tag, I'm it

I remember playing tag as a child. Running about the yard, trying to catch someone else in my snare so I wouldn’t be it anymore. Not surprisingly, I’ve never been a graceful runner. Considering it is far more difficult to tag someone who is faster and more nimble than you…I was it a lot. And so, I hate tag. Hey, I didn’t say I remembered it fondly, just that I remembered.

So I wasn’t thrilled when my blog was tagged.

But the more I thought about it…and the more I considered my fondness for the gentleman who tagged me (and his daily reminder emails)…the more I resolved to play along.  That…and since it is Wednesday, it gives me something to do for the weekly challenge blog. My challenge is to answer the questions put forth in the tag.

And so, here are the questions and my answers.

WHAT HAS BEEN THE HAPPIEST EVENT OF 2011?

First of all, I’m not sure I understand the question. Should I be giving the happiest event of the year overall or the happiest thing that happened in my life? I mean, I was really happy when the Vampire Diaries got renewed for a new season. I was absolutely thrilled when Ben and Jerry’s came out with a Schweddy Balls ice cream flavor. (I don’t know why, it just made me smile.)  But those things didn’t really happen to me…they happened to the world at large (well, the world as I know it.) So it forces me to ask myself, what was my happiest event of 2011?

Easy…I started writing the Tales of the Daywalkers! (Oh, and the time Right Said Fred retweeted my comment on Twitter!)

WHAT HAS BEEN THE SADDEST?

Now that we’ve established how I should be answering these questions, I can cut right to the chase. My saddest moment was when I discovered how many calories are in a single Pop Tart. Is it really fair? How could they have so many calories? They’re so small!

ONE UNLIKELY THING YOU WENT AHEAD WITH AND DID?

Do the people who write these questions know who I am? I’m forever doing unlikely things. They need to come up with harder questions, or be a little more specific. So instead, I’m going to list all the things I would unlikely EVER do…like get a bikini wax, jump out of an airplane (that isn’t on fire), bungee jump, give up writing, or suddenly become predictable. You knew I was going to say that, didn’t you?

WHO LET YOU DOWN?

My willpower. I’ve failed at giving up Diet Coke, candy (especially the Halloween kind), cookies (especially the Girl Scout kind), and cheese dip. I’m going to try again…and I’m going to bribe the willpower with wine. It could work…and if not, I probably won’t care.

WHAT MADE YOU LAUGH?

Everything makes me laugh. I laugh at myself…I laugh at life…I laugh at my fellow writers. Oh, and sometimes I laugh so hard I pee my pants. Hey…like you don’t pee your pants too?

WHAT MADE YOU CRY?

PMS. PMS. PMS. Enough said.

TELL US ONE THING THAT MADE YOU PROUD OF YOURSELF.

I’m infinitely proud of the work I’ve done on the Tales of the Daywalkers. I’m delighted so many people seem to enjoy it. And I can’t believe I get to do this every day!

TELL US ONE CHALLENGE YOU OVERCAME.

Just one? Seriously? I overcome a challenge once a week. I’ve taken on the wombat, pandas, Halloween, blowing bones, the slinky, a random sixty seconds, and so many more.

IS THERE ANYTHING YOU’D LIKE TO CHANGE IN YOUR LIFE IN 2012?

­I’m looking forward to lots of vampires, zombies, and fun in 2012.  Oh, and Pop Tarts without calories!

And now, as much as it pains me to say so, I have to tag someone else.

I’m going to tag my friends DC McMillen and Lorca Damon…and with any luck, they don’t hate Tag as much as me!

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to run just a little bit faster so I don’t get tagged again!

pandas bare

If you’ve been paying attention, you may have noticed that I’m compiling a book from my most popular blogs and some new material.  I’m calling the book, “Dancing Bare” and I want a dancing bear on the cover.  So I asked my husband (and someone really needs to remind me not to do this anymore, for a variety of reasons) what sort of bear would I be…if I was a bear.

So after a nanosecond of thought, he smiles and says, “A panda…without a doubt.”

Of course, I asked him why a panda. He just smiled and said, “Because you are.”

Lady Panda?What the hell, I thought.  I don’t wear a mask. I’m closer to a polar bear in coloring. And I wanted to be a brown bear because they match my hair.  But no.  He says I’m a panda.  And he won’t say why.

Fast forward to this evening when I had to pick a topic for the challenge blog. One topic stuck out like a sore…panda.  That’s right.  Panda bear was a topic! How could I pass up the chance to explore this a little further?  So I went in with another attempt to get my husband to explain why I’m a panda.  I had a challenge blog to write. He had to tell me…right?

He must have agreed…challenge blog is sacred. 

So here is why my husband says I am a panda (not the brown bear like I wanted to be)…

“Pandas are not technically bears,” he started.

Of course, I already knew this, but I didn’t care. I want them to be bears, so they are. 

“No, they’re not.” He likes to correct me.  Pfft. “Pandas are essentially giant raccoons.”

Right. So I’m a bear that isn’t a bear. I’m a non-bear? I actually asked him that.

“Right,” he says. “You’re a pretend bear in a bear world.” 

I repeat this sentence as a question and he nods.  I ask him if he realizes I’m blogging this shit.  He does. I start to wonder if he wants the world to think he’s some kind of villain.  I don’t ask him that, but I suddenly struggle with the urge to tell him to fuck off again. 

My need to know more about why I’m a panda prevails and I ask him. “Is that all? I’m just a non-bear in a bear world?”

No. That’s not all. Of course not.

“Pandas are not omnivores.  They eat bamboo and that’s it. They don’t like mayonnaise on their egg sandwiches.  They don’t like pickles on their cheeseburgers.  They don’t want their vegetables to touch their meat or potatoes.  They eat bamboo.”

So let’s recap… “I’m a non-bear in a bear world. And I’m a picky eater?”

He stares at the bag of oyster crackers I’m snacking from. “Yep. That’s about it.”

“So this has nothing to do with the black and white coat?  Or the cuteness?  The mask?  The cuddly appearance?”

Non-Bear Picky Eater“Nope. Non-bear…picky eater.”

I keep asking him, “Are you sure?  That’s it?”

Finally he makes the “mean” face and says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.  I think maybe I’ve drifted off into an alternate universe, but I know better.  I decide to grab a pair of ear buds to listen to music while I write…the non-bear in me likes music apparently…so I plug them into my laptop and turn up the music.  It’s barely loud enough to hear so I turn it up.  And up again, until it’s at max volume.  It’s still muffled, but I can hear my music, so who cares?

“What are you doing?” he asks…mean face still showing. 

I “Grrr” a little at him…like a bear…and tell him “I’m listening to music.”

“Uh, so am I…” he pops up an eyebrow and stares at my laptop like he hates it, so I pull out my ear buds to say, “What?  Oh!”

I plugged the ear buds into the wrong jack. The music was playing loudly into the room. 

“Non-bear,” he says as I switch the jacks.

“Fuck off.”

The music drowns out his reply.

This is why I love a challenge blog.

Until the next time…I’ll be kicking off the Daywalkers “Getting into Character” contest tomorrow!

what happened to halloween?

It’s the middle of October. I should be seeking out the perfect pumpkin and hanging spooky decorations. You know…stretching out artificial spider webs to disguise the real ones I just can’t bring myself to knock down.  And staking out a giant lawn display with vampires and zombies, to scare off all the children who might lay claim to my stash of bite-sized Snickers bars and Tootsie Rolls. But when I hit the big box store to find the perfect fall decorations, what did I find? 

Christmas trees. 

And not just the trees.  It was the lights, the decorations, and the boxes of cards to be mailed.  And what of the giant scary lawn decorations?  Those have been relegated to the back of the store with other unwanted items, like the left over patio furniture and tiki torches.

Are you with me? 

It’s October 12, not November 12.  I thought we were in the Halloween season.  Time of witches and ghosts. Jack-o-lanterns and ghouls.  Not reindeer or elves…not mistletoe or Santa Claus.

I want tricks and treats, not streets filled with shoppers!

Should I really be concerned with Christmas shopping this early?  Yes, I know some of you have already done all your Christmas shopping, and I’m here to tell you…I hate you.  I do.  Every year I tell myself I will shop early to avoid the lines and the stress.  And every year I wait until after Thanksgiving.  What does this mean?  If you ask me, it means the crazy rush to put up Christmas displays is wasted on the vast majority of us who are still in height of Halloween spirit in the middle of October.

I want things to go back to the way it was when I was a kid. 

October was Halloween.  November was Thanksgiving.  And December was all about Christmas.  You didn’t shop until the day after Thanksgiving.  You didn’t put up your tree before carving the turkey.  And you damn sure didn’t wander through stores fully decked out with Christmas finery smack dab in the middle of October.  Is it really too much to ask?  Isn’t there more to the holiday season than blatant commercialism?

I guess I’m just old fashioned.  But I’m warning the stores today…I’ve decided to boycott every store with Christmas decorations up in October. Sure that means I may have to grocery shop at the gas station…I can live with that.  I’m making a statement after all!  Dad always said it only takes one voice to start a revolution. 

Hey…viva la revolucion!

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for pumpkins at the farmer’s market!

blowing bones

Ok, don’t get all excited.  I’m fairly certain you came here thinking you were going to find something extremely juicy.  Maybe even something dirty.  That doesn’t mean I won’t use your assumptions to my advantage.  Oh sure, I’m hoping you’ll click on the blog searching for some sort of photographic evidence…a little naughty rhetoric perhaps.  I know how you are.  Some may even have their finger hovering above the delete key, ready to clear the page at the first or maybe the second glimpse of the indecent (you need to get a close enough peek to be sure, right?)  But don’t go getting all “moral majority” on me. I’m sorry to say, blowing bones doesn’t mean what you think it means. Take your head out of the Playboy channel and think more along the lines of the Flintstones. 

Blowing bones is a metaphor…or more specifically…a challenge blog.

I guess I should explain…

Once upon a time there was a dark queen in Twitterland who decided I should write a blog about a funny conversation that took place in a private chat in the world of Triberr.  

Still doesn’t make sense?  I’m not surprised. 

Ok…Triberr is like a special club for writers and bloggers to increase their internet reach.  In the world of Triberr, bones are currency.  You need bones to add a new person to the tribe.  You need bones to blend with a new tribe.  You need bones to expand your tribe.  Bones, bones, bones.  And as we all know, just say the word “bones” and people immediately head for the gutter.  Add a group of female writers and the fun never stops.

It’s true, guys…if you get a group of women alone together we’re going to go “there”.  And believe me, there’s a whole lot of “boning” going on in Triberr.  We bone a slot, and giggle.  We bone a new tribe mate, and giggle some more.  We snort water out of our noses at the mere mention of boning to “inbreed”.  Oh yes, we inbreed. 

And we laugh…a lot!

I don’t know if the two guys responsible for bringing us Triberr had any idea their special brand of currency would bring so much joy to a bunch of silly women writers…but it certainly does.  And we don’t leave the fun to the private chat of our little tribe.  No, we bring it to the wide open stream of Twitter.  Imagine all the new followers I’ve gained just from suggesting I would be “blowing bones” this evening.  And the giggles continue. 

Somewhere in the far reaches of Sydney, Australia there is a law firm trying to figure out why one of their own…a lawyer by day, writer by night…is in a near constant state of hysteria, wiping spewed drink from her computer screen on an almost daily basis.  Because that’s what happens when a writer in Las Vegas decides she needs to “grow her bones” to build the tribe.  Or when a writer in Orange County, California decides to “slip us a bone to fill a slot”.  And the writer right here in Atlanta, Georgia giggles all night long as she tries to come up with yet another way to blow some bones. 

Hey, I know we’re silly.  I’m not trying to hide it.  But if you can’t laugh at the funny things in life, there’s just something wrong with you.  Life is funny. 

Find something to laugh at. 

Until the next time…I’ll be getting ready for tomorrow night’s special guest, author Joni B Cole!

life is like a slinky…or something like that

There was a time when toys were simple.  I may be dating myself, but back when I was a kid, there were no such things as video games or home computers.  We played outside when the weather was nice, and when it wasn’t, we were satisfied with a pile of blocks or Legos, a few shades of Play-Doh or an egg filled with Silly Putty…and a Slinky.

I’ve outgrown the blocks and the Legos.  Long since put away the Play-Doh and the Silly Putty.  But I still have a warm spot in my heart for the Slinky.  A Slinky was more than a toy…it was a way of life.  

So maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe it’s not a way of life, but life is like a Slinky…or something like that. 

How is life like a Slinky, you ask? 

You can make life as complicated as you like, but at its core, it’s simple.  No matter how far you stretch it, it always springs back.  I am always surprised by all the wonderful tricks I can squeeze out of one simple spring. 

After all…

What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs, and makes a slinkity sound?

A spring, a spring, a marvelous thing! Everyone knows it’s Slinky.

It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky. For fun it’s a wonderful toy.

It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky. It’s fun for a girl or a boy.

It’s fun for a girl or boy!”

Try getting that out of your head today!

Basically, just holding a Slinky will make you smile every time.  Who hasn’t sat in a chair tossing it back and forth between their hands just to feel the weight change as it shifts through the air?  Maybe you like to grab an end in each hand and stretch it then crush it back together.  Why?  Because as silly as it is, it’s fun. 

Popular since 1945, after all these years, a Slinky is still a cheap source of entertainment. 

My husband and I were on a mini-vacation last year and I ran across a sign that summed it up for me. 

It’s fun for a girl or a boy!

Until the next time…I’ll be doing an extra challenge blog tomorrow.  I may need a wine cooler!

a random sixty seconds

Who blogs about a random moment?  A single minute of the day…and not even one of my own choosing?  Someone who’s crazy enough to let a bunch of writers, Hell bent on my destruction, choose the blog topic, that’s who.  

Right…it must be Wednesday…the challenge blog.

10:52 AM:

I swiftly hit the snooze button on my mobile phone alarm for the sixth time since it went off at nine-fifty.  I didn’t want to wake the dog.  My ability to nap is directly dependent on letting sleeping dogs lie.  And I definitely wasn’t ready to be awake yet. 

The phone was clutched in my hand and tucked under the pillow the way I do most every night in my bed.  But I wasn’t sleeping in my bed.  I was stretched out on the leather sofa.  Why?  He was snoring on the floor beside me.

I make no secret of the fact that I burn my candle from both ends.  It’s how I roll.  Sure, I’m tired all the time, but writers need quiet to hear the voices, and in my house the only quiet is found in the wee hours of the morning.  So I sit up writing, my dog dozing at my feet like a silent guardian, defending me against the occasional moth or spider…or bowl of potato chips…that may wander by. 

Potato chips don’t really wander you know…but they do get spilled on the floor.  I’ve decided it was some sort of a sign…whether it was a sign shouting, “Stop eating chips!” or if it was a sign reminding me to sweep the floors daily because, “You never know when you’re going to be eating potato chips off the hardwood!” I may never know…my furry defender dispatched them before I had a chance to decide.

But all good things must come to an end, and a marathon writing session is no different.  Sometime after three, I tip toed off to slip into my bed after a long night of making things up.  Just moments after my head hit the pillow I was on my way to dreamland. 

Too bad I never made it past the half-way point. 

One enormous paw to the gut followed by one giant tongue across my entire face and a series of whines and groans later, I was shining the backlight of my phone into the face of my 17 month old Mastiff, Indiana Jones.  I tried to let him out.  I attempted to get him a snack and a drink of water.  But it quickly became evident what he wanted.  

Which is why I was sleeping on the couch when the alarm went off at 10:52 this morning…after less than six hours of sleep. 

Go ahead, call me indulgent.  Tell me I’m spoiling him.  But sleep is sleep and my couch is amazing!

Until the next time…I’ll be rethinking this whole “challenge” blog thing.  (Comment if you want more!)

you call that a challenge?

There are days when I ask myself why I blog.  Not many, but there are a few…like today.  As usual, I set myself up for it.  I’m the one who decided Wednesdays would be challenge blog days.  For those who don’t know, it’s the one day a week when readers pick a topic and I blog about it. 

In defense of the premise, it has actually proven to be quite successful.  “Why the world needs Godzilla” was a challenge blog.  So was “Doggone Men”.  So why am I so worried about this week? 

I’ll tell you why…

How the hell am I supposed to blog about druids, leprechauns, PVC pipe and navel lint with any degree of seriousness? 

I mean, sure…druids are cool.  They were mysterious and ancient…and they were known for human sacrifice. Sort of like zombies, right?  And I love zombies.

Ok, maybe not quite like zombies.  But druids were from England…and Ireland…like leprechauns. 

I know way more about leprechauns than druids. 

Leprechauns are the snazziest dressers in all of the land of make believe.  That and they have a bitchin’ accent.  And let’s not forget the sweetest pot o’ gold…well…anywhere.  Yeah, I’m all about the leprechauns.  I think I might even know a few.  Well…I know one.  We’re very close.  I see him every morning when eat my cereal.  I know…I know…he’s not a real leprechaun, he’s just a guy in a suit on a cereal box…but he has the accent.  And it’s all about the accent isn’t it?

So, there.  I’m good with druids and leprechauns.  But what about navel lint and PVC pipe?  

First of all…who calls it a navel anyway?  I don’t know anyone who actually says, “navel”.  I don’t care how old I am, it will always be a belly button to me.  And I don’t deal in lint.  The dryer has lint…the belly button doesn’t.  But if you’re one of those people who collect strange things…like belly button lint.  I have just one word of advice.  Vacuum.  Once week whether you think you need it or not.  Practice on a piece of PVC pipe.  Grab a hand full of lint from the dryer, stuff it in one end and vacuum it out the other.  Like a giant belly button experiment.  And what the hell…do it with an Irish accent.  It might be fun. 

So there you have it.  I blogged about druids, leprechauns, PVC pipe, and belly button lint.  Are you impressed yet?  I am.  But more than impressed, I’ve discovered something.  I’ve discovered that my readers…more so, my Twitter followers, are a lot like the druids.  They are sneaky and mysterious and they’re sort of into human sacrifice.  Isn’t that what challenge blogs are all about?  Sacrificing me on the altar of blog?

Or do I sacrifice myself?

Hell if I know.  I’m just a writer.

Until the next time…I’ll be checking for belly button lint!

doggone men!

I’m beginning to think “man” should be considered a four letter word.  It can be an honorary title…like those college diplomas passed out to celebrities who didn’t earn them. “Man” can be the first three letter word given four-letter word notoriety.

Why? Isn’t it obvious?  Man…or rather men…are different from us.  We can love them…cherish them…but by God, we rarely understand them, do we?

First off, men have their own brand of math.  The kind where $30 will buy enough groceries to feed an entire family for seven days, and six inches equals a foot. They’re like under-developed children, fixated on games, sports, and the endless pursuit of getting back into the womb. 

Basically, everything we need to know about men can be summed up using my theory on dogs and cats. If you don’t understand the male psyche, watch a dog in its natural habitat.  Watch the dog play in the mud. Rolling in it.  Reveling in its muddiness. Watch as the dog chases every ball you throw.  Then think of men and their games.  Picture a football game, or a baseball game, where man rolls and slides in the dirt on a quest to chase the ball. 

Women don’t do this…because women are like cats.  And a cat wouldn’t be caught dead rolling in the mud.  Unlike dogs, cats are meticulous about cleanliness. 

A dog will unabashedly hump anyone’s leg.  I have never in all my life seen a cat hump anything. 

Cats like sparkly things…like diamonds.

Need more proof?  Watch a dog eat.  Then watch a cat eat. 

I believe this explains why men are so enthralled with the idea of the convertible.  They have a deep-seated need to stick their heads out the window, tongues flapping in the breeze.

And when it comes to dogs, there are so many different kinds.  Big dogs.  Medium dogs.  And of course, the small dogs. 

Short men are like small dogs. Some people refer to it as the Napoleon complex, but I prefer to call it the small dog syndrome.  Have you ever noticed a territorial Terrier, a persnickety Pekinese or Poodle?  And then by comparison you have the laidback Labrador, the gregarious Golden Retriever, or the gentlest giant of them all, the Mastiff.  Small dogs are almost always noisier, more aggressive, and high strung…as if they come from the Jersey Shore.  And big dogs lay around all day licking themselves and drooling.  Because at their core, both men and dogs are just a little gross. 

Sure, we love them…but do we really need to know everything about them?

I think there is such a thing as too much information, and I think when you’ve reached that point even a good marriage can start to fold under the pressure. Where is it written that husbands and wives should witness each other’s bodily functions?  I absolutely don’t need to see what he discovers upon blowing his nose.  And I most definitely don’t need to come running to see if his latest foray in the rest room would make it into the Guinness Book of World Records.  I want a rule that forbids a man from taking a dump while I’m in the shower.   In fact, I think there should be a law written that that explicitly prohibits men from doing anything gross at all while in the presence of a woman.  The faces they make during sex are bad enough, it’s a wonder we ever invite them for a second go.  But to be forced to see into the seedy underbelly of the male existence just may be too much for many of us to bear.

I’m giving men a hard time here, and maybe they don’t really deserve that.  They have a lot of good points.  For one, men are portable.  Mine would be perfectly content living in a shed or a tent in the woods. He isn’t picky about what I cook, and has been known to eat things that were probably long since destined for the trash without a single complaint.  And most men, at least, don’t mind killing the errant spider as it climbs up a wall within our personal space. 

So for all their icky habits, and dirty ways, men have a place in our hearts, and our homes.  As long as they wipe their feet first.

Until the next time…I’ll be catching shit for this blog for days to come!

who the hell invited the wombat?

There is a cricket in my living room.  I can’t see him, but I know he’s here.  I’m listening to him chirp every few seconds…taunting me from his crickety hiding place in the wall. 

What does this mean?  Could it be some prophesy of doom?  No, he’s just the cherry on top of my fruit salad of a day.  Just a distraction, as if I needed another distraction, right?  I already fell asleep before dinner and woke up in the dark wondering if it was still today. 

It’s supposed to be wacky Wednesday, where I blog a topic chosen by my readers.  I can’t blame anyone. This is my own fault.  I set myself up for this one.  But I don’t want to blog about close encounters of the weird kind.  I don’t want to blog about zombie invasions or women with tattoos who ride motorcycles. And although Dan DeWitt would love for me to write an entire blog devoted to his favorite subject…Dan DeWitt…I think I’ll have to go with the other topic that came up. 

Wombats.                                            

Because sure, who doesn’t love wombats?  Admittedly, I was envisioning a prehistoric, winged creature with scary teeth and sharpened claws.  Or worse…a half woman and half bat creature from an accidental transformation from vampire to bat form.  I wasn’t expecting a cute little teddy bear.  What does that say about me that I couldn’t identify a wombat just by its name?  I’m supposed to be smarter than that.  I’m supposed to know everything…I mean, I’ve been known to say I do.  But don’t listen to me.  I didn’t even know what a wombat looked like.  According to Dan DeWitt, my complete lack of wombat identification skills could have allowed a dangerous criminal to go free.  

I’m seriously worried that I never did wake up and I’m dreaming even now. 

But now that I know how cute wombats are (and as long as I’m still dreaming) I may as well adopt one.  Because I need another mouth to feed, right? 

Do wombats even use a litter box? 

Not that it matters, because apparently it is illegal to import them as pets anyway.  Besides, when I wake up I’ll probably have a completely different perspective on the whole thing. 

And since I’m only dreaming, I may as well invite Johnny Depp…and the guy who played Henry VIII on the Tudors.  And we may as well hang out someplace way cooler than my living room with that chirping cricket, and the snoring dog.  I’ve always wanted to go to Australia…hey they have wombats there!

Ok, who slipped me the Nyquil?

Until the next time…I’ll be getting some much needed sleep!