I don't normally climb up on my soap box and preach, but this week I have three times been poked just hard enough to make that climb. I am sure I will get a lot of hacked off readers for this, but the beauty of it all is I really don't care.
I loathe politics. I am neither red or blue and I think politicians lie. The other day I read some diatribe written by some dude that proclaims to be just to the right of republican. His beef? Gay marriage. I refuse to reassemble his arguments here but suffice it to say his bottom line is that gay marriage is sick, immoral and disobedient to God. His platform included a proclamation to Republicans that if they were true Republicans, they would agree. I don't remember the guy's name and I wouldn't print it if I did because I do not want to support anything he says. If I were a Republican, I would be appalled that he is single handedly undermining the more relevant issues of the Republican platform. I would stand up for the more critical issues of my party and leave love alone. Love is not heterosexual and it is not partisan.
Cheerios has a commercial where a little girl asks her mom if Cheerios is good for the heart because daddy said it was. The mother confirms - yes it is. The little girl then goes to her father napping on the couch and pours a box of Cheerios on his chest (knowing that is where his heart is located.) Cute? You bet. I love that commercial. I saw it at least three times before it registered that the couple is bi-racial and the beautiful little girl is of mixed race. I loved the commercial even more. However, there has been a very public backlash against this commercial - name calling, complaints, outright proclamations of disgust. I am shocked and disappointed. I thought we, humanity, had evolved from that. And I wonder - IF the parents were both Caucasian and the little girl bi-racial; the unspoken message that the couple had adopted her, would it THEN be acceptable? Love isn't race specific.
Finally, I had a discussion with a friend who is heavily involved in her church. I admire her dedication to her church family, I respect her deeply held beliefs. She believes that those who have not accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior as the ONLY way to salvation are damned to hell. And that's where we part. I believe in God but I no longer attend any churches or belong to a specific religion. I was once asked by a pastor why I had not become a member of the church I attended for quite a few years. I told him that I could not stand up and proclaim that Jesus is the ONLY way to God. I cannot believe that a loving God would create so many vastly different, beautiful people and cultures, so many different belief systems, only to make the sweeping majority wrong in the end. The more I think about it, the more I feel like organized religion is a function of the mortal demand to manage God. If God is love, He loves us all.
I do not feel a need to back-up my beliefs with Bible quotes, philosophical arguments or political facts. It's what I believe and I don't have to justify it to anyone. That is freedom.
Judi Coltman is an author of mystery books. She is currently working on her fourth novel. Follow her at
Facebook , JudiColtman.com
Books available by clicking on the covers in the sidebars.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Enjoying The Second Act
The first time I heard that phrase was out of the mouth of Frankie Heck, the mother on "The Middle." I love that show - a show about an average family with average kids who have quirks and ego and the ability to blend into the wall paper (Sue Heck reminds me of me except she has the guts to try out for everything and I tried out for nothing.) In one recent episode Frankie is let go of her car sales job and is faced with figuring out what she should do, "What," she asked, "should I do for my Second Act?" A second act, the chance to do something completely different, a frightening prospect or an opportunity?
I was faced with the same decision about five years ago. Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, I resigned from my position with our local school district and was faced with the question, "What next?" For me, the question wasn't dire. I am fortunate to have a family situation that allows me to indulge my creativity. I had time to test the waters, paint, draw and write. The truth is, if asked, I always wanted to write a book. I was not unfamiliar with the "writing" world having worked for various publications in the 80s and 90s before shifting to the world of elementary education (which, by the way, has the schedule most conducive to parenting). I have written pieces on point of purchase advertising, the benefits of end cap displays, unique sales incentives and many a piece on Nuclear Power. Is your mouth dry yet? That was NOT what I wanted to go back to writing. With some gentle prodding from my youngest child (who told me to get off my ass and write a book), I took the intrepid step.
My first book is a series of humorous essays based on my life and observations. It was an experiment. If I could float that, then I could go for what I really wanted to do. . .write fiction. Is It Just me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts not only floated, it sailed and still continues to enjoy numerous sales each month. With that under my belt, I endeavored to write a novel. In The Name of The Father was inspired by an incident that occurred while on vacation in Virginia Beach and it blossomed into mystery/thriller.
My latest novel, No Such Thing, is a fictional account of a child killer based on events that happened in Michigan on the 70s. It is both dark and sad but there is a healthy dose of redemption as well. I am proud of all of my books but, this one, in particular came from deep within. Amazon chose No Such Thing out of 10,000 entries to be a quarter finalist in its Breakthrough Novel Award. I am proud of that, too. The letters I have received from readers along with reviews are remarkable and evidence that I hit a nerve. Sales of late have been so-so. I'm ok with that. The feedback I have received has more than validated that I have done a good job.
So, my second act? I can now say with confidence, I am a writer.
If you have any interest in my books, click on the covers and they should take you to the Amazon links.
I was faced with the same decision about five years ago. Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, I resigned from my position with our local school district and was faced with the question, "What next?" For me, the question wasn't dire. I am fortunate to have a family situation that allows me to indulge my creativity. I had time to test the waters, paint, draw and write. The truth is, if asked, I always wanted to write a book. I was not unfamiliar with the "writing" world having worked for various publications in the 80s and 90s before shifting to the world of elementary education (which, by the way, has the schedule most conducive to parenting). I have written pieces on point of purchase advertising, the benefits of end cap displays, unique sales incentives and many a piece on Nuclear Power. Is your mouth dry yet? That was NOT what I wanted to go back to writing. With some gentle prodding from my youngest child (who told me to get off my ass and write a book), I took the intrepid step.
My first book is a series of humorous essays based on my life and observations. It was an experiment. If I could float that, then I could go for what I really wanted to do. . .write fiction. Is It Just me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts not only floated, it sailed and still continues to enjoy numerous sales each month. With that under my belt, I endeavored to write a novel. In The Name of The Father was inspired by an incident that occurred while on vacation in Virginia Beach and it blossomed into mystery/thriller.
My latest novel, No Such Thing, is a fictional account of a child killer based on events that happened in Michigan on the 70s. It is both dark and sad but there is a healthy dose of redemption as well. I am proud of all of my books but, this one, in particular came from deep within. Amazon chose No Such Thing out of 10,000 entries to be a quarter finalist in its Breakthrough Novel Award. I am proud of that, too. The letters I have received from readers along with reviews are remarkable and evidence that I hit a nerve. Sales of late have been so-so. I'm ok with that. The feedback I have received has more than validated that I have done a good job.
So, my second act? I can now say with confidence, I am a writer.
If you have any interest in my books, click on the covers and they should take you to the Amazon links.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Ain't Life Grand?
My neighbor is an energetic woman, a nurse, an avid walker, a gardener. She is trim and attractive as well as active. She is often seen playing Pickle Ball with kids in the yard.
Her garden, though, is her hallmark. Packed with perennials that start with crocus and daffodils before the snows have melted away, she has a pallet of ever-changing colors blooming through October. Trees, flowers, and grasses explode like summer fireworks expanding in the sky before they slowly die out to make room for the next show of color. Sitting in my sunroom, I mark the changing seasons by the state of her garden.
Spring has been slow to arrive this year. Snow, heavy rain, cold temperatures and winds have forced the intrepid crocus and bold daffodils to hide out a bit longer. Last week, a break in the weather brought her out to the garden. She assessed its state, trudged to her shed and pulled out the tools of her passion. She only worked for a few minutes before she disappeared into the house. Perhaps an hour later, she reappeared, a man following behind. She led him to the shed and I watched as he pulled out the heavier gardening equipment and together, they worked the garden. He followed her cues and instructions and slowly the garden was cleaned up and ready for spring. They laughed together, worked quietly together and then she led him to the memorial stone the neighbors bought to remember her deceased husband. He stood in respect. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug and then they walked back to the house where he started the grill while she retired to the kitchen to prep burgers.
They ate out on the deck. In her driveway, a silver pick-up.
My neighbor is in her mid 70s. Ain't life grand?
Her garden, though, is her hallmark. Packed with perennials that start with crocus and daffodils before the snows have melted away, she has a pallet of ever-changing colors blooming through October. Trees, flowers, and grasses explode like summer fireworks expanding in the sky before they slowly die out to make room for the next show of color. Sitting in my sunroom, I mark the changing seasons by the state of her garden.
I think my next door neighbor has a boyfriend. I first noticed something going on a few weeks ago. A silver pick-up would drive slowly by several times a day. Up the street, down the street, moving at a snail's pace, the pick-up once slowed to a stop in front of her house before driving away.
Spring has been slow to arrive this year. Snow, heavy rain, cold temperatures and winds have forced the intrepid crocus and bold daffodils to hide out a bit longer. Last week, a break in the weather brought her out to the garden. She assessed its state, trudged to her shed and pulled out the tools of her passion. She only worked for a few minutes before she disappeared into the house. Perhaps an hour later, she reappeared, a man following behind. She led him to the shed and I watched as he pulled out the heavier gardening equipment and together, they worked the garden. He followed her cues and instructions and slowly the garden was cleaned up and ready for spring. They laughed together, worked quietly together and then she led him to the memorial stone the neighbors bought to remember her deceased husband. He stood in respect. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug and then they walked back to the house where he started the grill while she retired to the kitchen to prep burgers.
They ate out on the deck. In her driveway, a silver pick-up.
My neighbor is in her mid 70s. Ain't life grand?
Sunday, April 21, 2013
The Sacrificial Dinner(s)
My 31st wedding anniversary is fast approaching. I married Moondoggy, my high school sweetheart thirty-one years ago and I have never regretted that decisions ever. He has never done anything so heinous, stupid or thoughtless that I can't overlook. Except maybe this; last week he called me "Gran". Not because we are grandparents (we aren't. . .yet) but because I shared information with him that he apparently decided was reminiscent of his own grandmother whom they called Gran.
Gran lived with Moondoggy, his mom and his brothers - his mom was her caretaker. Gran was wheelchair bound but got around the house by walking her feet along the floor as her body, in the chair, followed. Gran liked being self sufficient and therefore could be found in the kitchen often frying various foods for meal. She would put whatever food in a frying pan with a little Crisco and fry it up. Food like peas; frozen peas, that when they hit the hot pan actually spit flames and burned the kitchen. But that isn't why he called me Gran.
Once a week, I would have dinner at Moondoggy's house. A sit down family affair with all four boys and meat, potatoes, vegetables and milk. During my first meal there, Gran wheeled in, took her spot and looked at me, "Who's this?" she asked in a her gravely, loud 90 year old voice and Moondoggy answered, "It's Judi, Gran. My girlfriend."
Looking me directly in the eye, she asked, "Ever been to South Dakota?" I politely replied, "no," and she goes on to tell me she was raised there, lived in a sod house as a little girl, hard work, snakes, outhouses. I sat and listened without eating as she spoke to me - because my parents taught me to be polite. No one else said a word, apparently enjoying their food.
The next week, I was back. Gran wheels in as we take out seats and asks, "Who's this?" Dave answers as he did the week previous. Then she asks, "Ever been to South Dakota?" And we repeat the same scene again, no one saying a word as she spoke. This time, I snuck in a few bites of dinner as everyone else enjoyed their full meal.
The next week was like someone had hit "Rewind" and then "Play." This time as Gran asked the opening question and Moondoggy identified me and she began to ask if I had ever been to South Dakota, I looked around the table seeking asylum from Moondoggy, any one of his three brothers - even his mom. I looked at them with pleading eyes, "Help me, here." And this is what happened:
I looked at Moondoggy and he dropped his head as if studying his plate before starting to eat. Then I looked at both of his older brothers who both dropped their heads, fully "occupied" with the meal. I looked at his little brother, well schooled apparently as he pushed corn around his plate. I looked at their mother, the daughter of Gran, the one I thought I could count on to understand. She, too, dropped her head and began to eat. Again, Gran posed the question, "Ever been to South Dakota?" and I am stuck answering and listening like a scene from Ground Hogs Day while everyone enjoys their meal fully aware that I, alone, am making it possible. They've heard the story, they tell me with their actions, you're on your own.
Last week while driving down the road that hugs a river, I thought I would point out the most recent eagle's nest I discovered on the route. As we approached, I explained that if you look carefully, you can see the male sitting in the nest, his white head popped above the rim. I spoke with animation and admiration. They were on the Endangered Species list, you know. Moondoggy reached over, grabbed my hand and said in his best gravely voice, "Ever been to South Dakota?"
Point Taken.
NEWS*NEWS*NEWS
Publisher's Weekly reviewed by book, No Such Thing as it was submitted to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award (ABNA). A Quarter Finalists, this is what PW said:
Gran lived with Moondoggy, his mom and his brothers - his mom was her caretaker. Gran was wheelchair bound but got around the house by walking her feet along the floor as her body, in the chair, followed. Gran liked being self sufficient and therefore could be found in the kitchen often frying various foods for meal. She would put whatever food in a frying pan with a little Crisco and fry it up. Food like peas; frozen peas, that when they hit the hot pan actually spit flames and burned the kitchen. But that isn't why he called me Gran.
Once a week, I would have dinner at Moondoggy's house. A sit down family affair with all four boys and meat, potatoes, vegetables and milk. During my first meal there, Gran wheeled in, took her spot and looked at me, "Who's this?" she asked in a her gravely, loud 90 year old voice and Moondoggy answered, "It's Judi, Gran. My girlfriend."
Looking me directly in the eye, she asked, "Ever been to South Dakota?" I politely replied, "no," and she goes on to tell me she was raised there, lived in a sod house as a little girl, hard work, snakes, outhouses. I sat and listened without eating as she spoke to me - because my parents taught me to be polite. No one else said a word, apparently enjoying their food.
The next week, I was back. Gran wheels in as we take out seats and asks, "Who's this?" Dave answers as he did the week previous. Then she asks, "Ever been to South Dakota?" And we repeat the same scene again, no one saying a word as she spoke. This time, I snuck in a few bites of dinner as everyone else enjoyed their full meal.
The next week was like someone had hit "Rewind" and then "Play." This time as Gran asked the opening question and Moondoggy identified me and she began to ask if I had ever been to South Dakota, I looked around the table seeking asylum from Moondoggy, any one of his three brothers - even his mom. I looked at them with pleading eyes, "Help me, here." And this is what happened:
I looked at Moondoggy and he dropped his head as if studying his plate before starting to eat. Then I looked at both of his older brothers who both dropped their heads, fully "occupied" with the meal. I looked at his little brother, well schooled apparently as he pushed corn around his plate. I looked at their mother, the daughter of Gran, the one I thought I could count on to understand. She, too, dropped her head and began to eat. Again, Gran posed the question, "Ever been to South Dakota?" and I am stuck answering and listening like a scene from Ground Hogs Day while everyone enjoys their meal fully aware that I, alone, am making it possible. They've heard the story, they tell me with their actions, you're on your own.
Last week while driving down the road that hugs a river, I thought I would point out the most recent eagle's nest I discovered on the route. As we approached, I explained that if you look carefully, you can see the male sitting in the nest, his white head popped above the rim. I spoke with animation and admiration. They were on the Endangered Species list, you know. Moondoggy reached over, grabbed my hand and said in his best gravely voice, "Ever been to South Dakota?"
Point Taken.
NEWS*NEWS*NEWS
Publisher's Weekly reviewed by book, No Such Thing as it was submitted to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award (ABNA). A Quarter Finalists, this is what PW said:
ABNA Publishers Weekly Reviewer
Young boys are disappearing in Detroit, boys with no families or homes. Boys like Tim, who skateboards in a store parking lot nearly every day. But one Fall afternoon, this proves to be the wrong choice. The killer is never found, but this novel creates a scenario to explain what might have happened. Sydney, newly divorced, has come home to Detroit to write a book about the Purple Gang, a notorious mob of bootleggers from Detroit’s Prohibition Era. She decides to rent the house where she spent part of her childhood and where her mother went mad; the house where her family stopped being a unit after her mother was committed to a mental institution. Then Sydney begins to hear voices. Are these the very ghosts her mother swore existed? Or is she plagued with her mother’s problem? Part ghost story, part thriller, this book engages from the first paragraph. Set in modern day Detroit, the city becomes a character of the novel. Sydney’s detailed memory provides quite a comparison between the city where she grew up and the Detroit of the present. The plot -- woman goes home to find answers only to find more questions, danger, and murder -- has a fantastic spin with the addition of paranormal activity. The characters Sydney, Tim, Jack -- Sydney’s brother -- and Thor -- Sydney’s dog -- are brilliantly developed with strong individual voices. The points of view of Sydney and Jack reflect the different truths experienced by two children raised under the same roof. The house itself becomes a spirit to be reckoned with. This superb story has many layers and well developed characters and makes for thrilling reading.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Grandma Has a Crush on Steven Tyler
My grandmother died in the early 80s. She was a not a cuddly woman by any means, she was stoic and proper. She was unusual in that she was the wife of a retired naval captain, well traveled and a professor of music at USC in the mid 1920s. She was not so unusual in that she tended toward a rounded figure, wore polyester dresses with matching jackets and covered buttons, sensible shoes and had a standing appointment at the hairdresser for bluing, wash, curl and comb out. She looked like a typical old lady. This picture is necessary to understand something I recently experienced.
Moondoggy and I became the recipients of two tickets to see the Ten Tenors at the McCallum Theater in Palm Desert, CA. It was a matinee show attracting an abundance of elderly people there to enjoy the remarkable talent these men showcase. And so, we sat in our seats mid theater and as I waited for the show to begin, I surveyed the crowd. In the box seat that hovered over stage left, there was a woman, sitting ram rod straight, pocketbook on her lap. hair newly styled with a bluish gray cast. She was the spitting image of my grandmother.The house lights went down, stage lights up and the Ten Tenors came out singing something from some opera. I don't know because I was mesmerized by this lady in the box. Like the Queen of England, she offered her rapt attention as they crooned several songs.
The Ten Tenors are a blend of voices that create incredible sound whether it is an operatic piece or contemporary artists. As the show continued they moved from pieces like Ave Maria to Elton John, the Beatles and even Aerosmith. Their rendition of "Yesterday" was compelling and had the audience singing along. I looked up and yep, even the grandma was moving her lips. They transitioned to Elton John and I noticed the grandma actually swaying and clapping in time to the music as they sang. It made me happy to know that she could appreciate the contemporary as well as the classical stuff. Then, one of the Tenors announced their last song,"Love in an Elevator" by Aerosmith. Uh oh, I thought, this may be where grandma leaves.
Several colored lights swirled across the stage as the guys regrouped and started to sing. And when that happened, this crowd of matinee going senior citizens went crazy. People stood, they danced, they swayed. I looked at the grandma in the box seat and I swear to all that is true in the world, she was not only singing and playing air guitar as she was draping her pink polyester suited body over the railing, she screamed, "I love Steven Tyler" and then took out her iphone and produced a "flame" from her lighter app.
Well, I was stunned, to say the least. I was impressed that this older crowd had such an appreciation of "MY" music. Then I realized, perhaps these older people weren't appreciating my music. . .they were enjoying THEIR music which makes all of us old, I guess.
AND GUESS WHAT!
My book, No Such Thing has been selected as a Quarter Finalist in
The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award!
A Free sample is available here:
http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N3SKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1363875876&sr=1-5&keywords=judi+coltman
Moondoggy and I became the recipients of two tickets to see the Ten Tenors at the McCallum Theater in Palm Desert, CA. It was a matinee show attracting an abundance of elderly people there to enjoy the remarkable talent these men showcase. And so, we sat in our seats mid theater and as I waited for the show to begin, I surveyed the crowd. In the box seat that hovered over stage left, there was a woman, sitting ram rod straight, pocketbook on her lap. hair newly styled with a bluish gray cast. She was the spitting image of my grandmother.The house lights went down, stage lights up and the Ten Tenors came out singing something from some opera. I don't know because I was mesmerized by this lady in the box. Like the Queen of England, she offered her rapt attention as they crooned several songs.
The Ten Tenors are a blend of voices that create incredible sound whether it is an operatic piece or contemporary artists. As the show continued they moved from pieces like Ave Maria to Elton John, the Beatles and even Aerosmith. Their rendition of "Yesterday" was compelling and had the audience singing along. I looked up and yep, even the grandma was moving her lips. They transitioned to Elton John and I noticed the grandma actually swaying and clapping in time to the music as they sang. It made me happy to know that she could appreciate the contemporary as well as the classical stuff. Then, one of the Tenors announced their last song,"Love in an Elevator" by Aerosmith. Uh oh, I thought, this may be where grandma leaves.
Several colored lights swirled across the stage as the guys regrouped and started to sing. And when that happened, this crowd of matinee going senior citizens went crazy. People stood, they danced, they swayed. I looked at the grandma in the box seat and I swear to all that is true in the world, she was not only singing and playing air guitar as she was draping her pink polyester suited body over the railing, she screamed, "I love Steven Tyler" and then took out her iphone and produced a "flame" from her lighter app.
Well, I was stunned, to say the least. I was impressed that this older crowd had such an appreciation of "MY" music. Then I realized, perhaps these older people weren't appreciating my music. . .they were enjoying THEIR music which makes all of us old, I guess.
AND GUESS WHAT!
My book, No Such Thing has been selected as a Quarter Finalist in
The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award!
A Free sample is available here:
http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N3SKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1363875876&sr=1-5&keywords=judi+coltman
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Confession of a March Madness Housewife
I have a confession. I am a March Madness addict. I come by it honestly though. My grandfather was a well loved basketball coach (Danville HS, 1950 State Tournament Final Two) and co-wrote a book on the subject, Fundamentals and Techniques For Winning Basketball. Decades after he retired, he would still stand in front of the TV during a game and pace as if he were still coaching. It was how he watched the game. My father played the game. This time of year we base our social interactions between games. Priorities.
I come by it honestly. I have, however bastardized my own fanaticism into a shorter season. I haven't watch pro BB since the Bulls were on top. I don't pay too much attention to the college season. In fact, I have always maintained that the most exciting part of the game is in the last 10 minutes. For that reason, I don't care to watch the first half of any game. What's the point? I know I am going to get a lot of rebounds from that, but truly, what does the first half do but waste time, tire out the players and frustrate the fans? If they could just cut it to the last 10 minutes, the 3 weeks of March Madness could be no more than 5 days. Ok, I realize I am not taking into account the dollars generated in advertising et. al. I get it. I'm just sayin' is all.
I have my bracket all filled out and ready to go. I don't get into a pool anymore. I hate losing money. So, instead, I happily fill out my bracket and doggedly follow the games, circling my winners and exing out my losers. I base my picks on the science of emotion. I am a Michigan girl, I always pull the Michigan teams to the second round, at least. I like the east coast better as a general rule so I always favor the teams from that side of the country. And I always choose Gonzaga to go to the final 4. Gonzaga. I love saying it, love the way it sounds. So, there you go. I won't reveal my other picks for the final four, that is between me and my bracket. I will get excited, I will have disappointments and I will behave just like my dad and grandfather. I'm proud of that. I just wish it wasn't three full weeks.
AND GUESS WHAT!
My book, No Such Thing has been selected as a Quarter Finalist in
The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award!
A Free sample is available here:
http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N3SKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1363875876&sr=1-5&keywords=judi+coltman
I come by it honestly. I have, however bastardized my own fanaticism into a shorter season. I haven't watch pro BB since the Bulls were on top. I don't pay too much attention to the college season. In fact, I have always maintained that the most exciting part of the game is in the last 10 minutes. For that reason, I don't care to watch the first half of any game. What's the point? I know I am going to get a lot of rebounds from that, but truly, what does the first half do but waste time, tire out the players and frustrate the fans? If they could just cut it to the last 10 minutes, the 3 weeks of March Madness could be no more than 5 days. Ok, I realize I am not taking into account the dollars generated in advertising et. al. I get it. I'm just sayin' is all.
I have my bracket all filled out and ready to go. I don't get into a pool anymore. I hate losing money. So, instead, I happily fill out my bracket and doggedly follow the games, circling my winners and exing out my losers. I base my picks on the science of emotion. I am a Michigan girl, I always pull the Michigan teams to the second round, at least. I like the east coast better as a general rule so I always favor the teams from that side of the country. And I always choose Gonzaga to go to the final 4. Gonzaga. I love saying it, love the way it sounds. So, there you go. I won't reveal my other picks for the final four, that is between me and my bracket. I will get excited, I will have disappointments and I will behave just like my dad and grandfather. I'm proud of that. I just wish it wasn't three full weeks.
AND GUESS WHAT!
My book, No Such Thing has been selected as a Quarter Finalist in
The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award!
A Free sample is available here:
http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N3SKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1363875876&sr=1-5&keywords=judi+coltman
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Tape a Cheetah to My Back
My Inner Athlete used to be very active: skiing, kickboxing, biking, weights, you name it she was doing it until sometime in the early 2000s. Then, she saw the light and instead of attempting to shame me into joining her (it didn't work. . .I know my place-- it's
on the beach. . .in a chair), she joined me. Together we'd hit the sand, lie back and relax, sip wine. It was a happy union.
I'm not sure what Inner Athlete has been spiking my wine with, but our relationship has changed without my even realizing it. I have been duped. Last August I started "running" using the Couch to 5K program; a program that turns you into a runner in spite of yourself and I have surpassed the 5K mark - heading toward 10K. All of this has happened while IA stood on the sidelines with her back to me, glass in hand, pretending she didn't even notice. She didn't say a word about it, just continued to sip wine with me, lamenting the winter months and yearning for sun. DIDN'T SAY A WORD. . .until I needed new running shoes and then she started peppering my speech with words like "pressure sensors" and "mid-strike", whispering in my ear to buy the "good" running shoes because my feet would thank me (and they have).
Inner Athlete re-emerged in full force last weekend while in California. She grabbed my hand and dragged me full speed down the road to watch a triathalon. The participants swim through the local lake, bike through a 14 mile course and run 3 miles to finish. I stood on the corner as these athletes came riding by in all ages, shapes and sizes and the thought that I can do this quietly presented itself. IA whispered in my ear, "Yessss, you caaannn." I pondered the idea, concerned about my speed. . .or lack thereof. I wouldn't do it to win, that's never gonna happen, but I would do it just to do it. I am a strong swimmer, I love to bike and I can run 3 miles now. I could do this.
And so I am. Next year's Desert Triathalon has another participant. I turned to IA and sneered, "This is all your fault." She laughed. I said, "What if I am so slow that they pack up before I am finished?"
She laughed again,"We could always tape a cheetah to your back."
IA is such a smart ass.
on the beach. . .in a chair), she joined me. Together we'd hit the sand, lie back and relax, sip wine. It was a happy union.
I'm not sure what Inner Athlete has been spiking my wine with, but our relationship has changed without my even realizing it. I have been duped. Last August I started "running" using the Couch to 5K program; a program that turns you into a runner in spite of yourself and I have surpassed the 5K mark - heading toward 10K. All of this has happened while IA stood on the sidelines with her back to me, glass in hand, pretending she didn't even notice. She didn't say a word about it, just continued to sip wine with me, lamenting the winter months and yearning for sun. DIDN'T SAY A WORD. . .until I needed new running shoes and then she started peppering my speech with words like "pressure sensors" and "mid-strike", whispering in my ear to buy the "good" running shoes because my feet would thank me (and they have).
Inner Athlete re-emerged in full force last weekend while in California. She grabbed my hand and dragged me full speed down the road to watch a triathalon. The participants swim through the local lake, bike through a 14 mile course and run 3 miles to finish. I stood on the corner as these athletes came riding by in all ages, shapes and sizes and the thought that I can do this quietly presented itself. IA whispered in my ear, "Yessss, you caaannn." I pondered the idea, concerned about my speed. . .or lack thereof. I wouldn't do it to win, that's never gonna happen, but I would do it just to do it. I am a strong swimmer, I love to bike and I can run 3 miles now. I could do this.
And so I am. Next year's Desert Triathalon has another participant. I turned to IA and sneered, "This is all your fault." She laughed. I said, "What if I am so slow that they pack up before I am finished?"
She laughed again,"We could always tape a cheetah to your back."
IA is such a smart ass.
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