knew that. She'd known that for a long time. She lived in her own head with no real partner, or companion to talk to. Her hand slipped off the phone and with that she headed to the laundry to see if Alice's softball uniform was dry. She had a game scheduled for tonight and she was slated to be the pitcher, for her first time.

This House

     On the cover of Better Homes and Garden's Magazine was a picture of a beautiful home. A classic farmhouse design complete with a wrap-around front porch beckoning a cold lemonade and a good book. The brick was a traditional red color and each window was surrounded by stark black lacquered shutters.

     Camille Elliot was a faithful subscriber of the magazine, while she read then recycled most issues, this one, she had kept tucked away with the hope of someday building this house. Her dream home.

     Along with articles on how to make a pie crust just like grandma did and which miracle grow would make your flower beds flourish this issue of Better Homes and Garden's also contained a floor plan to the house on the cover of the magazine. Camille sat in her current cookie-cutter home dreaming of a day when she'd make this home her reality.

     No matter where she lived or what state of life she was in Camille took pride in making every house, or apartment, or condo into a home. She was the only woman in the neighborhood that had hired a designer, and it showed. No furnishings were too extravagant or expensive but it was obvious they weren't the matching set you could easily finance from the local RC Willey.

Camille herself was like this too. She took care of herself. She practiced step aerobics at the Y. Her clothes were impeccably ironed, she wore just enough makeup and her hair was short, stylish, and done before anyone else woke up. She wasn't high maintenance, but she always looked put together. 

     When you walked into the living room of the Elliot home it was like looking at Camille herself, put together, everything was on purpose, it was done and done well. The fabric on the sofa was carefully selected by Camille with the help of her long-time designer, Katherine Winbury. Katherine had a blunt bleached blond bob and wore oversized jewelry and seemed slightly out of place when she visited Camille's neighborhood. It's not that it wasn't a nice neighborhood altogether. It's just not the kind of neighborhood anyone would set out to stay in forever. Politely put, it was a starter neighborhood and Camille always thought this would be her starter home.

    However, Camille believed a job worth doing was worth doing right. So when she set out to decorate her starter home she started by calling Katherine. Through the years Katherine had designed and redesigned the front living room of the Elliot home. Katherine always entered the home with an authority and presence that made you feel you had no choice but to put that ottoman next to that coffee table. Yet, her authority must have been merited because the fabric on the chairs didn't match the fabric on the sofa, but somehow it worked.

And somehow Camille made it work too. She was a stay-at-home mom with three daughters, Rebecca an accomplished flutist who given any real opportunity could be Juilliard bound, another reason to get out of this neighborhood, or so her mother thought. Her second daughter was precocious, little, and feisty as hell, but Camille always found a way to calm her and thought, in the end, she'd be just fine, even better than fine if she could pour such characteristics into a passion. Emmie was the sweet blond hair blue-eyed baby everyone deserves to end with. She was the "cherry on top," Camille was fond of saying. It was true for the most part and it was also her way of letting everyone know that while she loved being a mom, her days of bringing more babies into this world were done.

Camille's husband, Conrad, was a hard-working Software sales representative. Viva, the software company he worked for, while a small startup when he was hired was quickly moving up the ladder and due to Conrad's unrelenting work ethic he was too. Conrad traveled a lot and while it was hard, at first, managing the kids on her own, eventuality Camille moved into a rhythm and what was supposedly his chore versus her chore they all became hers. What Camille couldn't manage on her own, a leaking dishwasher, a broken pipe, or a busted sprinkler, she was now was able to hire help for.

  On an evening when Conrad was around there was a knock at the door. Alice answered the door and a man standing in a navy blue blazer, white shirt, and dark grey slacks looked down at Alice and asked, "Is your Daddy home?"

Alice intimated, didn't reply but ran into the kitchen to retrieve her mother.

Camille came to the door with a dishtowel in hand wiping away the watery residue from chopping tomatoes.

"Hi, what can I do for you?" Camille asked.

The man in the blazer discreetly flashed a badge and said, "I'm detective Green. I'd like to talk to Conrad Elliot. Is he here?"

Camille's eyes widened, "Yes, he's down in the study, I'll go get him."

She turned to the girls, "Girls go downstairs, your favorite show should be on.

Tv time was limited in the Elliot home and with a stranger, at the door, they were more than motivated to hop down to the TV room.

Conrad came up from his basement study moved quickly to the door and gave the man in the blazer a firm handshake.

"Do Come in," said Conrad. He widened the door and waved the detective into their home.

Book Review: The High Tide Club by Mary Kay Andrews

I absolutely got lost in this book. It was one I couldn't wait to return to over and over. In fact, I experienced a bit of remorse after its completion.

That should tell you enough. It had more than all the good elements of a story. Intrigue, mystery, romance, murder, culture, racism and toxic hierarchy. I kept thinking the author would run out of twists and turns but she keeps hitting you with them and one question builds on another until you're tearing through pages trying to figure out who did what. And who belongs to who, and who killed who and just who are they, really?

I fell in love with the way the author paints Savanna, Georgia. As a western girl I'm sort of curious about the south's culture, climate and lush landscapes. She'll make you want to dive right into Georgia no matter how humid it is.

I think the cover of this book does it some injustice. It looks like a simple beach read. While I indeed think it is a beach read and I did indeed read it on Utah's version of a beach, make no mistake, Mary Kay Andrews is a more sophisticated writer than the term "beach Read" can provide.

Book Review: Where The Crawdads Sing

Read this book.

It lacks for nothing. Except fantasy, a genre I cannot swallow no matter how small the dose is.
Owens delivers a main character you will come to know, understand and ultimately fall in love with. Truly developing a character you will root for.
The plot goes back and forth between time periods. As the past catches up with the present the page turning intensifies.
Owens blends a coming of age story, with a murder mystery. She approaches tragedy, abandonment and loneliness in a smooth, slow way giving the reader time to develop an understanding of such events without a swift gut punch.
I adored the way she describes the marsh of North Carolina and it's surroundings. I also loved her creative use of poetry to propel the story. It challenged me to think a little deeper about the text before me.
Another story of human resilience, of which I never tire.
Applause to Delia Owens.