who spiked my drink with 14 pots of coffee and 2 bags of sugar?

Ok…of all the days to be as high-strung as a person can be (all of this is natural I can assure you) I get an email from a highly respected agent asking for the first three chapters of my book and a detailed synopsis.

After I jump up and down for at least five full minutes (all inside my head, mind you) I find myself ricocheting off the walls like the silver ball in a pinball machine (again, this is all in my head).  

I’m driving my car, so I can’t actually do anything but smile from ear to ear and randomly burst into insane laughter.  My daughter already thinks I’m crazy, so she doesn’t seem to notice anything strange. 

I get home and immediately send out notices to everyone I know.  I remind them of the process I had started just over a month ago and the countdown to rejection letters—an undertaking I had given up on after I lost track of how many rejection letters I had gotten. 

My query letter had to be retrieved from the recycle bin of my computer (lucky for me I never take out the trash) and I immediately began to send it out to all my friends as the gold standard of queries.  It was suddenly a “winner”, and I was a star.  A hero among peers.  I was Charlie Bucket and my golden ticket was clenched tightly in my fingers, held high above my head for all to see.

And then the reality began to sink in. 

I had never written a synopsis before.  How on earth could I pull this feat off in a matter of a few hours?  Wasn’t it customary to turn around a reply to the request within 24 hours?   Would I be able to rise to this…the challenge of all challenges?  And write a blog?

Well, yeah.  Who the hell are we talking about anyway?

Twitter girl never backs down from a challenge!  Twitter girl needs no sleep to function!  Twitter girl has a secret supply of 72% dark chocolate and a big ass jar of peanut butter at the ready.  And I come stocked with a 14 pot of coffee and 2 bag of sugar metabolism.  It’s factory issue baby.  No supplements needed.  I am high on life and the possibility of success.  No drugs necessary, thank you very much!

Yeah, I went a little overboard.  I’m excited…somebody thinks I have potential, and I’m ready to show them how much.  So wish me luck, will you?  I’ll need it.

Until the next time…I’ll be up all night long writing a damn synopsis!            

George Lucas and the burning bush

I really have no excuse for today.  It was one of those days.  The kind of day that is so bad it makes you crave something special. 

I wanted wings.

So we were in the car on our way to my favorite wing place.   

My husband was driving, my son was in the back seat, and we were talking about everything and nothing, trying to take my mind off the sorts of things that makes a girl on a diet beg for fried, saucy chicken wings and greasy fries. 

I have no idea how we got on the subject, but there we were…talking about the Ten Commandments.

Now let me say this first, I don’t talk about religion…that and politics are two subjects I steer clear of on most every occasion, but here we go.

Like I said, I have no idea how we ended up on the subject of the Ten Commandments, but our discussion involved the actual stone tablets.  My husband was arguing his belief that Moses was given the laws of God in a more spiritual way, as in Moses was meditating behind a bush, saw a flash of heat lightning and suddenly, the word of God was in his head, so he ran back down the mountain to share these laws with the chosen people.  

Basically, my husband didn’t believe Moses carried these two heavy Flintstone-style notepads down the mountain just to put them on display for all to see.  Besides, he said, the idea that those people could read after a lifetime of living as slaves was highly improbable.  His opinion, not mine. 

My son maintains the entire story was merely told to scare small children and old people.  He scoffs at the idea of a white-haired old man climbing a mountain wearing Birkenstocks, in nothing but a robe, carrying a big stick, to essentially cart down two headstones with laws carved into them. 

My son is a non-believer, and I’m sorry to anyone who finds that offensive.  We think he may have been switched at the hospital. 

I, on the other hand, was citing Charlton Heston and the burning bush from the 1956 Cecil B DeMille movie.  I know for a fact Moses went up that mountain, saw a bush burst into flames, and the voice of God told him to take those heavy ass tablets back down the mountain and post them outside of every courthouse in Egypt!  I know this because I saw it on TV every Easter weekend from the time I was a little girl.

FYI, Yul Brenner was the very best Rameses to ever grace the silver screen, in my humble opinion. 

Besides, I threw in…the Ten Commandments were inside the Ark of the Covenant that Indiana Jones was desperately trying to keep out of Hitler’s hands in the Raiders of the Lost Ark.  I know this because George Lucas told me so.  And he went so far as to reiterate it in the third installment, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  I’ve seen both of these movies at least a hundred times. 

My son asked me if I was going to quote Mel Brooks next, and I laughed.  I know better than to think there were fifteen commandments, five of which were broken by a clumsy Moses.  No, I’m not that gullible.  History of the World Part 1 was just a movie. 

I know the difference.

I think I won our religious debate this evening.  They at least let the subject drop, and I’ll take that as a win by forfeit if nothing else.  And a win is a win, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be digging out my copy of the Mummy to brush up on a little history.

you want me to work what into my blog?

Ok, I tackled zombies the other day. Or at least touched on them.  So today I’m going to go all out and say it.  It’s time to prepare for the zombie invasion.

I’m not ashamed to say my husband has been stocking up for the zombie invasion for a while now.  We have a pantry filled with dry goods, canned goods, and bottled water (in glass, not plastic).  We've stocked up on blankets, solar powered lights and batteries, and primitive hand tools.  My son has a mini arsenal of air powered weapons designed to stun if not kill, and there are two sets of stairs just waiting to be taken out to stop the forward advance of said zombies from reaching the main house.

Basically we’re almost ready.

My husband reminded me just today of how we are sadly under-stocked on medical supplies, and we need to call my mother to get her to “borrow” some things from the hospital. 

Too bad my mother retired a year ago…oh, and she would never steal supplies from the hospital, by the way.  She has been known to accept donations, however. 

When I was a kid, my mother used to bring home the coolest things.  We had a drawer filled with scalpels, tourniquets, scissors, and even a cauterizing tool—all things that were being retired after years of service.  Mom did an entire wallpapering project using a scalpel rather than an X-acto knife.  I remember that room, and it was the better for it.  She used the tourniquets to open jars, and lit candles using the cauterizing tool.  A strange extravagance, I’m sure…but to me it was as normal as using toilet paper and scotch tape as Band-Aids.   I’m pretty sure she still has that drawer of surgical tools, and if I can snag a few things next time I’m there, I’m sure we can build our own MASH style medical unit in case of the zombie attack. 

Someone even suggested using tourniquets as part of a slingshot. I picked up some antlers at an antique shop that might do the trick for the sides.   We could take out zombies then open a jar of spaghetti sauce to celebrate!

Just remember, I won’t be the one cooking if I reach the challenge my husband set out for me.  I just have to get 1000 Twitter and 300 blog followers and I never have to cook again.  Not even in the event of a zombie invasion.  And let no one say I don’t at least try to rise to a challenge, if you get my drift.  I mean, just today I was challenged to put the word tourniquet into my blog, and  I think I even said it more than once!

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the flesh eating zombies to come knocking at my door!

it's a small world after all

I was having a conversation with a friend this evening.  A conversation that made me think about how small the world has gotten.  Not so many years ago, this conversation would have been impossible, because while I was sitting in my home in Atlanta, Georgia she was in her home in Singapore. 

I would have never met her without Twitter.

There are so many great people I would have never met without the internet. 

Like my husband, for example. 

That’s right…I would have never met my husband without the internet.  And this is a huge confession, because we have lied about this for years.  Every time people asked us where we met, we would tell them we met in a Karaoke bar.  Because that is so much better than saying we met on a social network.  No…saying we met in a bar and after having several drinks, got into our cars and drove home...was infinitely better than saying we met by typing to each other and exchanging photographs.   

There used to be such a stigma attached to meeting someone online.  You were crazy…foolish…and probably destined for the Jerry Springer show. 

It isn’t like that anymore.

Now, people think you’re nuts if you’re not online meeting new people.  They wonder why you aren’t living in the current century…why you aren’t tech savvy (and for those of you who aren’t tech savvy, tech is short for technology.)

My kids live a world where they keep in touch with friends and family via Facebook and MySpace.  My sister teaches college where she interacts with her students strictly through online forums and email.  My life is spent on the computer sharing words with people on Twitter.  And it doesn’t feel the least bit strange. 

I take that back…sometimes it feels a little strange.

Just this evening, a fellow writer I met through Twitter asked me to add him as a friend on Facebook.  When I did, the images I was seeing were of a high school student.  I immediately hit the panic button in my brain and assumed I had stumbled upon an online stalker.  My momentary freak out sent up a red flag across Twitter outing him as a teenage boy. 

After he accepted my already tendered friend request, and spent several minutes talking me down from the proverbial ledge, I was able to see the rest of his profile to confirm that he was, in fact, a grown man with teenagers of his own.  Oops. My bad.

Hey, you can’t blame me for overreacting…I’m a woman, and we do that.  And you can never be too careful when meeting people online.  Just like meeting people in the grocery store or the library, you will run across the occasional crazies from time to time. 

But then again, you might just run across your new best friends, critique partners, or spouses.  Just ask me…it can happen.

Until the next time…I’ll be sending an instant message to my husband to meet me in the bedroom.

it just might be time to grow up

It’s been a good week.

My youngest child turned eighteen yesterday and…like magic…she became a responsible adult.  She immediately took over paying for her own gas, her car insurance, her schooling, and all other things responsible adults take care of.  She got up, cleaned her room, made me breakfast, did the dishes, and asked if she could vacuum the entire house for me (because she knows I hate to vacuum.) Next thing I know she’s out looking for a new place to live and shopping for groceries on the way back.  My little girl is all grown up.

And then I woke up and it was still Saturday. 

Is it possible we expect just a little too much of our children just because they have reached a milestone age?  Isn’t it written somewhere that the human brain hasn’t reached full maturity until approximately age twenty-one, when in reality, most men I know didn’t reach maturity until way past their thirtieth birthday, and some still haven’t gotten there? 

I’m not suggesting we coddle our children for their entire lives, I expect my newly anointed adult children to pursue a higher education and seek gainful employment.  But when did our culture turn into one that boots their young out of the nest so early?  I seem to remember my grandparents talking about families living together until the children were married…like they do in other cultures. 

But I guess I’m not looking for that to be the answer either.  I would like to find a happy medium.  I want my children to learn how to be responsible adults at home before they are bounced out into the real world to fend for themselves. 

I suppose that means I need to start acting like a mature responsible adult and give up my childish ways. 

But where do I begin?  Am I supposed to burn my copies of Harry Potter and Twilight to gain entry into the folds of adulthood?  Are things like popsicles, bubble gum, and ice cream sandwiches forever off my grocery list?  What about ordering a Happy Meal…what if I swear it’s not just for the toy? 

I think the only responsible thing I can do is to decide what the absolute worst offenders of an immature lifestyle would be, and permanently remove them from my vocabulary. 

So from now on I will vow never to watch the Jersey Shore, the Bachelor, or the Housewives of anyone’s county for fear my brains will turn to mush and my ability to parent will be permanently rescinded.  The fact that I have never watched them before doesn’t matter one bit since I’ve been meaning to watch for years, and now it’s simply too late. 

I will also adopt the very adult practices of drinking coffee, red wine, and dry martinis.  This is a huge sacrifice I’m willing to make for the greater good. 

And by joining the ranks of adulthood and giving up the worst of all childish evils, I have left myself open to continue my ongoing relationships with the socially relevant Facebook and Twitter, where I monitor the current trends so I will know how to communicate with the younger generation.  And my collection of Bugs Bunny and Road Runner cartoons so I don’t lose touch with my past. 

I think I’ve got this whole responsible adult thing figured out.

Until the next time…I’ll be donating my Justin Bieber and team Jacob t-shirts to the local Goodwill!

where the hell is marconi when you need him?

I don’t know what it is about a Friday and a rousing game of musical restaurants, but Mike and I were at it again tonight.  I wasn’t picky. All I wanted was a slice of pizza.  I wasn’t even particular about where it came from as long as it wasn’t my own kitchen.  The damn fruit flies had regrouped and called for reinforcements, and were now staging a full on revolution.  My only recourse was to spray everything and run. 

It would be impossible to cook in there for at least several days.  I'm sure of it.

So we piled into the car and headed out on a quest to find good pizza…and WiFi.

Now, if you’ve read my blog before, you know this quest was doomed from the beginning.  We hopped into the car at seven, right in the height of the dinner hour, and without a plan.   After a short ride, we were surrounded by several of our favorite restaurants.  None of them served pizza. 

So I asked my husband, “Where are we eating?”

“You didn’t tell me where you wanted to go,” he replied. 

Ok…back up.  Did you see where I said I wanted pizza?  I know I said I wanted pizza at least three times.  I said, "I just want a slice of pizza and I don’t really care where it comes from. Oh as long as they have WiFi." Yes this is what I said.

He didn’t remember any of that conversation. He said I should have been more specific as to where we were going. 

So I said again, “I want pizza.  Just a slice of pizza.” 

The closest place was one we both hated.  But at this point, I was ready to eat my own flip flop…the one Indiana Jones had already chewed half through. I was still wearing the flip flop because it is my only pair, and I don’t really care if it has teeth marks in it.  I will simply tell people I was starving because my husband didn’t listen when I said I wanted pizza. 

So we parked and I hauled my laptop bag into the restaurant with me only to discover that a) they were packed to the gills, and b) they didn’t have WiFi.  This was the easiest decision we have ever made at the dinner hour.  We turned around and went back to the car.

“Pizza.” I reminded him. 

We drove quite a ways away to the historic square, to one of the best places in town.  We drove around for ten minutes looking for a place to park. There was absolutely no parking, and the pizza place was overflowing with people, so we turned around and headed toward home again.  My husband said we were starting fresh close to home.  It was almost eight by then, and I had actually taken a bite out of that flip flop. 

As we drove back to our own side of town, he asked me what I wanted to do.  “Pizza.” I droned, like a zombie.  “I want pizza.”

As we got closer to our own stomping grounds I told him where we could get pizza.  Nothing fancy, but it was definitely pizza.  He looked right at me.  He watched my lips move.  He even made a grunting sound, which all women understand as confirmation.   Then he proceeded to drive right past the turn. 

“Hey!” I whined, coming out of my zombie fog to protest.  “Pizza!  That way!” I pointed. 

He looked at me like I was a crazy person.  “What are you talking about?” 

I replayed the conversation from less than three minutes earlier and he had no recollection. 

“But you looked at me.  You watched me say things.” I argued. 

The blank look on his face told me everything I needed to know.  He had not heard a single word.  And he had looked me right in the face when I was talking.  I decided right then I needed a new system to talk to my husband.  I needed a Marconi wireless telegraph system. 

Wife want pizza. Stop.  Confirm understanding that wife want pizza. Stop.

He would send back his confirmation and the conversation would go on.  Of course, when I explained this to him, he blanked out again and I knew he was thinking about other things while I blathered on.  This is why I have a blog…at least there is someone out there who listens when I type.

Oh yeah, we got the pizza.  Or rather I did.  He had a taco and then we went home.  Two hours in the car to eat at the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut around the corner.  That’s what we call date night around here.

Until the next time…I’ll channeling Marconi in the bedroom tonight!

he's just a 'fraidy dog

It would appear our ghost is back.

When we moved into our downsized house back in January, it was apparent we weren’t alone.  The dogs would frequently stare into an empty corner, growl and bark at the nothingness as if they were staring into the eyes of an unknown stranger.  This went on for weeks.  And it wasn’t just the dogs.  Members of the family would walk into an empty room to find something amiss.  A TV on when it had been off…or a TV off that should have been on.  Sometimes things were moved into new positions.  But most upsetting was the reaction from the dogs.  Especially Cybil.  She was the old lady of the group.  The alpha female.  The dog in charge.  She was the one the others took orders from. 

She was the one facing down a specter in the dark. 

Her hackles went up and her teeth came out.  The growl sounded deep in her chest.  The rest of us hid in the bedroom.  I wanted no part of a ghost.  

We were certain someone must have died in our house.  Someone that had not yet moved on from this world.   We did research.  We asked questions.  Then one day the ghost was just gone.  

Not soon after that, Cybil was gone.  She died in the very room she had seen the ghost.

Fast forward to last night.  Indiana Jones, the Mastiff sat at the French doors to be let out.  I expect this every night at 2am…it happens the minute I shut off the light and settle into the sheets to sleep.  I think he waits for my head to hit the pillows and my eyes to grow heavy before lifting a huge paw to the glass. 

Scratch.  And I’m up…

I stumble in the dark to the door, stepping on the pieces of someone’s shoe and half a milk jug.  I click on the light, open the door, and wait for him to run out.  But this time he just sits and stares at me.  I think I must have dreamed the scratch on the door, so I close the door, flip the light off and stumble back to the bed.

Head nestled into the pillows again, sleep just within my reach and…

Scratch.

I wander back to the door and stare at the dog’s innocent face.  He’s toying with me I think.  So I open the door again and he lies down in the doorway.  His head is on the deck, his body in the bedroom.   I try to nudge him out the door but he won’t move.  So I flick the outside light on again and go back to bed.  I figure he’ll go once I’m back in bed.  He doesn’t.  Instead, he freaks out when a moth flies at him. 

He crashes into me as I’m running to the door, nearly knocking me to the floor.  I go outside and call him.  He won’t come, so my husband gets up and goes outside.  The dog tip toes out the door and stares into the corner of the deck like he’s looking at someone.  The hair on his back stands on end and he backs into the house again, knocking me into the door. 

We finally coax him to the bottom of the steps where he relieves himself of at least two gallons and then runs up the stairs as fast as he can smashing into the door and flying into my bed where he hides under the sheets.  Dirty feet and all. 

When he gets up this morning the cycle repeats. 

My mastiff will not go outside because he sees dead people.  I think this makes for a funny blog, but if anyone else wrote this, I wouldn’t believe it.  Then I think about the rest of my life and realize it fits perfectly. 

My dog has discovered a sixth scent and it smells of fear. 

Brilliant.

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping between my husband and the dog.

what comes after the flies?

I read Mindy Klasky’s blog today where she was lamenting the fruit fly invasion in her kitchen, and the steps she was taking to rid herself of the pesky little monsters.  I had to comment, “me too!” Because I have a fruit fly problem of my own.  In fact, it may just be a plague of biblical proportions.  I have sprayed, and cleaned, and poured boiling water down the drain.  I’ve pitched out all the fruit…washed all the dishes…took out the trash.  Still those damn flies multiply overnight.  It makes me not want to be in the kitchen at all…or that’s my current excuse anyway.  I intend on using Mindy’s methods of ridding myself of the flies…tomorrow.  Tonight, I had bigger fish to fry.

Well, maybe not fish…but I had bigger “stir” to fry anyway.

My husband called me from twenty minutes away to tell me he was starving to death (to death!) and, “What did you make for dinner?” 

I made the same thing I make most nights…nothing.  But “nothing” wasn’t going to cut it tonight.  And he wasn’t up for the usual restaurant fair I tend to crave.  No, he wanted a home cooked meal.  I almost asked him whose home he was visiting tonight, but I didn’t.  He sounded grumpy, and I didn’t want to make grumpy things grumpier. 

So I pulled out the leftover chicken, a bag of fresh baby carrots, a bag of fresh snow peas, and a whole onion, and fired up the ridiculously expensive sauté pan I just had to have (even though I hate to cook).

Now, my dislike of cooking has nothing to do with a lack of skills.  It has to do with a lack of desire.  I inherited this from my mother.  She taught me how to bake like a French pastry chef, but she had the uncanny ability to burn water.  She just doesn't like to cook. 

I think my problem is mostly boredom.  I can’t bear to stand in front of the stove stirring a pot when I could be doing something more exciting. 

So I put my laptop on the island and chop the onions while I watch my Twitter stream roll by.  I send a few tweets then toss the cut onion into the hot oil and begin to sauté them.  It was going so well…then bing…more tweets.  I answer a tweet and turn back to…oh wait…shiny Facebook.  I have a message.  So I check my Facebook messages…then I may as well check my email, right?  I have several email accounts, so I click through those and read the lovely bit of spam my mother sent me…and type out a quick message.  The onions smell wonderful I know I need to stir them. Then bing, more tweets.  I laugh, and type a message back and then…what is that smell?

That’s when I noticed the fireball.

And that your honor, is exactly how I was banned from cooking for several months. 

So I’ve gone from biblically significant fruit flies to the fires of hell coming out of my stove.  I’m telling you, the kitchen is a dangerous place!  People just shouldn’t have to cook for themselves when there are places like Longhorn Steakhouse so readily available. 

Oh, I did actually finish the stir fry.  And I thought it was pretty good.  My husband didn’t love it, but maybe that was my plan all along.  No one will ever know.

Until the next time…I’ll be making reservations!

peer pressure isn’t just for kids anymore

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…being a blogger is like being a dancing bear.  I’m on this stage moving as fast as I can to entertain you, and sometimes the pressure is amazing.  I start wishing for minor catastrophes to befall me so I can write about them.  I plan dangerous excursions for myself when I know I am a walking recipe for disaster without any help.  And when that’s not enough, I have other writers making suggestions like…

“Oh, you should give yourself a piercing!” or “What about a tattoo?” 

I came up with the idea to cut my own hair.  I needed a haircut, so why not do it myself?  It would be funny, I have no doubt.  But when I suggested the idea to my husband he just rolled his eyes at me, the way he often does, and said, “It’s one thing to suffer for your art, but it’s quite another to make the rest of us suffer too.”  I couldn’t imagine what he meant by that.  How would cutting my own hair cause him any suffering?  “I would have to look at you,” he said.  So back to the drawing board I went.  Did no one have an idea that was safe AND funny?

Apparently not.

The suggestion that I dye my hair bright pink for the day was a good one, but since I’d already done that quite accidentally once before—leaving myself with Ronald McDonald red hair for the better part of several days—I decided it wasn’t a viable solution.  In my hands, hair dye is a dangerous weapon.  And frankly, I like eating out too much to risk being grounded to the house by my husband for stepping over the invisible line from Funland into Humiliationville. 

I wouldn’t mind it so much.  I’m the same person who found the most hideous sweater known to mankind and wore it to work to see what people would say.  The same hot pink sweater I am forbidden to wear in the presence of my family even in the privacy of my own home. I would gladly wear hot pink hair for a few days just to blog about the reactions.  Unfortunately, my husband is a bit more timid in his interactions with other humans.  He doesn’t like when I say more than a few words to the waiter at a restaurant for fear of where my thoughts might take me.  He wouldn’t survive hot pink hair…not even in a drive-thru window.

Trust me on that…I’ve done embarrassing things in a drive-thru window before.  Once in particular.  And I’m surprised my husband didn’t leave the vehicle and disappear into the night rather than drive from the speaker to the window to face the hysterical laughter within.  But I was the one who was driving…so ordering my food with a ridiculous accent and then telling them I wanted my food to go was the cherry on the top of my day.  And if the reactions in the Dairy Queen window that night were any indication, I gave at least five other people a really funny story to tell when they got home. 

That’s just how I roll. 

So with all the outrageous requests for self-mutilation in the name of art, what did I come up with for my blog tonight?  I’ve decided to just say NO.  Isn’t that what I’ve been telling my kids to do for years?

Until the next time…I’ll be plotting my next move!

just another day in my crazy life

I didn’t want to get up this morning.  I needed just a few more minutes of sleep to finish my dream. It wasn’t a good dream, but those are the ones you really need to finish.  You need to bring them to a satisfying conclusion or you’re stuck with that leftover dread all day long.  I didn’t want a day filled with leftover dread.  I had a fresh batch waiting for me as it was. 

I had promised the girls I would take them on a shopping trip to Little Five Points, one of Atlanta’s more colorful neighborhoods.  Little Five, as the girls call it, is a hippie, eccentric, funky, artsy little district full of bizarre and wonderful shops and restaurants.

It was way beyond my brand of weird.

My girls were interested in Junkman’s Daughter and Psycho Sister’s on this trip…two of the funkiest of the funky.  Junkman’s doesn’t allow photos taken inside, but Psycho Sister’s actually begged me to take pictures and blog about them.  I was only too happy to comply.  It was a cool little place and much of my husband’s hard earned money was spent there. 

As the girls wandered the shops holding up costumes that rivaled the best of Halloween though the past century, I ran around taking pictures and tried not to make eye contact with the man strutting down the sidewalk wearing a giant pair of fairy wings.

I sort of felt like I was in the first twenty minutes of what would morph into the scariest zombie movie ever made.

My son has spent countless hours schooling me on what I would need to do to survive a zombie invasion, so I know I can’t outrun a zombie.  I can’t outrun the gray in my hair, how would I ever have a chance of escaping a zombie?  In fact, I would be lucky to get more than a few steps away.  I have been known to trip over imaginary obstacles.  My total lack of coordination is legendary.  I once managed to get my heel caught in a sidewalk grate at the exact same time I got the buttons on the cuff of my coat sleeves caught in the straps of my purse.  I floundered around like a fish in a net until someone felt sorry enough for me to untangle me from my self-imposed trap.  My only hope for survival is to plan ahead.

So standing in the center of Little Five Points in the middle of another scorcher of a day, I was studying the crowd for signs of infection…of the zombie sort. 

As an experiment in people watching it was amazing.  Junkman’s Daughter was one of those places where you could pass right by someone and not realize they had gone off until they took a bite out of your shoulder.

The man modeling peacock feather earrings in Psycho Sisters was, by his own admission, only twenty-three days away from the zombie apocalypse.  Lucky for him, he had some pretty nice earrings…we had to buy a pair.   

While we ate pizza at an outdoor café a man approached the table beside us panhandling for a cigarette, and I was pretty sure he was just one bite away from the undead. Best pizza I have eaten in ages, but I ate with trepidation as I waited for someone to run up behind me and stick a straw into my skull to suck out my brains.  

Somehow we survived the day.  I never felt more than a fleeting urge to run and I made it home with daylight hours to spare…all thanks to the careful planning and foresight instilled in me by my son over the course of several years. 

Many months ago, as we drove past an ill-planned neighborhood of single story houses planted in an open field with no safe cover anywhere to be seen, my son said something to me that I will never forget as long as I live.  He said, “When the zombies attack…those people are totally screwed.” 

So…maybe we fit in down in Little Five Points better than I originally thought.

Until the next time…I’ll be barricading the doors!

why the world needs Godzilla

I think back to my earlier years, when Life was a board game you could cheat, the bills were always paid on time (and by someone else), and food magically appeared on the table.  I didn’t worry about global warming, AAA credit ratings, or the price of oil.  It didn’t matter how much gold cost on the open market, because I knew I could find an endless supply at the end of a rainbow, guarded by a little man in a green suit.  I didn’t have a care in the world.  The only things I had to fear were coal in my Christmas stocking and Godzilla.  Basically, Godzilla was the only truly scary thing the world had to offer.  Nothing could even compare. 

No matter what they threw at him, he would defeat it. 

Smog monster?  No contest.  The terrifying Rodan?  Atomic toast against Godzilla.   Even King Kong knew he had met his match in his battle with the giant lizard. 

There was even a time when my giant moth had tried to take out Godzilla…but Mothra didn’t stand a chance against him.  Because when it came right down to it…Godzilla kicked ass. 

I mean, come on, admit it…if you’re locked in a room with rising unemployment, falling stock markets, and potential foreclosures, and Godzilla suddenly comes knocking…does anything else really matter?  Who runs from inflation?  Not Godzilla, I’m certain. 

But I can almost guarantee the world would run from Godzilla. 

Suddenly, societies that despised each other would unite.  There would be an unexpected commonality among different races and religions.  It wouldn’t matter if you were team Edward or team Jacob. Even Mac and PC users would band together. We are talking about the ultimate US vs. THEM…with “them” being Godzilla and his breath of fire.

If you ask me, this crazy world we live in just might need a fire breathing lizard to pull us together…set us back on the path to a common goal.  He would certainly create jobs as we threw up factories to build Godzilla thwarting weapons and fire proof armor.  And he would reduce carbon emissions with every SUV he trampled along the highway. 

Yes, the world needs Godzilla…if for nothing else than to chase the scary moths from my back porch.

Until the next time…I’ll be preparing for the first invasion!

excuse me, could you pass me the bug spray?

I’m a moth magnet

I’m sitting in my living room writing by the backlight of my computer, listening to Edith Piaf on auto loop for almost an hour.  The music has driven all other humans from the room, leaving just me and the dogs. In my peripheral vision, I see a moth the size of a pigeon bashing himself against my French doors as if he knows just a few more good hits will spring the doors open.  He has done this for several nights in a row, so I know he’s not giving up.  All I can think about is keeping that door closed.  I check the lock a few times just to be sure.  And seriously, the dogs had better not have to go out because I’m not opening the door and letting the giant moth in to suck the life out of me and turn me into another giant moth.  I saw this happen in a movie when I was eight, and it’s never quite left me. 

I think I’m a magnet for these things—giant bugs in the night, weird strangers in the mall, the occasional creeper online.

You would think at my age I would know better…that I would recognize the power of the flirt.

I never do.  My family tells me it’s my own fault.  I engage people in conversation in the line at the grocery store. The bank.  Or the DMV.  And apparently, you should never engage someone in conversation while in line at the DMV.  They might be there reinstating their license after years of having it revoked for vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence of some horrible, psychotic substance…they might still be taking it and when you walk back to your car an hour or two later, they’ll be waiting in the backseat! 

I always think I’m just being nice, when in fact it would seem I am simply inviting the masses to imagine me in my underwear.  And trust me, I don’t think my husband imagines me in my underwear…they’re usually inside out. 

That’s just how I roll.

So in an attempt to protect myself from the dangers of the outside world, I go to Twitter.  And here I am, hanging out in the world’s biggest virtual coffee shop…no coffee in hand…talking to writers, and making friends and connections.  I’m having fun, learning new things, and maybe being a little flirty.  Not the bad kind of flirty.  And there is a difference.  I’ve spent hours explaining that difference to my husband over the course of several years.  Sometimes flirty is just friendly.  I’m a friendly flirt.  I mean no harm.  Honest.  But one day, while I’m making my writery connections and new friendships, I meet someone who decides the connection I was making was a love connection.  Eek!  Could this possibly happen to anyone but me? Am I just a magnet for moths and psychos, and online creepers?  What do I do?

I’ll tell you what I do…I run away.  Just like at the DMV.  I lock my Twitter doors up tight and I go to bed, tucking myself tightly under the covers.  So what if it’s four hundred degrees outside and my blankets are filled with fluffy down which basically turns me into a roasted duck?  I stay hidden under the covers until morning.  And when I get up and groggily check my Twitter command center I see no creepy stalkers there.  I see nothing but fun and friendship…writers and agents…and people I like.  So maybe I overreacted, or maybe it was all just a dream caused by a scary moth bashing at my French doors.

My husband says I might just be crazy…but for now, I’ll take my chances.  It’s going to take more than one giant moth to chase off Twitter girl. 

Besides…I have a WIP.

Until the next time…I’ll be fending off creepers and moths alike!

a couple of smooth operators

It’s Friday…which is the official dog day on my blog.  So with that in mind, I have a guilty confession.  My 15 month old Mastiff puppy, Indiana Jones has not been very well behaved as of late.  And a naughty mastiff is a very bad thing.  He weighs 162 pounds, and can reach pretty much everywhere.  But his bad habits don’t extent to stealing bread from the counter, or chewing on chairs.  No…instead he has decided my husband may be a danger to my existence.  Ironic, since I’m the one who is a danger to my own existence. But my dog is spoiled and would rather no one but him sit beside me on the sofa. I suppose it doesn’t help that I take him everywhere. I even took him to McDonald’s for his birthday and got him chicken nuggets.  I’m admitting this because I don’t feel quite as guilty today.  I just read Monique’s blog.  She is my dog’s trainer, and as it turns out…her dogs are naughty sometimes too.  And she has two of them to contend with! Well…two she’s talking about anyway…

The Smooth Collie twins have struck again!  Just as my house was tidy and clean in anticipation of the hubby coming home from his week out of town, I made a grievous error in judgment—bringing them in for some quality time as I wrote this blog. 

The mistake became clear the instant I opened the door.  A mad rush of sable fur tore past me at breakneck speed.  Before I could utter a single word, Jest was on the sofa—the one with the neatly arranged pillows hand-sewn by mother-in-law.  In a joyous moment completely free of the restraint of his thinking brain, he began tossing pillows in the air before finally settling in for a good back scratch on the cool leather.  Satisfied with the destruction of the couch, he moved onto the matching loveseat, repeating the carnage against the innocent pillows. 

Meanwhile, his more devious sibling was taking advantage of my shock and loss of speech (or perhaps we should call it “shock & awe”) Collie-style, by surfing the nearby game table.  There, to her great delight, she found dishes left by my teenage children.  After occupying herself licking up any morsel left—fit for consumption or not—she headed for greater challenges. 

Bren has mastered door opening—no door in my house is too difficult for her high-level abilities.  I am quite convinced that she has an opposable thumb cleverly concealed as a dew claw…Opening the door to the man cave, the hubby’s office, and, finally, to the kennel room, she was on a hunt for forbidden treasures.  Once in the kennel room, she scored the ultimate prize—a jumbo-sized bag of Pupperoni carelessly left on the grooming table.  As I approached to finally gain control of the situation, she resembled a raccoon caught in a garbage can, up to her neck in the Pupperoni bag.

While I am not proud to admit this, this rampage is repeated in my home on a daily basis.  The victims of the carnage change depending upon which door of the house I left open for the beasts.  Bringing them in from the deck onto the main floor of the house results in an all-out Wild West Stampede through the kitchen, straight for the pantry.  If the pantry door is closed—no problem.  Bren has that one covered, with that cleverly disguised opposable thumb.  I have adapted to the daily pantry raid by placing high value items on a higher shelf.  But occasionally I forget—just ask my kids about the loaf of Hawaiian bread they didn’t get a bite of last week…

For all of the chaos they bring to my life, I love the smoothie twins with all of my heart.  I know that right now they are a living parody of the cobbler’s kids who had no shoes.  My smoothies are the dog trainer’s dogs who haven’t been trained.  The truth is, even a dog trainer has only so many hours in the day to devote to training dogs.  After my hours spent with clients, teaching group classes, or writing behavior plans, I have little left for my own pets. 

I admit this to you—my failure in training my own dogs--so that any of you struggling with your dog’s behavior know that we all struggle with the same things.  No dog is perfect—there is always something to be worked on.  I coach my clients to make training a fun activity for both they and their dogs…work on sits and downs for 5 minutes in the kitchen at doggy dinner time, or work on sit-stays during commercials while watching TV.  I think it’s time for the trainer to take her own good advice and start working with the smoothies!

In the meantime, their exploits still leave me grinning ear to ear.  The joy that they bring me easily surpasses any inconvenience of living with them.  And, I vow, that the next time you hear about the smoothies, training will have become a regular part of their daily routines.  I can’t wait to tell you some of those stories—I bet there will be some doosies! 

Happy Training!

Monique.

Thanks Monique!  I’m thinking Indy might need a play date with the collies sometime soon.  It should definitely be at the park where there aren’t any door handles for anyone to open.  You know dogs teach each other these tricks…can’t be too careful.

Until the next time…I’ll be back to blogging as usual.

the further adventures of twitter girl

Ok, confession time.

I laugh at myself.  And I’m not just talking about when I fall down. But I laugh then too.  No, I’m talking about laughing at my own jokes.  We aren’t supposed to admit such crimes against humanity.  But I do it.  And damn it, I’ll do it again. 

How could I possibly deny the humor in botched bikini waxes, flooding the stove, or getting locked out of the house in my underwear? (And yes, that really did happen.)

I skim through my old blogs sometimes and just laugh until I cry.  I pretend it wasn’t me struggling with a pair of homicidal pantyhose, or attempting to do contortionist type moves on a fireman’s pole (wait…back up…not a “fireman’s” pole…I’m referring to a pole like the one firemen slide down.  You know what I mean.) 

I just run through blogs and laugh.  At me.

When I’m not laughing, I’m writing things that will make me laugh.  And if it makes me laugh, I can only hope it will make you laugh too.  I have the best job ever…even if I don’t get paid to do anything yet. I am a full time writer/blogger who laughs at herself all day long. 

(Insert invitation for publishers/agents/writery types to snap me up immediately for full-time paid gig.) 

In some alternate reality, you would likely find me locked in a padded cell where I would be pumped full of happy juice while being spoon-fed by men in white coats.  All to keep me safe from the inevitable self-inflicted bikini wax.  

But bumps, bruises and wax burns aside, I’m perfectly content to live where I am, juggling kids, pets, a husband, housework, writing, and life in general, all while somehow managing to stay upright...well mostly.

Until the next time…I’ll be saving the world, one giggle at a time.

take two scoops of vanilla and call me in the morning

Today was one of those days.

Admit it, you’ve had one.  The teens are screaming at you in what sounds like a foreign language that you are at least twenty years too old to translate.  You catch phrases like nothing to wear, and humidity messing up hair, and party ruined.  Then the doorbell rings and the dogs go nuts, so you run around trying to keep your giant dog from jumping on unsuspecting guests…and no one believes you that he never does this.  And you forget to turn off the oven for four hours after baking cookies to satisfy a craving you only needed to satisfy because you were completely stressed out about the first two catastrophes and now the house is hot enough to bake bread during one of the hottest summers since the dinosaur age. 

Worse than that…you’re out of liquor, cough syrup, valium, and ice…not that you would indulge in any of those things.  You wouldn’t.  Well, maybe the ice.  But just thinking about medication makes you feel somewhat better. 

So you drive to the grocery store and stock up on things like milk, cheese, and bread because you suddenly feel an apocalypse coming on.

You come home and discover your husband is listening to music that hasn’t been played on the radio since…well, maybe never…and someone ate the last piece of chocolate you had hidden in the freezer.

So you sit down at your laptop to write a long email to the creator of the universe asking for answers about things like…why teenagers are such horrible creatures, and why the earth is heating up at exactly the same time you seem to be having hot flashes, and you’re just about to send it when you realize you don’t have his email address.

Now the best part about the day is that it’s almost over and you get to start fresh in the morning.  Except you aren’t ready for bed yet, so it feels like this day will never end…

And then you remember the emergency chocolate you stashed in the pantry for days like this…and wait, you have a whole jar of peanut butter in the cupboard…and ice cream in the freezer and maybe even just a little bit of whipped cream in the fridge.

And if you’re really quiet, you won’t even have to share.

Until the next time…I’ll be self-medicating with an ice cream sundae.

WIPs and chains

Twitter is my favorite new hangout.  Of. All. Time.

It’s true.  I have increased my website traffic, my internet exposure, and met a lot of really wonderful writers, and friends. 

Oh, and I've learned a few new acronyms. 

For example, in the world of Twitter, your current work in progress is called a WIP.  Some newbies will pronounce the letters as whip, but don’t do that. It's W.I.P.  

Unless of course you’re playing a rousing game of WIP pun. How many puns can you make using WIP?

WIP it…WIP it good! A dream is a WIP your heart makes.  When you WIP upon a star.  If you’re going swimming, watch out for the WIP tide.  You guys have WIPed my ass! (Oops!) You have to be careful with that last one.  Don't forget to add the second P…otherwise it’s a whole other game entirely.

But what does this game mean for me in the grand scheme of things? 

Well…it’s good thing I got a full eight hours of sleep last night, because I’m going to be chained to my laptop writing until the sun comes up…since I played all day long!

Was it worth it, you ask? 

Why, yes it was.  I had a blast.  And sometimes, fun trumps work.  Don’t forget that.

Until the next time…It’s WIPs and chains for me!

who needs sleep anyway?

Sleep is highly overrated.  That is, until you don’t get enough of it.

I have been burning the candle from both ends for so long, I’m certain I’m about to run out of candles.  Writing, editing, managing a website, a household, a marriage and children, not to mention a giant-sized puppy that has discovered the joys of an open trash can, can be challenging.

I’m up for the challenge, just so you know.

I was up until six am Monday morning plugging away at the word count on my current project.  I was on a roll, and I’ve said it before, you just don’t interrupt the inspiration when it’s flowing.  It’s like messing with a streak in baseball. 

You just don’t do it.

Once I closed the laptop, I managed to grab just over four hours of sleep before the real world came barging into my bedroom begging for me to give it attention.  So I was up, and dressed…and zipping around on a false high.  Because lack of sleep feels like a box of caffeine…until you crash.

No matter what kind of streak you’re on, you can’t keep up the pace very long if you don’t pause for a few Zzz’s.  I think I’m finding that out now.  I’m feeling the drag of the lack of sleep hangover.  It’s barely past midnight and I’m tied to a dozen ropes pulling me toward the floor harder than I can pull against them to stay upright.  If I don’t type faster, it might be one of those nights when my husband pulls out the camera and snaps pictures of me drooling on the keyboard because I’ve fallen asleep mid-blog.

I’ll be fine as long as I don’t close my eyes…or blink.

Maybe I’ll just grab a quick wink…you’ll wake me up to finish, right? 

Until the next time…I’ll be Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

there's nothing wrong with being vanilla

Trying to figure out what others expect of you is exhausting. I ask myself almost every day, “How can I possibly live up to that?” My answer is simple…I can’t.  So what do I do?  Well, first I need to know what you want from me.  And by the way, the phrase “you should know,” is the most frustrating one of all. How can I possibly know every flavor of ice cream and which one might be your favorite? 

But I’m not really talking about ice cream, am I?  No, I’m talking about life.

It could be writing a query letter, disciplining your children, washing a dish, following a grocery list, or even the way you relay information.  Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it won’t be enough.  It won’t be the way someone wanted it done.  People will be unsatisfied.  It’s inevitable.

If you’re me, you find yourself struggling to please everyone.  Rewriting your query a million times (and maybe it needed to be done, but maybe not). Dancing over eggshells to avoid confrontation because your parenting methods don’t meet with everyone’s approval. Washing dishes by hand before putting them in the machine to be sure they are clean.  Going back to the store for the items you overlooked, because you didn’t think they were needed.  Trying to explain yourself three different ways for every single topic to be sure you are understood.  Taking steps to make every task is so much more difficult than it should be…just because someone else wanted it that way.

But today an old friend summed things up for me so perfectly that my frustration with the pressures of life suddenly faded away.   

He said, simple is best. 

And it’s true.  Sometimes life isn’t a banana split with chocolate, strawberry and pineapple toppings all slathered in whipped cream and topped with a cherry.  Sometimes life is just a chocolate and vanilla swirled cone. 

Sometimes simple is best.

And sometimes we have to please ourselves first to be worth anything to those around us.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with a plain old ice cream cone.

Sometimes it’s the very thing you needed.

Until the next time…I’ll be making a quick trip to Dairy Queen.

a kind word goes a long way

I stayed up until just before dawn this morning to work on my most recent project and after clacking away at the keys until I was afraid the sun would rise before I slept a wink, I discovered I had made real progress.  When I woke up after only four hours of sleep, I propped up my pillows and pulled out my laptop, excited to read what I had written. I was pleasantly surprised that I still liked it.  In fact, it was pretty good.  I was delighted, even though it was just me saying so. 

As soon as I finished telling myself how good I was, I surfed through my social networks, discovering a comment on a post of mine that made my entire day.  Suddenly I was wide awake despite my lack of sleep.

I read the comment to myself and then yelled for my husband to read it again to him. 

“I do believe that I have just read about twenty of your posts in a row, and read the Bikini Wax Disaster, and all three snippets of your books. And I have never laughed so hard at posts or wanted to read more of anyone's books so much. So thank you.”

Because I forgot to ask if I could print her name here, I won’t.  But I can tell you, not only did her kind words make my day, they made me happy to be a writer. 

And some days, being a writer isn’t easy. 

The search for an agent is ongoing and it seems there is always something to edit, revise, and rewrite. 

I count myself lucky to have so many people who enjoy what I do almost as much as I do.  And at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters.

Then again, since I’m quoting people tonight, I have it on good authority you should check out Suddenly Sorceress (in the books tab at the top of the page) if you haven’t already.  According to a recent survey conducted in my living room, 2 out of 3 people want it to be published so they can buy a copy in the store tomorrow.

I guess that means I need to continue clacking away at the keys well into the night to finish it as soon as possible.   

It’s a good thing I’m getting used to sleepless nights.

Until the next time…I’ll be burning that candle at both ends again.

old dogs and new tricks

It’s Friday again!  My favorite day of the week.  Why?  Because I have a night off from blogging, and instead, I can enjoy the wonderful doggy blogging by my Friday guest blogger, Monique Williams of ShadowMe Dog Training.  And I’m not singing her praises just because she gives me a much needed night off—reason enough all by itself.  Better than a night off, I enjoy reading about our furry friends.  Tonight’s blog is of particular interest because it deals with senior dogs.  I recently lost my beloved Labrador Cybil, and it warms my heart to know somewhere out there someone loves the geriatric Labs as much as I do.  And with that, I give you Monique.

Yesterday on Facebook, I shared the plight of an abandoned, blind Chocolate Lab named Zeb.  From his picture, it was obvious that he was well into his senior years, although the shelter did not have his age.  Poor Zeb was very frightened by his new surroundings.  The shelter located his owner who refused to come get Zeb, but was willing to pay a euthanasia fee instead. 

I have to censor myself carefully here because of my rabid outrage.  I will leave it that I know in my heart with absolute certainty that there is a special place reserved in hell for people like Zeb’s owner.   When I shared Zeb’s photo and information, he had just a few hours to live—he was scheduled for euthanasia at 7 am the following morning.  Thanks to the dedication of an amazing rescue group, Angels Among Us, Zeb was pulled from the shelter and saved.  Zeb already has a legion of fans, several of whom are clamoring to meet and potentially adopt him.  I have no doubt that Zeb will know only love and happiness for the rest of his life.

I have been blessed in my life by several dogs who remind me of Zeb.  Each awkwardly (and, occasionally, painfully!) transitioned from puppyhood to adulthood before making a graceful and dignified transition to become seniors.   As they aged, my appreciation and love for them continued to grow—puppy love has nothing on the love of a grey muzzle.

My Sheltie, Shadow, was a blessing each and every day of her life.  She was diagnosed with diabetes at age 6, losing her vision to its complications by age 8.  I wish humans could accept disability with the courage and common sense that Shadow—and all canines—accepted her new limitations.  Shadow was the undisputed queen and guardian of our house long after she lost her vision.  She continued to play fetch for hours daily by switching from tennis balls to fetch toys which made noise when thrown—her favorite was a stuffed cow whose “Mooooooooooooooo…” could be heard for nearly a minute.  If her hearing failed to help her locate the prize, her keen nose soon took over.  She would furiously hunt until she could pounce on her treasure, returning it to me for another toss. 

I have absolutely no regrets over the minor modifications I made in my life to accommodate Shadow.  I carefully scheduled mornings and evenings for her twice daily insulin injections.  She would let me know when it was time, barking loudly from in front of the refrigerator where she knew the insulin was kept.  The promise of a cookie after the shot was good enough for her!  Few other changes were necessary—changing the furniture around was a no-no unless we wanted to see her bumping into things.   Otherwise, she navigated flawlessly through the house. 

Zeb, like Shadow, has so much to offer a family.  The idea that because he is old and blind he is somehow inferior is absolutely ridiculous.  That the wretched human being who would allow his life to end in such a callous way had no loyalty to an animal which loved him unconditionally for years speaks poorly on him and all of the other humans who so carelessly throw away a life.  

If Zeb’s story makes a difference to you, or if it reminds you of a special senior dog who enriched your life, I encourage you to support rescues such as Angels Among Us who come to their rescue.  These rescues tirelessly give of their time, money, and love to help pets like Zeb.  Support rescue efforts by offering to foster, work adoption events, donate supplies, or sponsor dogs so that they can be saved from animal shelters. 

For those who would like to find out more about Angels Among Us and the wonderful work they do on behalf of homeless pets, please visit their website at www.angelspetrescue.org.  If you “Like” them on Facebook, you can follow the animals that need foster, adoption, as well as success stories.  If you are outside of Georgia, find a rescue group near you by visiting Petfinder, www.petfinder.com.   Rescues all over the country depend on our support to continue their mission of rescuing animals in need just like Zeb.

Please consider sharing with us stories about a special senior pet in your life.  Nothing makes me smile more than hearing about these special friends!

Hug your pups!

Monique

See why I love her?  She does such a nice job…be sure to visit her website for more info. 

As for me…I’m not really taking the night off after all.  I’m digging into Suddenly Sorceress and a few good spells.  Abracadabra!

Until the next time…I’ll be practicing my spells on unsuspecting ex-husbands…anyone have a spare?