"EXTREME KEYBOARDING" - 5 new articles
I Could Use That Epidural Right About NowI seriously question my mental stability. I’m either slipping into early stages of dementia or I’m just totally lame. I just realized that, aside from vanishing from blogdom for more than 2 months without explanation (my apologies), I somehow failed to announce that I SIGNED WITH A LITERARY AGENT ! ! !
 BORN TO RIDE (or at least licensed to . . .)
Since my husband, son and I took an intense weekend riding course 6 weeks ago and missed passing the skills portion of our test by a measly point or two, we've been practicing to take the test again. After all the time and money and sweat and serious trauma that went into taking this course, (remind me to tell you the story of the unfortunately ripped out rainpants sometime) the pressure to get it right was wearing on us all, and hanging over my swiftly graying head. I haven't felt this kind of on the spot pressure since we had to learn Disco in 8th grade P.E. (Yes, they made us hardcore rockers do it too. NOT pretty.)
This morning as I prayed and tried to mentally prepare for this test, I came across a verse in today's One Year Bible Reading. Psalm 138:3 says, "As soon as I pray, you answer me; you encourage me by giving me strength."
Oh boy. The Lord is faithful and attentive even when I am not. After I've studied, practiced and done my best to accomplish the task before me, he answers my prayers for help. He sends his peace and his strength, and brings skills or knowledge to my mind when I need it. I am reminded of his goodness and faithfulness. I am strengthened for today, and encouraged for tomorrow.
See what God can do even with the simplest things? And you thought it was just a silly motorcycle test.  Motorcycle Mania Update
Well, this bike may be 'mature', but it's the best running, most well kept bike of all the ones we looked at, and FAR cheaper. It had been garaged since last fall and needed a new battery, which he installed the day we came to look. He rode it once. When we fired it up, that baby idled with the smoothest purr you've ever heard. It is a real sweet bike. And a perfect fit for me in height, weight, straddle width, the works. We said we'd take it. AND our friend said he would deliver it, saving us the headache of strapping it down in the truck (we are not endorsed and are good, law-abiding citizens).
At least he SAID he was going to deliver it . . . He said he and his wife want to take one last ride on it, so he will bring it sometime this weekend. Then, after a little more catching up chit chat, he said, yeah, I'll bring it by first part of next week. Hmm. I'm really hoping he doesn't change his mind. I was bummed that I can't get out there on it this weekend and start practicing for my endorsement test (June 20), but oh well. I'll squeeze in some riding every chance I can.
And I found a great deal on a brand new helmet on craigslist from a guy in my own neighborhood. I'm just about set!
Here's a stock photo of an '87 Kawasaki 454 LTD (Pre-vulcan). It feels sort of poetic, somehow, to be buying a Kawasaki. My first bike (at age 11) was a Kawasaki 100 street/trail bike.  Ah, the memories. And the ankle burn scars.
~Camille  Harley for Sale. . .Yes, I have decided to downsize to a smaller cruiser for now. Yes.
Go ahead. Say it.
Camille is a big fat weenie.
Wanna buy a gorgeous 883 Sportster? It's quite the loveliest Big V-Twin you'll ever see, always garaged (um....duh). Well maintained, trickle charge feeder, added chrome (screamin Eagle pipes), a snorting, beefy hunka bike. If you mention this blog post when you call, you'll get a super secret special bloggy discount off the price. Asking $4999. What a steal for a Harley!! (here's a link to the craigslist post & photos)
I took it for a spin (that's sort of a you-feminism) on Mother's Day (between Thai lunch and Star Trek movie) and quickly realized aint NO way I'm practicing a tight cone weave with this bike to pass my endorsement test.
If you buy it, know that you will be promoting marital longevity by helping me and Dan be able to ride together, instead of taking turns like a couple of total dorks. This was a 25th anniversary gift, but let me ask you: how lame is it to celebrate a quarter century of togetherness by taking turns riding alone?
Hmm?
In case you're wondering, I'm looking for a Rebel 250 or 450. That's a Honda if you aren't bike savvy. (And if you are bike savvy---Karla---I already know what you think, but you can say it if you want to. Once.) A Honda Rebel is a smaller cruiser style bike that I might actually be able to pick up if I drop it (weighs about half as much as the Sportster) They look like a mini Harley, if that matters to anyone. Metric-heads (people who ride Japanese bikes and don't know any better) say it's the other way around. Hey, I'm no purist and have no desire to get all childish about this. Harley Davidson will always have a place in my heart. Yes, I will miss the rumble. However, I am no longer the fearless/stupid invincible teen who had never heard of high-side crashes and skin grafts. I am a gwown up. My mature ego will not suffer if fellow bikers throw the wrong set of finger signals at me because I'm on a metric. It's cool. I made my peace with Japan. Here's the '02 Harley: 
And here's a 1986 Rebel 250: 
Care to comment? Gloves off, of course?  My New NovelI don't have a title for this one yet, working title is My Father's House. Here is the opening page. I'm cautiously and prayerfully excited about this one. ====================================== Father to the fatherless, defender of widows—this is God, whose dwelling is holy. God places the lonely in families; he sets the prisoners free and gives them joy.
Psalm 68:5-6 CHAPTER ONE The Escalade’s brake lights didn’t blink. Not once. As the sleek new SUV disappeared from sight, Sue Quinn stuffed fists into the pockets of her jeans and bit back a string of words that could have torched every clump of sagebrush in the entire Oregon outback, then turned her attention to the lanky, dark-skinned girl rooted to the bottom step. The kid probably didn’t need to hear what Sue thought of the occupants of the retreating vehicle, the couple who had so proudly signed on as parents and eight months later changed their minds. Like someone changing their mind about a box of cereal in their grocery cart at checkout. Oh, sorry, they’d say to the checker, I guess I don’t want this. Could you put it back? With a sigh, Sue looked the girl over. Cambodian or maybe Vietnamese, about twelve or thirteen. She would have to rely on her best guess since the girl’s intake paperwork was probably a maze of lies and inconsistencies. “Well, Jasmine . . . you hungry? Need to use a bathroom?” The girl continued to stare at the long, empty driveway leading away from Juniper Ranch. The ribbon of dust stirred up by the departing Escalade continued to rise and spread slowly, drifting in the noonday sun, bound to settle, eventually, in another place. A matching pair of Barbie-pink suitcases flanked her feet on either side like bookends, price tags still attached. Sue blew out a long breath. “All right, let’s get your stuff inside. I’ll give you a hand. We’ll get you all set up in your new room.” Jasmine turned then, eyes almost level with Sue’s. No surprise there. At five foot even, Sue was long accustomed to meeting the older kids eye to eye. She studied the girl’s face. Nothing remarkable, a face some would call plain. Wide nose, small eyes. But no abnormalities, no cleft palate, no physical handicap that Sue could perceive. None of the deformities that usually gave Mr. and Mrs. Disenchanted an excuse to terminate an adoption, which further fueled Sue’s suspicions. Once she had a chance to go through this kid’s original adoption paperwork, she would no doubt find the photo sent by the orphanage to the parents. A photo of a much younger, lighter-skinned, prettier child. The photo they showed off to family, the one that invoked the admiration of friends because they were doing such a charitable thing, bringing an underprivileged child to the US for a better life. “I no need room.” A frown creased the girl’s brow. “I no . . . I not staying here.” Sue nodded. How many times had she heard that one? “Well, we can discuss that. Just not here on the front porch. Okay?” She let the question rest on a raised brow, but gave the girl her infamous, Dead Steady Eye-to-Eye. Jasmine’s frown deepened. Then the tears pooled, turning the dark eyes glittery. I hate this part. I really do. A choice four letter bomb rose, but Sue clamped her lips and instead, drew in a lungful of high desert air, reached down and grabbed one of the bags. She motioned toward the door with her head. “This way.” She pushed through the door and marched inside without waiting for the girl. If she looked back, it wouldn’t work. She started up the staircase without hesitation, holding her breath, straining to hear. Fourth step. Sixth. Ninth. As the temptation to look back reached a cresting point, she heard light footsteps, the soft click of the front door. Sue let out her breath, turned, and gave the girl with the pink suitcase a half-smile. “C’mon, slowpoke. Follow me.”  More Recent Articles |
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