as long as I'm still alive...

Well, it would seem I’ve made it through the worst of it.  And no, I’m not referring to the death in the family. I’m still very sad after the passing of my former mother-in-law.  And I’m not talking about my marital strife.  Because let’s face it…if you have a marriage, you have built in strife from time to time.  No…I’m talking about this month’s episode of, “How the PMS turns.” 

Hormones are no laughing matter. Well…unless you’re Sydney Raine (last night’s guest blogger) who managed to make us laugh at her tale of accidental estrogen overdose.  But while Sydney managed to survive…I was certain I would surely die from my affliction.

Why, you ask?  Well, duh…I was suffering from a life threatening case of PMS. 

But I wasn’t on the war path like months past. I was no danger to the other drivers on the road.  The people at the grocery store had nothing to worry about as I purchased bags of Halloween candy, and bottles of wine.  Even my family was completely safe.  The only danger this month was that I might drown in my own tears as I cried over every single little thing. 

I cried over blogs meant to make me laugh, because I was too sad to find anything funny. I cried over blogs meant to make me think, because I was thinking too deeply. I cried watching Looney Tunes, because it made me remember being a kid.  I cried because I had no inspiration to write, and I was afraid I’d lost the magic.  I cried over a stray piece of candy corn found in a patch of dust in the empty candy bowl, because it was all alone…and it made me think of being alone.  And then I ate it…and I cried because it was stale.  I was so distraught I pulled out the big guns, and listened to Nina Simone on auto repeat for hours on end. 

I cried and cleaned my house.  I cried while I redecorated my entire living room.  I cried as I washed every stitch of laundry including the clean sheets that smelled like dust.  My eyes were so puffy, the world looked funny.  And that made me cry too.

And then my husband brought me a glass of wine.  He eased his way into the room, holding the glass out in front of him like a shield, using his best “soothing” voice.  It was like he was trying to tranquilize the wild beast.  And it worked…for the most part.  It did calm me.  And after I polished off the whole glass, I felt like a new person.  I didn’t know who she was, but she wasn’t crying. 

Then I woke up this morning and I was me again.  A little worse for the wear, maybe.  A little battered and bruised on the inside even.  But still me.  And now that I’m back, people had better watch out.  I’m ready to do a little Daywalking.

Until the next time…I’ll be polishing off that bottle of wine…you know, so it doesn’t go to waste.

farewell dear lady...

I got some sad news this morning.  My former mother-in-law…my children’s grandmother…had passed away after a long illness. I haven’t seen the family for many years now, as happens when couples divorce.  But even removed from the sadness and mourning by miles and years, when my daughter told me her Nana had died, I cried. 

My ex-husband and I have had a notoriously adversarial relationship, but for the first time in years, I felt a deep compassion for him.  And the family I was once very much a part of was at the forefront of my thoughts as I went about my day.  I was grateful that my children were with them, having traveled to New York to be with their grandmother at the end.  It’s important for family to be together in moments like this. 

But what about those, like me, who were once family?  We still mourn the loss in our own way. 

I thought about my ex-husband’s mother all day.  I remembered her smile and her laugh. She was the epitome of elegance, always dressed impeccably in beautiful clothes and jewelry, with her hair done and make-up expertly applied. When I first married into the family, she would sit on her bed with me and show me all the jewelry she had collected over the years.  She let me try things on like a little girl.  She shared old family recipes with me.  It was her mother’s wedding ring I wore while married to her son. She was truly one of the classiest women I’ve ever known.

So…I may not have been her daughter-in-law today.  I wasn’t part of her family when she passed…but once upon a time, for fifteen years…I was.  And the memories I carry of her will stay with me.  Family or not.

Until the next time…I’ll be remembering a wonderful lady.

what exactly do you put on a demon sandwich?

So it’s Wednesday again. 

It has become one of my favorite days of the week, because it means a challenge blog. When I first came up with the concept it seemed like a fun little novelty, and I figured it would be popular for a while then fizzle out.  Well…all these months later, it’s still going strong. 

The topic this week? Auto correct.

You know you’ve had it happen. You’ve typed out a text, or a tweet, or a Facebook update and hit enter only to discover you just invited your friends for a much needed naughty instead of a much needed night out. Maybe you’ve inadvertently shared info about your girlie parts instead of your adorable new kitties.  The list could go on and on.  There are entire websites devoted to the embarrassing faux pas of auto correct. I’ve certainly had my share of moments.  I’ve typed, duck this or duck that on more occasions than I can count. There are entire groups of people who think I have a thing for ducks.  And once I sent a message to my kids about the mummy dinner I was cooking.  No one came home to eat that night. It was yummy! Really yummy!

But I’m certainly not the only one who has sent strange messages thanks to the stupid auto correct feature. 

My Australian friend texted her husband to pick up some demon from the grocery store. She was dying for a demon sandwich. Her husband texted back saying the grocery didn’t really have the best prices on demons.  I wanted to know where you would get a good price on a demon.  And what the Hell does one put on a demon sandwich?

Apparently she was ordering devon, which is the Australian version of bologna, and they put tomato sauce on their sandwiches. 

Me…I’ve never really liked bologna…sorry Oscar. I think I’d rather have a demon sandwich. It might be good with a little hot sauce and a nice cold drink!

Until the next time…I’ll be ducking cleaning my house again!

I've come down with a case of NaNoWriMo

I’ve done something and I’m trying to decide who to blame.  Ultimately, I can only blame myself, but in an act of self-preservation, I’m searching for a scapegoat. 

First, I’ll look at the usual suspect…PMS.

I’ve tracked back to my previous blogs to see if the timing is right, and yes…we’re right on schedule. (And yes…I have to read my old blogs to find out when the last time I was PMSing.)  So my monthly affliction could be to blame.  But while hormones most definitely affect my emotions and rational thought, they rarely mess with decision making skills.  At least not this early in the game.  So if I can’t blame PMS…then what?

Or perhaps not what, but who. 

Oh, I’m sure you know who you are…you crazy writer women who convinced me to sign up for the National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. My Twitter stream was filled with reminders this morning.  Hundreds of messages urging me to click the link and sign my November away.  I wasn’t quite awake yet.  I wasn’t all there…you know…in my head.  I was under the influence of that adult peer pressure thing again. 

Yes…that’s it!  I can blame adult peer pressure! 

So be it PMS, an EvilMynx, or a massive, coordinated attack of writer peers, Hell bent on me joining the party…I am now locked into a full month of writing.  Which basically means, I will be insanely busy during the entire month of November as I struggle to write 50,000 words in thirty days.  All this while I attempt to stay current on the Tales of the Daywalkers and The Daily Blog. 

I may need to stock up on diet Coke and chocolate. And I may need them to be administered intravenously. 

I guess I should start building up my immunity to sleep…or maybe I should do nothing but sleep for the next week and save up those extra winks.  I’m not certain what the best course of action will be.  This is my first time.  I’m a NaNoWriMo virgin. But if I survive the whole ordeal, I’ll end up with a finished novel. 

Not a bad trade off, all things considered. 

Until the next time…I’ll be writing a few episodes of Tales of the Daywalkers…just in case!

gimme s'more vampires!

I have a new favorite question. 

“What team are you on?”

It’s a phrase I hear on a regular basis, and no, it has nothing to do with sports…or sexual persuasion.  The answer to this question is either, Team Claude or Team Sebastian, and I think I might have to have it tattooed somewhere on my body. 

Well…maybe with washable ink.

So if you’re wondering, “What’s the deal with Team Claude or Team Sebastian?” I have to ask you…where have you been?

This week marks nine weeks of my Tales of the Daywalkers serial. 

I never expected to write a weekly series.  I guess you could say it was a happy accident.  I wrote a stand-alone bit of flash fiction on a dare, and I could have never imagined the response I would get.  Not a day goes by without someone asking me about the story.  Or telling me who their favorite vampire is.  Or who would play them in a movie. 

I love it.

Especially when people tell me they were thinking about the characters all day.  Or when they toss out a name that would be absolutely perfect for the next victim. 

Apparently, I’m not the only one with people to eviscerate in fiction.

I can’t say often enough how much I appreciate all the fans of the series.  And not just because I’m an attention whore (yes, I said whore).  I do love the attention, but truly, I feel as if my vampires have lives (or existences) all their own and I’m just here to share their story.

So to all you #TeamClaude or #TeamSebastian fans…and all the #CasketSex fans…and the girls who suggested the vampires roast marshmallows in the burning carcass of another vampire…I say, Thank you! From the bottom of my heart.  Without you, I would be missing out on some of the best characters of my entire career. I hope to keep the series going for as long as you keep coming back to read it. 

And may that be a virtual eternity.

In the night…or the day.

Until the next time…I’ll be coming up with new adventures for our favorite vampires.

vampires aren't the only things biting around here

I’ve been bitten by the bug.

No, not the flu…although I have had a twinge of a sore throat this week.  And I don’t mean the writing bug either.  Most days I am glued to my laptop working on one work in progress or another, specifically a few rather popular vampires, but not this week…

This week I was bitten by decorating bug. 

After being thoroughly chastised by my husband for my lack of “Susie Homemaker” skills, I was forced to pull out the broom and mop and clean my house this week.  I hate cleaning almost as much as I hate cooking, but I haven’t been able to convince my husband to up the ante on our current bet to include the rest of the housework.  So hitting 300 followers may get me out of the cooking, but I’m still on the hook for the cleaning.  And with a house full of dogs and teenagers, I never know what I’m going to find tucked under the couch.

While I was moving furniture around to dislodge partially chewed sticks and half-eaten shoes, courtesy of my furry children, I decided I would do a little permanent rearranging. 

It’s amazing what a difference it makes when you reposition furniture.  The room suddenly looks brand new.  I figured I would move around the art while I was at it, and I even hung a few pieces I had stored for a “rainy” day.  It wasn’t a rainy day, in fact, it was sunny enough to open the French doors while I cleaned and redecorated my living room. 

Of course, an open door means a runaway dog, so I had to jump in the car right in the middle of my project to search for Joey. (For you new readers, Joey has a long history of vanishing from my yard in such a mystical fashion that we often call him “Dogdini”)

After collecting “Dogdini” from a house three neighborhoods away, it was back to work in the house.  As long as I was cleaning, I decided to wash every spare blanket in the house to prepare for the impending cold snap. 

My husband was quite pleased at my handy work and even told me he “really likes” when I do housework. 

Blech!

My evil plot to appear like an incompetent housewife has failed miserably. I guess it’s time to set fire to something again…

Until the next time…I’ll be busy coming up with a better plan.

reality bites

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Raine ThomasTonight’s guest blogger is Raine Thomas. For more about Raine, click on her photo to visit her website.

Hello. I’m Raine, and I’m socially awkward. 

Yes, really. I’m the gal who walks into a room full of strangers and looks for the nearest exit. This is somewhat surprising in light of the fact that I grew up in a large family where if you didn’t speak at the volume of a sonic boom, you were ignored. One would think I would have overcome any shyness.                   

Alas, such is not the case. Still, I’m sitting in front of a computer and not face-to-face with you. I can do this. *Takes deep breath* 

For those of you who don’t know me, I’ll share a few tidbits about myself so we can get better acquainted. I’m a wedding planner. I write young adult fantasy/romance novels. I’m a wife and mother. And sleep is something I merely fantasize about during the ten-minute drive to the grocery store once a week. 

Perhaps by now you’ve got an image in your head of J. Lo from “The Wedding Planner” crossed with Stephenie Meyer’s rabid reader base and a healthy nod toward June Cleaver (or some not-so-dated paragon of domestic bliss).  If so, I’m sorry to have misled you. 

It’s quite amusing to me how many misconceptions people have about my life when they first meet me. Since I shy away from social experiences whenever possible, I have to wonder if this is common. Does everyone deal with people making wild assumptions about their lives based off just a few things about them? 

Allow me to share a few personal examples so you can let me know if this is true for you. 

Misconception #1: You’re a wedding planner? Wow—that must be SO glamorous! 

Sad Truth: No, it’s not. It’s a role surrounded by madness and the pressure of ensuring that the single most important day of a bride’s life goes off without a hitch. I’ve had crazed brides ordering me to pick up the poop left behind by their “ring bearer” dog. Classy, no? And I’m a wedding planner in Orlando. I step outside in my nicest wardrobe to be hit by a wall of heat and humidity (and often rain), causing me to look like I just ran the entire way to the wedding location when I finally greet the happy couple. Try looking glamorous when your makeup is melting off and you have streams of hairspray-scented sweat rolling into your eyes. Just sayin’.

Misconception #2: You’re an author, too? You must be rolling in the money! 

Sad Truth: No, I’m really not. Let’s frame it this way: my wedding planner boss drives a Lexus. I drive a ten-year-old Nissan X-Terra that recently had to have the ceiling pulled down because I got tired of the little flecks of fluff flying into my hair and onto my clothes and contributing to my so-not-glamorous image whenever I coordinated weddings. The engine on this vehicle makes such strange noises that I consider my annual membership to AAA “supplemental auto insurance.” Despite what you might be thinking, I’m not just driving ol’ Tweety around for sentimental reasons. 

Misconception #3: You’ve been married for ten years? That must provide great inspiration for the romance part of your writing! 

Sad Truth: No, it doesn’t. I can think of two times in the past ten years that my husband and I made a real effort to incorporate “Hollywood-style romance” into an evening. One involved an intimate liaison in front of the fireplace at our first new home. That subsequently became the time we learned that to open the flue, you had to flip the lever the OTHER way. Try engaging in intimacy while smoke floods into the room and every detector in the house starts screeching. Yeah. Let’s just say the second attempt didn’t end any better, and there was a broken bed frame involved…and not in a good way. 

And then there’s the fact that—um. Wait a minute here. What the hell did I just do? Ugh. Did I mention I’m socially awkward? Look, can we start over? 

Hello. I’m Raine, and I’m a glamorous wedding planner and author who lives in the lap of luxury and experiences more romance than you’ll ever dream. 

It’s a pleasure to meet you. 

Thanks so much to Raine Thomas for sharing her world with us.  I totally agree with her…reality bites! Hey, speaking of things that bite…I’m working on week 9 of the Daywalkers.  Have you been bitten yet? 

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the sun to come up!  

when a good muse goes bad

I don’t normally think of my motivation to write in terms of having a “muse”.  I have one, of course.  It’s one of those writer things.  If you’re a writer, you have a muse.  I just don’t talk about mine. 

So what is a muse, you ask? Greek Muses

Well, we writers don’t just listen to the voices in our heads; we also bow down to our mythical muse to send us the inspiration to write.  When the words are flowing like a swollen river in the rainy season, we take the credit.  But when creativity dries up like a cracked riverbed in the middle of a drought, it’s not our fault, it’s that damn muse.  So what do we do when our muse up and vanishes without a trace?

Are we talking about before or after we panic? 

Once I accepted the fact that my muse was among the missing, I decided to imagine her running off to the beach, where she’s soaking up the sun during the day and downing shots of tequila in the night.  I’m certain she’s trying her luck in wet t-shirt contests and singing really bad karaoke with the other missing muses.  I hear tales of my writer friends dragging their muses back from dirty tattoo shops after lost weekends in Las Vegas.  What happens in Vegas…well, you know. 

I keep checking YouTube expecting to see her in an episode of “Muses Go Wild”.  

Wherever my muse has gone, I hope she’s having more fun than I am…stuck at home in cold rainy weather, suffering from writer’s block thanks to her.  Instead of shots of tequila, I’m doing shots of cough syrup.

Oh, I know she’ll come stumbling in after she’s had her fill of fun in the sun.  She always does.  And I’ll be back to churning out witty fiction and amusing blogs again. 

For now, I guess we’ll just have to settle for this…and some candy.

Until the next time…I’ll be leaving the porch light on for the muse.

what is sexy?

Sexy?  Oh sure…I know.  Webster defines sexy as being, “sexually suggestive or stimulating.” But what exactly does that mean?

Are we talking about the fuel to your fire? The harmony to your melody? The keys to your libido?

When I hear people speak about sexy, they always refer to an object of perfection.  A Greek god or goddess.  A sleek sports car. The most delectable dish imaginable.

Advertisers want us to believe only flawless naked bodies are sexy.  They tell us that racy cars, lacquered in candy apple red, speeding down a deserted highway are sexy.  Hot melted chocolate drizzled over just about anything is sexy.  And ok…I’ll admit it.  Those things can be sexy. But isn’t sexy more than that? Isn’t sexy something different for everyone? One man’s bunny is another man’s Botticelli? Or something like that.

To me, sexy is an off-kilter smile and a day’s growth of stubble.  A strange sense of humor where he can laugh at his own shortcomings.  An indefinable glance that makes my toes curl from across the room.  It’s something in the timbre of a man’s voice when he whispers sweet nothings into my ear on a moonlit night.  The way he brushes his lips across my cheek in the moments before the actual kiss, and the silence that follows.

Sexy isn’t something you can order online in a pretty package. It’s something you cultivate over time. It isn’t one size fits all…it’s tailor made to fit.  It doesn’t jump off the page, it’s tucked in between the lines. 

Sexy is a feeling created from within.

At least that’s what’s sexy to me.  What’s sexy to you?

a sweet vintage treat

I braved the sparkly world of early Christmas displays today to hit up the local craft store for a few Halloween decorations.  Thanks to the overflowing of Christmas, Halloween was on half-off clearance, and I was in the mood for some spooky purchases.

I like to think of myself as a vintage girl.  And no…that’s not the same as “old”.  I have a thing for turn of the century houses, antique furniture, and classic art.  I like my music from another era, my favorite clothes have a timeless air, and when it comes to my Halloween decorations, I definitely lean toward the old-fashioned.  Specifically, pieces from the twenties and thirties. The people of the roaring twenties definitely knew how to scare each other!

I was in luck today.  There was a entire motherload of paper mache pumpkins, ghosts, and black cats in the style I was looking for.  But even more than that, there was an entire treasure trove of things I hadn’t even thought of!

So, I ran around the store, filling my cart with things I didn’t need, but had to have, as I oooooed and ahhhhed over the die cut rats and crows.  Gasped and eeeked over the witches and skeletons.  All the while, trying to block out the Christmas carols playing in the background.

Finally, when I’d found every single item that screamed (pun intended) vintage, I drove my cart to the check out lane.

As I passed by, I glanced at the candy display.  A flash of red caught my eye and I came to a screeching halt in front of something I hadn’t seen in years. 

Did I mention I had a taste for the vintage? 

I’ve often longed for the candy I loved when I was a kid. Confections no longer stocked in stores.  Delicacies relegated to my tastebud memories.

I think I giggled.  One of those creepy little giggles you might hear coming from an old man in a strip club.  It was straight up, old fashioned, candy lust.  I was officially a candy-phile.

I looked both ways, making sure no one was watching me before I shoveled the treats into my cart and hurried to the check out counter to pay. 

Once I reached my car, I tore into the wrapper, eating a corner of the paper as I savaged my long lost Zagnut bar in a sugar induced frenzy.  Once I’d finished the first bar, I ripped open the wrapper on the second treat, succumbing to the addiction without a single thought. 

Mallo Cups were my second favorite candy from days gone by and they were more than worth the wait. 

It didn’t take long for the sugar high to crash into a candy coma.  Thankfully, by then I was home with no access to sweets.  That didn’t stop me from craving more, and I may need to seek out help to stop me from going back to the craft store tomorrow for whatever they have left.  In fact…if I get up really early I can be there when the doors open first thing in the morning. 

Can anyone say “intervention”?

Until the next time…I’ll be hanging up my Halloween decorations and eating carrot sticks!

the modern long distance relationships

I missed a call from an old friend today. 

I tried to call her back immediately. She didn’t answer. I hit redial a few minutes later, and again a few minutes after that. I finally sent her a text message when my attempts to reach her had failed.  When she didn’t instantly reply, I sent her a message on Facebook too. I was so excited to get a phone call from a real person; I had to find out why she was calling.

She texted me back a little while later to let me know the call was a mistake.  Her pocket had auto dialed me while she was getting the mail. 

I had to laugh.  These things happen.  I’ve done it myself. But at the same time, I was a little sad.  I had to face up to the harsh facts. 

She didn’t mean to call me. 

Then I had to face another embarrassing truth.  I almost never talk to live people anymore.  My communications are done almost entirely in text. I text my children when they’re down the hall.  I text my husband when he’s at work.  And all of my very best friends are thumbnail avatars who live inside my laptop, accessible to me only via text.

Most of the time, I have no complaints.  I can hang out with my friends until all hours of the night without my husband hiring a private investigator to discover my whereabouts.  Why? Because I never leave the house.  I can also visit with all of my friends at once without leaving anyone out.  And best of all, I can hang out with my friends whether or not I have showered and brushed my teeth! 

But admittedly, I miss leaving the house.  I miss the fun outings.  And believe it or not, I miss showering and getting all dressed up.  I think I just might coordinate a girl’s night out, Twitter style.  So what if my best friends are spread all over the globe.  This is the twenty-first century.  We have Android and iPhone.  We can all go see the same movie in our very own towns, and tweet while we watch. 

So we can’t share popcorn.  We can still comment on the deliciousness of the lead character on the screen in front of us.  Maybe next we can organize a trip to karaoke over mobile Skype.  I know it’s strange, but don’t burst my bubble!  Don’t spoil my fun!  It could work. 

It would certainly make for an interesting blog…

Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out with my friends in my jammies!

I see undead people

I wonder if I haven’t spent too much time hanging out with vampires lately.  Not the flesh and blood kind, of course, but rather the sort that come to life inside that scary place I call my mind.  They may be figments of my overactive imagination, but they’re no less real to me.  Still, I usually know the difference between my imaginary vampires and the people I see on the street.  Not so much recently.  Now everywhere I go, I see undead people. 

It’s nothing out of the ordinary to run into flesh-eating zombies or bloodthirsty vampires while wandering through a Wal-Mart or Waffle House late at night.  I once even ran into a woman who looked suspiciously like a werewolf in mid-transition.  She was wearing short pants, exposing a thick pelt of dark fur on her legs, and almost as much on her upper lip.  But I used to take comfort in the fact that the scary percentage of the population keeps to the shadows.  They’re not supposed to aimlessly roam the streets like a pack of Girl Scouts selling cookies.

So where are they coming from?

Just today, at the salon, there was a guy who could have been auditioning for a part in Tales of the Daywalkers, the movie (I wish! Just saying…). He was channeling Sebastian. And he totally looked the part. 

He even seemed to be willing to bite me. 

I was tempted…I admit it.  But as drawn to the idea as I was, I figured I’d better not.  You just never know where his fangs have been.  You know what I mean?  Besides, my husband probably would have been really pissed off.  Guys don’t appreciate vampires biting their wives. 

Oh well…too bad.

I have vampires of my own anyway.  And if I really think about it, I might have to admit that it could just be my subconscious reminding me I need to stay home for the rest of the weekend and work on this week’s Daywalkers. I know a few people who might stalk me for real if I don’t get it done.

You know who you are! 

Until the next time…I’ll be buckling down to finish week 8!

I am writer, hear me roar!

Have you ever needed a break?  And I don’t mean an hour…or even an afternoon.  I mean a real break. Like a few days’ vacation from life. I think it’s entirely possible my “all in” attitude has caused a major disconnect with my positive outlook.

Then again, I might just be really tired.   So tired, in fact, my judgment is skewed.

What do I mean, you ask?

Well, for one, I got into a debate with a group of fellow writers the other day.  It was silly.  I should have known better.  It was one of those arguments akin to talking religion or politics—never a wise idea, especially when you’re the only one arguing your side. 

But trust me…even when I’m not exhausted and out of sorts, I am likely to assert my convictions to an unwitting audience.  Especially when I know I’m right.

So I laid out my point.  Ran through the facts proving my position.  And finally, gave up when no amount of compelling evidence would sway their views. 

Oh well.

I don’t need anyone’s validation to prove I’m right.  And frankly, I was just too tired to go on. 

Then again…who knows…after a good night’s sleep I might be ready to jump back in with both feet and rally for a while longer. 

My kids tell me I have a black belt in “beating a dead horse”.  May as well put it to good use, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be taking a very long nap!

what happened to halloween?

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

Christmas trees. 

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

Are you with me? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey…viva la revolucion!

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

the great sushi incident

I used to love sushi.  Now I think it may be trying to do me in.  Well, not me personally.  My kids.  But as any mom knows, what hurts your kids hurts you. 

My kids aren’t exactly kids anymore.  They have their own lives…their own agendas.  On Mondays they eat sushi.  Not together, they run in different circles.  But yesterday, they both had plans to meet friends and eat sushi.

So I ask you…what are the odds that both of my kids would end up in the emergency room, for completely different circumstances, but on the same day they both ate sushi?  I’m pretty sure those are some amazing odds.  And believe me; if I had known I was going to beat the odds like never before, I would have bought a few lottery tickets. 

My daughter called me at four in the afternoon to tell me she had passed out.  She was a little spotty on the info.  She was dehydrated and hadn’t eaten all day.  At that hour of the day, her blood sugar was most likely dangerously low. Worse than that, she was cursed with her mother’s uncanny ability to find the disaster in any situation.  It took me hours to discover she had lost consciousness, falling violently into the sushi bar where she ricocheted off and fell backwards to crack her head on the floor. 

Like mother like daughter.

Imagine my surprise when she phoned me and said she was fine.  “No big deal, Mom.”

But several hours later, she had bruises all over and a frightening headache.  It was suddenly a very big deal after all.  So at one in the morning, we were driving to the hospital, forty-five minutes away.  The nursing staff was wonderful, I have no complaints at all, but it’s never fun to spend the wee hours of the morning waiting for CAT scans and X-rays. 

Not to mention, my son texting me all the while with an increasingly bad stomach ache.

I blamed the sushi…why not?  It was a factor in his sister’s fate after all.  He rejected my suggestion.  He was willing to defend his favorite sushi restaurant until the end.  But while I sat with my daughter in the emergency room, my son continued to text…his stomach pain getting progressively worse. 

By three-thirty am, my daughter was discharged and I was racing home to exchange the child with a head injury for the child with stomach pain. 

Did I mention it was pouring down rain and I can’t see to drive in the dark as is?  Right…a fun time was had by all.

The triage nurses were surprised to see me back, just an hour after bidding me farewell, and they  hurriedly escorted my son to a room where he was quickly hooked up to monitors, IV fluids, and  given a lovely dose of morphine.

His diagnosis?  Gall stones…or at least the very plausible possibility of such.  My son shot me an icy sideways glance as he realized this was a hereditary proclivity he got from me.  Luckily, morphine erased his annoyance right along with his pain and before long he was waxing philosophical about an episode of Law and Order.

While he rested comfortably in a hospital bed, I attempted to grab a moment’s rest in a plastic chair with a wall thermostat for a pillow. An impossible task in any situation, let alone my second trip to the ER in one night.

Several more hours later, reinforcements arrived to send me home.                          

After a quick pit-stop at the drug store to drop off a prescription, I was home…just in time for the sun to crest above the horizon, and the dogs to wake for their breakfast and first morning trip to the yard.  I flopped down on the bed sometime just before eight am, right about the same time my husband was rolling out of bed for work. 

Admittedly, I lay awake for more than an hour, convinced my husband would slip in the shower or choke on his vegan breakfast and I would be back in the car racing to the hospital yet again. 

He was fine.  No choking or broken bones.  And both of my kids will survive too.  Nothing more than a few bumps and bruises and a misbehaving gallbladder.

As for me?  I’m really tired.  More than normal.  The only saving grace was my months of practicing staying up all night long paid off.  I survived the morning too.  I may need to sleep tonight though.  Woman cannot live on chocolate alone!  Sometimes we need rest too.

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping…leave a message at the beep.

the circus is in town!

When my daughter was young, we took her to her first flea market.  It was one of those big deals, filled with antiques and assorted fun junk.  For hours before we got there she was excited about going.  We promised her funnel cakes, cotton candy, and the possibility of interesting toys.  All morning, every question she asked was punctuated with, “is it time for the Flea Market yet?”  

When we finally got there, her excitement was overflowing, and as she climbed out of her carseat and her feet hit the gravel, she clapped her hands together and said, “Let’s go find some fleas!” 

I believe that was the last time the mention of a flea made me smile.

I would like to know who came up with the idea that a flea circus would be a fun time.  Oh, sure…on paper it sounds great.  A brightly colored tent, a guy in a top hat, and some really small costumes.  I had to look it up.  I was sure this was a figment of someone’s imagination.  To my jawdropping surprise, I discovered they were real circus sideshows. Even more surprising is the fact that actual fleas were harnessed and made to perform tricks. 

How is this possible?  And where can I find one of these magnificient flea trainers to come take a few off my hands?

Yes, you heard me right…I’m horrified to admit it…my dogs have fleas.  Now I have an overabundance of these little creatures at my house, and no idea how it happened. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve had my share of pets over the years, so I’ve had to irradicate my fair share of fleas, but not in ages.  And I mean YEARS!  I stay on top of these things.  My dogs are treated like children.  They eat better food than I do most days.  We use the finest in natural flea preventative on a monthly basis.  We have hardwood floors and leather furniture…not places fleas tend to breed.  So how is it we have somehow managed to cultivate an entire Big Top of excitement under one roof? 

I’m looking for someone to blame, but I can’t quite put my finger on the perfect foil.  I can tell you this…the circus is not my favorite place to be.  And if I’m not enjoying it, imagine how my poor dogs feel.

So what’s a girl to do when faced with a potential infestation of circus performers? 

I went to the vet for a ridiculously expensive solution to my embarrassing problem. I have the stuff that goes ON the dog…stuff that goes IN the dog…stuff for the floors, the yard, the vacuum…and that is what I’ll be doing all day tomorrow.  I will be tearing down the Big Top and sending the circus to the next town. 

But tonight?  There’ll be a whole lot of scratching going on.

Until the next time…I’ll be de-fleaing my house!

sweating the small (and other) stuff

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Joni B ColeTonight’s guest blogger is Joni B Cole, author of the newly released, Another Bad-Dog Book. For more about Joni, click on her photo to visit her website.

I know, I know, we all have only so much emotional energy, so why waste it getting angry over incidentals, or things that are out of our control? Yet lately my fuse has retracted to the length of the common shrew’s penis. (Yes, that is an apt metaphor; look it up on animal kingdom facts).

But why? Or, more specifically, why now? Sure, as a little girl I was prone to temper tantrums, but my mother and her threats to give me something to really cry about effectively cured me of those outbursts some thirty years ago. Or so I believed. But if you think I pitched a fit when my mom served red velvet cake for my eighth birthday (after I had specifically requested chocolate), you should have seen me last week when the “mystery cone” I had ordered at the Ice Creamery turned out to be my two worst flavors (mint chocolate chip and black raspberry).

Argh!!!

And mystery cones aren’t the only thing wasting my emotional energy. Recently I went on vacation to Canada where I visited a casino. Because the casino’s ATM refused to acknowledge my American debit card (like we’re not all part of the same continent!) I had to wait in line for a real person to advance me some cash. On and on the clerk went to the Canucks in front of me, about how they should consider purchasing the VIP package deal at the casino hotel, and how, yes, the all-you-can-eat buffet was more expensive on Fridays, but (and here he proceeded to list the entire contents of the buffet!) it was really worth it, eh.

Argh!!!

Chill out, I try to tell myself. Who gets angry over ice cream? Who, for that matter, gets mad at Canadians, the most polite people on the planet? Yet lately I have been wasting energy not only on the small stuff, but on stuff that hasn’t even happened. Take Arnold Schwarzenegger, please. I read recently that he anticipated signing a book deal—as he’s been quoted as bragging—for a record-breaking advance. This while I and a gazillion real writers struggle to catch a break. And if we do manage to land a publishing contract, have you seen the size of our advances? Of course you haven’t, because we didn’t cheat on Maria Shriver!  

ShrewLest I turn into the common shrew, I plan to keep working on my short fuse. I would love to mellow with age and maybe someday, somehow, I will. But in the meantime, gentle reader, if we happen to cross paths, please try not to annoy or inconvenience me in any way. If I do get angry, do not shush me or tell me to calm down, which, I guarantee, will only make things worse. And, above all, do not, I repeat do NOT mention the name of a certain former Governor of California, who may or may not get a record-breaking book deal.

Argh!!!

Much thanks to Joni for a funny blog. I had to add the picture of the shrew…not everyone knows what they look like.

Until the next time…I’ll be checking out Joni’s, Another Bad-Dog Book!

blowing bones

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

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

I guess I should explain…

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

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

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

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

And we laugh…a lot!

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

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

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

Find something to laugh at. 

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

life is like a slinky…or something like that

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

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

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

How is life like a Slinky, you ask? 

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

After all…

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

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

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

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

It’s fun for a girl or boy!”

Try getting that out of your head today!

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

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

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

It’s fun for a girl or a boy!

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

tell me tuesday

“What would your parents be horrified to know about you?”  

That was the first question I noticed.  The funny thing was I couldn’t think of a single thing about me that would make my parents freak out.  Or even surprise them.  I’ve always been a bit strange, and certainly my parents would have noticed by now.

I guess you’re wondering why I was trying to come up with embarrassing topics to shock my parents with.

We can blame my new buddy, author Rachel Thompson.  Remember her?  She shared her Cabana Boy with me last week, and in exchange, I agreed to participate in this brilliant new promo opportunity for authors she devised and hosts on her Twitter stream.  The idea is to share our innermost secrets and send them out like modern game of “pass it on”. It’s fun, sexy, interactive…part interview, part guest appearance…and it’s called #TellMeTuesday.  She didn’t have to ask me twice.  I was thrilled!  All I had to do was to reveal fun things about myself that nobody else knows. 

So…what did I share?

I sing dirty show tunes.  I admit it.  I change around the words to the oldies and voila…seriously dirty Cole Porter.  Not that Cole Porter was without a little dirt of his own…but I don’t doubt that he rolls over in his grave every time his Anything Goes melody accompanies my naughty lyrics. 

Do I dare admit my deep dark fears? 

Not if that means my readers will start the same sort of campaign they undertook when I wrote about not being a hugger.  More than a year later, people still come up to me at the grocery store and go in for the hug.  Not total strangers…but lucky for me, most of those readers wouldn’t recognize me at the grocery store anyway. 

Oh, and best of all..I just found out that Ivie, my character in Suddenly Sorceress isn’t the only witch in my background.  My great aunt uncovered one of the original Salem witches in our family tree.  How cool is that?  I plan on spreading that info around wherever I can.  Wait until my kids find out there is a very good reason why I become a witch every Halloween…and just maybe several days a month during the rest of the year. 

I officially have an excuse.

I’m sure there’s more about me you don’t know…but hey, Tuesday comes once a week!  And I may not be Rachel’s guest next week, but I can host my very own #TellMeTuesday…what about you?

What do you have planned for next Tuesday?

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for topics for tomorrow’s challenge blog!  Leave a comment if you want to play.