WHAT'S YOUR PASSION?

This week I'm working on a chapter--for my YA novel--that I have simply titled "Passion."

Did you know what you were passionate about when you were twelve? Are they the same things that they are now?

My obvious passions are my religion and my family. Here are some minor ones:

THE STORY. It's always about the story and has always been so. Even commercials on TV have a story. My favorite is the Arby's "last day of school" one where the faculty is just as happy to be out of school as the kids and they all end up at Arby's. I have it recorded and watch it several times in a row. It cheers me up.

PLUCKING MY WHISKERS STRAY EYEBROWS: They shall not live.

FINGERNAIL POLISH: On September 1st I will have worn it every day for a year.

THE COMPUTER: I can read the story, compose the story, and keep in touch with my friends. Not Facebook. Not Twitter. Just email, which I love.

SLEEP: I just need to get some earlier.

LUNCH OUT WITH FRIENDS: Where I hear their stories and tell them mine.

MOVIES: Again, the story. And the popcorn.

CLEAN HANDS, CLEAN FACE: Repentance for the soul, soap for the face. And my daughter-in-law's lavender lotion, which I put it on my face and then put my hands to my nose and breathe deep for a full minute. Then I go to sleep happy.

That's enough for tonight.

What are your passions?

THE ANATOMY OF A MURDER

Men shower, shave, get dressed and are ready to go.

Women shower, shaves legs and arm pits, blow dries hair, curls hair, puts on moisturizer, cover-up and make-up AFTER diligently surveying the face to see if there is a stray hair that needs to be plucked, pumices her feet and then lotions her feet, lotions many other parts of the anatomy such as legs, paints the toe nails, clips, files and paints the fingernails, checks face again to make sure the eyebrows don't need plucking and then gets the magnifying glass out to survey the chin, once again, just in case, puts on pantyhose, takes pantyhose off because there is a tiny run starting, throws pantyhose in the garbage and makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, checks the underwear drawer for a new pair of pantyhose, finding none she throws on some clothes, goes to the store and buys some, comes home, get undressed, puts the pantyhose on, finishes dressing, crams her feet into uncomfortable shoes--are there ANY shoe that is truly comfortable...other than sandals or tennis shoes?, puts on some perfume, rechecks hair and fixes the stray lock--this is after either bleaching or dyeing or highlighting, perming or straightening her hair and having to have it cut and styled every four to six weeks--stands in front of the mirror, sucks in her stomach and thinks, I went through nine months of pregnancy, eighteen hours of labor and when they are teenagers they will ignore me or blatently rebel and all I'll have to show for it is this pouchy tummy and why isn't there a bra that is comfortable and will put the girls back where they used to be, that's all I want to know?, she makes sure the sitter has snacks and that the kids are bathed and in jammies and that the sitter has strict instructions that the kids are to be in bed on time, all the while knowing that when she gets home the kids will be up and wild as March hares because the sitter found the gummy worms that were hidden behind the saltine crackers and bribed the kids so she could watch The Office and talk on her cell phone, and the house will look like a bomb went off, all the couch cushions will be on the floor except for the one that is missing and won't be found until the shower is turned on in the morning and it is soaking wet, and then...when she is finally ready her husband says, "Why can't you ever be ready on time?"

And that is why rat poison has such brisk sales.