Divorce Court

In the evenings my husband and I watch a string of courtroom television. I’m not sure whether our enjoyment of the nightly trash is to make ourselves feel better or worse. Half of me can’t believe people like that exist. You know what I’m talking about, the kind of people who destroy others’ property and act like it’s no big deal, the kind that beats each other and fights over petty amounts of money.

The cringe-worthy experience is good for the children too. We get to explain why one person is right or wrong and what not to do as a grown human being. Sometimes the topics go way over their heads, driving the kids to boredom and eventually to their toys. I don’t mind those times either.

We were sitting around the dinner table last night when Kid #1 peeled off a piece of his bread and held it in his fingers, ready to pop the yummy goodness in his mouth, then turned and looked at me. “Mommy, when people are married and don’t want to be married anymore, why do they have to go to a judge?”

Crap. Explanation time. Think quick, Krystal, think quick. “Well . . . .” Do I really want to tell him because people are immature and stupid and can’t agree on anything? “Well, because you are married by law. So the law has to unmarry you.”

He nodded then went back to eating.

That was easy.

Kid #1 stopped before taking another bite. “Why do they fight about it though?”

Not as easy as I thought. “When you’re married you buy things together. You share money. You have kids. These things don’t change because two people don’t want to live together anymore. People have a hard time making choices, so a judge has to help decide who gets what.”

Kid #2, looking for any excuse she could find not to eat, perked up, brown eyes wide and a smile on her face. “Who will I marry?”

No one! “That’s a discussion for when you’re thirty, Abby.”

She smiled, melting my heart with her innocence. “Will I marry Ethan?”

“Eww! No!” Kid #1 piped in.

“You don’t marry your brothers, sisters, parents, cousins, or anything like that.”

Kid #2 bounced in her chair. “Will I marry Jaden?”

Not if I have anything to say about it. That little boy has a major crush on my daughter. Might have to have a discussion with his wonderful parents. “Probably not, but it’s possible . . . when you’re thirty.”

She giggled and Kid #1 cringed. It’s funny how boys and girls view marriage differently. Kid #2’s question sidetracked the original intent of the conversation—thank God—and we finished our meals in peace.

So does anyone else have any nightly rituals that spark funny conversations with your kids? I’d love to hear about them.

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Six Sentence Sunday

Every week I find it's harder and harder to make a decision on what to share with you all. I hope you'll enjoy today's snippet. I feel it will "reveal" some fantasy aspects of my soon-to-be-published novel.

Enjoy!

~“We are here.”

“Where?” He must be joking. We haven’t even gone through the base and there’s nothing in front of us but trees and Darkness.

“Nochtann,” Arland whispers, waving his hand in front of him.

Two large wooden doors appear before us, adorned by intricate carvings of ivy with jasmine flowers blooming all over.~

To read other awesome authors who participate in the Six, click here.

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Friday Funny--Or Weird

Every week I review the search terms people used to land on my blog. Most of the time people use my name, or a post title, but this week there was a special search: Delete K R Y S T A L. Frankly I was appalled. Who would want to delete me? And what did I ever do to them? Geesh! A quick google of the exact same search terms revealed I was seventh in the list of delete K R Y S T A L's. I couldn't find anything standing out I thought this person was searching for.

So should I be upset? Was someone looking for a way to off me? Did I infuriate a blog reader?

I guess I'll never know, but it will go down in history as the strangest blog hit ever.

Happy Friday.

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When I See You . . .

When I see you, my car is warm, comfortable, full of music and life.

When I see you, I’m waiting at the last red light before arriving at work.

When I see you stand on the corner of 2nd and E, arms wrapped around your frail frame, I imagine how cold or hot you must be.

When I see you, some days your clothes are tattered and ill fitting and others you appear to have been first in line at Goodwill hand outs.

When I see you, I tell myself to be a better person, to bring you lunch, to have a conversation with you . . . to help.

Then the light turns green, and I forget.

When I see you again, my eyes fill with tears, my heart squeezes in my chest. I forgot about you yesterday, forgot to bring you a sandwich, forgot to offer you a short story . . . forgot to be a good person.

When I see you, I imagine the life you must have lived, how you came to stake claim on this small corner right outside the shelter in Washington, D.C.

When I see you, I wonder if you have family, friends, or anything to “return” to.

Then the light turns green, and I forget.

I saw you this morning, you were smiling, hugging two women, talking. I cried. I forgot about you again. Someone else was the good person I should have been, someone else asked you about your life, someone else worried about your well being while I only worried about getting to work on time.

When I see you, I’m going to give you this letter.

When I see you, I hope God blesses you and provides you comfort.

When I see you, I hope to be witness to your smile.

It’s beautiful . . . just like you.

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What Was I Thinking?

Christmas lights were tested and more were purchased. We had a sitter for Kid #3, and kid #2 was ready to help decorate the house for holidays. I ventured into our garage, past my car and the set of four-wheelers, and grabbed the tallest ladder I could find.

For whatever reason, all the aluminum death traps leaned against the wall in front of my Jetta. I took my time and maneuvered between my baby and my son’s four-wheeler—I’m sure he considers that his baby, too—so not to scratch any paint. When the top of the ladder bumped into the garage door, I realized I had to lay the stupid thing horizontally to get outside.

Turning the corner, I carried the ladder up the sidewalk, proud I’d done this myself—really, it’s the least someone with an insane fear of heights can do for her husband. After depositing the tool by the porch, I went through the garage and inside the house to let him know I was ready to support him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Sunlight beamed through the big window in the top story of our foyer as I entered. Through the narrow windows on either side of our front door, I saw him and his mother outside with another ladder.

I joined them on our porch and looked around, excited at the prospect of a beautifully lit house.

“You ready to go up?” my husband asked, holding a string of white and blue Christmas lights.

Is he nuts? When my husband and I discussed decorating, I didn’t think he wanted me to go on the roof with him. I cringe when the kids ask to go on a Ferris-Wheel. I plaster myself to the inside wall of imitation Eiffel Towers at theme parks. My hands sweat just thinking about climbing a tree. He knows I’m afraid of heights; we’ve known each other for over ten years.

“You want me up there with you?” I asked, trying to hide the fear in my tone; kid #2 was watching with big, I-will-act-however-you-act-Mom eyes.

He nodded.

“Okay,” I said, wishing like hell I could call one of his buddies and have them come over to help.

At our old house I never had to assist with decorations. It wasn’t nearly as tall, wasn’t nearly the large project our new home is. Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I was following my dear husband up the ladder, cold aluminum chilling my hands. Each rung climbed was another step closer to death—or at least some severely injured organs or broken bones.

Once I was on the first roof, I didn’t feel so bad . . . until I looked up and understood he had to climb yet another ladder to reach the highest peaks. I put some plastic hooks in my pocket, supported the additional ladder with all my body weight, gripping the damned thing for dear life. If he fell, I’d fall. And if he fell, he’d go all the way down. We’d both die. The kids would be orphans. What would happen to the dogs? Do we have a living will?

I pushed harder and harder, avoiding any eye contact with what he was doing above me, avoiding a glance at the ground, avoiding taking a breath. My fear must have rolled off me in waves and whimpers because my fearless husband kept giving me instructions in case he fell. He hollered for kid #2 to stay away from the portion of the roof we were on. Was he scared too?

“Got it,” he said, relief flooding his voice. “I’m coming down.”

I moved to the side, keeping my shoe propped against the foot of the ladder, and took a deep breath when he was safe on the first roof with me. Hands sweating profusely, my body shook with fear. There was no way I would be able to crawl down to the ground.

Whipping my cell phone out of my back pocket, I called my mother-in-law.

“Hello?”

I sighed. “Can you open Clarissa’s window? I can’t go down a ladder right now.”

She laughed and said she’d be right there.

When that window opened, I practically ran to it.

“Don’t run on the roof,” my husband yelled.

Too late, I was already inside . . . on level, carpeted, safe flooring—yet only half the house was finished. Luckily the next part could be done from a ladder propped on the dirt. We managed to string up the lights in a matter of minutes, and I have to admit, they’re beautiful.

But next time he’s going to have to find someone else to help him.

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Six Sentence Sunday

Choosing this week's six was not easy, but with a little help from a friend (you know who you are) the decision has been made.

Enjoy!

~What am I supposed to do here? This world may be where I came from, but it doesn’t feel like my own. Somehow I’m supposed to fight Darkness for these people and I’ve never so much as punched a person. I miss Brit. If she were here I’m sure she would love the opportunity to save the world. Scratch that, I’m glad she isn’t here.~

To discover other great authors who participate in Six Sunday, click here.

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The Dress

I spotted my prize casually draped over an all-too-perfect-mannequin in the store window. My heart fluttered and my hands chilled. The dress with the scooped-neck had to be mine. I recognized the relentless desire the second we walked past NY&CO. Like the black and pink striped fabric was tethered to my soul. An all too familiar feeling I get when I see the one.

My husband spotted me staring as though the cutest puppy in the world was inside that store. “Go ahead. I’ll take the girls to the playground.”

Attempting to hide my enthusiasm, I bit my bottom lip and forced myself to walk—not run—through the doors. My mother-in-law trailed behind and browsed the racks, trying to find things I might not pick up on my own.

I refused to grab the dress just yet, refused to try it on. Consolation prizes must be picked out first; otherwise disappointment would be the only thing I left the store with. A pair of khaki slacks, a gray t-shirt, a purple blouse, a shrug—these are a few of the things I loaded my arms with, and then I ventured over to the dress. It looked so perfect on the mannequin, so me. Sifting through the hangars, I spotted one my size and ran back to the dressing room.

The slacks were nice, the shrug, the blouse . . . together they made a great ensemble.

Awesome!

Standing in the cold stall with the white tile floors and white walls, I removed the dress from the hangar then slid the silky material over my head.

It. Was. Horrible. Like I wouldn’t even come out of the dressing room horrible. Ugh. The one turned out to be a nightmare. Just like always. Shaking my head and feeling like I must have the worst body shape out of any woman in the world, I redressed and stomped out toward my mother-in-law.

“It didn’t fit, but the other outfit was nice,” I said, feeling as if someone cut my heartstrings.

She gave me a knowing smile, eyes radiating with kindness, and held up a tan little number with a v-neck and a professional, classy air to it. “What about this one?”

My shoulders slumped. “It’s . . . it’s just not . . . .”

“Just try it on. It would be a really nice dress for any author events you may have.” She pushed the dress into my arms and snagged the ill-fitted one from me.

Her faith in my writing career is unbelievable! “Okay.”

Back in the cold stall, I dropped my purse on the white corner bench and stared at myself in the mirror. This dress had no color, no vibrant hues expressing my happy interior. Actually the fabric matched my current state of mind perfectly. I wiggled out of my jeans and shirt then slipped the dress over my head.

A perfect fit. The tan accentuated the warm, chocolate and caramel hues in my hair. Made my brown eyes stand out against the paleness of my skin. It really made me stand out, rather than hide behind a bunch of bright colors.

But I didn’t have any author-y events. Didn’t have a need for a dress like this. No matter how beautiful it was. I took it off, replaced it on the hangar, adorned myself in my own plain clothes and ventured toward the rack.

“You didn’t like it?” my MIL asked.

“I loved it, but I don’t have author events. And this isn’t a dress I can wear all the time. I have kids to chase. Bending over to pick up a baby is not exactly something I can do while in something this short.” The metal hangar screeched as I returned it to the rack. “And it’s too much money to spend on something I’ll never wear.”

She sighed. “You know it’s not about the money. You will have author events, and this will be the perfect outfit for you. I’ll buy it.”

I stopped walking toward the register with my consolation prizes. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You deserve the dress. You like the dress. Something will come up someday soon where you’ll be able to wear it.”

Smiling and feeling like the luckiest girl alive, I said, “Thank you.”

I walked from the store, bag in hand, hoping she was right about someday soon, and hoping to God it was for author-y stuff.

~ As many of you know, my book was accepted by a publisher. Sunday I had professional head shots taken by my photographer friend, and that little tan number was one of my outfits. Thank God for wonderful mother-in-laws who never lose faith. ~

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