He's just not that into you, America

He wants your love.  He wanted your vote.  He's just not that into you.

You know the old adage, "Once a cheater, always a cheater,"  but your guy is different.  When you suspected, months ago, that there was a secret server in Trump Tower communicating only with Alfa Bank in Moscow, he reminded you of Hillary's private server.  Her emails are the ones you really want to see.  Sure, he was attracted to Russia, but he never pursued her.

He behaved.  That forgotten, extra server in Trump Tower that was just sending spam marketing for his hotels stopped all communications.  So you let it go.  It was probably all in your imagination, anyway.  But one day, you had that nagging feeling.  You just couldn't let it go. After a little digging, you found another, brand-new server with a new name in the same location and only receiving sporadic communication from one other address: hers.  Russia just won't leave him alone.  But when you confronted him, he stood up in front of all your friends and dared Russia to hack Hillary's emails!  He wouldn't have said that, in front of everyone, if he had anything to hide.

You tried to make it work.  You prayed.  You read.  You wondered if your mom was right and Bernie was the guy for you, after all.  When Hillary tried to tell you she isn't your enemy and she can help you get away from this guy, he became very passionate about babies!  Finally!  He was ready to commit to you and have all of the babies with you.

So you're in!   Sure, it's complicated but what relationship isn't?  His friend Rex is around all the time but that's okay.  It's a tough adjustment making this big commitment and the pressure of all of the babies and their healthcare, you aren't going to make him stop spending time with his guy friends.  It's just, well, this friend Rex has also had a thing for Russia.  So you're not thrilled.  He didn't have an affair with Putin but...Putin's second-in-command?  That guy is totally infatuated with Rex.  Rex wants to spend more time with them but everybody is always against him.  It isn't fair.  If only he knew someone who could relax a few regulations or change a law but don't worry about that.  Russia just sold their biggest oil "jewel" without having to name who they sold it to so there is a whole international mystery there for the world to solve when they aren't watching the Tillerson-Sechin love story. It's like a double-feature.

Try to relax.  Rex is getting ready for his new job, anyway so he'll be busy with that.  Other friends are here, all the time, too.  His friend Bannon?  Of course, you have to keep an eye on him.  He keeps cautioning your guy to be wary of at least half of your friends but he doesn't even know them.  Bannon keeps saying he can tell, just by the looks of them.  You're afraid though, to put any conditions on this fresh, new relationship so you're giving it time.

Your guy just started a brand new job, after all and he is already making his mark!  He is going to be so great at this new job!  He will be the best! We're all going to have tough days, of course but just surround yourself with positive people.  Ask that Louisiana guy out for coffee.  David something.  King? Knight?  Duke.  I think it's Duke.  Try him.   He has some really good things to say about your guy.  That other group trying to keep his attention? Congress?  They're super busy so you'll still be able to distract your guy.

He wants your attention.  So give it to him.  Pay attention.

.

Reality Bites

"A little learning is a dangerous thing." --Alexander Pope

We still do not have a yard.  We have mud.  A little bit of grass is beginning to emerge here and there but it's mostly a vast expanse of mud and puddles bordering our new pool.  I remembered seeing a post or two on Facebook listing flowers and plants that deter mosquitos.  I remembered marigolds but did a quick search to see if the post had any basis in fact and what other plants would work.  Different sites gave similar lists so I headed out for pots and plants!  I couldn't find lavender in the garden center and forgot to look for an actual citronella plant (I didn't think to search the lists while actually at the store) but found marigolds everywhere.

I put pots of marigolds on my upper deck a month ago.  I did not buy any of the large, pretty, colorful flowers as we already had large black bumblebees out there.  (They tend to freak my kids out a bit.  I've reminded my offspring that while they're sweet, they need not worry about a bee mistaking them for flowers so they'll be fine.)  I put marigolds up there and was happy that we've been able to sit up there without many mosquitos!

Later, when talking with a landscaper, I asked him if it was true that lavender would deter mosquitos like marigolds.  He didn't know of any plants that actually deter them and reminded me that my deck is higher and mosquitos prefer to stay low by the ground.  Okay, maybe my marigolds weren't helping but I figured they weren't doing any harm, either so I left them on the deck and yesterday, bought many, many more to plant near my pool.  While I was planting, the kids were having fun in the pool but had to duck once in a while to avoid a pesky wasp or two that were scaring them.  (What happened to those big, fuzzy bees?)  I suggested we take a break and go sit up on the deck for dinner. They could stay in their wet suits but get up and away from the pool and the bugs.  They climbed the stairs half-way and stood there, waiting for another wasp to stop circling the deck, then went to sit down.  My youngest started yelling that our dog "pooped on the chair!"

My Golden Retriever is capable of a lot of mischief but actually climbing up on a patio chair to do that?  Not likely.  I came up to investigate and did find something on the chair but it was not put there by my dog.  I stormed into the house, complaining that I've been trying to avoid chemicals but I now we had a mud-dauber nest on a seat cushion and no spray to kill those suckers.  My husband said he thought we had hornet killer in the garage but while I went to get it, he took care of the nest.  He went out with a fly swatter and swatted the one trying to protect the thing, scraped it off the chair and kicked it somewhere!  (I asked what we would do if it was still full of wasps but he said he stomped on it!)

It was gone but the kids didn't want to sit there, any more.  One went inside and another came back down to sit by the pool, beside the large pots of marigolds as I went back to planting.  I finished the pots up with ivy around the edges, just as a deer came by to investigate!  (I'd forgotten the deer as I was planting my large pots of salad for them!)  The deer left, I cleaned up, poured a glass of wine and got back online.  I wanted to read more about marigolds and see if they really would deter any insects, at all.  This time, I read a little further.  One site said that both mosquitos and many gardeners dislike them for their strong smell but they are a good plant to place by windows and doors to keep the mosquitos from entering your house.  The same site cautioned, however, not to put them on patios or around a pool as the large orange blooms can attract wasps.

It does look like poop.

Everyday miracles

     You can take the girl out of the South but there ain't no getting rid of her southern fears.  At 5:30am, I saw it out of the corner of my eye as I walked down the hall.  Some of you will recognize the following routine.

     Keep walking and start praying.  "Please God, don't let that be what I think it is."
     Stop walking, start talking to self.  "Don't be stupid.  It's not what you think it is.  Can't be.  CANNOT be."
     Turn around, slowly.  "It isn't moving.  That's a good sign.  I should turn on the light.  I don't want to turn on the light.  PLEASE, God don't let it fly."
     Turn on light (while preparing to run).  "OK. Breathe.  It still didn't move." Actually breathe.
     Slowly retreat to go grab a shoe.  Walk around complete opposite end of kitchen to get a paper towel.  Continue inner pep talk.  "You live in Indiana.  That is not what you think it is.  Repeat.  Not.What.You.Think.It.Is."
     Move closer, try not to close eyes.  "It's just a moth.  Oh Lord, it's The Biggest Moth Ever."
     Try not to panic because deep down, you know it is still going to fly.  "Please God, just don't let it fly in my face.  Please God."
     Move in.  "Please God."
     And it's just dog hair.  "Thank you, God!  Thank you, God.  Thank You, God!"

     I've just admitted my house could use a cleaning but we've not yet invited roaches and thank the Lord, Indiana roaches don't fly!

     One more cup of coffee and I'll be ready to write another southern scene. ;)

Parental guidance 2

One of my big challenges in parenting is recognizing that my child may not be able to be ANYTHING they want and guiding them towards areas that are similar to the skills and talents I see in them.

Having said that, my children can be anything they want to be.  I stand by that.
Having said that, some careers are going to be much easier than others.

Tonight, I heard myself say to my son, "There is no successful career path out there where you can procrastinate, find the loopholes around the work you should be doing and blame your mistakes on others."

As I shook my head (hoping he thought it was in dismay over the as-yet-not-completed homework), I realized that there is a career path where one can succeed with that particular skill set. And my son is charming enough to get enough people to vote for him.

It's all in how you say it...

For better or for worse, I have a tendency to pick up "local" accents wherever I go.  I don't mean to do it, it is just a bad habit.  (Not a problem until I hang out TOO long with friends from Canada as they start to look annoyed.) ;)

After 12 years as a military wife, you never know what I'm going to say!

Anyhoo....it comes with perks.  Like drinking with my little brother one night and he says "with each glass of wine, you sound like you come from somewhere else!"  Or...the cab driver in Miami, the other day who was listening to me talk to my kids.  He finally asked "where are you from?"  When I replied, "I was actually born here," he shook his head and said "that's not it."  I said, "We live in Indiana, now.  Do I have a MidWestern accent?"  He nodded and said "THAT'S it!" *sigh*

Although I grew up in Florida, I acquired my "southern" accent more during college in New Orleans and it seems to show up again around family in the South, or when I drink.  Ahem.  So... I am going to feign innocence (as even the older kids are giving their little brother a "break" on this one) as it isn't TECHNICALLY wrong for him to ask, "What the Hail?"
(Right?)

If it's happened once...

The fun part of writing historical fiction is that you can spend a morning reading ("researching") and call it "work."  I have always been interested in the Civil War and Reconstruction eras in our nation's history and am currently fascinated with Natalie Benjamin (wife of Judah Benjamin, "the Brains of the Confederacy.")

I find history compelling but need to find a way to make it more accessible for my children.
This week, I reminded my son, "those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it."
It did not so much motivate him as give him a new motto.
He keeps muttering, "I'm doomed!  DOOMED!"

I Can See Clearly Now

It is time to accept that the Mid-Life-Conflict is a battle I can't win.

In other news, the resolution and clarity on both my laptop and phone are amazingly clear.  Who knew?

LoryKC: 1 MLC: 5

Just when I think I am through with the ubiquitous Mid-Life Crisis, I find that there is yet another inning to be played.

I thought it was over and I had made it through to the other side.  Then I bought a pair of skinny jeans and a revised GRE prep book.  Clearly, the battle has only just begun.

This afternoon, while wearing my new jeans, I opened the book, found the information needed to take a diagnostic test online and sat down to face Question One.  I was asked to write an essay question and had 29 minutes and 54 seconds to write it.  I read, and then typed over, the instructions on how to save often and how to "delete" (using the command key and "x" if typing on a Mac) and typed my first few words.  I used the delete/backspace key immediately and was kicked back to the login page.  Right.  I took a deep breath and started again.  This time, I saved the directions at the top of my page, planning to delete them when I was done, but leaving them there as a reminder not to hit the delete key the moment I mistyped a word.  A typo followed not three seconds later and my fingers automatically hit the delete key before I knew what had happened...and I was back at the login screen.  This went on numerous times.  (At least, by the third time, I had managed to save what progress I had made, so I was able to "resume" my test rather than starting again.)

Finally, with three minutes to spare, I had a convincing 5-paragraph essay complete with examples and a quote from Harper Lee.  I read it and clicked on the option to "grade my essay."  It asked ME to grade MY essay.  Huh?

I went back and clicked on the little bubble indicating that I had completed my essay.  Then sat there and watched the timer continue to count down.  Oh!  Right!  I needed to click the next button.  Except I was to click "next section" (as it had indicated there was only one essay question in this section).  I did not, of course.  I clicked the "next" button, which took me to a screen which reminded me that there was only one question in this section and then gave me 29 minutes and 54 seconds with which to write my essay--on a completely NEW Question ONE.

I think I will try again tomorrow.  And pray that if and when I do take this test again for realz--it is on a PC.  Because my shiny little laptop?  Oh, she is a pretty computer but she is no PC--and clearly she is not in this fight with me!

Momentary grace

We all have that sense--satisfaction--when we have done a good thing.  I always hope I can accumulate grace--that I might bank points, if you will--to counter all of the missteps that I make.  Most of the time, I just pray that I can break even.

Yesterday morning, I took the dog for a run.  Upon returning, I grabbed her water dish to rinse it out.  As I looked down to turn the faucet on, I saw a wasp clinging to my running shirt.  I screamed (I tend to conform to those girl stereotypes only when it comes to bugs) and shook my shirt to knock him to the ground.  By the time I had my foot poised to squash him however, I realized that he had just been hitching a ride and hadn't taken the opportunity to panic and sting me.  So I backed up, grabbed a cup and scooped him up.  I opened the sliding glass door and shook him out onto the deck where he promptly flew away.

I felt satisfied.  Proud.  Benevolent.  I washed my hands before grabbing the flyswatter to go kill the giant fly that had been pestering my daughter in the basement.  My brain didn't catch up with the irony until after the fly had fallen to the ground.

Last night, I pondered whether one "save" might cancel out the other "thwack" as I fished a fruit fly out of my wine.  At least that guy went numb first.

Run for your life!

I am standing in my kitchen, telling myself it is time to exercise.  It is time for all of us to exercise.  (Not you--everyone in my kitchen.)  I need to go for a run with the dog and the 4-year-old needs to run outside.

We should have gone earlier but my son requested pancakes and I made them.  Far too many of them.  I am hungry and if I do not go run soon, I will eat them.  But instead, I am standing at my computer, reading this true, real, fascinating article.  Before I can finish the article, I see the grin on my 4-year-old's face.  The grin with an index finger in the middle of it.  The grinning child with the finger in his mouth is standing in the kitchen, trying to block my view of the tub of margarine with a 4-year-old-finger-sized canal running through it.

He's sneaky but he's honest.  "I ate butter.  I like to eat butter."

Sigh.  It's time for a run.

You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

I love American history.  I am intrigued by World history.  I am amused by my personal history.

I was the geek who truly enjoyed learning about our country's history in school.  My kids believe it is dull so I try to explain a different way of looking at history.  For example, I wonder what Paul Revere's horse looked like.  (That one is guaranteed to make my son roll his eyes!)  I remind them that "those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it."  (Have you ever looked at the causes of the Boston Massacre?  My son just studied it and I mentioned that he could find some eerily similar news stories today.)

My daughter is home sick and is worried about missing the review for her Social Studies test.  THIS I can help her with!!  (Unlike her 8th grade math homework last night that kicked my butt!)

World War II and U.S. Civil War stories enthrall me.  (And yet the WIP I can't quit is based at the onset of World War I--which gives me an excuse to learn new, true stories!)

As for "those who do not know their history:" I am old enough to look back now and see the patterns I have followed for the past few decades and recognize my default settings.  ("Finding yourself" isn't so great when you aren't impressed with who you find!)

Musical history!   From classical composers to classic rock--what's not to love?  The History of Jazz and musical history courses were some of my favorites in college.  My first work-study job in college was working for a music professor compiling tapes (yes, cassettes) for her courses and proofreading a book that she had written!  (Excellent early experience for a budding writer but I willingly asked to be assigned to a different job sophmore year--part of that whole personal history pattern where I don't recognize stupid mistakes until much, much later!)

Music is great for time travel.  One song can transport you back to an exact time and place.  You remember where you were, who you were with when that song was playing.   When the trip down memory lane becomes music trivia or "history" however, it is my turn to roll my eyes.  I know exactly where I was and how old I was when I used to listen to "The Joshua Tree" with my friends.  I did NOT need the perky DJ to tell me yesterday that the album is now 25 years old.  Nor did I appreciate it this morning when another DJ announced that "I Melt With You by Modern English is 30 years old this year!"  I much prefer my alternate version of history, in which these songs came out yesterday.

Be careful what you ask for!

I asked for help.

I have three good kids but the older two have perfected the art of selective hearing.  They hear what they want, when they want.  The youngest simply thinks that every word that anyone says is always directed at him.  (He's the youngest, he is cute, why would you be talking to anyone but him?)  None of this is new, of course, but I don't have the best memory and forget to take all factors into account before I start my rants.

I've been complaining about the lack of help rather than simply requiring my kids to help.   I've been telling middle son he must fold laundry before he can play video games.   They know what needs to be done but won't do it unless asked.  Or, in my daughter's case, she needs it in writing!  (If I give her a list, with boxes she can then check off, she will do the chores.  Not on the list?  Not going to get done.)

After lunch, I told my youngest to go upstairs and I would be right there to read him a story before his nap. "No," he said.  "I am going to do laundry."

Funny.  Cute.  Sweet.  "Go upstairs and I'll be right there," was all I said. 

Unfortunately, I have taught my children that "I'll be right there" means they have at least three minutes, probably more.

So by the time I got up there, he was in his room.  He didn't want to take a nap but he was where I asked him to be.  We read a story, I kissed him goodnight and as I reached the door, he yelled, "Wait!  Can you bring my hamper back into my room?"

"Your hamper?  It's over..."

Hmmm.  Not there.   "Where is your hamper, buddy?"  Oh.  It hits me as I ask.  "Is it in the laundry room?"

"Yes!  I was doing laundry."

Indeed he was.  Blue liquid was pooled on my laundry room floor, spilled after he put some in the machine with his dirty socks, pjs and the dirty towels.  He can't read yet so he just turned the knob until it got to a spot he liked and turned it on.  Turns out he picked the stain fighting cycle, which takes over two hours. 

I received help.  And in another hour or so, I am going to have some super-clean towels! 

Olly olly oxen free!

My three-year-old still puts his hands over his eyes so that you cannot see him. He puts his head under pillows and, every Tuesday and Thursday, puts his head inside the back of my shirt as he walks into preschool.  (I have to spin rather quickly to "find" him!)  His actions are cute but not are not effective means of hiding.

I started this blog under a pseudo-anonymous name.  I thought if it didn't turn out too well, or if I posted something I shouldn't have, only a handful of people would really know it was me.  Over the years, I've shared the link in a few places so now it comes up as soon as you Google my name.  This was not an effective way to hide.

I say I need a critique group but I don't do the work to find one or start one.  It has been so long now--I hate to admit to anyone how long it's been since I have participated in such a group but waiting a little longer is not an effective solution.

Earlier this week, I impulsively commented on a facebook post from a local bookstore.  This store happens to be my new favorite place to sit and write.  I love going on Thursday mornings and often have the place to myself!  (As a writer, the peace and quiet amidst shelves of books is perfect; as a mom, the peace and quiet is priceless!)  Another writer was enjoying the space yesterday but posted on the site that she would love for other writers to join her.  I spoke up--on facebook--using my real name.

I hang my head (Mea Culpa VIII)

I have amended an earlier post but as most of you have no reason to re-read my entries, I include it here, as well.  While I do aim to write fiction, I don't want to be known as a liar.

To that end, I submit my confession:

I was notified via facebook of an inaccuracy in this post, this morning.  I have some great friends (with amazing memories!) who pay attention to what I write here.  My own memory is not so good and I do not fact-check my posts well enough.  I regret to admit that I have not completely avoided meat for two decades.

I tried.  I failed.  

Nearly two decades ago, I was working for J.  We were working quite late one night and he bought dinner for everyone.  I was hungry famished.  I was tired.  There were no veggie options and I caved.  I confess--I ate a turkey sandwich.  Nineteen years ago.  

As long as I am confessing (and before my family members rat me out) I also ate a bite of kielbasa on Easter.  In 2008.  My son saw it and has proudly told everyone that I am not a real vegetarian.

I am a fraud.  

Stalked by some bad battery karma

Every parent who has seen the Toy Story movies knows where the writers got the idea.  There is some toy, somewhere in your house, with a dying battery.  Batteries do not die quietly.  Toys do not come equipped with a "low battery" light or a status bar, telling you just how much time is left.  Toys...turn psycho.

I am not talking about the toys on your child's floor, nor the ones lying on the top of the toy box.  Those toys have been played with recently.  Those toys have received attention.  Those toys are good.

It is the toy you haven't seen for a while.  Maybe it isn't at the bottom of the full toy box but it is wedged in the middle, somewhere.  In the middle of the night, while your family is sleeping, that toy will beep for no reason.  When the children are in school, the dog is napping and the house is quiet, that toy will talk.  And if you should dig for that toy, find that toy and hold that toy it will stop.  (Think Rex in Toy Story 3: "He held me!  He actually held me!)

But my latest silence-stopper?  The potty. 

Yes, for the THIRD child, I bought a potty that sings when you, well, you know.  Except this one doesn't.  It can--it simply won't--because no one uses it.  Little guy uses it as a stool to step up to the sink.  He uses it to hold his books while he uses The Big Potty but he does not sit upon it.  So it has no reason to sing.

What to do if you are a potty with no reason to sing?  Well, sing for no reason at all!  It is 11pm.  Everyone, including the dog, is asleep except for me--and the potty.  So it sings.

Registered!

After much indecision, wavering and stalling, I decided not to go to the writing conference in October.  As I sat down to compose a post about my reasons, I found a similar post I'd already written and posted three years ago.  THREE YEARS ago.

I realized that I have no choice.  I try not to accept excuses from my kids and it is time to stop allowing them, myself.  I am going to the conference.  Part of my hesitation was that my draft isn't "ready."  But is much closer than it was last year (when I said it wasn't "ready.")  It is not perfect.  Of course, if it was perfect, I wouldn't need feedback.

So I have submitted pages for critique.  I signed up for a pitch session and query session, as well.

So now you know.  And now, I have to go revise other pages and forget that I have already sent some to complete strangers before I curl up into the fetal position and start sucking my thumb.

Moving past Teeewwwsday...

Hey, boys and girls!  It turns out, you're never really too old to have a theme for the day!

My youngest came home from preschool yesterday with an alligator pouch he'd made (full of "A" pictures) and an alligator dance.  You won't be surprised to learn that it featured a big "chomp!"

On the way to pick up the older two from school, I heard a little more chomp chomping from the back of the car.  This time, it was the dog.  Hers wasn't so much an alligator impression as she was trying to taste the DS game left in a cup holder.

We picked up my son first and while he mourned the loss of his Mario game, we picked up my daughter.  She placed a tiny present into my hand: the bracket that held her braces to her back molar.

I admire my friends and relatives who are dental hygenists and dentists.  I have never had any desire to put my hand inside anyone's mouth.  So after trying to coax Playdoh out of the dog's mouth a little later, I decided to open the wine, declare that I was off-duty and ordered pizzas for dinner.  (Yes, one was cheese-free!)

Who moved my cheese?

We talk about the "first 12-hour date" but that wasn't really our first date.  The first one was a lunch date.  I had a cheeseburger (and fries, I assume).  He had an apple.

The following summer, I decided to try giving up meat for 30 days. Those thirty days turned into two decades, although for years my husband tried to wait me out, convinced it was "just a phase."

Just a little over a week ago, my husband decided to go on a "plant based diet" for 30 days and invited me to join him.  He eased into it--the first day he just avoided "anything with a face or a mother."  It's been a vegan week since--no dairy, no eggs.  Unless you count the "butter" on our popcorn Saturday night.  I don't.  (Elaine Bennes covered the whole "is it real butter" issue for us, a while ago!)

We'll see how long this phase lasts!  I know he'll make the 30 days--he sticks to his goals.  He gave up wine for 40 days.  (He invited me to join him on that venture, as well, but I couldn't commit to that one.  This latest kick is much easier.  Wine qualifies as "plant-based.")

Our first lunch date was during the week before Labor Day, twenty-two years ago.  If you had told me then where I'd be now, I never would have believed it.
I never would have seen myself as someone who could give up cheese.

_________________________________

An amendment for my loyal readers:

I was notified via facebook of an inaccuracy in this post, this morning.  I have some great friends (with amazing memories!) who, apparently, do pay attention to what I write here.  My own memory is not so good and I do not fact-check my posts well enough.  I regret to admit that I have not completely avoided meat for two decades.

I tried.  I failed.  

Nearly two decades ago, I was working for J. We were working quite late one night and he bought dinner for everyone.  I was hungry famished.  I was tired.  There were no veggie options and I caved.  I confess--I ate a turkey sandwich.  Nineteen years ago.  

As long as I am confessing (and before my family members rat me out) I also ate a bite of kielbasa on Easter.  In 2008.  My son saw it and has proudly told everyone that I am not a real vegetarian.

I am a fraud.  Now you know.

School daze

The older two went back to school on the 16th and my little guy started preschool yesterday.  So you're probably thinking that with all three kids in "school" I finished revising the novel, finished reading a book and folded all the laundry, right?

I was really, really close.  I went to the dentist, bought a new bra and a coffee.  Whee!

But I am revising the novel.  At 0-dark-thirty.  I've been getting less sleep during this last week than when I had newborns but I just might get this done, yet!  (Delirious, bleary-eyed edits have GOT to be good, right?)

How's your week going?

In which I confess my Sin

It's not a new rule.  It isn't my rule.  It is simple.  If you want to write, you are going to have to write stuff down.
(And if you're a mom, you have to write stuff down; if you're over 30, it's likely you have to write some things down; if you don't sleep enough or if you were scatterbrained to start with, you have to write stuff down.)

If you write, you know your ideas--the good ones, anyway--do not come when you ask for them.  The ideas come while you're walking, driving, showering, cooking and sleeping.  Which is why there are pieces of scrap paper on my nightstand, in the laundry room and in my pocket when I go for a walk or a run.  The laptop is always on in the kitchen, so if I think of something while I'm frying eggplant, I can type a quick note.  I have a few apps on my iPhone so if I'm driving or running, I can at least jot a few words when I have a chance to stop.  I haven't found a way to keep a notepad in the shower yet but I don't always get in there, every day, anyway! ;)

This isn't new.  Life is busy.  We are trying to get other things done so we might have time to write or, if we make the time, we are trying to call up the inspiration on cue.  So the good ideas wait until you have a quiet moment to sit and breathe.

I had a great one last night!  I remember that it was great enough that I included an extra-loud prayer (in my head, anyway) along with the others, that God help me remember today as I was just too tired to write it down.
Apparently, my faith is not as strong as it should be.  As a writer, I know that is the biggest writing sin!  If you don't write it down before you go to sleep, it will be lost by the time you wake.  I prayed for it to stick in my head--and I can remember the two characters involved and where they were--but that's all I've got.  There is a stack of paper, pens AND pencils on my nightstand but I was too tired to pick up a pen. 

You have been hearing me talk about The Great American Novel for decades but you've been wondering why I don't just finish it already.  You had your suspicions but now, I admit it.  Writers who are too tired and lazy to pick up a pen aren't going to get very far.

(If one of you was suddenly gifted with a GREAT SCENE involving characters who aren't yours, in a story you don't know, sometime around 12:30am this morning, please email me.  I know God heard my prayer so I'm thinking when I didn't write the idea down, He went ahead and gave it to someone else.)