writer unplugged

It wasn’t what I had planned for my day. 

To be honest, I didn’t have much actually planned for my weekend, I rarely do, but it was the first of October so ideally I would have gotten a latte, picked up a pumpkin…participated in a cancer walk.

That’s right…today was the annual, Light the Night walk for the Leukemia society.  I was supposed to go, but as sick as I have been, my husband decided it would be best if I sat this one out. 

The festivities for Light the Night started at five, and it was almost a two hour drive from home, so my husband had to leave at three.  That didn’t give us much time to do anything together.  So with the only tangible plans suddenly deleted from my imaginary schedule, the only alternative was to write while drinking latte’s and maybe pick up that pumpkin. 

That’s when my computer did that thing again.  Remember?  When it crashed and died and we rescusitated it back to life?  It didn’t come back this time.  No amount of CPU CPR was working.  My husband promised to take it to his office (the computer equivilent to an emergency room) and work on it before the cancer walk. 

So there I was…staring at the four walls in my living room like I’d never seen them before…and truly I don’t know if I’d ever noticed them fully.  There was no glare from a computer screen to distract me. 

I didn’t know what to do.  Should I watch television?  I tried, but there is amazingly little to watch even with as many channels as we get.  I decided I would do something I haven’t done in a while.  I would clean the house…and not just the surface stuff I normally do. 

I didn’t push anything under the furniture. 

I pulled out a mop and a broom and I cleaned the floors in the laundry room.  Then I pulled out that scary stepladder and changed the dark bulb above the washing machine so I could read the nearly invisible words inside the soap dispenser. 

I’ve always wondered what the second spot was for…now I know.  (Bleach, if you were wondering.)

I scooped up all the dirty clothes in my bathroom and washed every one…several loads worth.  Then I folded and put away all the clean laundry.  I swept the floors.  Did the dishes.  Played with the dogs in the yard. 

I took myself out to lunch. 

I did everything I imagine people with no computers do on a daily basis.  It was fun.  And I managed to squeeze in a few Twitter updates using my phone.  I wasn’t really totally unplugged.  I lurked.  But it wasn’t the same.  I won’t say I hated it.  That would be lying.  But I won’t say I’m up for two days in a row.  I bounded to the front door when I heard my husband’s key hit the lock.  I knew my laptop was in his bag…maybe not totally fixed, but it will have to do.  For now. 

As for me…I’m planning a late night of writing, tweeting, and chatting with my favorite writers online.  After all…I deserve it.  I was good all day.

Until the next time…I’ll be finishing the next episode of Tales of the Daywalkers.

cabana boy

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Rachel ThompsonTonight’s guest blogger is Rachel Thompson, bestselling author of A Walk in the Snark.  For more about Rachel, click on her photo to visit her website.

I’ve written about RENT-A-HUSBAND before.

Ya know, when I was sick with pneumonia and the doc ordered me to bed rest; and husband needed a nap to keep up with our two kids. After four hours.

Well, I’m not exactly sick now.

I just need a little TLC. Deadlines, back to school, migraines. Nothing major, but stuff that can add up over time, ya know?

So, I’m thinking I need Cabana Boy.

No, it’s not what you think.

Well, okay it kinda is.

I write a lot. My neck gets tight. As do my shoulders and back. I stretch, do yoga, go for walks. Still, I could really use a massage by the end of each day.

But husband just isn’t that into the whole massage thing. Sure, when we were dating his hands were all over me, as happens when you can’t get enough of each other in that first dreamy, romance-novel stage of early love, when he would massage me like any good eagle scout looking to earn a new badge.

Surely you remember…when you do it like bunnies?

Now though? Nineteen years later? Sure, he loves his Red. But massaging me is at the end of a very long daily To Do list. Plus he’s ten years older than I—and we have two children: twelve-year old tween girl artiste prone to drama and six year old boy child obsessed with incredibly intricate Legos.

Husband is one tired man.

I don’t take it personally. I know he loves me. And hey, I have the kids’ precious little hands that work just fine—though Hot Wheels up and down the back just don’t seem to be doing the job.

Somehow it’s not the same.

I bought one of those massager thingies that you don’t use in a naughty way. And it’s alright. But it’s kinda, I don’t know, machine-like.

I could go get a massage. Plenty of day spas here in Orange County. But time and money are tight.

Which brings me to Cabana Boy.

I think every chick should have one.

It really is the ideal solution.

• He can massage me whenever I want.

• I can dress him however I want. Imagine the possibilities!

• He can be my eye candy to provide the all-important eye stimulation, necessary for um, something I’ll convince myself of at some future date that has to do with writing and computer blah blah something something.

• He can bring me chocolate.

• And, most importantly, martinis.

See, he’d be different from RENT-A-HUSBAND cause he’d be there to cater to my physical needs (if you’ve ever lived with a woman, you know that chocolate counts as a physical need), like sore muscles and stress. Whereas, the rental husband is more like the Honey-Do guy, who grocery shops and fixes stuff.

Really, it’s hard to find one husband who can do it all these days. No wonder men feel overwhelmed.

This really isn’t a bad way to go.

In an ideal world, every chick should have her main guy, plus a rental husband and a cabana boy. Her trifecta. Her ménage…

Ooh, and wouldn’t it be cool if he looked like Brad Pitt? Well, back when Brad Pitt looked like Brad Pitt?

There shouldn’t be any jealousy. I’d be paying only for services rendered, right? And while he’d be doing lots of cool stuff for me, it’s not like he’d be um, doing me (though some massage therapists do have very good hands)…ahem.

Sorry. Where was I?

Now you may argue that you have all that wrapped up in your man. I say good for you, girlfriend. All men are certainly capable of doing all those things (well, the fixing stuff can be questionable).

So is mine. But let’s be real. Daily life can be a grind and even with the best of intentions, sometimes we’re lucky if we can fit in time for each other before falling into bed, exhausted.

I say give our guys a break! Bring in extra (Brad) help. Give your man a chance to watch you be pampered, fawned over, flirted with. Not to freak him out or upset him.

We’re not playing games here, ladies. We don’t um, mess around when it comes to Cabana Boy.

This is all to help your man, you see. Let him rest, chill, relax from the stress of having to take care of you. He’s been calling you a piece of work for years. It’s time to give him a break, doll. 

— Blink —

Like how I did that?

Nineteen years of marriage, baby. Definitely comes in handy.

Now, where did I put that massage oil?

I would like to give a huge thanks to Rachel for making me laugh tonight.  Be sure to check out Rachel’s website for more of her special brand of snark!  Follow her on Twitter at @RachelintheOC where she’s often referred to as either the Queen of Snark or BadRedhead. She’s can’t imagine why. 

Until the next time…I’ll be planning next week’s guest blog!

how many writers does it take to change a light bulb?

I found myself on a stepladder this evening.  Not my best moments…anytime I find myself on a ladder.  But life occasionally requires you to live dangerously.  And despite rumors to the contrary, even compact fluorescent bulbs eventually burn out. 

The worst part is…sometimes they’re on the ceiling.

I’m not a short person, so as it turns out, I’m already dangerously far from the floor the minute I stand up.  Add a pair of sexy heels or a stepladder and I’m just one stumble away from a ride in an ambulance. This is why I avoid heels and heights at all times.  Any occasion to be on a ladder is an opportunity for disaster.

I didn’t fall this time, but I was only a few steps above the floor and still suffering from vertigo.  I had to dig my shins into the top step to keep from wobbling as I screeched and squealed my way through removing the glass dome hiding the spent bulb.  On top of that, this was all happening in a dark room.

My daughter rolled her eyes at me from the doorway.  “Mom…you’re not even a foot off the ground.  You won’t die if you fall.” 

That’s what she thinks.  She’s too young to know that most fatal accidents happen within the home.  And if anyone could die falling from the second step on a three step ladder, it would be me! 

My daughter’s room now has light.  Amazingly, I did it myself.  And other than the two deep stair-shaped grooves carved into my shins, I did it relatively unscathed. 

So, how many writers does it take to change a light bulb? 

The short answer would be one…but when you’re dealing with a writer, there’s no such thing as a short answer. We writers are long winded…and don’t expect to find several in the same place at once.  We rarely travel in packs.  We prefer to tuck ourselves away in solitude…like recluses. But we’re almost never alone.  We tend to travel with a diverse array of mysterious characters…all inside our heads, of course; whispering goodness knows what at any given moment. I even consulted a writer friend, Ashley, to see what her thoughts on the topic might be.

So the long answer is this…

It takes one writer to change the light bulb, but a multitude of imaginary characters telling us how it should be done.

Until the next time…I’ll be prepping for tomorrow’s guest blogger!

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!)

the road warrior

So I wrote a blog for my friend, Amberr Meadows not too long ago.  She writes a cool travel blog, Like a Bump on a Blog, and asked me to come up with a “travel” story.  Never one to back away from a challenge…of course, I wrote one.  How could I not?  It was a chance to share my adventures with a whole new bunch of readers.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wanted to share it with my regular readers too.  Especially those of you who aren’t social media junkies like me…those of you who may not have stumbled upon the blog accidentally…those of you who would probably like to know why I don’t fly anymore…

Oh, sure…I adore travel.  I love to jump into the car, top down…destination unknown…with nothing but a bag stuffed with clothes, and a compass.  I’m reckless like that.  I hit the open road like a dog with my tongue hanging out, delighting in the way the wind whips my hair around my face, stabbing me in the eyes and blocking my view of the path ahead. 

Reckless…bold…fearless.  As long as my feet are planted firmly on the ground.

My sister called me today to do a little bragging.  It’s a long story, but the short version is this…my sister booked a trip for her and her husband to travel to the Bahamas.  Fun, right?  Well, she didn’t realize the online trip company didn’t do the boarding passes, and by the time she discovered the problem, she realized she would be seated on the opposite end of the plane from her husband on a multi-hour flight.  She wasn’t a happy camper…but she didn’t want to spoil a perfectly good vacation over a seat assignment.  Then she talked to me.  I told her I would have found a way to get seats together.  She knew I was right. 

I have a way with words. <Shrug>  

So today she decides to call and have a talk with them.  She was going to lie…and admittedly, as bad as lying is, the lie would have been too funny.  She was going to tell the airline that her husband has Tourette’s syndrome.  Now, before you get upset, I’m not making fun of anyone who actually has Tourette’s.  I promise.  But my sister was stabbing in the dark for something that would make the airline want her husband seated next to her, and no one else. 

She didn’t lie.  She’s a bad liar.  But ironically, she remembered that she actually DOES have an anxiety disorder (complete with prescribed medication and all) so she didn’t have to lie at all.  At first mention of “anxiety disorder”, a bell went off somewhere at the airline <dingdingding> and my sister had her adjoining seats.  She laughed when she told me like I didn’t already know this would happen. But, oh yes…I knew this very well from my last time on an airplane. 

Airlines do not like people with anxiety disorders…

I was traveling from Atlanta to Las Vegas in 1998…the last time I traveled by air…and I was explaining to the gate agent (as calmly as I possibly could) that I would like to sit in an aisle seat over the wing on the left side of the aircraft.  If the fuselage ripped open, an aisle seat was further away from the gaping hole and I might not to be sucked out of the airplane.  I also needed to sit near the wing in the event the plane caught fire so I would have some possible route of escape.  The best side was, of course, the left side due to the positioning of emergency avenues.  I also told them I had specifically requested to fly on a 767 due to the lengthy glide ratio in the event both engines went out.  A 767 could glide far longer and quite possibly land safely on the ground before crashing and burning.  Someone had changed the equipment for my flight without telling me, and we were booked on a 737.  A 737 does not have a long glide ratio. 

I made them very aware that was not happy, and could they please change back before takeoff?

As usual, I appeared to have consumed several pots of coffee and my cheeks were stained with tears and mascara after bidding my children a tearful goodbye at the gate in the event I would never see them again. 

They put me in first class.  Gratis.  And made sure I had lots and lots of liquor during my four hour flight. 

I don’t fly anymore.  Not because of fear…although that is a big part of it.  I don’t fly because they tend to get me drunk, and I’m not a big drinker. 

I’ll stick to that open road…just no steep inclines or sharp drop-offs please.

what do you mean you don’t love me?

For those of you who have been paying attention, it’s been one month since I submitted the first three chapters of my novel, To Katie with Love, to the agent who requested it.  With the passage of time my excitement has quieted, but hardly disappeared.  Getting past the query letter is a big deal.  The first step.  Maybe not an open door, but certainly a turn of the knob.  I haven’t heard anything yet, but as they say in the business…no news is good news. 

Then again…

In other news, while I was waiting, I did get another rejection.  Oh, I’ve had rejection before. It’s never fun, but it’s always important to personal growth.  It’s how we learn…how we get stronger…what drives us to keep going…

Whatever.

Honestly, all I could think of was, what do you mean you don’t love me?  Haven’t you read my blog? Everyone loves me!  I’m clever, funny, sarcastic…and I can blog about anything.  Even leprechauns…Godzilla…cheese! I never skip a day, even when I’m sick.  And I can identify at least ten different kinds of cow!  I’ll prove it.  Line them up!

Ok…so maybe a cow line up on a Monday night isn’t the way to go.

The simple truth of it is this…not everyone will love you.  No matter how good you are.  No matter how many people swear you’re the next Ernest Hemingway, Jane Austen, or Erma Bombeck.  Just as many people won’t quite “get” you.   But if you have the “voices” in you…the stories begging you to let them out…you have to keep going.  That’s what I’m doing.

I know I’m good.  If this agent doesn’t think so, I’ll just query another one.  And another one after that.  

Hey, I’m a writer…it’s what we do.

being sick is for the birds

Last night I dreamed I had the avian flu.  It was awful.  I think it was a lethal combination of being really sick and the irrational fear left over from a few years ago.  Avian flu is at least one strain back from the newest outbreak of deadly flu, but for some reason the idea of “bird flu” sounds much scarier than “swine flu”.  After all, who hasn’t seen the Alfred Hitchcock movie about flocks of birds suddenly turning on humanity and going all Norman Bates on us with their razor sharp beaks?   I’ve never seen anything about pigs banding together to attack.  I mean…not since Animal Farm, but even then, they were much more civilized.  No…pigs bring up thoughts more along the lines of Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web.  They don’t attack…they need to be rescued.

Enough about pigs…back to my dream.

I’m literally crawling my way through death’s door and I find myself at this white velvet rope in front of a shiny white gate.  There’s an old guy standing there with a really bright flashlight and he’s shining it in my eyes like a detective in some old film noir.  He’s asking me questions about my life, and why I think I should be allowed to come inside his pretty little gated community.  At first, I’m not sure I want to come inside.  Gated communities always strike me as being on the pompous side, but I notice a few people I know in there and they seem to be having a really good time…wine, hors d’oeuvres, and a cheese plate that is to die for…I can tell from where I stand.  So I tell him, sure…I wouldn’t mind getting in.  But he says I can’t go inside until I answer a bunch of questions. 

This is where I throw my hands up. 

I ask him if he has any idea what my Klout score is.  Surely my Klout score is good enough to get me into his little group.  It has to be good for something after all.  I didn’t build up all this useless knowledge and influence for nothing did I? 

He doesn’t know anything about “Klout”.

“It’s my measure of influence,” I tell him.  “It means…well, I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it’s important.  Ask me about zombies,” I say.  “I have Klout in zombies.”

“Zombies aren’t real,” he says.

So, I spent all that time preparing for a zombie invasion and some old guy with a big flashlight and the keys to this really cool club wants to tell me there’s no such thing.  And now he wants to “discuss” a blog I wrote about George Lucas and the burning bush. 

“We were not amused,” he says. 

Now I’m really angry.  That was a funny blog.                                                                               

So I’m still standing there at the front of what is now a pretty long line, and he keeps letting other people though the white velvet rope so they can walk through the shiny gate.

“You can’t be serious,” I wonder out loud.  “You’re not letting me in because I joked that George Lucas is God?” I was kidding…mostly.

Next thing I know he lowers his flashlight enough that I can see his face.  It is George Lucas.  Holy crap…I was right all along.  I totally have Klout in George Lucas! And, by the way, it’s not a flashlight at all…it’s a really big lightsaber and he’s raising it above my head like he’s about to use it…

That’s when I woke up and realized I needed to go to the doctor. 

Three prescriptions later and I’m still not feeling my best, but hey, I’m alive.  At least that’s what they tell me.  If I could only figure out what the pharmacist meant when he said, “May the force be with you.”

Until the next time…I’ll be taking my medicine like a good girl.

death by chocolate

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Julie Anne LindseyTonight’s guest blogger is Julie Anne Lindsey. For more about Julie, click on her photo to visit her website.

 

I got home late one night from a girls night out. I meet my old college girls as often as possible and we stare at each other wondering where the leather pants, backless tanks and bar dancers in us have gone. Everyone chose a different path, but as a group they are most dumbfounded with me I think. I was once an attention magnet and completely career driven. Now they call me June Cleaver and sometimes Church-Mom. It’s the latter of those titles that spawned my debut novel Death by Chocolate.

Being accused of being “normal” irks me. I mean, “normal” equates to boring, dull, mom-jeans and slippers, right? I hate it, and the more I thought about it the crankier I got. Standing in a serving line at a fundraiser for our church, scooping potato soup into Styrofoam cups, I found myself thinking very un-church-like things about my friends. Things like: Normal huh? What if I snapped? What if I dosed this church-fundraiser-soup with roofies and then You Tubed it all? Would THAT be “normal?” Hey, don’t judge. The thought was interesting.

After the fundraiser, I locked myself in the office and Ruby Russell was born. Ruby is the painfully normal, unnecessarily proper, completely suburban, main character in my debut novel, Death by Chocolate. She’s every woman in my cul-de-sac, and every Sunday School teacher I’ve ever had, except beneath all that, Ruby’s not quite right.

Holed up in my office, I asked myself: What if you unknowingly pushed a nut job too far? What if people aren’t who they appear to be? What if a nutty half-baked killer was so ridiculously inept she failed at murder the way she failed at fitting in? I mean, Ruby doesn’t like confrontation. That can be a problem for a killer. So, she bakes up some sweet death, a little chocolate mousse for her cheating hipster husband, a few chocolate zucchini muffins for the meddling minister…there’s no reason murder can’t be dignified and delicious!

Ahh, writing. My favorite ideas as a writer come from the things beneath the surface, the what-ifs in life. I certainly can’t roofie my church fundraiser soup, but Ruby could. People are most interesting when you see what’s bubbling just out of sight. It’s what we don’t tell each other that’s really scary.

Thank you so much to Julie Anne Lindsey for dropping by and scaring me silly tonight!  Remind me not to eat any of her muffins! Well…on second thought…I really like muffins.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for next week’s guest blogger!

autumnal equinox

How wonderfully appropriate is it that someone who spends as much time as I do unintentionally sprawled out on the floor would be in love with the season known as “fall”? 

But I ask you, what’s not to love? 

There’s the lightly sour but delightfully sweet fragrance of fresh apple cider, apple butter, and hot apple crisp.  The first harvest of pumpkins carved into lanterns and baked into pies, cookies and breads…their discarded seeds dried and roasted to perfection.  

And how could I forget the pumpkin spice latte, with just a dash of cinnamon and whipped cream, on a cold autumn morn?

There’s nothing better than days just cool enough to need a sweater and evenings destined for a glass of wine and the soft glow of a fire.  I would gladly sacrifice the entire summer for just a few more months of autumn weather. 

It’s the time of the year when spiders, ghosts and witches crawl out of the woodwork and find themselves decorating our windows, doors, and walkways. 

The mere sight of a bite sized Snickers opens a door into a world of nostalgia, transporting me back to my childhood. 

If I close my eyes I can almost smell the musty scent of an old quilt wrapped around me as I crawled onto the couch to watch, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.  I can hear the crackle as the foil dome grows on a batch of Jiffy Pop Corn on the stove.  And I can almost taste the first bite of caramel melted over a bowl of that same freshly popped corn. 

I wish I could buy a first class ticket into the past to spend just one more day as the innocent eight year old girl folding squares of tape to hang cardboard decorations on the windows.  Stealing a piece of candy from the bowl meant for trick-or-treaters.  Trying on the costume her mother made from scratch…the same costume that would go on to win a prize at the annual Halloween parade. 

The first day of fall isn’t just another number on the calendar…it’s a warm place inside that never really goes away with the first frost of winter.  It’s always waiting patiently for time to roll around again. Like that musty old quilt folded carefully on a shelf and forgotten until the first cool day.

Until the next time…I’ll be picking up a few pumpkins at the market.

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!

are you sick of me yet?

It’s raining again. 

I actually like the sound of rain hitting the roof in a rhythmic pattern.  Clickety clackety…like the sound of popcorn being popped under a blanket.  Just add a dash of wind and some distant thunder and it’s my favorite recipe for a good night’s sleep. 

Unfortunately, during this time of the year, when the weather can’t decide if it wants to be hot or cold, dry or wet, it’s also a recipe for getting sick.

I seem to have caught whatever bug has been running around Twitter this week.  Oh don’t ask me how I caught a virus over the internet…you know it can happen.  My ears hurt, my throat hurts, and I’ve developed a more pronounced whine than normal.  I suddenly can’t understand why my husband won’t wait on me hand and foot, or why he refuses to feel my forehead every few minutes to check for fever. 

Make no mistake about it…there is fever.

I’m even too sick to respond to the multitude of butt jokes filtering in after last night’s blog.  And believe me, I want to respond.  I want to come up with witty one-liners to counter things like, “Don’t be bummed about it…I’m still your biggest fanny.” Or “Mind if I crack a joke at your expense?”  I want to…butt I can’t (well I slipped that one in.) My sore throat has blended in with my meatball lava burns to create a pain center that encompasses my entire upper region.  My hiney bite mark is just a nasty bruise at this point, but I’m reminded of it every time I sit.  And as sick as I was today, I couldn’t rush out to buy a new seat, so I’m forced to carefully navigate the one I have without getting caught again, like some cheap gas station version of Russian roulette.

All that and it’s only Tuesday!  What does this say for the rest of my week?  Should I up my life insurance?  Or maybe play the lottery?  Because it would seem my number keeps coming up. 

A perpetual “tails” in the coin toss of life.

Oh well…it’s all just bonus blog material, that’s what I always say. 

Until the next time…I’ll be taking lots of over the counter cold meds and going to bed!

today was a real pain in my butt

You know you’re in trouble when the highlight of your day is oversleeping and waking up with a sore throat, ear ache and a wicked cough.  How could things possibly get worse than that? 

Oh, trust me…they can.

I rolled out of bed after being rudely awakened by a giant dog dripping slobber in my face, and stumbled to the bathroom in a daze.  I wasn’t awake enough to remember my evil plot to catch unsuspecting family members in the broken toilet seat.  It was a perfect excuse to delay buying a new seat…and I got to laugh hysterically at their squeals of surprise when they forgot about the jagged crack.

Today, my plan went horribly awry. 

I sat down too quickly and the broken seat…the very same one I was going to replace tomorrow…I really was!  Well, that same toilet seat reached up like an angry alligator to take a bite out of my butt.  As a matter of fact, it grabbed on with its mighty jaws and would not let go. 

That sort of thing will wake you up in a hurry.  

But asleep or awake, I was stuck in the powerful grip of this rogue toilet seat.  I tried without luck to release myself by pressing near the fissure, hoping to force its mouth to open and set me free.  But all I succeeded in doing was causing the seat to grip even tighter.  And, believe me; having your butt cheek pinched between two sides of a wooden toilet seat is fairly uncomfortable to begin with, I wasn’t inclined to make it worse. 

I thought, just maybe, if I rocked back and forth I could free myself from my unpleasant predicament.  So I leaned my body to one side and then the other in a little cheek wiggle hoping to trick my captor into releasing its grasp.

In my attempts to shake myself loose, I managed to hit my head on the wall hard enough to see stars, which also managed to knock me loose.  Unfortunately, it also left me with a nasty bite mark on my butt as well as a nice little knot on my head. 

But oh…it gets worse.

Once I was up and dressed, my husband agreed to take me out to lunch.  He was having a horrible day at work, and needed to get away from the office…also known as the desk in my bedroom (he works from home.)

I didn’t feel well, so I ordered a hot meatball sandwich…my favorite on days like today…and excitedly took a great big bite. 

Who knew the meatballs had been pulled directly from a vat of boiling marinara sauce?  Not me, that’s for sure.

Have you ever noticed the similarities between marinara sauce and liquid hot magma?  I noticed right away.  The sauce stuck to the roof of my mouth, which in turn, melted.  I’m not kidding…the skin on the roof of my mouth actually melted.  And yes, that hurt.  A lot.   But thanks to my mission to find the positive in every situation, I’ve decided the serious burns would be great incentive to stop eating for a few days, and I might just lose a few pounds along the way. 

The only saving grace for my day was the stock pile of frozen lemonade treats in my freezer.  They did double duty soothing my sore throat and my scalded mouth. 

I even sat on one to ease the swelling from one nasty bite mark. 

Even I can’t find the positive side of that one.

Until the next time…I’ll be drinking a few wine coolers and heading to bed!

the green hornet

Have you ever stopped to take stock of your life?  A real down and dirty look at where you are versus where you’ve been? 

I have…more than once.

February 1996.

I had just gotten out of the hospital after a lengthy stay, and I was watching a Green Hornet marathon on television.  I couldn’t shake the lingering dread as I lay on the sofa for the entire day…still feeling the effects of two weeks’ worth of pain medication…still reeling from having watched my life pass before my eyes. But something about the campy 1960s superheroes made me nostalgic for my childhood.  And my day spent with the Green Hornet gave me much needed perspective on life. 

I needed to spend more time with my children.  I needed to find purpose for my life.  And I really needed to finish the book I had been struggling to write for years. 

Fast forward to September 2011.

My husband and I just finished watching the new Green Hornet movie on cable television.  It wasn’t quite as campy. It didn’t have Bruce Lee.  But the car still kicks ass.  Oh, and the best part?  Despite everything, the movie gave me that familiar nostalgic feeling and reminded me of how my life has come full circle.  My children are grown, but they still need me sometimes.  I finally have purpose in my life…and it’s not cooking, or cleaning for that matter. And I’ve finally finished several books and I write a daily blog.  Who would have guessed I would actually become the writer I was so desperate to be all those years ago?

Now if I could only get a few hours of sleep, life would be just about perfect.

Until the next time…I’ll be counting down to the next installment of Daywalkers!

playing dirty

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Kelly Stone GambleTonight’s guest blogger is Kelly Stone Gamble. For more about Kelly, click on her photo to visit her website.

I’ve always been open to new experiences and the stranger the better.  I’ve swam with sharks. I’ve been slammed in a mosh pit. I’ve performed in a pickle costume.  It’s fun to say, “oh, yeah, I’ve done that,” and I say that a lot.  But I’ve yet to be asked if I ever mud wrestled, so I’ll just answer that for you right now.  Oh, yeah, I’ve done that, too.   

Twenty years ago, I worked as a Nurse in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  My good friend, Sue (name changed to protect the innocent) was a Physical Therapist.  That was her day job. On the weekends, she mud wrestled at a local bar dressed as a medieval princess.  One night, her designated opponent had called in sick, and she asked if I would step in. 

Female mud wrestling was not new to me.  In my early twenties, one of my roommates mud wrestled for extra money. Twice a week, she would put on her French maid costume and prance around a mud filled ring, then strip down to a skimpy bikini and roll around with another girl to the delight of a bar full of men.  A bar full of men with a lot of money, I might add, as she would bring home more in her two hours than I brought home all week. 

I had my reservations.  It wasn’t the rolling around in the mud, or the googling eyes of horny men that bothered me. It was the bikini.  Although I was in one of my ‘thin’ stages at the time, I had never worn a two piece bathing suit. Call me a prude. But after being told I would be paid one hundred dollars for a five minute bout and a promise that I could wear a low cut, side out onsie, I said sure, why not? Always willing to help out a friend.

I met most of the other wrestlers in the dressing room, very normal young ladies, most with respectable day jobs.  They went over the rules with me, keep it safe, no ripping off bathing suits (it was a high class bar) and make it a show.  It was all very…nun-like, and I use that particular word for a reason.  Yes, after putting on the costume I was to wear for the evening, I would soon be making my mud wrestling debut as Sister Sludge, the One Fun Nun. 

The plan was to wrestle for five minutes, then to let Sue pin me for the win.  She would then move on to the next round and my work would be done.  But as the crowd cheered, my competitive nature kicked in and I got serious. “What are you doing?” she whispered to me as we rolled in the muck. “You don’t want to win.” Oh, yes I did. I slammed her a little too hard and crawled on top. Nuns rule.

After taking my celebratory hosing down, I went back to the ring, ready to take on the cute little daycare worker I’d met backstage. But it wasn’t her that showed up. It was the Cave Woman. And not sweet little Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear.  It was Andre the Giant in drag. 

I turned to Sue who was standing in my corner.  “What the hell? She wasn’t in the dressing room!” 

“No,” Sue replied. “She has her own dressing room.” 

I reminded myself that this was a show and there were rules.  Confidently, I turned back toward my opponent, just in time to be hit in the face with a mud ball the size of a small dog.  “Start prayin’, Sister,” she snarled. And, that I did.

The Neanderthal picked me up and twirled me above her head like a baton, then threw me to the ground and stomped me with her size 13’s. I rolled to the side of the ring as she grunted through bared teeth, and lumbered toward me with her arms raised high, exposing underarm hair that would shame a Sasquatch.  I was trembling, I feared for my life, and raised my hands to cover my face.  And that’s when I noticed. 

I had broken a nail. 

This bitch was going down.

I remembered my Dad always said that everyone has a weakness. I went first for the testicles.  The Wookie was not pleased.  She picked me up and wrapped me in a bear hug.  I had no choice but to hug back. Then I remembered another bit of fatherly advice: Cheaters sometimes win.  I quickly untied her bikini top and held on to the strings. She slung me to the other side of the ring, but this time I was the one that came up laughing. 

That match was quickly called, and I was forever banned from the mud wrestling ring for ‘breaking the nudity rule’. Whatever.  I had two hundred bucks in my pocket and an undefeated record.

Groovy.

Until the next time…I’ll be searching for our next guest blogger!

it's alive!

Well…I’ve done it again.  I’ve survived another near tragic day, somehow. Oh, I don’t mean to make light of real tragedy…I’ve been lucky enough to steer far clear of true heartbreak.  But make no mistake about it, if my laptop had not been saved today, it would have been tragic to me.

I think it all started with the trial application of my word processing software.  You know what I mean, you buy a new laptop and it comes with a sixty day trial of the very best software mankind has to offer.  I think perhaps Bill Gates autographed this particular copy, that’s how good it was.  But at the end of the sixty days, you have to sell your car, your house, and at least one of your children to upgrade to the permanent version.  I was determined to stretch my sixty days by at least an extra sixty before I forked up the money for the full version.  I discovered, purely by accident, that your trial software only expires if you close it.  

Hey…that sounds like an easy fix.  You just don’t close it, right?

Have you ever tried to keep your computer from rebooting for sixty days?  It’s not an easy task, I can assure you.  It requires ignoring all updates, avoiding dead batteries, and defying the little pop-up warnings on a daily basis.  It became a game.  Me versus the laptop warlords.  I kept my charger close at all times and watched for those pesky little update reminders that try to trick you into clicking “yes” when what you really want to do is click “not just yet.”   But worse than that, I was also defending the laptop against a roving dog paw, Hell bent on pushing the power button several times a day.   

The best part of it all was, in the immortal words of Charlie Sheen, I was winning.  I was using the glorious word processing program for weeks and months beyond the expiration date.  I was brilliant!

I was not brilliant.  I was a dead battery in a flashlight on a dark night.

After my extra sixty days (give or take a day) my lovely friend, my dear laptop, the little pot of ink to my magical quill, crashed like a heart attack victim in an emergency room.  I was forced to reboot and upgrade to the expensive software. 

But it was too late.  The fresh software was nothing more than a rabies vaccine to a rabid squirrel.  Dear Lappy had flat lined, the black screen of doom, the time of death pronounced by two very smart people. 

I was hyperventilating between sobs, throwing pillows and curse words around the room like daggers.  This could not be happening. 

I pressed the reset button again and again…hit ctrl/alt/del until my fingers ached…desperate to resuscitate my dearest friend…frantic to breathe life back into its precious hard drive.  But it was useless…it was gone.  Dead.  As in forever.  And after barely having a chance to live.  How could this be?  It was only four months old for goodness sake!

My husband rolled his eyes at me and asked me to step away from the body.  I begrudgingly followed his instructions…this was, after all, his area of expertise, not mine. I was a computer science drop out…an English major.  My power over words would do me no good here.

It took the better part of the day, and a couple of wine coolers (for me), but my darling laptop is up and running again.  Some say it was magic…some call it a miracle…I don’t care what you believe in, I have my friend back.  My faith has been restored in my husband, and fleas or no fleas, he is welcome in my bed tonight!

As long as he promises not to roll over onto my laptop…that would be awful!

Until the next time…I’ll be using my newly paid for word processing software with a smile!

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!

guest blogs, aliens, and a cancer walk

I wrote a blog for someone else tonight.  It totally threw me off my game.  I was done.  I could feel it.  Somewhere in my auto-pilot blog writing core, I knew I had done my job and could relax for the night. 

So much for that. 

As much as I liked that blog, I couldn’t keep it.  It wasn’t meant for me, it was a guest blog I agreed to write for this Saturday. 

But now, on a Tuesday night, I was left a blog short, and all my good ideas were used up like the last roll of literary paper towels.

So instead of writing a blog at all, I sat to watch a movie with my husband.  It was a movie about an alien invasion of Los Angeles.  And just to be clear, when I say aliens, I mean from space.  This brought several questions to mind.  First of all…as the action started pretty soon after the movie started…why do invading aliens always have way better weapons that we do?  Just once I’d like to watch a movie where the aliens have crappy weapons. 

I guess it would make for a really short movie.

It was actually a really long, very intense movie.  I might need a wine cooler after all that excitement. So since I’ve already written one blog tonight, I think I’ll use this time to mention something just a little more serious. 

Light the Night.

Light the Night is The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s evening walk and fundraising event. The two mile walk celebrates the memory of the many wonderful people who were taken too soon by cancer and the thousands who need our support as they continue to fight. My husband is team captain of his corporate volunteer program, and they are supporting the cause by walking with the thousands of supporters in the Atlanta metro area on October 1st at 7pm. I have been asked to support the cause as well, and of course, I was more than willing to get involved—even if it does entail walking for two whole miles.

I did the walk last year and somehow survived, so I’m going again. I told my husband that I would even reach out to my readers, in hopes that anyone who has ever been touched by cancer, or has known anyone who was touched by cancer will donate—either time or money, whatever you can spare—to the cause.

Please visit my Light the Night page and give what you can.

Until the next time…I’ll be having nightmares about aliens!

who doesn’t love bananas?

No one…that’s who. 

Oh, there may be the odd one or two out there who claim they don’t love bananas, but they’re just…we’ll they’re bananas! 

I wasn’t going to blog about bananas tonight.  I had other things to talk about.  Vampires, zombies, really expensive chocolate…but I didn’t.  Instead I got sidetracked by a chimp and a conversation about bananas.

Let me explain. 

So, I was chatting on Twitter…I know, I need an intervention, but since everyone one I interact with these days is also on Twitter it’s not likely to happen, is it? So the chimp (not her real name) was talking about how great bananas are, and she said, “Who doesn’t love bananas? No one that’s who.”

Yeah, exactly what I just said up there. 

So why did I quote her in the opening lines of this blog post?  Because I opened my big mouth (figuratively) and stated how I could write an entire blog from that one statement.  Yep, stuck my foot right into my mouth once again. 

So here I am, talking about bananas.  But who doesn’t love…right, I said that already. 

Ironically, I was also talking to another person today (yes, on Twitter…get used to it, it’s my world) and we were talking about bake goods, because I may hate to cook, but I love to bake.  We were talking about the bet I made with my husband where if I hit 300 followers on my blog (because I’ve already gone over 1000 followers on Twitter…right, because I’m obsessed, that’s not the point) if I hit that arbitrary number (300), he will forever do all the cooking for our family. (I’m almost there, by the way.)  So, I was telling this person how I would still bake.  Because, yeah…I love to bake.  And she asked me what my favorite things to bake were.  (Are you still with me?  I can feel your eyes rolling back in your head…I’m getting to the point, I promise.) So I told her I love to bake banana bread. (See?  I told you I was getting there.) And I really do love banana bread.  You have to let the bananas get all brown and squishy before you can use them…sort of like cultivating rotting zombie fruit in your kitchen.  I like that imagery for some bizarre reason.  Hell, I just like bananas.

And let’s face it…you are what you eat, right?

I ate twelve bananas once.  All in one sitting.  I did it on a dare (No, I don’t think I’ll do it again.) I was fifteen…and I think it was some serious foreshadowing for the rest of my life.   You can call me nuts all day long, but the truth is…I’m just bananas!

Until the next time…I’ll be doing a little baking!

Patriot's Day

Last year I wrote a passionate rememberance of the tragedy of September 11, 2001. I wrote about where I was, how I felt, and how the world had changed since that day.  Those sentiments hold true today, but instead of writing about sadness and tragedy, I would like to write about humor and perserverance. 

After the attacks of 9/11, it was a long time before people would allow themselves to laugh again.  There was a collective fear that laughter would disrespect the fallen.  That perhaps in the aftermath of such a serious blow to our country and our lives, nothing should be funny again. 

But as hard as it may be, life does go on.  And life is meant to be laughed at. 

The toilet seat in my bathroom is cracked. Someone stood on it to reach the wall above.  That by itself isn’t funny.  Listening to someone yelp in the middle of the night because they’ve gotten pinched in said crack is hilariously funny. 

Sometimes if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. 

Hard times will come and go.  People you love will pass.  Opportunties will be lost and new ones found.  Change is as constant and inevitable as the wind.  And life will still be meant to be laughed at. 

Saturday was a spectacularly beautiful day.  My husband and I sat at an outdoor cafe having lunch in the shade, the cool breeze blowing my newly copper hair around my face.  My husband said, in the sun, my hair looks like a fancy dessert.  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, or a snarky commentary on my existance.  I’m ok either way.  I like it, and if it makes a statement, all the better.  Because…right…life is meant to be laughed at. 

Oh, I had a much more elaborate blog planned for today.  I did.  But just as I was sitting down to write it, my computer crashed. I didn’t laugh.  I didn’t find it funny.  But when the dust settles, and my husband restores all my settings to where they belong, I’m sure I’ll laugh.  It’s just another day in what I like to call “my life”. 

And life, my friends, is definitely meant to be laughed at.

a blogger in the raw

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Valerie HaightTonight’s guest blogger is Valerie Haight. For more about Valerie, click on her photo to visit her website.


Someone asked me today if I truly knew myself. To choose two words that encompassed my entire existence.

Well, after 35 years, I suppose I should know who I am. But to sum me up in one or two words? Impossible. I’m a klutz. I talk too much, I say things I shouldn’t even think. I trip over things that aren’t there. I trip people who don’t know I’m there. The list goes on. And I tend to be really tough on men for whatever reason. My husband can attest. He has constant bruises, a chipped tooth and a toe that grows funny because of me. <—-True.

There was the time I worked at a doctor’s office. I answered the phone and rolled my chair over to grab the appointment book, but the cord wouldn’t reach. I leaned farther, almooooost  there, when the rollers on my chair suddenly flipped, standing me delicately on the floor, but sending the heavy chair flying out behind me and into the doc’s shins. Yeah, I brought him to his knees. Not in a good way. Never in a good way.

Then there was the time in my current corporate job I was busting tail in the office while the architects I work with stood around holding up the wall. Mildly irritated and needing to be where they stood, I had the bright idea to slip up behind one of them so as not to interrupt, grab an envelope off the bottom shelf and be in and out before they even knew it. Of course, the tall, lanky one took a step back while I’m crouched behind his feet and over he went in one of those trying-to-break-a-fall-with-whatever-you-can-grab slowmo moves where it took him two whole minutes to complete the crash. When it was all said and done, we looked like we’d just finished a game of Twister and my sophisticated chignon ended up an 80’s side pony. It was definitely one of many WTH? moments I experience everyday.

So, after much contemplation, I’ve decided Passionate Realist would sum up my demeanor, my personality about as well as anything. Passionate? Yes, I cartwheel in the front yard to expel excess energy (to the great disdain of my 12 year old son who likes to point out we live on a highway with passing cars). I cartwheel’d when I landed an agent.  I cartwheel’d when I got my Kindle. I cartwheel just to embarrass people. (I’m not very graceful, so it works.)

And a realist? Yes. I don’t expect the world to change overnight and I’m moderately callous toward the injustices of this world. I’m desensitized to the freaks, the monsters, the hate that wreaks havoc on the happiness of today’s society. I know I’ll never be a sexy siren on the silver screen, but I do have hope and faith. I believe I will be published one day soon and my kids will learn that through hard work and persistence (and a bit of clumsiness and hilarity thrown in), great things can happen. And I will laugh at myself through the entire journey. What choice do I have? It’s gutbustin’ funny!!

I hope everyone will join me in giving thanks to Valerie for a honest, hilarious blog.  And be sure to stay way clear of her if she happens to wander into your safety zone.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for next week’s guest blogger.