We’re lost in the woods, and need an extra large with mushrooms and double cheese…and a helicopter, please.
Join our thrilling, reality-based series, during which MH and I discover our son’s true concerns should we ever end up lost or injured in the wilderness.
Dateline: Sunday, July 7. MH and I planned on driving up to Vancouver, WA to go hiking on a new (to us) trail. We invited son K, who declined. 
As I was lacing up my boots I informed K of our destination, and told him I was leaving a map of the trail on my computer. I decided to test his hiking/outdoor recreation, “Buddy system” safety awareness  by asking him, “So, what would you do if we did not return by a certain time?”
“What time?” K asked.
“Absolutely, by dinner time,” I clarified. “But we should be back way before that.”
* * *
As already noted on this week’s The Mighty Quinn FB page, my calendar said that July 8 was Toot Your Own Horn day. (It also said that July 2 was Eat Nothing But Dark Chocolate For Every Meal and Your Teeth Will Be Bright and Your Breath Minty Fresh day. Don’t you wish you had my calendar?) Thus, I excerpted one of my favorite reviews of The Mighty Quinn, which is on Goodreads, courtesy of fellow writer, SCM:
I should start by saying what THE MIGHTY QUINN is not. It’s not for every middle grade reader, nor is it a book for a bright younger kid whose parents read MG books out loud before bed. (I tried.)
THE MIGHTY QUINN is a smart book, and it’s going to appeal to brighter MG readers. It’s a clever and funny book about the Borgia-like scheming simmering below the surface of elementary school social life.
It’s about what it’s like to be raised progressively when peers are, well, not.
It’s about what it’s like to be raised in a free-thinking and non-religious home, when peers are, well, not.
It’s about what it’s like to be a clever and funny kid when peers are, well, not.
What’s more, it’s the rare book for smart MG readers and their parents to read together. A smart MG reader is doing most reading without parents. This is, in some ways, a last hurrah for those bedtime reading rituals that parents miss more than kids—although it never seems to feel like that when you’re reading Mike Mulligan for the hundredth time.
Bonus: there’s plenty that will make parents laugh.
SCM gave the book a 5 star rating, and states that it is not for every middle grade reader . I liked that. I for one am turned off by reviews which proclaim, Everyone will/must like this book! Because, that’s never the case, is it? Also, the same, I-like-these qualities the reviewer lists about TMQ would be red flags for those people (certain adults, I think, more than certain children) who, sadly but frankly, are predisposed to not like a book that presents a sympathetic portrayal of kids who “…are raised progressively.”
And so it goes.
* * *
This week I attended my first professional baseball game in…I truly do not remember how long it has been.  Growing up in So Cal, my summers were filled with trips to Chavez Ravine for Dodger games and Anaheim Stadium for Angel games (and if you climbed to the top of our backyard’s big pine tree you could see the stadium’s halo light up when an Angel hit a home run).
I forget what year it happened, but after one player/owner strike too many – when I asked myself, hmmm, which group of millionaires do I feel sorry for? – I lost interest. I went from a high schooler who subscribed to Sports Illustrated, someone who could quote lengthy passages from Ball Four, someone who, much to MH’s befuddlement, could whip anyone’s ass in a 1970s Dodger’s baseball trivia contest,  to someone who just didn’t give a flying festering fartbag about professional sports.
Except, of course, when Kirk Gibson hit his gimp, game-winning home run during the 1988 World Series, which cause my younger sister (whose husband was rooting for the Oakland A’s) and I to exchange, gloating phone calls: YEEESSSS!
Once again, I digress.
So, on Monday I dragged MH, son K and his friend and moiself to Hillsboro’s new baseball stadium, home of the Hillsboro Hops, Hillsboro’s new new minor league team . I really, really, could have done without the inane announcer’s patter and the kiddie tire races and kiddie hoop shooting contests and kiddie bunny hops and the other “amusements” between innings (Hades forbid we should be content to merely sit with our thoughts or converse with other attendees – we must be ENTERTAINED at all moments).
That irritation aside, hearing the distinctive slap of a 94 mph pitch hitting the catcher’s mitt, watching fit young men in fit uniforms  loping around a field on a hot summer evening, savoring a bag of peanuts roasted in the shell – the night brought back primal memories for me. The night also provided a reminder of a most epic parental fail, when my 20 year old son made a comment which indicated he did not know how many innings are in a baseball game.
* * *
“It has never been easier to be a writer, and it has never been harder to be a professional writer.”
(Adam Gopnick, The New Yorker, as quoted in the Spring 2013 Authors Guild Bulletin)
Because the Authors Guild takes their mandate seriously (“…the nation’s leading advocate for writers’ interests in effective copyright protection, fair contracts and free expression….”), their bulletin is full of the news that matters to writers; i.e., reports on how AG attorneys and advocates are fighting the good  fight against the erosion of authors’ income streams and copyright and royalty protection and trends in e-publishing…. Almost all of it is really, really, really depressing:
E-books are way less expensive for publishers to produce, but instead of being more generous to authors, the major publishing houses all rigidly insist on clauses limiting e-book royalties to (that which gives authors ) roughly half the traditional royalty on hardcover books….Five of six major publishing houses were sued by the DOJ’s anti-trust division for fixing e-book prices…numerous pirate sites (supported by advertising on Yahoo and Google) offer new and old e-books for free (and too many Americans, especially younger ones, seem to believe that if it’s on the internet it belongs to everybody – even while they pay for cable)…Amazon acquired a patent to re-sell e-books… 
I think when the next issue of the Authors Guild Bulletin arrives I’ll save time and, before turning the first page, assume my custom-designed, Author’s Yoga Pose ®.
(aka Author’s Pose)
Whattheasana is a pose of realization. It transfers tension from your neck, shoulders and back to your brain bucket, where tension belongs.
(1) Begin in a kneeling position, on the hardest surface you can find.
(2) Drop your buttocks to your heels. Exhale and stretch your torso down and forward, lengthening your tailbone from the pelvis as you rest your abdomen atop your thighs, your forehead on the floor. Inhale one long breath of futility.
(3) Exhale. Place your hands on the floor alongside your torso, palms up in the universal gesture of surrender. Visualize your most recent royalty statement and/or the Ten Must-Have Marketing Strategies for Writers! conference come-ons in your email inbox. Let the weight of the world rest on your shoulders, broadening your scapulae across your back and further grinding your forehead into the floor.
(4) Inhale, extend your cervical vertebrae and raise your forehead several inches above the floor. Exhale, release your forehead to gravity and chant your author’s mantra (“d-uh”) as your forehead hits the floor with a chakra-satisfying thud. Repeat this sequence, staying in the pose for one to five minutes, or until the half-hearted urge to even consider enrolling in any Social Media Web-inar/Tutorials subsides.
* * *
Belle returned late Tuesday evening from a nine day trip to Costa Rica. She and 17 other Oregon Zoo Teen leaders were participating in an Ecology International Field Service Project. The kids and their adult guides helped biologists at La Suerte  Biological Field Station and the Pacuare Nature Reserve gather data on sea turtles, and the Costa Rican mosquitoes helped themselves to fresh American teenage blood.
The pangs of missing my daughter didn’t hit me until July 4, when I was out running errands/having lunch with MH. I passed the time at the local animal shelter while MH roamed the aisles of Lowe’s, and at the shelter I saw The Cutest Kitten In the World ® which, fortunately, had a sign on its kennel indicating it had already been adopted. Belle would have adored the kitten, I thought…and it’s a good thing she’s in Costa Rica, because she just possibly would have found a way to talk MH and I out of our Crazy Cat People Limit. 
After home improvement errands MH & I had lunch at Red Robin, where I was reminded of something I do not miss about my daughter, or my son, now that both of them have been housebroken for some time. When I used the RR’s restroom I overheard the distinctive dialogue which indicated the presence of a Six Legged Monster  occupying the handicapped stall.
“Mommy, I did a stinker!”
“Yes, honey, you did a stinker.”
“No, YOU did a stinker!”
“Okay, I did a stinker – no, wait, don’t open the door, your sister isn’t done yet….”
Two minutes later, in the parking lot, there was yet another parent/child/potty story unfolding: a young mother was changing her infant son’s messy diaper, using the rear of her SUV as a changing table. With the car’s hatchback door up, passersby (including yours truly) had quite the view.
I’m not going to tell the story in all of its Technicolor glory. I’d like to save the phrase poop-encrusted scrotum for 2014.
Happy Independence Day, indeed. And the hijinks ensued.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 There were, as always, aliens to be battled in cyberspace.
 Always inform friends and family about your trip itinerary, ideally include a map and tell someone where you are going and when you expect to return….
 I like her subtle nudge re how TMQ appeals to the “brighter” reader. Ahem.
 Remembered during the edit! It was in October ’92, at Baltimore’s beautiful Oriole Park: MH & I with my groovy friend and fellow Ball Four lover Ernie Kyger, with a special guest appearance by Baltimore Sun sportswriter (and high school friend) Peter Schmuck .
 I’m married, not dead.
 If ultimately futile, in my humble yet realistic opinion.
 These feel-good excerpts are from the From the President article by AG President Scott Turow.
 Idiomatic translation: good luck with the heron-sized mosquitoes.
 I say it’s four (naturally, we have four cats). Belle insists you’re not truly in Crazy Cat People territory until six.
 A mother and her two young children.