just call me drunky brewster

It's been a month since I've been to karaoke. I know, because everyone told me so. A month since the last time I hung out with friends and sang. A month since I'd partaken in alcoholic beverages. And truthfully, I don't drink...much. I'm a lightweight. One drink and I'm good for the night. Two and I'm a giggling idiot. But tonight? Yeah, tonight I had three. And after three I start confessing stuff no one should ever have to hear.

Like, how my jeans were strangling me, and I wanted to take them off, but it was laundry day, so I was wearing my ugly underwear (thankfully, I've never been drunk enough to actually flash them.) And how the words underwear and vagina are almost always funny when used in any context. If their raucous laughter was any indication, the people at my table agreed. But seriously, some words just make you giggle, right? Oh, and for the record, I'm never wearing skinny jeans again. They're like a second skin, and believe me when I say, one is plenty.

But a fun time was had by all, and I was apparently the nightly entertainment. Everyone was watching to see the signs. "Will she trip and fall?" Umm...like the magic 8 ball says, signs point to yes. We are talking about me.  I'm the same girl who would undoubtedly fail a field sobriety test  stone cold sober. So, of course, I'm gonna trip as I walk up on stage. I do that every week. But of course, it's way more fun when I'm channeling Drunky Brewster...giggling my way to the microphone. 

At least I know my limits. I didn't drive home, and I didn't send any emails. Drunk emailing is the absolute worst. We won't mention the Facebook posts or tweets I sent though...ok?

And just for the record, I don't condone drinking. Like I said, I'm a lightweight and it takes very little to make me tipsy and goofy. But luckily, I didn't even drink enough to have a hangover. Though, I may never live down my ridiculous confessions. At least I can blame the alcohol.

Until the next time...I'll be deleting my FB posts. 

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! 

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.

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.​

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.​

a day in the life of a romance writer

I roll out of bed at the crack of noon when sunlight filters through the slats in the thick black out blinds, waking me from the best dream ever. Seriously, this dream would make an awesome book and I promise myself I’ll write it down later…once I’m fully awake.

But first, I go in search of a bowl of cereal, cursing my family for having eaten all but the last few crunch berries in the box of Cap’n Crunch, forcing me to either crack into the unopened box of Raisin Bran or dig through the cabinets for something more appetizing. That’s when I spy a glint of foil across the room and remember the chocolate chip cookies I baked at three am and stashed behind the stack of mixing bowls. I almost forgot about those. I stumble over the discarded milk carton the dog pulled out of the trash, and nearly trip over the stools poking out from under the island before I reach my destination.

I peel back the foil to discover half the cookies are missing (I’ll deal with that later) but there are still plenty enough to satisfy my need for sustenance, and I down at least three before making my way back toward the fridge for a glass of ice cold chocolate milk.

Once I’ve had my fill of sweets, I contemplate taking a shower before lunch. Ultimately, I decide against it because of the unnecessary effort it would take when I’m only going to be writing in my pajamas all day anyway. So I head back to my office—me and my laptop spread across my bed—and tackle the first project on my growing list of things to do. Guest posts for my upcoming blog tour. But since I’m a professional procrastinator, I decide to surf the net for a while first, and end up engrossed in Twilight fan fiction for half the morning…I mean, afternoon.

After running out of fresh things to read, I actually get to work (mostly plotting out things I haven't written yet, while I try to figure out who does what with whom) then I bang out a running commentary that ends up being useless to the blog I'm trying to write for someone else, but surprisingly perfect for the blog I wri​te for myself. Then I revisit the idea of a shower, and as much as I’d fought against it, I'm glad I succumb to temptation. There is nothing quite as nice as a hot shower on a cold day…especially when it’s Tuesday. Tuesdays mean karaoke. Too bad my ninety-year-old house has equally antique wiring and I can’t use a blow dryer without taking out more than half the circuits.

Somehow, I manage to style my hair and throw on make-up to make my way out the door to the local pub, where, not only does everyone know my name, but they’re relatively happy to see me. This is a big deal when you manage to piss off your significant other on a daily basis.

The evening out is a much needed break after a long day of making stuff up while wearing pajamas. Because that’s essentially my job…sitting around in my pajamas all day while I channel the voices in my head until I come up with something that makes at least a little bit of sense. But to the outsider (or the non-believer) I’m just wasting time, slacking off, lazy…basically one step away from a pot-smoking college student with a White Castle craving.

Nah…I’m none of those things. I’m a writer.

​

the diva strikes again

Last night was another fun night of karaoke. It was going to be just me and my daughter until my husband decided to join us. He can say he hates it all day long, but when given the option to stay home, he tagged along. Ok, it might have had something to do with what I was wearing, but honestly, I didn’t do it on purpose. Much.

Other than having a few tattooed truckers peering down my top (and hitting on my daughter) it was a perfect night. I think I like having fans. Groopies even. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating, but when old guys (like really old guys) come up to my table to say they’ve enjoyed my singing, it’s sort of a rush. The husband might not like that part very much, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t sing.

And it was very nice to have my daughter there for a change. She had her own following, and not just because she was wearing matching cleavage (completely tasteful, I can assure you) but she sang beautifully last night. I was proud.

I think this might be my new Tuesday night thing.

I might even try to get the husband up there to sing. Crazier things have happened.

Until the next time…I’ll be singing around the house.