April 30, 2010

Sing a Song

My Own Dear Friends,

Let's talk about singing. You know, in the shower kind of singing where we all assume, a mistake, that no one else in the house can hear us over the roar of running water. We sing loudly. We sing softly. We sing show tunes. We sing hymns. We sing rap or rock and roll. Whatever. It matters not, for in those minutes where we linger enjoying the warmth of the steaming rivulet and forgetting the water we're wasting, we are all alone on stage, the shower sprayer our microphone, our inhibitions non-existant, and our voice, perfect pitch, to our minds...

And so I carried this innocent ignorance past the bathroom door and with me into the future. There I was visiting my father in Erie, Pennsylvania. My sister and business partner, Nancy, was there. Let me add how much I respect my sister's opinion, generally. The simple reason is because Nancy is the smartest woman I know. So there we were, as often happens, singing college fight songs. We grew up singing college fight songs. Like some families play touch-football, we sing fight sings. Well, Daddy and I were doing the singing. Nancy was sitting on the couch beside us observing. She has always said she can't carry a tune in a bucket. Okay, that expression belongs to my husband, Bruce, a Southerner, but in any case, Nancy knows her limitations. Apparently, she knows the limitations of others, too, because she looked me square in the face and with calm cold eyes, said, "That's the worst thing I have ever heard." And she wasn't talking to Daddy.

I continue by saying Bruce has never complimented me on my singing. He just says nothing. I sing in the choir for goodness sake. Could it be they are desperate for bodies and willing to turn up the organ volume to mask any foul notes?

Well, I'm no dummy and I have come to realize that although I sing my grandbaby to sleep with sweet lullabies, she may be sleeping because I've played with her so much, she's just pooped.

Always the optimist, I don't let my sour voice go to waste. I use it on Bruce to get him to turn off the sound of TV commercials. I threaten to sing the "mute" song which is composed of the word mute and a shocking combination of off-notes, not unlike the squeal/screech of a rusty wheel barrow wheel. Bruce hates that particular ditty of mine. Is it my singing or my high pitched tone that hurts his ears?

Undaunted, I shall continue to sing, perhaps in softer tones- perhaps not. Heck, I'm not doing anything criminal, at least nothing that is on the books. But, me thinks, if my sister has anything to do about it, she may write her congressman - you know, "There should be a law ..." You just can't please some people.

April 28, 2010

April 20, 2010

Velvet Undertow Featured on Love Romance Novels

Hi All,

My historic novel Amelia Island's Velvet Undertow is currently featured on Facebook's Love Romance Novels! Here is the link: http://www.facebook.com/#!/group.php?gid=2256153190&ref=ts (You may have to copy and paste the link.)
Take a look-see!


Jane Marie

April 19, 2010

Curly Dolly Hair

My Own Treasured Friends,

I have just discovered that if you wind acrylic yarn around a metal knitting needle and bake it in the oven for 10 minutes at 350 degrees, then let it cool, it will make curly hair for your dolly.

Now these are the things that clog my mind ...


Jane Marie

April 13, 2010

National Blame Someone Else Day

I just heard on the radio that there is such a thing as National Blame Someone Else Day. Okay. So here I am, getting ready for a lovely day of book writing. You know, doing what one must do to pen a best seller, like my novels The Goodbye Lie and Amelia Island’s Velvet Undertow available at www.GraciousJaneMarie.com.

Now, admittedly, I scurry. Remember Edith in the old TV show, All in the Family? She scurried, too, as if she’s on a time clock or late to a movie. Scurrying is somewhere between a foot drag and a relay race, leaning a bit more toward the race thing.

So let me set the scene. I’m in the bedroom. We have a rod iron legged, wooden bench at the foot of the bed. I’m dressing for the day. The bench is located between the closet and the master bath. As I’m exiting the closet, scurrying toward the bath, my left foot catches the iron leg of the bench. I lose my balance and my face heads straight toward the pointed corner of our lovely antique marble washstand. Realizing in that instance that the impact will either split my skull or take an eye, I do a mid-air pirouette to the right, happily avoiding the deadly corner. But wait, there’s more. Still out of balance, and in close quarters, my left upper arm strikes the marble topped night stand and I fall to the hard tile floor, flat on my bottom, compressing my spine. After 10 minutes sitting there in shock and refusing to let my husband, Bruce, assist me, my back pain is so great, I manage to somehow stand somewhat upright as the purple bruise begins to rise on my left arm. I might add that 3 of the toes on my left foot are throbbing lavender, gold, and green.

The human body is a remarkable marvel and in six weeks, my back, which I thought was permanently broken, aching or otherwise screwed up, has healed.

What does this have to do with National Blame Someone Else Day? Let me explain. It was my ever-lovin' Bruce, who pulled out the bench by 2 inches to hang our heavy blanket neatly across the back so he could make the bed, Marine style. He makes the bed in this fashion every morning. Yes, I know. I am very lucky. However, with some luck, there may be an accompanying curse. In this case, the dirty dog forget to push the bench back those 2 inches, thereby causing me to trip and nearly cripple myself for life. If he just wasn’t such a neat freak, this might not have happened. It’s not my fault I scurry and often don’t turn on sufficient lighting in the bedroom to look where I’m going. No, it’s HIS fault. I rest my case.


Jane Marie