that is not my ass!

You know when you go to a party, and you're having an amazing time and you think, "I'm having so much fun, nothing bad could possibly come of this!"? But then a few days later, you see photographic evidence, and you're horrified. Not because you were dancing like a lunatic with a drink in each hand--eyes staring off in two different directions because you couldn't focus anymore. No, you're horrified because the camera caught you at an angle where you could see your ass. And damn it if they didn't Photoshop the hell out of that picture, because THAT. Is. NOT. My. Ass!

Also not my ass

Oh, but it is (see what I did there?) And when, exactly, did I stop paying attention to said ass to the point where it needed it's own area code? I can only blame so much on the camera and its so-called extra ten pounds. I think modern cameras must add twenty, sometimes even thirty pounds. Ah, the digital age. I think we either need to go back to hand-painted portraits, or I need to give up the cupcakes. And let's be honest...that's a tough call. Especially with a dozen frosted cupcakes in the kitchen, at this very minute, whispering my name like the sirens of the deep.

There's just no escaping it. I'm going to have to go on an actual--gulp!--diet. That means no more cupcakes. No more milk shakes. No more chocolate. I may not survive this ordeal. But then again, I fully expect more pictures to be taken in the near future, and I just can't bear to see that wide angle view.

Did I mention my laptop caught fire yesterday? Fire! This sort of thing is stressful and cupcakes are magical stress relievers. 

No. I mustn't fall back on cupcakes. I must remember my new mission. Project Ass Buster. This farm is now a cupcake-free zone. We've gone from burning laptops to burning calories. I can taste the satisfaction already. Or is that the frosting still on my lips? 

Eh, baby steps, right? 

Until the next time...I'll be eating salad. 

ding dong my laptop's dead

Under different circumstances, I might be singing "Ding dong my laptop died...holy crap, it f#cking fried..." at the top of my lungs, while dancing (badly) in my best underwear (trust me, girls do this) and eating freshly frosted cupcakes (seriously, there's never a bad time to eat cupcakes) in the orange glow of the flames.

Because, let's face it, I hated that damn thing. It was bad news, and my grandma always said, "Bad things burn in hell..." (I may have exaggerated something she said, but I'm sure I'm capturing the essence of what she meant) so the fact that my laptop burst into flames today could be sending me a message. And the message has been heard, loud and clear. My laptop was the spawn of Satan, and the depths of hell rose up to take it home.

Good riddance to bad garbage and all that. Then again...it did take a whole lot of my files with it, so maybe I've spoken too soon.  

In the past few hours, I've cried. I've yelled. I've considered throwing things around the house while spewing my favorite four letter words in rapid, yet very interesting combinations, all while consuming far too many freshly frosted cupcakes (see above reference.)

It's like a bonus round of PMS around here, and that's just a shame, because as weekends go, this was a pretty nice one. I drove to Raleigh, North Carolina to a party at my publisher's house, where I met many of my peers for the first time. We ate, drank, and did karaoke...and as you well know, that's as close to nirvana as life gets. Then I get home, log in to my laptop for some much needed internet surfing...I mean, work...and the damn things bursts into flames! 

As an aside, I didn't actually see the flames, but there was plenty of smoke, and the cord melted into a puddle of goo. As far as I'm concerned, this spells fire.  So now I wait impatiently as my husband pulls the stupid f#cking laptop (Samsung model number...oh never mind)  apart to salvage the hard drive and its contents. I want so very much to finish out this Viking funeral by tossing a few cups of gasoline on the damn thing and lighting it up for real. But that will have to wait. First order of business is acquiring a new laptop.

Do you think I could get away with having a telethon? I can sing...I tell good stories....maybe people would send money to pay for this monstrosity my imagination has built. Probably not. But it won't stop me from dreaming. 

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for a new laptop! 

Guest post with Lynne Cantwell

Lynn Cantwell, author of The Pipe Woman Chronicles, was kind enough to stop by the blog today on her whirlwind book tour.

The Quest for Cantwell...  

Whatever joke you'd like to make about my last name, trust me – it's already been done:  “Can't do well,” “Can't do what well?” and the ever-popular “Campbell's Beans.” Never mind that Campbell is a Scots name, while Cantwell is Irish.  Well, more precisely, Norman.  Came to Ireland with Strongbow, we did, and became one of those families who were more Irish than the Irish themselves – until Oliver Cromwell confiscated our castles for being cheeky and sent us packing for America.

Anyway, there aren’t a whole lot of Americans named Cantwell, so I typically have to spell my name carefully for people, lest they make me a Kantwell or a Cantrell, or, yes, a Campbell.  Over the years, I've found it refreshing to visit places where I give someone my name and they just write it down without my having to help them.  I didn't have a lick of trouble in London, for example.  And if I ever get to Ireland, I expect it will be the same there.

So when I began to plan my recent vacation in Alaska, I just knew I would have to stop in Cantwell.  Yes, there's a town called Cantwell, Alaska.  It's on the Parks Highway, about thirty miles south of Denali National Park.  I've known of its existence for years.  When I was a kid, my father would get out the atlas and start planning our annual summer vacation (which almost always consisted of driving for days to some faraway place, stopping there for a few hours, and driving home) and he would sometimes look at the map of Alaska and dream, I suppose, about going there someday.  And while he had the map out, he would always remind us of the existence of Cantwell, Alaska.

Driving to Alaska was pretty much out of the question, even in those days of cheap gas, and my parents would never have considered getting on an airplane.  So Dad never got to Cantwell.

I, however, have no aversion to flying – well, apart from takeoffs and landings.  And turbulence.  I don't have much use for turbulence.  But other than that, I'm good with getting on a plane.  And besides, I had been to forty-nine of the fifty U.S. states, and I needed to complete the set.  So I was Alaska bound – and as I drew up my itinerary, I stuck in a line between Anchorage and Denali: “Photo op in Cantwell!”

I couldn't have missed it if I'd tried.  There's only one highway between Anchorage and Denali, and Cantwell is on it.  No, my major concern was whether I could get photographic proof of my stop.  It's just a little town, after all. Would there be a “Welcome to Cantwell” sign?  Maybe a post office? 

I needn't have worried – Cantwell, Alaska, has both, and they’re both right on the Parks Highway.  My big photo op took all of two minutes to complete.  After the decades of buildup, it seemed a little anti-climatic.

But I can't tell you how relieved I was when I checked into my hotel (actually, a very nice hostel) that night, and didn't have to spell my last name for the desk clerk.  And on my way back to Anchorage later in the week, I stopped again in Cantwell to gas up, and stuck a dollar in the kitty for the Cantwell High School student activities fund.  I told the attendant why I was doing it, and he laughed.

Now that I’ve ticked Alaska off my bucket list, I suppose I should be on the lookout for another travel challenge.  I hear there's a town named Cantwell in Missouri.  Hmm....

To find Lynne Cantwell, visit her blog and her Amazon book page.
http://hearth-myth.blogspot.com
http://www.amazon.com/Lynne-Cantwell/e/B005JTP5NE/

Thanks to Lynne for stopping by! Good luck with the tour.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Until the next time...I'll be booking my next guest. 

OMG my OCD has PMS

You’ve heard the old adage…if a tree falls in the forest and the only one around to hear it is a woman with PMS, does she fly into a rage trying to convince her husband it really happened?

I am completely convinced husbands do not understand the power of PMS.  Do they not realize they have to sleep at some point? And I don’t know a single woman without a sharpened razor at the ready! (For our legs, of course…but still!)

Men just don’t get the danger!

There, I’ve said it. It’s a wonder the human race has survived this long when you consider how often women get PMS and how often men mock our pain.

It’s ok…I’m fine now. I’ve had a cherry cheesecake and a few bits of leftover chocolate. But a few hours ago? Things were pretty dicey around here.

I’ll admit it. I have a love/hate relationship with conflict. I’m a writer, so I know a good story is isn’t complete without conflict.  Conflict drives the story. It’s what keeps us turning the pages.  

But in reality? Conflict is the crazy taxi driver of life!

My ride started with a trip to the grocery store…well, it started a day or so before that, but the trip to the grocery store brought everything full circle.  I made a passing comment to my husband about feeling an overwhelming urge to swear.  Specifically, the eff bomb. Repeatedly. Until heads turned and whispers of “does she have Tourette’s” filled the air. 

I didn’t do it.  It was just an urge.  An overwhelming urge, but I resisted. 

My husband listened to me with a blank expression then counted on his fingers before proclaiming, “Ah ha! PMS.”

“PMS and OCD are never a good combination,” I reluctantly agreed.  “It’s the dreaded acronym soup feared by men everywhere!” I added with a smile.

My husband tossed in his two cents with an acronym of his own.  “CFB.”

I mouthed the letters back to him, scrunching up my face as I tried to decode them. 

“Crazy fucking bitch,” he said with a sneer. And the winds began to turn.

What I should have said was, “Kind sir…why do you mock me so?” What I actually said was, “Fuck off, IDP!"

And with that primitive little phrase, I had opened Pandora’s box and let the eff bomb out.  Trust me when I say, Pandora’s box is like a brand new tent. It’s all nice and neat until you take it out, but no matter how tightly you roll it up, you can never get that fucking tent back into the bag it came in. 

The innocent little exchange became a full-blown war of epic proportions.

I think I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.  But don’t feel bad for me. I’ve booby trapped the bed with a little help from my “always willing to help with some drool” dog Indy.  And I swapped out the new toilet seat for the cracked one I was saving for just this occasion.  Hey, if a man sits on a broken toilet seat in the night and gets his butt pinched but no one is there to see it…will he still learn a lesson? Don’t ask me…I don’t give a fuck.  I’m just going to smile when he yelps.

Until the next time…I’ll be hunting for chocolate!                                        

the chicken whisperer

It was two weeks ago when the hubby and I discovered the pile of red feathers near the pig pen. I didn't need anyone to explain what this meant. I'd recognize those feathers anywhere, the color was so distinctive. It was dear Lucy. She was one of the chicks born here on the farm back in January, and as I stared down at what was undoubtedly the only parts of her left, I felt like crying. I'd grown quite attached these chickens, and to see one of them taken by a rogue garden gnome or fox was disheartening.

It wasn't until the next day when we discovered poor Lucy--still very much alive, but clearly injured--laying in the yard. I insisted we nurse her back to health, and immediately made a home for her from an old dog crate, keeping her safe on the front porch. She couldn't fly, and even walking was difficult, but she was content to sit in her bed of hay, snacking on her food and water. As the days passed, my little chicken developed an attachment to me. She now follows me around the porch as if I'm her mother, hopping onto my lap if I stop to sit down. If the front door is left open, she wanders inside to hang out. I've even found her sitting on the couch, watching TV. But the truth is she'd rather climb up and sit on my shoulder while I work on my laptop.

I know it's not normal, but at the same time I find it a bit strange that this doesn't seem so strange to me. In fact, the other chickens have decided they should hang out closer to the house too. They now perch just outside the kitchen windows, watching us as we eat dinner, wondering why they don't rate a spot inside with dear Lucy.

I guess that's what happens when you live on a farm. Just promise me you'll tell me I'm crazy if I start talking about the pigs hanging out with the family.

Until the next time...I'll be booting the chickens outside. 

fly me a river

Flies. The word alone scares up images of pestilence and plague. It conjures up scenes from movies such as the Amityville Horror and the Fly. And for me, if brings back memories of last spring when we first moved into our haunted farmhouse. Here...take a peek at what I'm talking about.

Grocery List

1. Bug spray
2. Peppermint soap
3. Bleach
4. Holy water
5. One well seasoned exorcist

I got up this morning with the express intention of taking a much needed shower. Finally, the clog in the pipes has been cleared, it is no longer raining in my basement, and the depths of Hell no longer appear to be gurgling up from my tub drain. But when I pulled back the shower curtain to crank on the water, I was greeted by one of the ten plagues of Egypt.

Flies!

They were everywhere. I was staring at a fly pattern on the inside of my shower curtain. Fly wallpaper on the tile walls. It was as if the tub drain was the rabbit hole and the flies were the rabbits. And the thing about those biblical plague flies…they didn’t just mess with Yul Brynner…no, they showed up in the Amityville Horror, too. Let’s face it, there’s no mistaking the signs. If the flies come up to bat, there is some serious shit going down!

But after several days of marinating in my own sweat (yeah, I went there) I wasn’t going to let any damn flies keep me from my freaking shower.

I pulled out my trusty Fabuloso and dumped a cup into the drain. Then I attached the spray nozzle and doused the spectators hanging out in my shower until they were dropping like…well…like flies. Then I cranked up the scalding hot water and rinsed their nasty carcasses down the drain.

Then I took a shower using my strongest peppermint soap, hopeful the smell would ward off any future invaders from visiting me during the day. I’m beginning to get a serious complex. And I’m thinking my house might be haunted after all.

First there was no hot water, then the septic backed up into the scary basement, then Hell bubbled up in my tub and rained in the basement, and now the flies.

It would seem I have a poltergeist in my plumbing. Does anyone have Steven Spielberg’s number?

A year later and another wave of flies later, I would be willing to give up a year's worth of chocolate in order to eradicate the flies from my house. Seriously people, this is getting ridiculous. I've actually brought up the idea of getting a few indoor frogs...alas, that idea was nixed in favor of sticky fly paper. And let me tell you, sticky fly paper is the bane of my existence...well, next to the flies. Have you ever walked face first into fly paper? I don't recommend it.

Until the next time…I’ll be stocking up on peppermint soap and Holy water! 

For Everly by Raine Thomas

When Raine asked me to be part of her book release tour, I immediately said, "Hell yeah!" Then I realized, I'd never done a tour post from the blogger's point of view. But I didn't let that stop me. Why? Because this girl writes an amazing story, and I wanted a front row seat for her launch.

So before I say anything else, I want to introduce Raine Thomas and her new romance, For Everly ...

Excerpt from For Everly by Raine Thomas

Cole looked back at Wyatt. “I don’t think it’s a great idea to receive treatment by a student, Wy, genius or not. What if she screws up my arm even worse than it is?”

“Then you’ll get treated by a proper specialist, which you should do in the first place.”

Cole narrowed his gaze. “That’s not funny.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you like it is. You’re the one who thinks it’s worth risking under-the-table treatment in order to garner top dollar on your next contract.”

That wasn’t the only reason he was so concerned about keeping up appearances in regards to his physical health, but he let it pass. He knew how the business worked. There was no way he was going to come out to the public about his shoulder. Not if there was an alternative.

“What about another student?” Cole insisted. “Someone further along in their studies?” Preferably some Poindexter who doesn’t look so good in a skirt, he thought.

Wyatt shook his head. “There isn’t anyone more experienced than Everly. She might still be a couple of semesters from earning her doctorate, but she could pass the needed courses with flying colors right now. I’d wager that girl has more practical experience in her field than any doctoral student at GSU.”

They stopped conversing when Everly walked up with a tray. She placed their bowls of crab risotto in front of them, as well as Cole’s drink. The smell of the food was amazing.

“Is there anything else I can get you two right now?” she asked.

“No, I think we’re good here, thanks,” Wyatt said.

“All right. You know how to reach me if you think of anything.”

This time she winked at Wyatt before she walked away. Cole couldn’t deny the strange resentment he felt that the wink wasn’t for him. He shook his head at himself. Finding a hot date hadn’t ever been a problem. He didn’t need to worry about that right now.

“I feel like you’re forcing me into this decision,” he told Wyatt, picking up a fork and stabbing his risotto with it.

Wyatt’s brown eyes leveled on his. “Cole, I’ve reviewed the scans we took when you were in the hospital. You should have started treatment weeks ago to get ready for the season. If you feel like I’m forcing you into this decision, well, that’s probably because I am. You’ve got three choices: don’t do anything and deal with the pain, go public about the injury and seek the services of a specialist…or Everly.”

AUTHOR BIO AND LINKS:

Raine Thomas is the award-winning author of a bestselling series of YA fantasy/romance novels about the Estilorian plane, including the Daughters of Saraqael trilogy and the Firstborn trilogy. Her latest book is a New Adult Contemporary Romance titled For Everly. She is a proud member of Romance Writers of America and is a contributing blogger to The Writer's Voice. When she isn’t planning weddings, writing, or glued to social networking sites, she can usually be found on one of Florida’s beautiful beaches with her husband and daughter or crossing the border to visit with her Canadian friends and relatives.

Ways readers can connect with Raine:

Twitter (http://twitter/Raine_Thomas)
Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/rainethomas)
Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5053436.Raine_Thomas)
Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/raine_thomas/)
Linkedin (http://www.linkedin.com/pub/raine-thomas/53/111/bb3)
Website (http://rainethomas.com)
Blog (http://RaineThomas.com/blog/)

Here's where you can get your copy of For Everly...

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D0TB1CE/?tag=iamboo-20
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/2940016443065
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17835522-for-everly

Oh...and what's a launch without prizes? Don't miss out on the goodies!   

a Rafflecopter giveaway

do they make turkey nuggets?

So the hub...err...IDP had this brilliant idea. Get a bunch of heritage breed turkeys, raise them, grow them up, make more heritage breed turkeys, and make lots of money come November. This sounded brilliant on paper. And let's face it, this is where I live...on paper. I'm a writer, not a farmer.

Oh sure, I play at the farming stuff every day. I love cuddling the baby chicks. I love watching the cute piggies from a safe distance behind glass. I loved listening to my dearly departed ducks as they quacked up every night while they cased my house, trying to figure out how to get inside. But even the ducks had me pulling my hair out when they were babies. They were messy, and loud, and generally a pain in the ass. But they had nothing on these freaking turkeys.

I feel like I've been transported to the deepest darkest jungles of somewhere I've never been before. Where tropical birds chirp and peep constantly. And you'd gladly trade your last candy bar for a pair of ear plugs. That's right...I'd give up chocolate for just a little bit of silence. Baby turkeys cry all the time. All. Night. Long. And I feel like I'm living in an indoor zoo where the sounds echo and bounce off the walls. I'm about to go stir crazy in my own home.

Add to that an injured chicken that now thinks I'm her mother. She's decided she should be allowed in the house because the dogs are. And Indy follows behind her in the most dramatic slow speed chase since the white Bronco took on the 405 freeway. He's careful not to run because he knows she's hurt, but he just can't resist tailing her around the house. Where are those camera crews when you need them anyway?

Oh well...I guess this is just my life. And I suppose I wouldn't want it any other way. Well, maybe just a little quieter.  

Until the next time...I'll be stuffing cotton in my ears. 

whores just wanna have fun

Today is not my birthday. Yesterday was not my birthday, either. But that didn't stop me from wearing a sparkly pink birthday crown through the evening at karaoke. Why? Well, the birthday girl didn't want to wear it, and since I signed her book last night, she suggested I wear it and pretend I was Katie at her birthday party. Oh, and it matched my outfit. And you just can't waste a sparkly birthday crown when it matches your outfit.

Now, before you ask, I wasn't drunk, I didn't even drink, (though I did eat more than my fair share of red velvet cake) but there I was, hot pink v-neck top and pink crown, singing like I owned the joint. And it was a busy night. Tourists wished me happy birthday so many times, I almost forgot I was born in December.  

And let me just say, tourists at karaoke are a funny sight to behold. There was the pseudo cowboy, singing pitifully off-key, with his Bluetooth headset in his ear, wearing a ten gallon hat (committing a sin against cowboys everywhere by wearing sneakers instead of boots) two enormous wads of keys dangling precariously near his crotch (whether to draw attention or distract, I wasn't sure) and cuffed jeans.

Then there was the aging stripper (oh, you would have made the same assumption if you'd seen her) who danced provocatively near the stage while demanding no one take her picture because she's (and I quote) "...in the witness protection program" (insert eye roll here), then climbed on to the stage to sing (I'm using this term very loosely) the worst rendition of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,  I've ever heard.  And ok, I know this makes me a terrible person, but as she belted out the lyrics in such a way that made my mother sound like Celine Dion (sorry Mom, but you know you can't carry a tune) I was singing along with my own lyrics, "whores just wanna have fah-uhn. Oh, whores just wanna have fun."

I'm sure people thought I was drunk, I was laughing so hard. And this was before the local drunken grandma got on stage to hump one of the local guys singing a ballad. So yeah, me in a birthday crown seemed somewhat normal by comparison. And that's why I love this little town. I fit right in with the crazies.

Until the next time...I'll be trying to get my dog to wear the crown for a picture.

deva vu all over again

Have you ever felt like you're living in the Matrix and the damn thing is looping again? Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just my OCD showing again.

It's been barely six months since I painted my living and dining rooms. After spending months trying to pick the perfect shade of white, in a moment of insanity, I picked a blue/green gray shade. And I loved it. Or I thought I did. Until I didn't anymore.

So I decided to go back to the drawing board, back to the quest for the perfect white, but this time, I decided the perfect white shouldn't really be white at all, but rather a very light, beige-y gray. And it's...well...perfect.

And now, I find myself painting the walls all over again. Though, if you know me, you'll know this is not the first time I've completely changed directions with color. In fact, I repainted the living room in one house so many times I increased the R-factor several times over (or maybe that's a gross exaggeration, but I did paint it a lot.)

So my living and dining rooms will be painted over in the lovely shade of Sea Pearl by Benjamin Moore. And I'd better love it, because painting rooms with ten foot ceilings is for the birds! And trust me, if I thought the chickens would be even half way competent, I'd give them all little brushes and send them up there to finish.   But that's just crazy talk...

Until the next time...I'll be painting. 

monday, it's you again

"Is there a cheeseburger in my pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

I have a new motto...never go to McDonald's on a Monday. It's bound to be fraught with trouble. In my own defense, I had no plans to go to McDonald's today. My plan was simple. Buy a gallon of paint and go home. Ok, so maybe I did pencil in a side trip to a fast food destination, but I wasn't really specific. And since I wasn't driving, I didn't get to choose.

And honestly, I know I set myself up for disaster when I ordered the cheeseburger meal without the cheese. But there isn't a hamburger meal on the menu, and it's cheaper if you get the fries and the drink all together.

Side note: This is not the time to contradict me, I've had a bad day.

So anyway, I ordered my cheese-less cheeseburger but they put cheese on it. My daughter decided she would lodge the complaint on my behalf, and after years of training with the master (me) she came back with a fresh hamburger, AND the cheeseburger, AND a coupon for a free meal next time. Oh yes, the pride was overflowing on this one. My little padawan learned well. So off we went, bag overflowing with burgers (and a few chocolate chip cookies, thank you very much!).

On the way home, my daughter got a call, and decided she was just going to drop me off and head to a friend's house. So rather than open the gate for the truck, I jumped out and walked to the house and she drove off.

And as I heard the old pick up rattle its way down the road, and I balanced my bag of food, my drink, my can of paint and my purse, I realized she drove off with the house keys, and all the doors were locked.

I stood on the front porch, peering through the antique wavy glass window at my dog's tongue, flapping in the breeze as he panted and drooled his greeting to me--wondering why I was still standing outside. And though I can't read minds, I was certain he was thinking I should come in right away, and show him what was in the pretty bag with the golden arches.

I had no choice but to jimmy the window open and climb in. I wasn't about to sit on the front porch for hours with no laptop, and no power cord for my phone. Once I had the window propped open so it wouldn't fall on me like a wooden guillotine, I went about climbing through the opening.

The dogs decided they should help me. And let's get one thing straight...dogs are NOT helpful when you are trying not to fall as you climb in a window. Especially when you're packing cheeseburgers, and fries, and cookies (oh my).  They flanked me on each side, sniffing me like I was a spring flower, but I knew the truth. They were hoping I'd trip, scattering the food on the way down. They'd seen it happen before, and they knew the odds were in their favor.

I made it in safely. No cheeseburgers (or hamburgers) were harmed in the writing of this blog. I did end up covered in slimy drool and spider webs, but at least I got to eat my lunch in peace. And that's saying a lot in my house.

Until the next time...I'll be looking forward to Tuesday!

the great cottage cheese blight of 2013

After spending the bulk of the day whining about my empty refrigerator, I went to the grocery story this evening. I filled my cart with the requisite bread, milk, cereal, and assorted other things--yes, there may have been chocolate in there too--before rounding the dairy aisle to grab yogurt and cheese. That's when I saw it...the cottage cheese aisle. I brought my cart to a screeching halt and stared, open mouthed at the bare shelf in front of me.

Every other shelf in the section was filled to the brim. Fresh yogurt galore, more dip than you could shake a chip at, enough ricotta to stuff every shell in the joint, and so much sour cream I had a bad taste in my mouth, but only three tubs of cottage cheese. Three. The entire store had been cleaned out of cottage cheese. As if some sort of strange apocalypse was approaching and they were expecting a cottage cheese shortage. A blight. The great cottage cheese blight of 2013. Why, this could be almost as bad as the run on the banks back in '29!

I watched over my shoulder as I grabbed all three tubs, convinced someone would jump out at me, demanding me to share. Luckily, I got out of the aisle without a fight, but not without checking the expiration dates (and I'm happy to report there was plenty of freshness left).

I asked the cashier if she had any clue what would cause a run on cottage cheese on the last Friday night in May, in the Blue Ridge mountains, but she was as clueless as me. At least I managed to get what I needed. Someone was going home tonight without. And that will be a sad someone, I have no doubt.

Until the next time...I'll be eating my cottage cheese with a smile.

finding Cooper Maxwell...

During my blog tour, I wrote a post called, Finding Dory Fisher. It was about how it can be difficult to change a character's name at the end of the process. Names are important. But even more than the name, it's crucial to find the characters themselves. When I write, I "cast" my characters, much like they do when they make a movie. I pick someone to embody each person I create. And that can be the most difficult part of the process for me. Until I find the perfect match, I can't write. And for To Katie With Love, the biggest challenge was in finding Cooper Maxwell.

I've mentioned, more than once, how chapter one was written on napkins in a dark, smoky, karaoke bar while I was waiting for my turn to sing. In this very first version of chapter one, I envisioned Cooper as Josh Duhamel (Captain Lennox from Transformers.) But despite the fact that he's pretty good looking, he never really felt like Cooper. So chapter one sat, collecting dust while I ran though the possibilities.

Then one day I came up with the idea of using Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame as my Cooper. He wasn't a bad choice, but he wasn't the ultimate choice. In the end, I went with the another handsome Brit, Henry Cavill. He had everything the other guys had, and more.

So I immersed myself in everything Henry Cavill. I watched interviews and movies until I felt I had him down, then I merged that with everything I'd imagined for Cooper, and the rest was magic. So is Cooper Maxwell actually Henry Cavill? No, in my head, Henry Cavill is playing Cooper Maxwell. That's just how it works for me.

I don't know how other writers approach character development, but for me, it's crucial to have a face to put with the fantasy. Every character in my book started out as a real person playing a part inside my head. I think that's why they feel so real, because to me, they are real. And the world inside my head is a pretty cool place to hang out...I'm just saying...

Until the next time...I'll be creating new characters for a new story.

kitty cat karaoke

If you've been following along, you know tonight was my weekly karaoke night. It's always a fun time, and tonight was no exception. Drink a little (though, I didn't), dance a little (again, I didn't) and sing a little (this, I did.) We even had cake. But as much fun as our Tuesday night crew is, it can't hold a candle to the Friday night bunch at Club Bengay.

Now before you go there, I'll have you know Bengay is not a sexual preference. It's a topical cream, popular with the geriatric set. And Club Bengay knows all about the geriatric set.

Friday karaoke nights reads a lot like 50 Shades of Gray Hair. Me and my crew are the youngsters of the bunch--cougars by modern standards. But this distinction alone made me wonder...is there something that comes after cougar? Not that I particularly like the connotations of being a cougar--my kids tell me I am, since I married a younger man--but I definitely don't like the idea that there's nothing beyond that. Does this mean I'm doomed to be a cougar for all eternity? I think not.

My girls and I sat around Friday night trying to come up with the evolution of women as cats. I've said it before, men are dogs and women are cats. And as cats, there must be an evolution as one grows up and ages. So we start out as kittens...just barely old enough to flirt, whipping out our claws all willy nilly as the urge strikes. We grow into the domestic house cat, have our families and live happily ever after going through nine lives like underwear. We then mature into cougars, trading in our aging husbands and boyfriends for young pups--donning clothes belonging to our teenage daughters. And then what?

I asked the other cougars in my crew, "what comes next?"

"Leopards?" was the response.

"Right...leopards...because of the age spots!" I concluded. And they all broke into hysterics. But yes, we all agreed, leopards it is. And after that? Once the age spots have all connected the dots? We become panthers. I only hope I'm still purring my way into pantherhood when that time comes around. One can only hope.

Am I being serious, you wonder? Probably not. Like I said, I reject the classification of cougar. I don't want to be called a puma, a leopard, or a panther either. I'd rather not be thrust into something just because of my age. But it was certainly fun to speculate. And to be fair, some of those ladies on Friday night are giving the cougars a run for their money. Or whatever it is cougars run for.

Until the next time...I'll be meowing at home for a few days.

they like me, they really like me!

It may not be very grown up of me, but I can't help myself. Every time I get another amazing review, I jump up and down, squealing at the top of my lungs like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert. This is perfectly acceptable behavior in my living room but, as I've been reminded, not so much at the grocery store.

To Katie With Love

By Erica Lucke Dean

I'd love to run free though the town screaming at the top of my lungs how amazing I think I am, but this might be counterproductive. Too much self-promotion tends to work in reverse. I have to remind myself to step back and let nature take it's course.

But seriously, I'm just delighted my little book is getting such wonderful attention. I mean, we (writers) all hope to write a book people love. But in the back of our minds is the fear no one will like it.

Tonight, I'm dedicating my blog to the reviewers...for making my day brighter.

Just a few of the amazing reviews my book received during the blog tour...

"Erica Lucke Dean came up with some great characters." Big Al’s Books and Pals

"I fell in love with Katie and Cooper instantly." Pezz Rambles   

"This delightful contemporary romance has it all, witty dialogue, great characters and an engaging story." Cocktails and Books

"... Dean has a whole new take on writing romance - and it involves a chick-flick style of writing." Cabin Goddess

Until the next time...I'll be adding a Reviews tab!

spring is for babies

Sometimes I forget I live on a farm. Oh sure, I have chickens wandering in the back door on an almost daily basis, pigs eyeing me like a fresh baked pie, hay dust in the backseat of my car, and the assorted smells of a working farm wafting through the air...but yeah, sometimes I still forget. Then something miraculous happens that reminds me why I moved here.  And how much I love it.

Saturday morning the hubby and I headed out to the coop to collect the daily eggs and roust the brooding hen out to eat before her chicks were due.  Hubby opened the door and yelled, "Oh no!" He said our mama chicken had been taken, likely by a fox, and all that was left of her eggs were the shells.

I nearly cried on the spot. I'd been so proud of our chicken for being such a good mama, raising her three little ones over the winter, then sitting on a new clutch of eggs this spring. I was heartbroken that she was gone.

And then my hubby yelled, "There she is! And she has babies with her!"

Our little mama was coming around the back of the pig pen, eight fuzzy chicks trailing behind her as they made their way around the yard. It was the most exciting thing I'd seen in ages. Five little black chicks and three yellow. Babies...born right here on the farm.

We moved quickly to collect the chicks and their mama before any harm could befall them--the yard is a dangerous place for tiny babies--setting them up in a temporary pen until we have the permanent pen finished. And then I just sat back to observe. The miracle of life is an exciting thing to behold.

Until the next time...I'll be chick watching!

an apple a day

I had this really amazing blog I wrote for today. It was witty, and fresh, and so very me. It was going to delight and astound all who read it.

And then my stupid laptop cleared the screen (without my permission) erasing every single word (without saving) thereby dashing my hopes for an academy award in blogging. And causing me to spew forth a stunning display of vulgar language worthy of the best 4th of July spectacular.

My husb...I mean, my imaginary dead president (IDP for short) has threatened to record my frequent laptop rants and splice them into a YouTube video. He says it would be quite entertaining. I say (insert vulgar language here). The problem is not me. The problem is my inferior laptop. A machine that has been defective almost since the day I got it. The problem is I was resistant to buy a Mac. Oh, yes...that's the problem!

But I know what has to be done. I have to start saving up for the new MacBook Pro. It's not cheap. It's not even reasonable. But apparently, it's the one to have...the laptop of champions. I don't know all the specifications, I let my tech savvy IDP handle those things for me. I just show up and write. And apparently, one needs the proper tools to write.

I have to admit, I'll miss the old laptop. We fought often, and we fought hard, but it got me through some pretty tough spots. We did edits on my book together. We came up with several projects together. It cleared my screen during most of them, forcing me to come up with new, even better ideas. But it was always there...running out of battery just when I needed it. Blue screen of death at the most inopportune moments. Yes...we had a nice run, stupid freaking laptop. But your days are numbered!

Until the next time...I'll be taking donations!

sing me a song, zombie piano man

After making a passing comment in my blog last night about being a karaoke singing zombie, I was bombarded with comments on Twitter (ok, it was one) about how no self-respecting zombie would be caught dead doing karaoke (ironic choice of words, if you ask me). And besides that, according to this source, they lack vocal cords necessary for singing.

Before I address the inaccuracies in that statement, I’d like to say I never actually thought I was a zombie. I was being funny (or perhaps not as funny as I thought if someone thought I was serious.) Oh, sure…I have a few of the characteristics. Especially as I get closer and closer to that age where stuff just doesn’t work like it used to. I’ve been known to groan as I shuffle across the floor in the morning, growling at anything that approaches me before I’ve had my morning muffin…brain food, as you know. My hair may or may not be sticking up in all directions, and my sickly pallor just might draw the occasional double take. But, I can assure you I’m still relatively alive. And my vocal chords have been known to function quite nicely in a karaoke atmosphere.

And about that…zombies do, in fact, have vocal cords.  I mean, they had them when they were alive, so surely they haven’t rapidly disintegrated merely to prevent karaoke amongst their kind. Now, making distinguishable sounds from those vocal cords is another story. And for that, perhaps we should look to history, and the zombie evolution.

According to my friend and fellow author, Stephen Kozeniewski, we need to, “analyze this question scientifically. The answer naturally depends on the zombie mythos involved.”

So with that in mind, Stephen says…

1. Vodun – (That’s voodoo for anyone beside me who went, huh?) Yes, if ordered to do so by the bokor.

2. Romero mythos – (Original Night of the Living Dead director…but I knew that.) Categorically "no" with a possible exception for Bub IF he continues to evolve.

3. Russo mythos – (Return of the Living Dead director…I pretended to know that) Categorically "Yes."

4. Braineater Jones – (Stephen’s upcoming zombie novel, coming this fall!) Theoretically, "yes." However the silent orchestra technology to do so would not yet have been invented in the early '30s.

Now that Stephen has had his say, I’m tossing in Warm Bodies, my new favorite zombie movie. I’m pretty sure R would have kicked ass at karaoke!

Oh, and while I’m at it, I think I’ll add Thriller. Those were some serious karaoke singing zombies!

Until the next time…I’ll leave you with Michael Jackson and his zombie crew

can zombies do karaoke?

Today was jam packed with action. Well, compared to the average day spent in my pajamas talking chickens out of perching on my laptop, or convincing pigs not to eat me. Today...I went on a day trip. Today...I drove to civilization.

Ok, so I don't live so far off the beaten path that you could refer to "here" as non-civilized. But if you define civilization as being within a ten mile radius of a shopping mall. Or a five mile radius of at least three McDonald's and a Starbucks, then I most definitely don't live in civilization. In fact, most horror movies are set in what looks  suspiciously like my backyard.

Anyway...my plan involved an almost two hour drive, after getting less than six hours of sleep. My mission...lunch with my mother. My mother doesn't live in civilization either. But since we live in separate wildernesses, we decided to meet in the middle. Or more accurately, near my sister's house.

So, off I went.

Never order salad at a restaurant known for their hamburgers. That's like ordering a pizza at a Chinese restaurant. You just never know what you're going to get. After lunch, we stopped off at a real clothing store (not a discount store or a high priced tourist spot like in my neck of the woods) where I could buy real jeans (not the plain Jane off the rack denim that never seem to fit right through the ass) and picked up three pairs (pre-distressed) and two shirts (courtesy of Mom). Things were working out better than I'd planned.

Then I swung by the bank where I used to work and signed a few copies of my book (very exciting, just saying) for the people who inspired the quirky characters within the pages. All in all, I managed to sell four books before I've had a single signing event! Not bad for a day's work. My treat for the evening...karaoke!

Fast forward to the evening's entertainment. My eyes were drooping from lack of sleep (and three hours spend in the car under the hot sun). I skipped the liquor because my doctor switched my medication the other day, and apparently, it turns me into a zombie (though, some will find this side effect to be a plus.) So, I sang two songs (remarkably well for someone suffering from zombieitis (possible word of the day) and went home, where I'll be sleeping off my meds to the sound of thunder and lightning. In the grand scheme of things, not a bad day at all.

Until the next time...I'll probably be having weird dreams that I'll blog about tomorrow.

underwear on display

How do “underpants” end up as a recurring theme in my blog?  Easy…I have a serious issue with wearing mine any other way than inside out.  But there is no conspiracy.  This is a simple matter of happenstance.  I do not purposely wear my underwear inside out.  It just seems to happen all on its own. 

It happened again today. 

It’s not like it’s a major issue.  It’s just underwear after all.  No one sees them but me…and my husband on occasion.  I often don’t even discover the state of my panties until the middle of the day. 

A few years ago, I found myself trapped in a public restroom, thanks to a broken doorknob, and all I could think about was the discovery that my underwear was inside out. 

I WAS a bit worried about getting out of the bathroom for a minute.  I stared down in mild shock at the small doorknob in my hand.  It was one of those old Victorian-type brass doorknobs, and when I tugged on it (perhaps a little too vigorously) it just came off in my hands.  After a few deep breaths, I carefully pushed the stem back through the hole, trying not to knock the knob on the other side of the door out, trapping myself completely.  Then…after a momentary struggle…I managed to escape the small closet of a restroom.

This little moment seemed to put a fine point on our day.

We had driven an hour and a half to the mountains to take a train tour of the region only to discover that the train was sold out.  In fact, the door to the ticket booth swung closed just as we approached.  A hand written sign was our only clue that the train was indeed, “sold out.”  So, instead of a leisurely ride on a train, we took a tour of the quaint mountain town of Blue Ridge, the place I now call home.  All in all, the day was enjoyed by everyone.  We even took a detour on the way back home to tour an area known for great views and mountain cabins. 

The narrow gravel path that passed for a road was especially rough going that day.  The road had washed out in several places, and we almost got stuck more than once.  I was, of course, pleading and whining the entire way.  My fear of heights is fairly irrational and overblown.  I can easily say this now that I am back in the safety of my own home. 

Broken doorknobs, inside out underpants, and terrifying treks into the wild aside, it was a pretty wonderful day. 

Today was no exception. My underwear was inside out again, and worse than that, I was caught on the Cabin Goddess blog this way! Now, it would seem, the entire world knows the state of my knickers. Oh, the shame of it all.

Until the next time…I’ll be turning my underwear right side out and heading to bed.