I had an interesting guestbook entry the other day. A reader asked me the question: "Are you as domesticated as you sound?" Good question. I wasn't entirely sure what she meant by "domesticated." Tame? Housebroken? As it happens, I'm both. I love to cook, but mostly because I also love to eat. I knit because it would border on sinful to accumulate as much yarn as I have and not do anything with it.

Life is pretty simple here in Florida. I make my own bed, wash my own clothes, shop at the local grocery and pretty much do what everyone else does. In response, I guess one could say I am as domesticated as I sound. But don't tell Wayne I said so.

I've got Florida blood now, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. It's currently 73 degrees and I'm wearing a sweater. Good grief, it used to be I'd walk around with little more than a windbreaker when the weather was in the 50s. I'm not sure how this happened.

I'm thinking ahead to my upcoming booksigning tour. I was shopping this weekend, looking for lightweight clothes to pack for the tour. Take fair warning: if I arrive in your city wearing a coat and gloves, don't think I'm weird.

I'm back after four very cold but wonderful days in the Chicago area. While I was gone, my precious six-year-old grandson, Carter, broke his arm at school. He needed to be put under in order for the bones to be set. (Yes, he broke more than one: his forearm and his elbow.) Just hearing the details made me sob. I can't stand the thought of one of my precious babies in that kind of pain. Carter was so brave. He told me, proud as could be, "I didn't even scream, Grandma. I just cried real loud." Carter, Grandma did, too!

Hi, this is Renate, Debbie's assistant, writing a quick note to let you know Debbie is traveling—again!—and won't be able to blog for a few days. Rest assured she'll be back by the end of the week with more adventures and glimpses into the writers' life.

This is the week for company at our Florida condo, and it's been such fun visiting with our friends. Currently, with us is my friend, Mary Lou Carney, who is the editor of Guideposts Sweet Sixteen magazine and Lurlene McDaniels ,who writes for the Young Adult (YA) market. We sat up and chatted half the night and are headed out shopping this morning. It's going to be a fun day.

My February e-newsletter is out, and it seems a number of you can identify with my struggles trying to look cool while riding in—and climbing in and out of—Wayne's new sports car. Thank you for the advice and suggestions, some of which I am definitely going to try.

Last Sunday was bad. Wayne insisted on driving to church in his NSX–I'm not sure what that stands for, but I have a feeling it's what the first woman said when she tried to climb out of the car while wearing pantyhose. Okay, back to my story. Wayne drove the car to church, and because it was raining he thoughtfully dropped me off in front of the building. Because we were right on time, everyone was heading into the building. I opened the door, swung out my legs in a ladylike fashion and froze. I had my purse in one hand and my Bible in the other and nothing to use for leverage to get myself upright. I nearly toppled headfirst onto the pavement. There's got to be a better way.

Our friends, the McKeons, will arrive later today for a visit. (BACK ON BLOSSOM STREET is dedicated to them!) Wayne and Bob always get nervous when Joan and I are together. The reason you ask? We're both yarnaholics. Joan's stash rivals my own.

Later this afternoon we're headed for Tangled Threads, a nearby yarn store. Okay, it's over an hour away, but it wouldn't matter if the closest store was on the moon—Joan and I would find a way to get there. We both come alive when we're around yarn. Wayne says I'm like Midas with his gold whenever I'm in my yarn room. I hold it and caress it and close my eyes while I dream about which project would be best for this particular yarn. See what I mean? I've got it bad.

I am appreciating my husband more and more these days, especially after this morning's trek to the post office. I had to mail back the edited manuscript for WHERE ANGLES GO, my October gift hardcover. My editor was eager for me to read and approve the changes, which I did.

When I'm in Port Orchard, my office staff handles this kind of errand for me. In Florida it's generally Wayne. He makes a darn cute Administrative Assistant. This morning, however, he had other things to do, so I thought I'd make a quick run to the post office. That, my friends, is an oxymoron. It took almost two hours. Okay, to be fair, not the entire time was spent at the post office. I needed a few items at the grocery store and dropped by there, too. Still—two hours! Yup, I appreciate my husband more and more every day.

I'm so into "American Idol." For the last two nights I've been glued to the television as those young men and women sing their hearts out. The appeal for me isn't really their talent. What touches my heart is their desire. It invigorates me to see someone pursue their dreams. I believe it stirs something awake in each one of us. The contestants inspire and motivate us, encourage and compel us all to reach for more for ourselves and for others. I even like Simon—yes, Simon. He might be harsh, but generally he's right on.

I have an appointment with the dentist this afternoon. I never thought I'd be grateful to see the dentist, but I can hardly wait. While chewing on a caramel I lost the crown off of one of my lower molars. That lovely piece of candy sucked the tooth right off. This is what I get for giving into temptation in the first place. Trust me, it will be a long time before I eat any confection that doesn't melt in my mouth first.