Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Time Out

I've got some work to do, my friends, and need to take a small break from my blog. I promise it will be brief, I just need to focus the majority of my energy right now on getting a job and finding my place here in my new town.  This is proving to be a bit more difficult than I had originally planned, and I need to give it my undivided attention.

I hope you'll understand, and will continue to follow me, as I will for you.  I'll be checking in from time to time, reading what you've all been up to in your own blogs, even if I don't comment.

I also have a special project that I've been working on, and hopefully when I get back, I'll be able to surprise you all with a big announcement!  Keep your fingers crossed!

In the meantime, play nice, do good, and I'll see you when I get back!  Big hugs and...

Thanks for Reading!

xo, Joan

Sunday, January 23, 2011

No Business Like It

"Please don't let it be over, please don't let it be over!!"  I chanted the words again and again, until the lights came up once more and my fears were laid to rest.

I was in elementary school, witnessing a live stage production for the very first time.  The high school wherein my father taught was presenting a children's theater production of Peter Pan.  The director, one of dad's colleagues and fellow fishing buddies, invited my mother to bring all us kids for an afternoon matinee.

Looking back, it wasn't a very well-funded production, to say the least.  The sets and costumes were homemade, and when the script called upon the actors to "fly," this was accomplished by spreading their arms, jumping off the stage, and running up and down the auditorium aisles.

But I was transfixed.  I had never witnessed anything so glorious in my entire, young life. Every time the lights would dim after the completion of a scene, (so the stagehands could transpose the set from, say, the Darling's nursery to the Land of Lost Boys), I would repeat the above mantra.  I couldn't BEAR the thought of this magical, wonderful thing coming to an end.  I laughed, cried, and clapped my belief of fairies until my hands were raw.

And when the lights dimmed for the last time, and the house lights came up on the theater, I believe my life had forever changed.

When I entered junior high school, one of the yearly field trips involved a morning when they'd bus all of us seventh and eighth graders over to the high school, to view a final dress rehearsal of the drama department's fall musical.  We'd see the musical, then head back to school to attend our regular afternoon classes.  After witnessing a rousing (but low budget!) production of Guys and Dolls, I remember sitting back in science class that afternoon, looking around at my classmates. How on earth could they possibly focus on e=mc2 after the magic we'd experienced just a few hours before?

When I finally reached high school and could be a part of these musicals myself, I worried that some of the "wonderment" of it all would fade, once I saw the non-magical, normal backstage areas and realized the amount of hard work these productions required.  Not so. I loved every minute of every rehearsal.  All day long, during my classes, I'd count down the hours until play practice.  When the threat of school cancellations materialized because of approaching snow storms, I'd whisper a quiet prayer, hoping the blizzards would pass us.  If there was no school, there was no rehearsal, and I simply couldn't live without that.

During all this time, though, I assumed that a career in the theater was out of the question. Surely, a career so unique and amazing could only be held by truly special people.  I figured it was like royalty, you had to be born into it.

Then one day, riding home from church in the family car, I overheard a conversation between my parents. They were discussing the actor/comedian Bob Hope. Mom was telling Dad that Hope actually hailed not far from where we lived, in Cleveland, Ohio.  She had read that he got his start impersonating Charlie Chaplin outside the Cleveland firehouses.

That's when it hit me:  Bob Hope, the famous TV and movie star, had once been NORMAL?!! You mean, ANYONE could do this?  It seemed impossible, but I prayed it was the truth.  It was at that moment, in that station wagon, headed home from mass at St. Barnabas Catholic Church, that I made the decision to officially drop all ambition to become the next Ernest Hemingway. I was going to pursue a career in theater.

As you can probably guess, I never achieved the success of Mr. Hope.  I've never lived in LA nor starred in a blockbuster movie.  My limited TV appearances have been mostly local, and I can safely go out into public without being recognized or hounded for my autograph. But I can say this:  the majority of my working life has been spent performing, and it has been purely GLORIOUS.

Honestly, I don't think I've lost one ounce of the wonderment I felt that afternoon, when the lights came up on Wendy, Michael and John.  It's been a terrific ride!  Oh, sure, there have been times when I've felt tired and fatigued, and didn't feel like getting myself "up" for a particular performance.  But guess what?  That feeling always, ALWAYS vanished the second I took one step onstage.

But it's time to focus on a finding a new career, now.  There aren't many roles for women my age, and the live performance opportunities are far fewer in my new city.  I'm really just fine with this, and have no problem making theater my hobby rather than my career. Except for one small thing.

I have no idea how to do this.  Instead of auditioning for jobs, where I stood in front of a panel and "showed" them what I could do, I must now interview for a job, where I sit at a table with said panel and "tell" them what I can do.  Tell them, that is, if I'm actually granted an interview in the first place. The hiring process has become, in my opinion, ridiculously impersonal. The applications must be filled out online, a resume attached to an email.  After the employer reviews these documents, then, and only then, will the decision of an interview be made.  You can imagine how bizarre my resume looks.  I haven't received many interview requests.

But, unlike the title character in Peter Pan, it's time for me to grow up.  I've been ridiculously spoiled so far, career wise.  I've had the opportunity to do something about which I was really, truly passionate.   I don't know if this next "chapter" will allow the same, but I do know that I am ready for it.  If only they'd call me for that interview...

Thanks for Reading!!

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

My Territory is Yours

Isn't this little guy cute?  I took this picture of the mockingbird in our yard, our new frequent visitor to the back deck.  By frequent, I mean constant, as he is never far away.  If he's not sitting on our deck, eating at the feeders, or drinking from the birdbath, he is sitting at the top of the juniper tree in our yard, just a few feet away, keeping watch.

He's keeping watch quite literally, actually, because true to his mockingbird heritage, our little friend is extremely territorial. He has planted his "flag" on our deck, claiming it as his own.  He guards his area at all hours, never allowing any other birds to come near it.

Oh, they try, mind you.  It's been unseasonably cold and snowy here in the Nashville area, and these poor birds need to fatten-up to make it through the frigid nights.  I've seen wrens, sparrows, finches, titmice, and chickadees all approach the feeders, hoping to grab some nourishment.

They last all of a few seconds before our mean little soldier flies straight at them, angrily shrieking and squawking.  When the poor, startled things fly to a nearby tree, this, apparently is not far enough.  He again dive-bombs into said tree until the trespasser gets the message and flies far away and out of sight.  It's only then that he relaxes, puffy and content once more on his deck rail, victorious once again.  (We've appropriately named him "Butch," after The Little Rascals bully who also had social issues!!)

I've tried EVERYTHING, people!  I put up more feeders, with lots of space between each one, hoping some of them will fall outside the "zone" of Butch's territory.  No luck.  I've even filled some of the feeders with thistle and other seeds that are undesirable to mockingbirds, only to the smaller, finch-like breeds.  Butch doesn't care.  Even though he doesn't prefer the food, he doesn't want anyone else eating it EITHER.

Here's the thing about Butch:  there is more food out there on that deck than he will ever be able to consume.  With the snow falling, it's going to go bad and soggy before he could EVER finish all of it.  But something in Butch tells him, "This is MINE! I don't CARE if you are in need, get your OWN!  If you don't, I'll HURT you!"  Childish, don't you think?

Yet, as I've watched the events unfold from this past weekend's tragedy, I can't stop thinking about that intolerant little mockingbird.

I made a pact with myself when I started this blog that I would never discuss anything political, and I'm definitely not planning on starting now.  I am the LAST person I would go to for advice on any political subject.  But those who know me also know of my intense dislike of rudeness, my passionate contempt for hurtful words and violent behavior. I don't know if harsh, hateful words caused the tragic deaths in Arizona this past weekend, I doubt we'll ever find out.

The fact remains that there are still so many needlessly hurtful, bitter words being used, all in the name of "debate," and one-upping each other as we scream loudly back and forth on "news" programs. We're so much better than this.  All of us.

Like I've been trying to teach poor, territorial Butch: there is sooooo much space for EVERYONE.  We may differ in size, shape, and opinions, but can't we still co-exist, and respect the fact that we're all here, in this beautiful place, with plenty of room to hold us all? This is my prayer today, for all of us.  (Butch included!)

Thanks for Reading!

Friday, January 7, 2011

A Shady Award!

My new friend, Shady Del Knight at Shady Dell Music and Memories just bestowed me with this lovely award!  Isn't it cool?

I'm a huge fan of Shady's.  He's an exceptional, thoughtful, entertaining blogger, and he's made me feel like a queen with his kind comments and tremendous support of my own writing attempts. This award is just another example of his generosity.  His blog is terrific!  If you get a chance, be sure to stop by and visit, he'll make you feel right at home.  I PROMISE, you won't be disappointed!

Anyhoo, Shady has instructed me that the rules of accepting this award are to list five things about myself, then pass the award along to five other bloggers.

Some may say I've been RIDICULOUSLY open in this blog, and there's very little LEFT that one wouldn't already know about me, but let's see what I can do...

1.  I was terribly afraid of the dark as a kid, WAY after most children typically get over the fear.  My younger sister and I shared bunk beds in our room, and I always made an excuse as to why SHE should be the one to get out of bed and go across the room to hit the light switch each night instead of me.  I blame my overactive imagination.  Yeah, that's what it was...my imagination! (Pathetic!!)


2.  I am a doll collector, but not in the weird, creepy, always-tuned-to-QVC kind of way.  My grandma Simmons (aka: the most awesome person in the UNIVERSE) saved all of her dolls, my mom's dolls, and my dolls in her spacious walk-up attic.  When she died, I received this precious stash, and they all reside in my guest rooms to this day.  None of them are worth anything, monetary-wise, because they've all been played with a "loved" a great deal.  No original boxes here.  But they are so precious to me.  Especially my sweet Tubsy doll, to whom I actually devoted this entire blog entry.

3.  I have follicular lymphoma.  It's lazy and low grade, and I only have to think about it twice a year now, when I undergo a neck, chest, and pelvic CT scan to make sure it's not becoming active.  It was terrifying when I got the diagnosis, but for almost four years now, each scan has provided a "no new growth" result, and no treatment has been necessary. It's still a little daunting to know that I have cancer, that it will be with me for the rest of my life, and that I will never be able to call myself a "survivor," but I remind myself daily that it could be much, much worse.  (To the left is a picture of me with my second opinion doctor who was convinced I needed to start chemotherapy immediately.  She was WRONG!!)

4.  For thirteen years, I performed at Universal Studios, in the Terminator 2/3D attraction, as Kimberley Duncan (the annoying host in the ugly red suit!).  I got "choked" by a cyborg and thrown back onto a hidden mat nine times a day (stunt pay!!), and it was the best job I've EVER had!  I loved every day of my thirteen years there, and I only left when my sweet husband was promoted and we were required to move (Alan's the ONLY man for whom I would have left that awesome job!).

5.  I run every day, usually around 3.5 miles or so.  I don't run because I like it, I run to keep my dress size in the single digits.  I wrote this blog entry about my relationship with running.  People thought I was a little "touched" when they read it,  but I swear it's the truth.  That being said, my husband talked me into entering the 5K Sunset Run in Key West last July when we were there for our yearly trip.  I told him I was on vacation and didn't want to run, I wanted to drink margaritas on the pool deck.  He persisted, promising me drinks AFTER the run, and I caved.  It was 9000 degrees, and the sun was blistering.  It was, by far, the worst 24 minutes of my life.  Then, I learned that I placed first for my age group!   NEXT year, we're skipping the run and going STRAIGHT to the frozen drinks!!

Well, there you have it, Shady!  Five (somewhat?) interesting things about me that you may not have known before.  Hope you found it riveting!!  Thanks again for your kind words, and for this sweet award, I really do appreciate it!

Now, to bestow the award to five other blogs I admire:

1. Red Shoe Chronicles
2. Reforming Geek
3. Mumsy's Place
4. The Blog O' Cheese
5. Along Life's Highway The Yard Art Game

Not only are these blogs terrific, the authors are dear, thoughtful commenters as well, and I greatly appreciate them!

Hope everyone has a fabulous weekend!  Thanks to Shady, mine's already been made!!

Thanks for Reading!

Monday, January 3, 2011

Back to Normal...

Oh, is there anything sadder than the day you take down your Christmas decorations?  I don't think so.  You put them up with so much joy, so many high expectations about the approaching holiday season.  Then, in a flash, it's over, and all the bright red bows, shiny ornaments and felt snowmen get crammed back into their boxes for another year.  Geez, I hate it!

How was your Christmas?  We just returned home this morning from a wonderful trip to see both of our families for the holidays.  This was no small feat, since my family is located near Cleveland, Ohio, and Alan's relatives reside much further south in Gadsden, Alabama.

But we saw them all, got to see everyone open the presents we chose for them, shopped the after-Christmas sales, and ate enough high-calorie homemade cooking to last a LIFETIME!  So many happy memories were made, so many dear ones we got to squeeze and remind how much they are loved.

And now, just like that, it's all over.  January is here, and my beautiful, festive decorations sit here before me, telling me it's time to pull out the bins and pack them away for another year.  I know this, but I feel like the child that wants to cling to the magic of Santa and presents for just a little while longer.  Maybe one more night...

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Phyllis' Christmas Treasures

REPOST ALERT!!!  I wrote this last December when no one was reading my blog except my siblings and a few close friends.  I thought I'd bring it back and see what you think.  Hope you like it...


Meals on Wheels is a fantastic organization serving countless communities in states across the country.  It's premise is simple:  provide hot meals to senior citizens and shut-ins who are unable to afford and/or prepare the meals for themselves.  During the time that Trixie and I were involved with our nursing home visits, organized through the SPCA of Central Florida, an urgent call came through from the Meals on Wheels people.


Apparently, there was a growing concern that many of their clients were not consuming the delivered meals themselves. They were going hungry because they were feeding their rations to their own pets instead. They couldn't afford dog or cat food, so they were giving what they had to their precious companions. The organization asked if there was anything the SPCA could do to help them.

I'll always be so proud of how quickly and efficiently the president of the SPCA of Central Florida, Barbara Wetzler, responded. Within just a few weeks, she had convinced Tupperware to donate dozens of large containers, sent out word that dog and cat food donations were being accepted, got a list of names of clients and their mapped-out locations, and rounded up a core of volunteers to make the deliveries. There is a special place in heaven for Barbara Wetzler!

When word was sent out about the need for delivery people, I signed up without hesitation. I'm always looking for ways to honor the memory of my sweet Grandma Simmons, and I knew she'd love the idea of taking care of senior citizens' pets this way. At the orientation, the rules were pretty cut and dried: each driver would receive three names with a corresponding map. On the day of your delivery, you simply dropped by the SPCA, dropped off your empty bins, picked up new, filled ones, and set out. They asked you to call each client in advance each month, as many would be hesitant to answer the door if they didn't already know you were coming by. They also advised letting the phone ring several times, old bones take a little longer getting out of chairs and walking to the phone!

I was eager to get started and set out as soon as I left orientation. My first two deliveries were very similar. The clients greeted me, let me pat their dog or cat's head from my place on their front stoop, then waved a cheery "good-bye" and quickly shut the door. My last stop was at a tiny house in a poor neighborhood. It looked like it might have been a nice, family community at one point, but that time had long passed. Now the surrounding houses were in disrepair and in great need of new roofs and paint jobs. The house on my list had a decent sized yard surrounded by an ugly chain link fence. I glanced down at the name on my list: "Phyllis -- cat." I grabbed the bin of cat food and lifted the latch on the gate, then proceeded up the front steps and knocked on Phyllis' door.

After several minutes, I heard the deadbolt turn and watched as the door moved inward. There in the doorway stood a tiny woman with long, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a house dress identical to my Grandma's, and large, thick coke bottle-lensed glasses. Tight around her neck was the type of apparatus found on patients that have undergone a tracheotomy. She smiled and placed a finger over the front hole to speak in a breathy voice, "You must be Joan! You look just like I knew you would when I heard your voice on the phone! Come on in!"

Phyllis led me to her neat, cozy kitchen, sporting wooden cupboards with black hinges and knobs. She told me to just set the cat food under the sink and have a seat with her at the table. On her table sat a large tray containing several prescription bottles. In the course of our conversation that first day, she told me about her many ailments: the tracheotomy, diabetes for which she gave herself daily injections, poor eyesight and hearing (her phone had one of those blinking light attachments that alerted her when a call was coming in), severe arthritis, and some brushes with cancer. It was funny, though, how her "malady listing" didn't come across at all like complaining. Phyllis seemed to accept the fact that her body was wearing down, but was also truly fascinated with the modern medical procedures being employed to keep her going. I found myself recalling all of the Alzheimer's patients Trixie and I had visited at the nursing home. Many of them, despite their severe mental limitations, were otherwise physically healthy as horses. Phyllis was exactly the opposite. Her poor body was breaking down, but her mind remained sharp as a tack. She remembered exact dates when telling stories, often beginning, "In June of 1962...no, excuse me, it was JULY of 1963..."

Phyllis became my favorite delivery stop. I'd always save hers for last because I knew she'd expect me to come in and "sit a spell." When I was picking up her cat food, I decided I wanted to bring my new friend a treat as well. I knew with all of her diet restrictions that a food item was out. Then I was at the Hallmark store and spotted a small stuffed animal cat. I had seen similar ones on the shelf of her living room, so I decided maybe she'd like another.

I entered her kitchen as always that day, placed the cat food bin under her sink, then handed her the gift bag. "Just a silly little nothing for you," I told her. She unwrapped the tissue and held the little cat up close to her weak eyes. She turned to me, gave me a huge smile, and hugged it to her face, cradling it like a doll. I became addicted to that smile. I couldn't get enough of it. So, every month I arrived with a new gift, usually of the stuffed variety. That beautiful, sweet smile was my payment, and she always gave it generously.

I should've realized that I was over-doing it with the gift giving, however, because I soon learned that Phyllis felt the need to reciprocate. I arrived one day to find a large cardboard box sitting at my place on her kitchen table. "Have a seat," she instructed me. She explained that she'd been going through some things and came across this box of her Christmas decorations. She said she wasn't going to be putting them out anymore, and she'd like for me to have them (she'd been noticing my holiday sweaters!). I told her I'd be happy to help her adorn her home with the decorations if she'd like, she didn't need to get rid of them. She waved my suggestion away with a wrinkled hand and reached in to pull out her first treasure. It was a six inch soft plastic reindeer. At least that's what I think it was. The paint was very faded and the tip of it's tail was broken off. There was a hole on the underside of it's belly where you could place a small light bulb to illuminate it, but that was long gone. She turned it around in her hand and looked at it with dreamy eyes, then placed it on the table. Then she reached in the box and pulled out the next item, a plastic, faded snowman. She brought out item after worthless item, unwrapping each from it's paper towel, placing it on her table with the delicacy usually reserved for Faberge eggs. She never offered a story to go with any one object. She just smiled while she silently held each of them up to her face, then set it back down again.

When all the items had been unwrapped, she turned to me and asked, "Well, what do you think? Would you like them?" I told her that I really thought she should hang on to them. "Nonsense!" she quipped, "I'm too old to be messing with them anymore. If you don't take them, I'll just donate them to the poor." I told Phyllis I would take them, thanked her for her generosity, and promptly placed them in my attic when I got home.

Phyllis' health continued to deteriorate. I arrived one month and she greeted me at the door, clearly distracted about something. After a little prodding, I got her to tell me. She had been losing so much weight that her doctor had surgically inserted a feeding tube into her stomach. She now "fed" herself twice a day with a bag provided by the hospital, and was no longer a candidate for Meals on Wheels. She was terrified that this also meant she would no longer be receiving cat food. I grabbed my friend's sweet, leather hand and told her that as LONG as she needed it, I would be bringing her cat food.

The next month I dialed Phyllis' number to tell her I'd be by that day. The phone rang and rang. No answer. "Probably just at one of her doctor appointments," I told myself, trying not to think about the alternative. When no one answered later that day, I knew I had to do something. I found the number of her social worker, Mary, who had been providing her general care and rides to the doctor's. She confirmed my worst fears, Phyllis had died. Mary told me that she'd arrived at Phyllis' home one morning and found her still in her bed, no sign of struggle. Phyllis had died peacefully in her sleep.

When someone like Phyllis passes away, someone who had no family and so many physical ailments, we tend to feel relief that they're no longer in pain and now hopefully reunited with their loved ones in the hereafter. But truthfully, I missed my friend and her beautiful smile.

I was packing up the house in Orlando last year in preparation for the big move to Pennsylvania when I came across that box of Phyllis' decorations. Such silly, worthless trinkets, but so dear to one. I wished I had prodded her more about the stories behind each of those pieces. We were in the process of some major downsizing for the move, and I knew I couldn't take the box with me, but I also didn't have the heart to throw them away. I decided to honor Phyllis' second wish and take them to "The Poor." I don't know if Goodwill would find any use for a box of faded Christmas trinkets, but I'd like to think that someone found them as beautiful and special as Phyllis did, and have them displayed on their table this Christmas.

As I write this, I look around my living room at my own decorations. As much as I cherish them and the Christmas memories they invoke, none of my felt santas or folk art angels posses any monetary value, that's for sure. I'm sure someday, after I'm gone, my worthless treasures will all be boxed up and taken to Goodwill. I just hope "The Poor" truly appreciates the intense awesomeness of a fabric moose wearing a "noel" sweater, or a snowman wearing a stocking cap on snow skis!!

Merry Christmas, sweet Phyllis.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Filling My Purse

My mother tells me that when I was a little girl, I never went ANYWHERE unless I had four things: my doll, a string of wooden beads around my neck, a pair of white gloves, and a purse (Imagine the ENORMOUS hit I was in Kindergarden!)  I don't remember a whole lot about that time, but I DO remember getting a new purse with Grandma Simmons once.  It was one of those shiny white patent leather numbers, VERY elegant!

A problem arose, however, when it came time to actually FILL said purse.  It's not like I had a wallet, I certainly didn't have any money.  So, Grandma Simmons gave me a big wad of Kleenex, an old empty compact, a used-up lipstick tube, and a key (no one was quite sure what the key opened, but it helped to add weight to my new purchase!).  Needless to say, I rarely opened that purse, unless the need for blowing my nose arose, of course.

I've been thinking a lot about that purse lately.  Let me tell you why...

When we recently moved into our new rented house here in Franklin, Tennessee, we quickly learned that there was WAY more room than we were used to in our former homes. Guests will be VERY comfortable when they visit, there's plenty of spare rooms and bathrooms for ALL!

But downstairs, in the finished basement, sat a nice big room overlooking the backyard, complete with it's own bathroom and huge walk-in closet.  I think it was initially intended to be a mother-in-law suite, but since both our mothers have very comfortable homes of their own, Alan suggested I use the room as my office/sewing room.  He encouraged me to decorate it however I'd like (although, since we're renting, painting the walls or changing the carpet is out of the question!).

The thought intrigued me.  You must know that throughout my whole childhood, I shared a room with my sister.  We slept in wooden bunk beds constructed by my dad, covered with simple blankets that my grandmother sewed.  None of us actually experienced the "girly" rooms our friends all seemed to have.  I decided this was my chance to create my very own "Girl Cave!"

Yellow has always been my favorite color, so I made sure everything reflected a yellow, lacy, flowery theme!  And since yellow is definitely not the "in" decorating color at the moment, I had to do a lot of creating on my own!  Like the two lamps in the picture above. I covered the shades with yellow fabric, added a ruffle on the bottom, and attached sweet pink ribbon roses around the ruffle!  (You can vomit now, I understand!).

I covered a bulletin board and the border of a dry erase board with yellow floral fabric, then attached all of my family photos to each of them to inspire my writing!  The dry erase board has future blog topic ideas scribbled on it.

Also, for my early readers, that's Tubsy sitting on the shelf, no Girl Cave would be complete without your favorite childhood doll!

To the right is a picture of another wall, which holds boxes containing my fabric, laces, ribbons, trims, yarn, patterns and such.  A framed photo of Dad, the original spouter of the phrase "Anything Fits a Naked Man," and subject of many of my blog entries, sits in a frame on the shelf, covered with my yellow floral fabric! Now, if I could JUST get better at actually SEWING things!

So, what do you think?  Kinda cool, huh?

Except, here's the only problem:  just like that empty purse Grandma Simmons bought me all those years ago, I look at my new pretty room and think, "Now, I have to fill this room with superlative blog entries!"  A room as grand as this can only be used properly if wonderful, thoughtful, high quality ideas are being created there!  Talk about PRESSURE!!

I'll be honest with you, as I write this post, I'm sitting in my living room with my computer on my lap.  I used the excuse that I wanted to be near the Christmas tree, and I really wanted to catch the Lawrence Welk Christmas special on PBS (oh, shut up!).  But the simple truth is, I'm a little bit afraid of my new room.  I've gone down there to read, work on crafts, fill out my Christmas cards, but so far, no writing!  Isn't that silly?

Has this ever happened to you?  Where do YOU write?  Any words of advice to get me down to my pretty girl cave?  I could REALLY use them!  Also,

Thanks for Reading!!