Channeling My Grandmother

Grandmother’s have changed since my childhood.  I know several women who are grandmothers and they are gorgeous.  I often find myself trying to figure out where they hidden the fountain of youth.  My grandmothers were unique too.  My mom’s mother Luna, was a musical prodigy, a concert pianist and professor of music in the 1920’s.  My dad’s mother, Nadine (Nadine and Luna, you gotta expect greatness, right?) went to nursing school but didn’t like the sight of blood.  Nadine was a housewife.  But, she was a HOT housewife.  Nadine liked stylish clothing, blingy jewelry, strappy high heels and hats.  Nadine loved a good hat.  I am more like Nadine then I am like Luna. The problem is, I have hidden my style underneath blue jeans and sweatshirts for a lot of years.  I decided this year, when fall arrived, that it was time to honor my heritage and “up” my style.  I went shopping (which I hate - see the Mother-of-the-Groom article for details) and did everything in my power to NOT buy blue jeans, straight black tops or a simple pullover.  Uh, uh.  I bought sweaters, dresses, boots (I LOVE my boots) and a coat.  I resisted the urge to fall into my black “go to” color and picked up some reds, grays and blues.  Feeling so satisfied with myself, I even bought a hat.  Yes!  A hat.  NOT A RED HAT, but a very stylish black fedora that a) fits my fat head and b) looks darn cute.  In fact, I put it on there, in the store, and wore it home.  I wore it all day long and when Moondoggy came home, I had changed into one of my new stylish outfits as well.  I felt downright adorable.  

Moondoggy, who has learned to look for changes when I greet him with such enthusiasm at the door, held me at arms length and said, “Wow!  You look great!  We should go out to dinner,” ooooh the husband points he earned in that statement!  Good job!  I spun around and he nodded with approval.  I pointed at each new piece I was wearing (but I left out the new purse, he didn’t need to know about that) and asked, “Are you sure this doesn’t look stupid?”  He reassured me at every turn.  Finally, I asked him what he thought of my hat.  Without hesitation he told me he LOVED it.  LOVED THE HAT.  

He went to change while I gathered my coat and purse and then we headed to the garage for a surprise date night.  Before getting into the car, Moondoggy stops and stares for a moment before asking, “Are you really going to wear that hat?”

And you know what?  I fought the urge to ask, “What am I trying to prove?” and I WORE THE DARN HAT ANYWAY.  So, if you see me in my rakish new black hat and you think I look stupid. . .don’t tell me.  I want to be a hot grandma some day.

Coltman is the author of two books.  Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog.  Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner.  Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Amazon Link

judicoltman.com

It's About The Victims, Not Paterno's Reputation

The news of the past week has churned up a past memory that I had already processed and laid to rest.  Like a stubborn hemorrhoid, it emerged again with the breaking story of Sandusky, the Penn State coach. There was a huge uproar when the University Board fired the President on down to the famed Joe Paterno (although not the actual Grad Asst. who witnessed the rape of a 10 year old boy).


When I was 11 years old, I was the victim of inappropriate touching, groping, if you will, by a man 6 times my age.  My grandparents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary in Coronado, CA where they had retired from a Naval career; my grandfather a naval Captain.  There were many people at this party, many in dress uniform and I knew none of them.  Dressed for the event, my little sister and I were tucked away in the den with the television, coming out for snacks and drinks.  On one such foray into the party, I made a stop in the bedroom to grab my book, Nancy Drew, and that's when I heard the door close.  An older man, in a suit, entered the room, making small talk.  He asked me my name, whose child I was, how old I was.  He asked me if I had started menstruating yet, his eyes on my chest.  I don't remember if I answered him because he had gotten so close to me, first grasping my arm before helping himself to my emerging breasts.  I know I pulled back.  I remember he quickly calmed me by letting go and backing up.  I don't remember who left the room first because I know I just wanted to get out of there.  I know I didn't tell anyone until much later, it might have been after we returned to Michigan.  My mother was mortified.  I don't know what she did about it, I do remember she wanted to report it and I begged her not to but I answered her questions anyway.  She made some phone calls.  I just wanted it over with.  I do know that it scared me.  I do know that I was embarrassed, I do know it had a profound effect on how I looked at myself, carried myself.  It wasn't a rape, it was a grope.   I tell this story because it is an example of how quickly it happens, how intimidating it is, how close it may be to all of us.


I imagine the victims of Sandusky and it makes me sick.  No one took this to police.  As an adult, I say screw protocol, this was an emergency that should have been reported immediately to the police.  That NO ONE saw to it was a failure to that child, and any other child Sandusky violated. And that child takes precedence over any person, their position or their fame.

The Susan Boyle Complex

One of the surprising aspects of finally obeying my muse and settling in to writing books has been the reaction of other people, many of whom I have known for a very long time.  I'm not kidding, people who have seen me at my worst (morning; sheet lines pressed against my face, hair bent in wonky directions, mascara migrated toward my nose), silliest (42nd birthday, Queen of my own birthday parade, driven in the back of a van up and down the beach, fuchsia gloves, blue sequined dress, official princess tiara and a cocktail in my hand - surrounded by my court),  or most serious (ok, I'm blank here) have suddenly muddled into these weird groupies uttering lines like, "Now, I know a famous author!"  Sometimes I think it must be exactly how Susan Boyle feels when people fawn over her.  Ok, so I don't sing like Boyle and the writing game is a little different than the entertainment game, but still. . .


Famous?  Not so much.  Unless famous authors spend their days like this:


Wake-up
Let dog out, wait while he sniffs every other spot he has already marked and ultimately decide he's not ready yet.
Watch morning news to be current on Kim Kardashian, Lindsay Lohan and Occupy Everywhere
Check email
Check Facebook
Check email again
Check Facebook again
Convince self to go to gym
Back to email
Second cup of coffee
Force self to go to gym
Return, remove stinky, sweaty clothes and start shower
Dog needs to go out NOW
Hastily cover naked body and crouch as you run through the house to door, attach him to lead and wait.  And wait.  False alarm
Return to HOT shower, wash and get dressed.
Emerge from morning stupor to begin a day of writing.
Find dog pile in living room and dog asleep on the couch.
Check email
Check Facebook
Repeat


Finally, Fight with publishing people about why Amazon and Barnes & Nobel have not picked up paperback yet.  Get assured it will be a few more days (like I was told 10 weeks ago).
I guess if that is famous. . .


In the mean time, I did make a little movie to promote In The Name Of The Father.  Please feel free to check it out and share it with EVERYONE YOU KNOW.  I want to be famous.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0ArMOD7kYc

A Puppy and a Jetski Walk Into A Bar

Recently a friend of mine took a fall and sprained both wrists.  She was lamenting, among other things, her sudden inability to text and subsequent withdrawal symptoms thereof as well as the utterly stupid way it went down -- literally, she fell off the sidewalk. Can you imagine?  

She received all sorts of unique ways to explain her wrapped wrists from, “Doing a video for Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Margaritaville’ - slipped on a pop top, blew out a flip flop” to telling people it was a long story that involved, “a jetski and a puppy.”  Really anything is better than telling someone you fell off the sidewalk. . .

said I, until yesterday.

I was on my way to the gym for a work out.  I ride my bike because I’m cool like that.  I’ve got my gym bag hung on one shoulder pedaling at a moderate rate when I decide to take a shortcut onto the sidewalk that leads to the gym parking lot.  I live with men, I know how to take shortcuts.

I smoothly guided the bike up onto the sidewalk, slowing down to be safe.  I am always aware of my safety, that’s why I wear a helmet.  In the unlikely event that I fall, I don’t want to risk a head injury.  

As I slowly pedaled up the sidewalk, the gym bag fell from my shoulder, landing safely at my elbow, but jerking my hand off the handle bar causing a chain reaction whereby, my left hand over corrected and the bike veered off the sidewalk.  The chain reaction continued with the bike tipping slowly sideways into a very thorny bougainvillea bush, followed by my very 50 year-old body crashing down on top of the bike and the bush.  Did I mention the bush was thorny? Luckily no one was around to witness my epic loss of dignity so I picked myself up before anyone drove by and spotted me prone on the bush.  Unfortunately, my left arm and leg were cut-up enough to produce prodigious streams of blood  - good thing I wear a helmet and it was quickly apparent I had to get somewhere to clean it up and stop the bleeding.  The closest place?  The gym. . .full of people.

Where are a jetski and a puppy when you need one?

Say Yes To The Dress

I have spent a good amount of time extolling the huge differences between men and women.  I have waxed poetic on the XY chromosome and it’s unique set of qualities.  I have proclaimed my womanhood loud and proud, especially having lived with a house full of men.  After all of that, I have to sheepishly admit, I think I have been faking it.

Oh sure, I get my hair done, have manicures and pedicures, am drawn to handbags and shoes and love my share of jewelry.  I thought THAT alone qualified me for the girly girl club.  However, since my newly appointed role as MOG (Mother of the groom), I’ve had to face the very frightening reality that I don’t know nothin bout being no girl.  

Here’s the thing. . .unlike most of my female friends, I hate to shop.  Loathe it, in fact.  I pride myself on the fact that I usually know what I am looking for, where I want to go to get said item, and generally have a coupon when I go.  In and out.  The power shopping days where we girls all head to the mall, downtown Chicago or Galena or Lake Geneva are loads of fun. . .for the first block.  Then, I’m done. But, I amble along amiably, quietly checking my watch and wondering when everyone else wants to cease with the shopping and go get a drink.  

Now, faced with the daunting task of finding the perfect dress for my son’s wedding, I allowed the whole summer to pass knowing I had fall and winter to do that kind of shopping.  Fall had to gall to arrive so, unable to put if off further, I finally made the intrepid trip into a bridal salon.  I very quietly asked to see what they had in their “Mother Of” section and headed over there to peruse the selection.  Apparently people who work in those kind of shops are trained to actually help their clientele.  Not one but TWO overly energetic and enthusiastic women swarmed me, bombarding me with questions for which I did not know the answer, “What color are you thinking?  Formal? Tea length? Satin? Jacket? What dress size are you looking for?  

Size?  Well it depends. . .at Walmart I am an L but at Target I generally go for XL.  Is that what she meant?  Blinded by sequins, I sat down, while the ladies, completely unaware of my mental state, continued to pull dresses from their racks and hold them out for my approval. Well my head simply started spinning and  I wasn’t able to escape until the phone rang and one of the women went to answer it while the other went to see what was in back.  I hightailed it out to the car in search of a paper bag in which to breathe.  

No amount of estrogen can undo all the years of a testosterone driven household and the damage it has done to my “girl”.  Thankfully, the Bride and the MOB have consented to help me through this process. . .they know how to power shop. I might need some wine and Xanax but, if they are patient with me, I may discover my girl after all of these years.  I think I kind of miss her. 

Check out my Books here:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/search/ref=sr_tc_2_0?rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Ck%3AJudi+Coltman&keywords=Judi+Coltman&ie=UTF8&qid=1317240818&sr=1-2-ent&field-contributor_id=B004E5ZRHS

My Big Secret

You might have noticed that I haven’t paid much attention to my blog lately. . .then again, maybe you haven’t.  I’m not sure which is worse.  

Most of you know that I have written another book and spent the summer getting it ready to launch.  I have had exciting feedback on this new book - and in case you haven’t heard me talk about it ad nauseum, it’s called In The Name Of The Father.  This book is 180˚ out from the first book.  It was intentional.  If I may speak confidentially, may I?  I wrote the first book because I knew it would be easy for me.  That’s right, I said easy.  It’s not tough to comment on the human condition when it comes to the differences in men and women, they smack me in the face every single day.  Or, to ruminate on my aging body, and justify why I believe wine should be covered by health insurance (that should be a no-brainer!) or share my mishaps with a bag of pot.  So, yeah, in the big picture. . .it was easy.  The big question was, would it sell?  As a control freak, this looming question mark mocked me at every turn.  But, it did. . .and well.  I am proud to say it is still in the Amazon top 10 in humor, parenting and marriage - even after a year.  I learned a lot writing that book, putting it together, marketing it and figuring out what works and what doesn’t.  The one thing I learned was the best thing a writer can do it to write another book.  Luckily, I had one on the back burner of my brain with some haphazard starts on my hard drive.  People would ask, are you writing another book?  I’d answer in the affirmative and they’d just assume it was volume 2 of the first book.  They plied me with stories, suggestions, and ideas and I would listen, all the while knowing I wasn’t writing humor this time.  They were busy regaling me with funny and I was busy killing people off.  

So, on August 10th, a year to the day that I released Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts!, I released In The Name Of The Father.  I am proud of both books, but this one is where my passion has always been and, I am here to tell you, it is a better book.   As I said, the feedback has been phenomenal.  There’s sex, drugs, language, murder, and even a love story, not your general humorous fare, right?  So, imagine my reaction when, among all of the obvious "thriller" comments, I get a reader who commented, “I thought it was a cute story.”    Cute? 

Huh.

http://www.amazon.com/Name-Father-ebook/dp/B005H0XM4E/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316284598&sr=1-3

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-the-name-of-the-father-judi-coltman/1104814593?ean=2940013120273&itm=2&usri=judi%2bcoltman

My Big Secret

You might have noticed that I haven’t paid much attention to my blog lately. . .then again, maybe you haven’t.  I’m not sure which is worse.  

Most of you know that I have written another book and spent the summer getting it ready to launch.  I have had exciting feedback on this new book - and in case you haven’t heard me talk about it ad nauseum, it’s called In The Name Of The Father.  This book is 180˚ out from the first book.  It was intentional.  If I may speak confidentially, may I?  I wrote the first book because I knew it would be easy for me.  That’s right, I said easy.  It’s not tough to comment on the human condition when it comes to the differences in men and women, they smack me in the face every single day.  Or, to ruminate on my aging body, and justify why I believe wine should be covered by health insurance (that should be a no-brainer!) or share my mishaps with a bag of pot.  So, yeah, in the big picture. . .it was easy.  The big question was, would it sell?  As a control freak, this looming question mark mocked me at every turn.  But, it did. . .and well.  I am proud to say it is still in the Amazon top 10 in humor, parenting and marriage - even after a year.  I learned a lot writing that book, putting it together, marketing it and figuring out what works and what doesn’t.  The one thing I learned was the best thing a writer can do it to write another book.  Luckily, I had one on the back burner of my brain with some haphazard starts on my hard drive.  People would ask, are you writing another book?  I’d answer in the affirmative and they’d just assume it was volume 2 of the first book.  They plied me with stories, suggestions, and ideas and I would listen, all the while knowing I wasn’t writing humor this time.  They were busy regaling me with funny and I was busy killing people off.  

So, on August 10th, a year to the day that I released Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts!, I released In The Name Of The Father.  I am proud of both books, but this one is where my passion has always been and, I am here to tell you, it is a better book.   As I said, the feedback has been phenomenal.  There’s sex, drugs, language, murder, and even a love story, not your general humorous fare, right?  So, imagine my reaction when, among all of the obvious "thriller" comments, I get a reader who commented, “I thought it was a cute story.”    Cute? 

Huh.

http://www.amazon.com/Name-Father-ebook/dp/B005H0XM4E/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316284598&sr=1-3

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-the-name-of-the-father-judi-coltman/1104814593?ean=2940013120273&itm=2&usri=judi%2bcoltman