flightless birds

I started my Thanksgiving morning with a bit of television nostalgia.  A friend posted a clip from WKRP in Cincinnati, one of my favorite shows from back in the day. It was the Thanksgiving episode where the fictitious radio station did a “turkey drop”, releasing dozens of turkeys from an airplane.  Of course, the punch line was, turkeys can’t fly. 

But I happen to know turkeys can fly…maybe not when dropped from a plane in flight…but they certainly can fly from one side of the highway to the other.  My sister once totaled her car hitting a turkey. She didn’t even try to avoid it. My mother had always told her not to swerve for birds; they will get out of the way at the last minute. 

For the record, that rule doesn’t apply to turkeys. Turkeys will not get out of the way at the last minute.  They will dent the hood, then the roof of your car, shattering your windshield on the way. For a bird, they do a great imitation of a deer when you hit them.  I guess it’s a little like driving fifty-five miles per hour down the highway and having someone toss a bowling ball into your path.  At least that’s what my husband said when he finished laughing at the story of my sister and the turkey.

When it comes to turkey facts, my husband is full of them.  Out of the blue yesterday, he mentioned the statistics of how many people blow themselves up while attempting to deep fry a turkey for Thanksgiving.  Apparently, you can’t deep fry a frozen turkey.  Who knew? Hubby did.  Obviously as a native of New York, I have never even considered deep frying my turkey. And for the record, I’ve also never cooked it with the bag of innards still inside the bird.  But with my track record in the kitchen, it’s a wonder I haven’t done worse.  Then again, I suppose there isn’t much worse than sending a turkey into space on the tail of a deep fryer.

As for us, we had a fairly uneventful Thanksgiving at my house.  Nothing was burned. Nothing got broken. I even managed to convince my husband to forego the woodland creatures this year.  So no rabbits were harmed in the making of this dinner.  And no turkeys were dropped from airplanes, hit by cars, or launched into space via deep fryers.  We cooked our bird the old fashioned way…in the oven. 

And trust me…he was delicious. 

Until the next time…I’ll be recovering from the food coma!

a toast to those who can’t be here

Well, it’s here.  Thanksgiving.  And I’m happy to say, after several years of my mom spending the holiday up north with extended family, she’ll be spending tomorrow at my house.  So she’ll be here to remind me how to make the stuffing.  And the pies.  And the gravy.  And I’ll turn my back so she can pretend she’s stealing the turkey’s liver and heart, like she had to do with her siblings (something no one else in this house would eat anyway.)

I’m sure it will be a great day from the moment we stuff the bird until the moment we discover we’re too stuffed to eat another bite.

But as much as my Thanksgiving will be perfectly normal and chaotic, this will be a difficult holiday for many. 

My thoughts go out to my ex-husband and my children, still feeling the loss of my former mother-in-law who recently passed.  And to my sister’s ex-husband who lost his father this week after a long battle with cancer. 

Over the years, I have spent many a holiday with Uncle Paul, as we still call my sister’s ex-husband. And those just happen to be some of the most memorable holidays of my adult life. There was one Thanksgiving when my mother almost dropped the turkey as she was pulling it out of the oven.  Uncle Paul “goosed” her while her back was turned. There was also the year everyone descended on my former in-laws for Christmas. My ex-husband’s parents had never been exposed to Uncle Paul’s antics, so they were not prepared for his little “pranks.” Uncle Paul discovered a way to cause the showers to blast either cold or hot water by strategically flushing toilets and running the hose in the yard just as someone in the house was shampooing their hair. There was a lot of screaming going on that year.

But I suppose the most interesting holiday spent with Uncle Paul was one I didn’t even witness first hand. It was the year Uncle Paul decided to take my parents out for a special Thanksgiving dinner.

He and my sister were still married at the time, and looking back, this may have had something to do with why they aren’t married anymore.

Paul was an Air Force recruiter in their small town, and when he came home to announce that he was given tickets to a fancy Thanksgiving dinner for the whole family, everyone was thrilled. My divorced parents were both scheduled to have dinner with them that year, so going out for dinner seemed like a very special treat. Everyone got dressed up. The tickets promised a formal multicourse meal with all the trimmings.

When they arrived at the banquet hall, they were pleased to see the holiday decorations and pretty lights everywhere, and they could smell the wonderful cooking coming from inside, but as they entered the ballroom, the tables were dressed in holiday finery, but the other guests were not. In fact, the other guests looked as if they hadn’t recently bathed, or eaten for that matter.

It was a dinner for the homeless.

My sister was mortified. As were my parents. Especially when they were seated at large banquet tables surrounded by the unwashed masses. I’m sure they felt very awkward eating food that was probably meant for other unfortunate people who had nowhere to go on the holiday. But I’m also sure they were very gracious about the whole thing. I just really wish I had been there. I would have loved to have seen their faces. But I’ve been there for so many other holidays with Uncle Paul, I’m sure I can imagine.

My thoughts go out to those who have lost loved ones so close to the holiday season…and those who have someone they dearly miss as a day of thanksgiving draws so close.

Until the next time…I’ll be getting stuffed…I mean…you know what I mean!

lord of the dance

I’m almost afraid to admit this.  It’s sort of on the horrible side.  You might even call it a deep dark secret of a totally different kind.

I watch Dancing with the Stars.

I don’t know how it happened. I used to laugh at my friends when they said they watched this show.  It was something my mother would watch (and yes…she does.) If my grandmother was still alive, I’ll bet she’d be watching it week after week too. Especially since Murder She Wrote has been off the air for years.  But me? No way!

Yes way.

I found myself engrossed after the first episode this season. And the thing is…I don’t think it was a fascination with celebrities that drew me in. Especially this bunch of celebrities. It’s not like Hugh Jackman or Robert Downey Jr. was out there dancing.  No…it was a fascination with the dance. I would absolutely love to take up ballroom dancing!

So that’s going to be my new thing.  I’m going to take up ballroom dancing…over the internet. I mean, it’s not like I’d ever get my husband to go with me to an actual studio. First of all, I tend to draw attention to myself.  Second, he’s not a fan of crowds…or strangers…and both are likely to be found at a dance studio. So, I’m not sure if there is an online class out there, but I’m going to do my best to find one.  And then I’m going to drag out my life-sized cardboard cut-out of Edward Cullen and I’m going to dance around the living room doing the tango. Or my very own version of the tango. 

And I’ll try really hard not to step on Edward’s toes.  

Until then next time…I’ll be dancing!

destination: happy place

Have you ever wondered what happened to your “happy place”…that secret place you go to when life weighs down on you like an anchor in a choppy sea? I usually keep mine close at hand so I can pull it out whenever needed. But I guess even perpetually cheerful writers misplace their happy place every now and then.  Lucky for me, mine wasn’t really lost…it was just hiding. 

I searched for days without success.  Those pesky little things can be like a needle in a haystack.  So the minute I found it, I gave that bitch, Debbie Downer her walking papers and got back to the business of writing.

Oh…and you have officially been warned.  I am a bundle of unbridled energy. I’m a bowl of sugar in a cup of black coffee.  I’m a cliché of epic proportions, and I’m just getting started.

Ok…so I’m just in a really good mood. But let’s not underestimate the importance of a really good mood. I’m not even going to question it. I’m not going to explore the reason why…I’m just going to enjoy it.

And while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and have a great week too. Thanksgiving is right around the corner, the turkey is thawing, and the baking is well under way.  But I’m not just getting ready for a holiday feast…I also have a super exciting announcement coming for Daywalkers at the end of the week. And I have a project in the works that makes me want to dance naked on the coffee table…but let’s just say, I’ll keep that sentiment right where it belongs…in my head. With my luck, I’d trip and fall, ultimately exposing myself for all the world to see.  And while I don’t mind sharing myself with you…I’d rather not share quite that much, if you get what I mean.

But I would like you to share a bit with me this time…I’m really thankful for my happy place…tell me what you’re thankful for. 

Until the next time…I’ll be dropping a few hints along the way.

never underestimate the power of a kind word

It wasn’t a week ago when I was passing out advice to a fellow writer.  “Don’t give up! You can do it. The stories are inside you just screaming to get out…” Blah, blah, blah.  Oh don’t get me wrong…I meant what I said. I still do.  And just maybe my words helped her find the inspiration again.

But today?

I’m the one struggling with feelings of inferiority and self-doubt.  And not just as a writer, but as a human being. Where this came from, I have no idea. My husband is blaming hormones, and I find myself reading old blogs and counting the days to see if he might be right…but I don’t think he is.  And if he is, I have a serious hormonal imbalance going on.  Possibly life threatening this time.  I feel as if I don’t have the strength to take my next breath.

Yes, I’m probably overreacting. Probably being ridiculously melodramatic and silly.  It’s part of my overwhelming charm, after all.  We creative types are nothing if not dramatic. I was even ready to drag out the dreaded wine coolers to drown my sorrows. And I was prepared to drink a whole one! Maybe even part of a second.

Yes…it was that serious.

And then I got this email. It was words of encouragement from a stranger. Someone who had read my blog, maybe some of my samples…and this woman, a successfully published author in her own right, was telling ME I was talented.  She was urging me to keep writing…to believe in myself.  Her words were like a lifeline reaching out to me in the dark of night.  And it couldn’t have come at a better time.  

So the stuff that had me down today is still here, but just maybe I have the strength to take that next breath after all.  And the one after that while I’m at it.

I mean…come on. I can’t give up. I have ice cream in the freezer!

Until the next time…milkshakes for everyone!

tales of a modern housewife

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Karen DeLabarTonight’s guest blogger is Karen DeLabar. For more about Karen, click on her photo to visit her website.

For some reason I assumed that the second the ring slid on my finger I would know how to cook without ever really trying. Or that I could tackle simple household chores without setting the vacuum on fire or cutting my elbow to the point of needing stitches while washing the dishes. I couldn’t understand why my “housewife” switch didn’t click on. My house was a mess and I couldn’t handle any task without notifying some sort of borough official.

Last year my husband’s company sent us down to Disney World to work on project for six weeks. They were putting us up in a nice condo that even had a dishwasher! A dishwasher, people! Wow. There is no way I can screw this up!

And then I tried to make lunch.

Our first day there I decided to start off easy and put fish sticks in the oven. As they were busy baking away in their own grease I found myself staring at the dishwasher. I never had one growing up and I was always envious of those who did. We were only in the house for a night so there were a couple of cups and a plate but the need to use it overpowered me. I opened the cupboard and took some dishes out to wash.

I opened the cupboard under the sink and found a box of powdered soap. Shrugging I emptied some of it in the little slot that said “detergent,” closed up shop and hit the “start” cycle. Smiling to myself I joined my daughter on the sofa for some cartoons.

About 10 minutes later she got up off of the sofa and ventured into the kitchen to retrieve her cup. She came back soaking wet with bubbles in her hair. You can imagine my surprise when I went into the kitchen to find the dishwasher spewing out foam and bubbles. Panic set in as I reached over the counter to turn off the machine. I started to move towards the pantry closet where I knew they had a mop and found myself on my back staring up at a giggling two year old.

Realizing that walking was out of the question, I crawled over to the pantry and used the door knob to steady myself as I stood up. As I reached inside to grab the mop a peculiar smell tickled my nose. Smoke! I turned around to see smoke rising from the oven. Forgetting that the floor was coated with water and bubbles I attempted to make it across the kitchen to the oven and found myself on the floor… again.

Once again I crawled to the oven. By this time the smoke detector was going off waking up my youngest from her nap. Amongst the cries, both my baby’s and mine, the giggling from my oldest and the alarm I managed to pull the fish sticks from the oven and shut it off.

The patio door was by the oven so I opened it and looked frantically for the smoke detector. Seeing a small white box above the pantry door I skated across the room but I overshot my stride a bit too much and I slammed into the pantry door. After the spots before my eyes cleared, I used a kitchen towel to wave the smoke away from the box in hopes to shut the thing off. It didn’t work. I stood on a kitchen chair and tried to dismantle it but I couldn’t get it off the wall.

I thought it was hopeless; I expected to hear the police and fire trucks any minute. Then much to my surprise the alarm stopped. I don’t know how, maybe my frantic waving worked, maybe all the smoke went out the open patio door, at that point I didn’t care. I hopped off the chair and spent the next two hours cleaning up soap.

Just as I was about to collapse onto the sofa and cry there was a knock at the door. It turns out that the doorbell didn’t work properly and the owner’s of the home wanted it fixed for our stay. The repair man knew the house better than I did so I followed him into the kitchen where he started to take down my smoke detector. Turns out it was the doorbell. Guess it was the open patio door that cleared the smoke.

As I watched him take down that tiny box I did the only thing I could do. I laughed. I laughed so hard I cried. The guy thought I was crazy but I didn’t care.

It was that day that I decided to give in to nature. I’m not a 1950’s housewife, and I don’t want to be. My house is messy, I burn pork chops and my kids always have something sticky in their hair. But they’re happy and healthy and because of me we have great stories… and eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Thanks Karen!

Shhh..don’t tell Karen this, but I’ve actually flooded a dishwasher with bubbles before, so I can definitely relate.  But hey, just to be safe, somebody remind me not to ask Karen to cook for me when I hit 300 followers!

Make sure you visit Karen on her website! Click her picture at the top to get there.

Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out with the vampires until Sunday night!

talk turkey with me

Thanksgiving is officially one week away.

Well, if you’re an American it is.  If you’re not, you may want to eat turkey just because it tastes good.  You know…grab a pie…have some mashed potatoes…

But if you’re an American, this is a big deal. 

I was at the grocery store this evening picking up beer and cookies (because who doesn’t need beer and cookies on a Thursday night?) and as I walked the aisles, I passed the stacks of stuffing mix, canned pumpkin, and assorted other Thanksgiving staples.  And let’s not forget the giant freezer bin filled with turkeys.

But with just a week away from the day, I have no idea what I’m doing, so I called my sister from the cereal aisle to compare notes. Were we planning a family get together or were we going solo? Which kids were going to be in town, and who gets Mom for the day? These are the things you have to figure out before you buy the big bird.

I don’t know what I’m doing yet…but I was wondering what everyone else had planned? Talk turkey to me. What are your plans for Thanksgiving?

Until the next time…I’ll be planning pies.

welcome to my fairy tale

You call this happily ever after?

As the holiday season quickly approaches, the onslaught of holiday movies, classic fairy tales, and upcoming romantic fare has me wondering…what does happily ever after really mean?

Let’s face it, those dreams we had as a child are hard to top.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a princess, marry a prince, and live in a castle with talking mice, squirrels, and blue birds that would cook and clean for me with a whistle and a song.  What I ended up with was a house full of screaming teenagers, dogs who bicker over toys like rabid toddlers, and a husband who may or may not be plotting my demise with the vigor of a wicked stepmother with a thing for poison apples.

It sort of makes me wonder if the fairy tales are even fair.  Maybe we should call them unfairy tales.

Would I be so disenchanted if my childhood expectations had been slightly more realistic?  I mean, if Prince Charming had blown up at the princess when she told him how much that tiara was going to set him back.  Of if he had rolled his eyes at the impracticality of wearing glass slippers and satin ball gowns around the house…especially when she has a perfectly good pair of squirrels just a tweak or two away from being a nice pair of fuzzy slippers. 

And the idea of a handsome, well-groomed prince breaking into song at the drop of a hat may be realistic to some, but chances are if he’s that into musicals and man-scaping, he isn’t going to be into the princess, now is he?

But the prince isn’t the only problem with the fairy tale.  We can’t forget about those cute little mice.

What if they had been hogging the remote to watch the nature channel all day, antagonizing the cat, refusing to do the dishes, and leaving those little pellets all over the floor?  That might have given me a different perspective on things.

I had such hopes for my life in the castle, but the reality is…castles are cold drafty places with dark corners and scary dungeons!

So what the hell do I do now?

I guess I make the best of it.  Instead of poisoned apples, I’m hoping for apple martinis.  And if I can’t be a princess, at least I can be a lady.  So what if I didn’t marry a handsome prince…sometimes we just have to make do with a slightly rumpled tramp and a house full of puppies. 

Until the next time…I’ll be vacuuming the castle.

welcome to the party, who brought cake?

I usually love a party.  Just go ahead and invite me.  I thrill at the whisper of an invitation to celebrate a holiday, birthday, or divorce.  Make it a game night, a shower, or a movie premier and I’m there. Promise me desserts and I’ll even agree to help you clean up.  As far as having my own parties, I’m afraid I’m the worst at throwing them, but it never stops me from trying.  I stock up on the fruity wine coolers, tasty hors d’oeuvres, and I’ve even been known to bake.  But a pity party? I usually balk at that guest list.

Not tonight.  No, tonight I’m having a party for one, and I didn’t even get cake.

Remember a few months ago, I was so excited to say I got a request for a partial? (In non-writery terms, I was asked to send an agent the first three chapters of my book.) It’s a big deal and I admit it, I celebrated, just a little. I even planned the guest list for my big announcement party for when she wrote back to say she loved it and wanted more.  I picked out the dress I would wear at the movie premier when they made my book into a movie. I looked at luxury cruises…celebrity getaways.  I shopped for private islands.

And then the excitement wore off a little and I went back to normal. I edited a little.  I wrote a little. I blogged a lot.

And I waited.

Days turned into weeks…weeks turned into months…still no reply.  But in the literary world, no news is considered good news.  So I held onto the hope and I continued to wait.  And then, when I least expected it, I got an email.

And that brings me back to my pity party. 

Oh, I’ll get over it. It was just one agent…just one “no”. Don’t worry about me.  My dreams aren’t dead, they’re just on hold.  I’m not ready to give up quite yet.  But I hope I can get my deposit back on that private island.

A fellow writer said something to me tonight that really brought it all home for me.  She said, “Self-doubt is fuel for the fire of imagination…”

I think that means I need to keep writing.

Until the next time…I’ll be crying in my cake until a new day dawns.

life's a trip

Today was one of those days.  It was busy, but at the same time I don’t feel as if I’ve actually done anything.  I sat around and read my own blog all day. And you know, after blogging every day for almost two years, I’ve ended up with a lot of posts.  

I’ve written about bikini waxes and omelet pans.  Girl scout cookies and groundhogs.  PMS and candy corn. I’ve chronicled my entire life in a light and humorous way, yet I’ve also let it all hang out when those heavy days were too much to bear, because those are the little nuances that make life what it is. 

So I guess you’re wondering what would prompt me to read through my old blog posts on a random Monday afternoon when I have a new Daywalkers to write.  Well, after careful consideration, and a whole lot of prodding, I’ve decided to compile a book out of my best blog posts.

The problem is, how do I pick the best ones?

I was hoping I could get my readers to help decide.  Do you have any favorites that you’re convinced need to be included?  I would really like to know your thoughts.

In other exciting news, I’ve decided to run a Daywalker contest.  I don’t have all the details yet, but this will essentially be a vampire look-a-like contest.  Keep checking back for more on that.

Until the next time…I’m going to dig through more blog posts.  Will you join me?

It’s time for a little “joe”jack

It happened again.  My dog, the little pitbull-mix, escaped. Again.

Joey, aka “Dogdini”, has discovered more secret passageways out of our yard than I can count.  Each time he vanishes—after an exhaustive search—we plug the escape route, only to have him uncover a new one the next day.  Sometimes, later in the same day.

I’ve tried using an Elizabethan collar. You know the ones…they’re meant to keep a dog from pulling out stiches.  Ours is a giant purple cone that the other dogs, rightly, made fun of.  That solution worked for a while. Until Joey discovered he could bang the collar against the fence until it popped off. 

I’ve tried filling the holes with firewood. But to my amazement, this little forty-nine pound dog has moved piles of firewood to uncover his handiwork and out he goes again.  I’m not convinced Indiana Jones, the mastiff isn’t moving the wood for him in some sort of, Of Mice and Men relationship, but I may never know for sure.

And if you’re saying to yourself…this is easy, just watch him carefully when he goes outside…I’ve tried that too. I have no idea how he does it, but he’s managed to escape even under my watchful eye.  I’ve come to the conclusion, after much deliberation, that Joey is magical. There’s just no other explanation that fits. 

Even the other dogs get it.  They watch him too. And they marvel at his ability to be there one moment and gone the next. 

So what does a person do when man’s best friend has a penchant for vanishing into thin air?

If you ask me, it’s time for a little “Joe”Jack. You know…like LoJack, the hidden transmitter that helps police locate your stolen car. I need to have a transmitter inserted somewhere in Joey, like the locator chip he already has, but one that will send out a beacon for me to track him down.  Driving around in the car for hours asking everyone if they’ve seen a little dog is getting old.  Especially when Joey seems to elude capture until he’s good and ready. 

For now, we’re just on emergency alert…watching Joey like a hawk when he goes out.  And combing the nearby neighborhoods on foot when he manages to escape. 

I’m going to put the website up next…www.IfoundJoey.com…so we can at least have a game of it when he’s lost.  Sort of like an interactive, Where’s Waldo, in doggy form.  I’m basically out of new ideas. My creativity is spent. 

Any ideas?

Until the next time…I’ll be finishing Daywalkers week 12.  Have you been bitten yet?

breakin' the law

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series. 

Dakota CassidyTonight’s guest blogger is Dakota Cassidy, best-selling author of The Accidental Werewolf, and many others. For more about Dakota, click on her photo to visit her website.

 Yeah, that’s me. A real law/rule breaker.

Or not.

I’m actually, despite my big flippin’ “tell it like it is mouth,” not much of a rule breaker. I never chewed gum in class and I sure as eff never cut a single class. Not one. Swear it on my Vic Secret card.

I developed my big mouth over time. It was sort of like the making of a fine wine. Okay, maybe it wasn’t fine, it’s definitely of the Boone’s Farm variety (remember the strawberry crap?), but it sat for a long time in a dark cellar all fermenting. Just waiting to be opened so you could smell the cork scented with the perfume of my flapping gums.

Like I said, it took time, a big, ugly, lost my Choo’s for a little while divorce, and the taste of freedom after almost twenty years of marriage. All of a sudden, I had a voice—and the option to use it—or not. More often than not, I used.

Oh, Cheebus and a Shetland pony, did I use. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t beat people down with this new voice, but if you asked a question, and I asked if you wanted me to be honest, and you said yes, then I’m sorry if I made you cry—but you did ask. I also don’t want you to think I’m into purposely hurting feelings. If I know it’ll crush you, I most likely won’t crush. Unless you push…

That said, as the years have passed, and I’ve rather grown into this big mouth of mine, I’ve also had some trouble with my temper, too. It doesn’t happen often, but there’s been a time or two when something’s just spilled out of my mouth in my surprise and because I forgot to turn my censor on, or worse, I’ve just reacted.

I know. Most of you who know me personally, like really know me, know it takes a lot, but if you push a button (like really put your foot in the kitchen push my button), I come out swinging. I’m pretty short, and I’m certain it has to do with my Napoleon complex, I mean, if we were hitting the therapy couch and all—that’d be my diagnosis. Nothing makes me crazier than someone in my space. Because in the words of one of my favorite songs “Jump Around”—“I ain’t goin’ out like no punk, bitch.” Sooooooo harsh.

Anyway, this is the perfect place for a segue into an example of my big mouth.

Me. Just the other day, driving down a two-lane road in my cute new VW Beetle convertible. I’m listening to that very song “Jump Around” all loud and proud. I’m happy because it’s a nice day, the top is down, and I’m going to get a new outfit for an event I have to do this weekend.

Out of no-effin’-where a guy in shorts, a gray-blue shirt and dark sunglasses jumps into the middle of the road with what looks like a sorry ass version of a super-duper laser tag gun and points it at me. Me!

Immediately, I slam on the breaks not just because dude gave me a heart attack, but because he’s in the middle of the damn road, and I don’t have a choice.

And then he does it—he lifts his finger and points. To which, I’m suitably outraged and ready to climb out of my cute new Beetle and beat his ass until he screams his mother’s cousins uncle’s name. I’m thinkin’ he’s some kid just playin’ around, and I’m ready to show him just how nurturing this mother can be. J

But then I realize he’s a cop, and that super-duper laser gun isn’t for tag but a radar gun for speeding. Now all in this brief space of like twenty seconds, I realize he’s not a cop, but I also realize, I was trying out the cruise control on my new car and I know as sure as I know yellow is a color that works on virtually no one, that I wasn’t speeding.

So in appropriate “lookin’ to bounce this bitch right”, I’m ready to get my ghetto on gangland style and rip him a new one.

The cop.

He looks at me like I’ve plain lost my mind for slamming on the brakes after he’s Cirque De Soleil’d his way out into the middle of the road with his finger all up in my face and he says, “Not. You,” all thundery and authoritative.

Which just serves to make me crazier. So after scaring the silk panties right off me, it’s not me you’re pointing that gun at all Charlie’s Angels style—with that wide stance and that look on your face like you just caught The Zodiac Killer’s sister?

And that’s when my big mouth opens—like some cavernous, never ending black hole of “don’t eff with me.”

I stand on my brakes and give him the dirty look. “Not me, what?” I thunder back. Because I’m all about the wild-eyed, froth at the mouth that makes you think I’m crazy look.

Cop, all with the swagger says, “I’m not pulling you over.”

Ohhhhh. Well, then. That’s the perfect reason to scare the bejesus out of a taxpaying, law-abiding citizen by jumping out in the middle of the road right in front of my cute new car, right?

I pay no mind to the fact that he’s a cop. I pay no mind to the fact that he has the authority to arrest/ticket/cite me—whatever. All I can see is the color red and him in the center of my infuriated haze.

Sooooo, finger in the air, all condescending and arrogant, I do that thing I told you about before—I react. “Then maybe when you wave that finger all up in the air like it’s some kind of magic GD wand, you ought to learn to point it in the right direction so it doesn’t end up in your squashed ass after I mistakenly run you over because you jumped out in the middle of the road and nearly gave me a heart attack!”

And then I realize I’ve just verbally assaulted a police officer. My total bad.

But he started it… So head held high, I slink back down into my Beetle and drive away as fast as the speed limit will allow before the coppers slap those cuffs on me and haul me down to the poe-poe.

So if you ever hear about a big haired, even bigger-mouthed chick arrested in the state of Texas—I hope you’ll take pity on me and send bail money.

Because I’m old and I don’t think Big Sue has any openings for Assistant Bitch.

Dakota

For those of you who don’t know Dakota, you’re truly missing out. Not only does she have a fun paranormal romance series, but she’s a genuinely fun chick to talk to.  I hope you’ll go check out her website and maybe track her down on Facebook and Twitter for the sheer fun of it. 

Until the next time…I’ll be writing a bit of paranormal romance of my own.

ole!

I’ve blogged about why the world needs Godzilla.  I’ve written about wombats, leprechauns, and tourniquets.  And let’s not forget about tin foil, cheese, and a random sixty seconds in time.  All in the name of a good challenge.  So what do I really find challenging? 

Trying to write a blog with a giant dog vying for my attention.

I’ve been told more times than I can recall that Mastiffs aren’t known for their intellect. But Indiana Jones has discovered if he approaches my laptop with a wet face, I will quickly close it.  Come to my house at any given moment, and you might find me balancing my laptop over my head with one hand, while stretching for the nearest towel with the other.  And the towel is always just out of reach.

I suppose in a Pavlovian way, I’m to blame for his conditioning.  He has come to the conclusion that the laptop is his enemy, pulling my attention from him when he needs it most.  Of course, he needs attention almost constantly.  Like a toddler. 

A toddler with a really wet face.

As it happens, my “toddler” walks around with the Brazilian rainforest hovering around his face at all times.  Anyone who has seen the Sandlot, Beethoven, or even Turner and Hooch might have a vague understanding of what I go through on a daily basis.  Those cute moments immortalized in film seem almost insignificant when I think of the lengths I have to go through to sleep on a dry pillow, or even more impossible, to wear dry clothes.  I tell myself he doesn’t understand.  He’s just a dog.  But watch his reaction the minute I pull a computer onto my lap, and you might think differently. 

Suddenly this is not a child eager for attention. It’s a battle of wits between (wo)man and beast!

So there I am, like a matador, waving my ragged towel as he charges in.  But instead of shouting, “Toro!” I’m calling out, “Perro!”

Yeah, that’s Spanish for dog.

Thankfully, he’s snoring now.  He wore himself out in an expensive game of keep-away with my laptop.  At least I’m winning…for now.  But I’m not taking that whole “Mastiffs aren’t smart” thing for granted.  After all…I feed him the expensive dog food with Omega 3.  That stuff is brain food!

Until the next time…I’ll be writing while he sleeps!

when did it become November?

They say time flies when you’re having fun. It’s true. Time does fly when you’re having fun. It also flies when you’re not having fun. And when you’re getting one more year older. And when you’re remembering how things used to be so many years ago. The only time it doesn’t fly is when you’re waiting for something to come…like your tax return check…or your period that’s been late for a day or two already.

Not mine, by the way…I was just using that as an example.

It seems to me like it was just June. Maybe July. Possibly August. But not November…when did it become November? 

I know it was just October. I enjoyed it very much. But the Halloween decorations are down, and it’s too soon to decorate for Christmas, so that must mean its November.  And for some reason, this November seems to have more importance.  Maybe because the kids are grown, or maybe because I feel like I’ve suddenly gotten so old.

The clocks went back an hour this morning, but I spent the entire day thinking it was an hour later because even though I changed the time on my phone and my computer, I had forgotten the clock on the stove and the clock in the car.  So I ran around all day, certain I was racing the rush hour traffic to get home to make dinner…something I wouldn’t have to do at all if I had a few more followers on my blog and I won the challenge my husband set for me (just a friendly reminder.)  

Not that it mattered all that much. Mike was working from home, and I had no plans for the day and no pressure to make any. I have all week to get to my “to do list”…and starting tomorrow, I will not rest until I check everything off the list.

As for tonight?

A nice fire, and an old movie. It is a pretty cold November.

Until the next time…I’ll be pulling out the extra blankets and watching for snow!

what do an old house, dog drool, and Brad Pitt have in common?

I had a good day.  Mike and I drove to the mountains to take in the scenery and wander around the antique shops.  With no particular goal and for no particular reason. 

It was nice.  We hadn’t spent a quiet day together in weeks and I think it did us good. It also reawakened our dream of building a house in the mountains. Or possibly buying an old house and restoring it.

This idea was sparked by the discovery of a 1930’s farmhouse for sale in the country.  Our adventurous spirits drove us to pull into the overgrown driveway and wander up to the front door to peer in the windows.  While we were trespassing on the amazing property, the groundskeeper drove up and offered to let us inside.  Of course we agreed, and for the next half hour we roamed through the scariest old farm house I’ve ever been in.  And trust me…I’ve spent a lot of time in scary old farm houses over the years. 

Suffice it to say, it was way too far gone to even consider renovating.  Oh well, so much for my kitchen plans…at least for now.  I’ll have to search the internet for a pretend house to renovate in my dreams tonight. 

That is if I sleep at all…

As I lay awake last night, it occurred to me why I don’t get much sleep…and no, it’s not because I’m a vampire…although that does seem to be a popular perception. My problem with sleep, or rather lack of sleep, seems to stem from a series of factors.

This is how my night goes…

2 am.  After writing, surfing the net, and reading blogs, I switch off the laptop and the light.  The second my head sinks into the pillow, dog breath steams up my eyelids.  Indiana Jones, the mastiff was sleeping on the couch when I came to bed, but now that I’m comfortable, he wants attention.  I pet him for several minutes and he lies down on the floor below me…but since he has drooled on my sheets, I have to get a towel to put over the wet spot.

Finally, he is snoring again, but now I have to use the bathroom.  I creep by him, trying not to wake the sleeping giant.  After flushing as quietly as possible and climbing back in the bed, the cat runs across the room and Indy barks and gives chase.  After a few tense minutes, and the sounds of furniture moving around, the house gets quiet again and I am tricked into thinking it’s safe to go to sleep.  As soon as my head hits the pillow, I hear a giant paw scratch on the back door.  After a rousing game of “chase the cat” the dog has to pee.  

I try to grab a few winks while the dog searches for squirrels and opossums in the yard, but just as I’m about to drift off, Indy pushes the door open and brings the cool fall night air with him. 

I close and lock the back door and climb into bed, hoping Indy has worn himself out and will now sleep until at least noon.

As I nestle into the down comforter, my son knocks on door to tell me he has decided what he wants for Christmas.

At almost 3 am.

I send him back to bed promising to discuss it in the daytime and drift off to sleep. 

Then dog finds the shoes my husband left out.  And a new deodorant.  And a stick I was sure I threw out the back door hours ago. After I take all the “toys” away from him, he settles down in his very own down blanket to snore. 

Finally, I can fall asleep.

And I would have, but my husband wakes up coughing.  Like his lungs are going to come flying out.  After a hacking spell that seems like it will never end, he goes to sleep again.

Then the toilet makes a gurgling sound like something is climbing out.  I’m fairly certain nothing is climbing out of the toilet, but I feel I must investigate.  I flush the toilet three times just to be sure and climb back in bed.

I don’t know what time it is, but I’m pretty sure my alarm will be going off in just a few hours.  I calculate how many hours I will get if I fall asleep right now.  Then I add thirty minutes just in case I can’t fall asleep right away.  Then I check the alarm again to be sure I set it. 

Then I think of something that would make a really funny blog post tomorrow, so I send myself an email on my phone so I won’t forget it. 

Then I put my head back into the pillow and drift off to sleep.  And I dream I’m chasing after the dog to take a pair of shoes out of his mouth.

Why can’t I ever dream about Brad Pitt?

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming of an old house renovation.

the tooth fairy

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Amberr MeadowsTonight’s guest blogger is Amberr Meadows. For more about Amberr, click on her photo to visit her website.

Chocolate is my drug of choice, and no matter what the occasion, I celebrate all success, events, and holidays with some variation of sweet chocolate goodness. I can resist potato chips, pastries and other snacks, but I can’t pass up the chocolate.

Before The Tooth Fairy incident, I’d been clean for four weeks, and I felt in control of the weight game. I was even beginning to see the hint of a waistline emerging from the pudgy depths just south of “the girls”, and this motivated me to stay clean.  I’d even begun fantasizing about how good I’d look in my favorite skinny jeans when I met my ideal weight.  I had high hopes.

Then my husband, the loving enabler that he is, came home with a “surprise” for me. As soon as I spotted the shiny foil paper of the Hershey with Almond’s candy bar wrapper, I broke into a cold sweat. Four weeks of hard work out the window, and I didn’t want to give up— I’d been feeling too good. I needed quick solution.

I came up with the most brilliant plan in the history of dietary addiction. I could prove to myself that I’d kicked the habit AND be able to enjoy the chocolate, too. Were I a true junkie, I’d tear into that wrapper immediately and devour the candy in its’ entirety, but if I waited—like say until the next morning to leisurely savor the treat with my morning coffee—I’d have clear evidence I’d beat the addiction. The chocolate would be the reward for my amazing self-control.

Decision made, I left the chocolate bar on the counter in the kitchen and headed to bed. The next morning I leaped up from the bed five minutes before the alarm clock began wailing, and ran downstairs to the kitchen counter. My heart sank.

The chocolate was gone, and in its place, a note. It read:

I O U

One Hershey’s with almonds.

Signed,

The Tooth Fairy

I’m still annoyed by this little act of mischief, but rather than make a big scene, I’ve decided to extract a satisfying revenge.

The Tooth Fairy—a.k.a. my sister-in-law—absolutely LOVES TastyKakes, so I’ve devised a devious plan. The next box of TastyKakes she buys will be mine. I intend to remove every last pasty from the box and hide them in my room in a place she’d never think of looking. Then I’m going to leave the empty box on the counter, but before I do, I’ve devised my own little note to put inside the box:

Dearest Tooth Fairy,

I’ve deducted all the fees and interest for the Hershey’s with almonds. We’re even.

Erica, thank you for having me guest post on your amazing blog. It’s been a pleasure doing something a little different, and I hope your readers enjoy it.

Amberr

The pleasure was all mine, Amberr…and remind me never to touch your chocolate! You’re downright bloodthirsty when it comes to your candy!

Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out with a few vampires I know.

it'll only take you twenty minutes, mom

Thursday night.

I’d waited all week for this.  I ran my errands early and cooked dinner so I could climb into my pajamas and plant myself on the sofa to watch two of my favorite guilty pleasures.  The Vampire Diaries and the season premiere of Bones.

The popcorn was popped, the dogs had been fed, watered, and taken out on at least two occasions to ensure their comfy sleepiness for the next two hours, and I was settled into my favorite spot with the TV remote in hand. 

Nothing was going to come between me and my television!

That’s when my phone rang.  It was my daughter.  She needed me to drive to the other side of town to pick her up and drive her back to her car.  The story of how she got to where she was without her car is too confusing to write about…but after she explained it to me three times, I finally understood and I reluctantly agreed to come get her.  After all, it was only going to take me twenty minutes.  I would only miss part of my favorite show. 

For those of you who don’t know…I have night blindness.  I can’t see anything at night unless it’s directly in the wash of the headlights.  I’ve been known to get lost within walking distance to my house as the blackness swallows up every shred of scenery, landmarks, and road signs.  So I rely on GPS and blind luck to get me where I’m going.  Mostly the GPS.  So I plugged in the address she texted me, and set off to find my daughter.

Twenty minutes later, she called me.  I should have been there by now.  And according to my GPS, I was within a few yards of my destination.  The only problem was I still couldn’t find where I was going.  In escalating volume, I shared my location with my daughter, shouting out the few landmarks that were lit well enough for me to see.  She didn’t recognize a single bank, veterinarian, or sushi bar. 

The GPS had lied and I was lost.

I backtracked my way to the main road with my daughter on the line telling me every turn I had missed and fifteen minutes later I was there. 

She jumped into the passenger seat and we set off to her car.  She chastised me the whole way for having disregarded her directions and for plugging in the wrong address into the GPS. This was obviously why I was lost. 

I was delighted when we got back to her car.  I still had time to catch the end of my show if I hurried.  Well, I would have, if she hadn’t left her keys with her friend…twenty minutes in the other direction.

We drove back in complete silence. 

In fact, we drove all the way there and back to her car in complete silence.  The entire time, I was thinking about my popcorn and my warm blanket.  And my remote control all alone on my comfy sofa. 

After she drove off in her car, I checked the text message she sent me with the address…you know…just for kicks.

Yeah…she put the wrong house number in. 

I didn’t say anything.  Trust me, it’s better that way.  Sometimes as a parent you just have to smile and drive away.  And if you’re a writer, you go home and feed a young girl to your favorite vampires…you know…just for kicks.  It’s only fiction, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be writing some awesome vampire fiction!

you will be visited by three ghosts

No…the dog isn’t seeing ghosts on the deck again.  And no…I’m not brushing up on my Christmas movies just yet.  It’s Wednesday, so that means it’s a challenge blog.

So what on earth would the challenge be to make me start off with talk of ghosts? 

“Go to your bookcase and pull the fifth book on the top row and go to page fifty-six and blog about that.”

Yeah…I’m pretty sure some of these people have it in for me.  But they wouldn’t be alone.  My entire day has had it in for me. From the moment I woke up, determined not to eat a single piece of candy.  I was going to be good. I was going to eat one of my husband’s healthy cereals.  I avoided the Lucky Charms and the Cap’n Crunch, and I went straight for the Raisin Bran, poured myself a bowl and added milk. 

I had no idea the milk was rancid until I shoveled a huge spoonful into my mouth.  Apparently, the brand new milk had been opened before we bought it.  Is there anything more disgusting than that? I mean, first thing in the morning? I was certain I had been poisoned. You can’t be too careful you know.  So I quickly rinsed my mouth out with root beer and brushed my teeth a few times.  Then I called my husband to tell him I might die.

I didn’t die yet, but seriously, that’s what I get for trying to eat something healthy instead of leftover Halloween candy!

To be fair, it wasn’t the Raisin Bran’s fault, so I can’t blame any of this on the healthy cereal. This would have happened even if I had gone with the Cap’n Crunch.  Only with the Cap’n I would have been more heartbroken to waste a whole bowl of my favorite cereal.

So the challenge blog wasn’t such a stretch after all.  I may not have been visted by three ghosts, but I almost became one.  Well…maybe not almost.  But like one of my friends suggested, I could have turned into a zombie! Which made me wonder how different the Dicken’s classic would have been if Ebenezer Scrooge had been visited by three zombies instead of three ghosts. 

It would have been a Christmas Scare-all…or something like that.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for something to eat…maybe brains?

inspiration is the monster under my bed

First rule of being a writer…find inspiration. 

So where do we find this so-called inspiration? I find mine in life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.  The imaginary monkey bars I climb throughout my day.  The inside jokes that only I get.  The dreams that lift me out of my bed and drive me to another world.

The point is you just find it.  Wherever it may be.

So why am I having such a miserable time finding my inspiration?  Oh, I found it, or rather it found me. The problem is I’ve been running from it all week. 

But why would any writer run from the oxygen that breathes life into her work? 

Because the truth is, inspiration can be a scary thing. Sometimes you find it in the despair, pain, and hopelessness that pokes its nasty head out from under the bed of life. 

And let’s face it…life isn’t always love and rainbows. 

My problem is I don’t want to wallow in the misery. I want the happy all day long.  So I find I’m warring with myself these days.  It’s an epic battle between my joie de vivre and my wretched reality, and I’m sorry to say it’s a toss-up as to who will win.  

So what’s a girl to do?

If she’s me, she attempts to drown her sorrows in bags of Halloween candy and red wine.  And she distracts herself with HGTV and housework.  But even HGTV can only distract you for so long.  And the candy will totally catch up to you after a few days…and one wicked candy coma later.

I guess I’m going to have to give in to the monster and let the sadness wash over me.  The inspiration is powerful when you let it take you…and I’ve fought it off as long as I could.   

So watch out…tread lightly…and check back for some dark fun in the next few days.  Unless this is just a relapse of PMS, in which case I’ll be back to my happy go lucky self in no time.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting up for the monster.

all hallows eve

Just a half hour til midnight and I’m sitting in front of the television with my husband watching The Real Story of Halloween on the History Channel.  Tales of mischief, mayhem, and more throughout the ages.

This is the first time all day I really felt as if it was Halloween…and now it’s almost over.  How is this even possible?

I got up this morning and completely forgot what day it was. I was out running errands and ran into no less than three strangely dressed people before I realized they weren’t crazy…just in costume.  I’m still asking myself how I managed to make it through the entire day without my usual holiday cheer.  Everyone knows I love Halloween.  For years, the neighborhood children have referred to my house as the “scary” house thanks to my creative Halloween displays.  But this year,  I live in a different neighborhood with a different dynamic, and my heart wasn’t quite in it.  My lifesize skeleton is all alone on the front porch.  I didn’t even put the heads on stakes in the yard.

To make matters worse, I didn’t get a single trick or treater tonight.  Not one.  Not even my own children.  I even went out to buy more candy.  I was afraid of an angry mob of children with stakes and torches storming my sidewalk if I didn’t buy more candy to replace the candy I ate. (The same candy I bought to replace the candy I ate before that.) I’ve eaten so much candy in the past two weeks, if my blood was tested it would probably be pure chocolate. 

But surely a lack of trick or treaters couldn’t be the reason for my uncharacteristic gloom on my favorite holiday…could it?

Well, for the first time in twenty one years, I had no kids at home.  My offspring are in New York spending time with family.  And as much as the dogs would love to eat candy, they’re not much for the costumes.  Believe me…I tried. 

And my husband? Getting him into a costume would be harder than dressing Indiana Jones, the Mastiff in a cowardly lion suit and taking him around the neighborhood to knock on doors. (This was my Halloween fantasy from last year that failed miserably.) 

So what does a girl do when her favorite holiday falls flatter than a souffle in a thunderstorm? 

She grabs a few last pieces of chocolate and a glass of red wine and parks herself in front of the TV to watch Halloween of the past.  It wasn’t what I had in mind, but it beats crying in my candy bowl. And what the Hell…this just means my boycott of the Christmas stores is over. 

Until the next time…I’ll be shopping for Christmas!