Introducing the BLESS HER (HIS) HEART Awards.

You know those times where somebody genuinely means well, perhaps you, but the resulting action doesn’t quite capture the initial intention?

We are but human.

My dear aunt, bless her heart (truly), has been calling me weekly to check on my throat progress. This started as a result of a random phone call that I should not have taken, back when my throat was far too sore to be shouting into the phone. Weeks later, I’m still better off singing than speaking, particularly if I’m attempting to raise my voice; I seem prone to hoarseness. I’m also embarrassed by any attention to my ailment as I know it is a minor annoyance, not something of a grave nature.

Oddly enough, the throat crisis came in the midst of my return to performing with a choir. Our holiday concert is this weekend; over 50 in the choir, over 400 in the audience, with a director fighting off a nasty bout of flu. It should be an exciting performance, in more ways than one.

I’ll also be performing in a small ensemble, an octet (plus a couple of sopranos because we seem to have an abundance of sopranos; they might need their own choir -- 'all sopranos, all the time'). The only other alto knows a different arrangement of the song and has missed half of the small group rehearsals. I grabbed her during break at our last choir rehearsal, plucked a C from the piano and ran through the song twice.

We were rarely singing the same notes.

She keeps saying that she’ll get it, and, who knows, with the flurry of five other parts, perhaps whatever she winds up singing will simply blend in. Meanwhile, I’ll be gasping for air, trying to stagger my breathing with myself, whole words missing as I plunge onward to the end of the song.

One of my most public and humiliating experiences occurred during a solo in high school. They pretty much had to push me onto the stage, where, overwhelmed by nerves and the large audience, I wandered away from the melody and sang some unrecognizable tune until, thankfully, the piano accompaniment ended (and with it, any dreams I may have had of a singing career). I have gone to great lengths to avoid solos since that time (sorry about that Sister Arlene).

I recently raved about Julia Glass’s THE WHOLE WORLD OVER. Apparently, it was a finalist in the “Bad Sex in Fiction Award.” Oh my. Now I’m wondering which scene led to this. I don’t even recall much sex in the book, maybe I skimmed over the supposed worst parts? Well bless my heart.

My apologies to the woman seated on my left during yesterday's choir rehearsal.

The weather outside had turned chilly and I hadn't anticipated a three hour rehearsal under warm stage lights. Two hours into the session I realized I had burned through my deodorant, creating deep sweat stains and a lingering sour smell, taking the concept of suffering for your art to a whole new and unpleasant level for my companions.

I have sweated less while playing tennis on a warm day. Rarely has singing felt so physical to me, unless it's opera.

In my college choir we typically stood through every rehearsal. There were rarely any chairs even in the tiered rehearsal room. In our community choir, we have sat through almost all of the rehearsals and we will stand through most of the concert.

As we stood on the risers for the first time, I realized that while I may have become accustomed to singing next to certain people for the past few months, that's all about to change.

I'm at least six inches taller than the women I've been sitting next to.

Guess I'll be testing another deodorant with some different singers during our next loooong rehearsal.

My makeup expired, apparently some time ago.

I'm always the last to know.

I'm suprised it doesn't come with an expiration date stamped on it, like orange juice.

As a member of the Irish-sensitive-skin-club, once I found a brand of makeup that didn't seem to create more skin problems I stuck with it--loyal usage for years and years. I've learned which cheaper face care products I can get away with, but I've never found a foundation that works as well, or matches my alabaster/pink/red/white freckled skin.

The only trouble is, in order to purchase this pricey foundation, I have to deal with the clerks at the counter, the ones wearing the lab coats and a certain measure of attitude.

It can actually be helpful to talk to them if they know the product line well, but how to gauge that level of learning can be an art form in itself. Of course they always think you should be using every item in the line and some disparaging comment will slip out along the way as they make their none to subtle critique.

Yesterday, it was "are you wearing makeup now?"

Yes, I was.

I stopped by for one product: foundation. I wound up with foundation, loose powder and a brush. Little does she know, although I suspect she probably guessed, my blusher is at least a decade old.

It irks me that my foundation has such a short shelf life; the color and texture change after about six months. It feels like a marketing ploy to get consumers to purchase more frequently. But the powder? Apparently that's good for eight months (the stuff in my medicine cabinet was purchased in the previous century).

The brush sale went exactly the same as the brush I purchased last year. They make really nice brushes. The new one is small and portable, with a handy little travel pouch. Once again, the clerk felt compelled to remove this new brush from its packaging and brush it against the palm of her hand (and who knows where that hand has been? thank you Kelly Ripa. Handling money, credit cards, the phone, the mail, the cash register).

Instead of speaking up, "um, could I maybe have a new brush that you haven't already used?" I inquired as to brush washing methods and figured at least I knew that the brush had already made contact with skin other than my own, instead of being lulled into a false sense of cleanliness.

Loyal blog readers know that I sent a letter of complaint the last time I purchased a nice makeup brush. I'd like to know just what a clerk is thinking when she applies the brush to the palm of her hand? 'Ooo, soft . . . "

Sigh. If this is the least of my problems I am indeed fortunate.

Our holiday concert is coming up this weekend. I've got a blouse that's not quite right, a skirt that's a little off, and one pair of black pantyhose (it's always a good idea to have a back-up in the house). At least my face will be covered.

Julia Glass is an exquisite writer with a wonderful feel for characterization and figurative language.

Her debut novel, THREE JUNES, won the National Book Award. I'm halfway through her second novel, THE WHOLE WORLD OVER, and I'm savoring the words and descriptions. The story is more expansive than THREE JUNES, with a broader use of multiple points of view and tighter chronological development. The characters are so rich and nuanced I feel like a voyeur exploring their thoughts.

In news of the mundane, I've got to face the facts: nothing good comes of washing the kitchen floor. The minute it's clean, substances leap from containers, leaving a trail of fresh carrot juice or splotches of coffee.

I'm reminded of a story told at a recent writers' meeting of a writer who was asked the secret of her success. She proudly announced: "I never clean my house!"

It sounds like something Erma Bombeck might have said. Odds are, there's a maid or housekeeper at work behind the scenes.

There are only so many hours in a day, and it is amazing how they fly by. We all receive the same twenty-four, but oh the different ways we spend them.

Must
Resist
Urge

Aargh!

And now, something nobody needs, my view on the Kelly/Clay/Rosie debate.

All together now, AAARGH!

Despite WHATEVER Kelly Ripa may have been saying when guest host Clay Aiken chose to laughingly cover her mouth with his hand, on HER TV SHOW, it was rude of him to do so.

I would be FURIOUS if anyone ever put a hand over my mouth.

I suspect he was nervous and embarrassed by the line of discussion and he was trying to change the topic in a gentle manner.

But Rosie, come on, while you do have a point, you have turned this incident into fodder for your personal agenda, sacrificing Clay Aiken’s personal life along the way. From your cushy spot on the talk show couch, having already made your millions in entertainment, you effectively outed a young performer who very likely doesn't want his alledged sexuality to upstage his career as a singer.

Flu season? Homophobic behavior?

I’m reminded of a point my mother used to make. What if they are both right?

Maybe it is a good topic for public debate. If I were teaching argumentation today we would turn it into a timely classroom activity.

I am absolutely terrified to update my blog to the new format. I'm trying to get there with baby steps, working with the new options on a ficticous blog: Capricious C.

I know, it's horrible. I sound like a rapper.

I'm afraid to try to link the new blog to my website -- what if I lose the 300+ entries I have on Copacetic? There should be a backup feature somewhere around here, but can I trust it?

While exploring, I searched Blogger for my Copacetic blogsite. It wasn't listed in the first 100 hundred hits.

Oh my.

If a writer writes in cyberspace, does anybody read it?

I wound up really enjoying Lolly Winston's HAPPINESS SOLD SEPARATELY. I think it is a tighter, more plausible storyline than her breakout bestselling debut, GOOD GRIEF. HAPPINESS lacks the humor of GOOD GRIEF but the characters are wonderfully flawed. In particular, she does a fabulous job creating troubled children, endearing and yet oh so annoying.

Dear Stephen King, I am unworthy. You are indeed a word master, I just can't go the distance.

I tried to read LISEY'S STORY. I made it about halfway before surrendering the novel to my husband, who read a few chapters further and then slipped the book into the library returns pile.

Rich, vivid characters, complex narrative interweaving the past and present, and lots of 'smucks' and 'bools.' While I cared about what happened, I felt worn down by the experience.

Nora Ephron's I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY NECK was far more enjoyable, more like dipping my toes in cool water on a hot day instead of exploring the murky depths.

Melissa Senate's THE BREAKUP CLUB was much better than the title indicates. The novel explores relationships and expectations regarding marriage and career.

Bill Bryson's THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID offers a wealth of detail about growing up in Iowa in the 1950s. Once again I faded about halfway through, and I'm putting Augusten Burroughs's POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS into the library returns pile because I just can't face another memoir right now.

Fiction, I need fiction. So I started Lolly Winston's HAPPINESS SOLD SEPARATELY last night. So far, I'm finding it incredibly depressing.

What's that I hear? My characters calling? Ah, the FBI have shown up to interrogate Denny, this should be fun.

When we were shopping for a home there were very few available in our community.

There was one in our price range and we purchased it. The next available home cost $65,000 more and had much less square footage, maybe it had a great view or plenty of upgrades.

The market surged right after our purchase, with homes in the area increasing about 40% in value, and now, with the softening of the real estate market, it seems like there are about two homes for sale on every block.

I find this rather unnerving, for several reasons. The more expensive homes seem to hold their value better, and I keep wondering, who are these people that can afford $400,000-$800,000 for a home?

And why are all of these more modest homes for sale now? It feels like maybe my neighbors know something that I don't . . . we do live a desert with a diminished water table and plenty of over-building, has the panic that we're running out of water begun?

It's sad to see all of these homes for sale month after month, even if that is how we got a good deal on ours.

On a sidenote: both Yahoo and Blogger are foisting upgrades on me. I tried the Yahoo upgrade and then couldn't post to Blogger so I changed back to the older version. Now Blogger wants me to upgrade and sign in via my Google account. Sigh, I don't have a Google account.

Anyhoo, if you don't hear from me in awhile, it is likely an upgrade conflict/compatibility issue.

Oh joy.

I used to think I was a morning person. Then I attempted to develop a morning walk routine with my friend Nancy and I learned the difference between 'morning' people and those with 'pre-dawn' capabilities.

I have never seen anyone so alert at 5:30 in the morning. This woman could analyze the stock market, real estate, or fall fashions, her brain firing on all cyclinders, while I numbly placed one foot in front of the other.

My husband has a very consistent morning pattern. It focuses on grinding coffee beans, reading or watching the news, easing into the day.

Most mornings I roll out of bed and spring into action around 6:30.

This drives him nuts. I didn't know just how nuts until he impersonated me, which provided a good laugh and a clue.

For the women in my family, the sporadic, frenzied level of activity is perfectly normal. We get so caught up in the tasks at hand that we don't always realize that others may find it puzzling or annoying, especially at 6:30 in the morning.

Emptying the trash baskets, gathering the laundry, taking out the recycling, blending a soy & fruit smoothie is just my attempt to get things moving on the domestic front so I can clear a chunk of time for writing.

Maybe it would be wiser for me to begin the day with writing? I'm not sure I can be that flexible with it, plus I generally need daylight when I work.

I am so wonderfully spoiled.

My sisters are working together today and I'm wondering how that is going. You see, one of them has strong 'pre-dawn' tendencies, and she has scheduled an 8 a.m. presentation for the other one, who needs copious amounts of coffee and is unlikely to be functional before 9 a.m.

I can't wait to hear all about it.

"What did you get into?"

Our dog looked up at me--his eyes shining, his pink tongue hanging out. He looked so adorable, surely he was innocent?

Shiny pieces of a foil-like substance marked a trail throughout the house.

I've seen dogs charge into wastebaskets, snuffle through the most delightfully disgusting messes and carry 'treats' in from the outdoors, but unless our dog finds a tissue or manages to capture leaves and twigs in his coat we haven't had to contend with many surprises.

My husband groaned, "Our shoes . . ." just as the realization clicked in my brain.

We had stopped by an an open house at a flower shop. They had sprinkled shiny white confetti on the floor to simulate snow.

'Tis the season.

Following 78 REASONS WHY YOUR BOOK MAY NEVER BE PUBLISHED & 14 REASONS WHY IT JUST MIGHT (and, by the way Pat, thanks for the hope), I've read an eclectic assortment of books.

I'd stumbled across a review of Alison Bechdel's FUN HOME: A FAMILY TRAGICOMIC and ordered it through interlibrary loan. I must not have read the review very closely because I was surprised to discover it was a series of comic strips about the author's life. Duh, so that's what the term 'graphic memoir' means.

The content is intensely personal and the reading experiencing like paging through an entertaining diary. The level of detail in the illustrations is amazing. I found myself reading one more chapter, and then another as the author explores her self-awareness and her complex relationship with her father.

Next I moved on to Marshall Karp's THE RABBIT FACTORY. I discovered this book when I visited the MacAdam/Cage website (Pat Walsh, he of the 78 REASONS, is a founding editor of this independent publishing house).

The plot revolves around a murder at a family-oriented theme park. The development of the storyline seemed unusual due to the use of multiple points of view, which I wasn't all that keen on in the beginning. I wasn't sure the author could keep it all together but the development was smooth. Many of the characters were well drawn and engaging, still, I floundered around page 500 before I rallied and finished (approximately 625 pages).

If I had been the editor, I probably would have encouraged the author to cut 100 pages (most likely the storyline about the brother). I know, that's a heartless and cruel thing to say. No wonder I'm struggling with my revision, I keep cutting huge chunks of chapters, deeming them unworthy. Maybe I'm inventing a new form of fiction, the streamlined novel for the commuter.

After reading the lengthy murder mystery, I was prepared to plunge into something light and fluffy. Instead, I wound up reading Elisabeth Hyde's THE ABORTIONIST'S DAUGHTER. (Her writing style reminds me of Carol Goodman's work--THE GHOST ORCHID, THE DROWNING TREE, LAKE OF DEAD LANGUAGES.)

The murder of a local abortion doctor offers police an extensive list of suspects. As they conduct their investigation, the moral and ethical dilemmas surrounding abortion surface, ultimately stripping down any self-righteous posturing to reveal characters who are wonderfully flawed. The point of view shifts from daughter to husband to doctor to detective.

Next up, Stephen King's LISEY'S STORY. Guess I'm going to have to work on my own novel to catch a break from grim storylines.

My husband gave me a new driver -- as in 'golf club with a big head for greater loft and distance,' not 'this is James and he will take you to town when you run errands.'

Through careful shopping on e-bay he found a smoking deal on a brand new, top of the line, pink driver.

One of us is taking my golf game seriously.

I haven't actually played since last spring, so we can be fairly certain that it isn't me.

Still, I am a bit curious as to how this new driver will feel, and sound, and just what I may be able to achieve with it.

"James, bring the car around, we're going to the driving range."

Sigh, there are days when that would come in handy.

I haven't watched a medical drama since George Clooney left ER. It's not so much out of devotion to George, charming though he may be, but more of a healthy aversion to hospitals in general.

My sisters are both nurses and have collected various certificates and degrees and a depth and breadth of knowledge in health-related areas. I am not considered the first choice for a medical consult within my family and that is fine with me.

I have heard them discuss diagnoses and treatment plans, acronyms spinning through the air, and for the most part I have remained blissfully ignorant.

Thankfully, I have had limited exposure to the hospital scene and I have a primary care physician who is able to explain things in terms I can understand. I recently experienced an outpatient 'procedure' and observed the contextual layering of language in such environments.

"Have a seat and they will call you back shortly."

This means that they MAY call you back shortly. It could be five minutes, it could be fifty-five minutes. Or, in my case, you could rationalize that because they were mispronouncing your name they probably have completed the procedure on some other woman who signed in at some point during the hour and a half spent in the waiting room.

"You will be lightly sedated. You'll be able to hear what is being said in the room."

Your last clear thought will be completing the instruction to turn on your side. You will awaken at some future point and be grateful for it, never mind the fact that you have zero recollection of what has transpired over the past hour.

"You can eat or drink anything you want, but no alcohol."

You are going to really want alcohol. Lots of it. We aren't sending any painkillers home with you and your throat will be too sore to swallow anything.

Stoicism isn't for whiners and outpatient procedures are reminiscent of group showers in high school.