the adventures of amy and amanda...and jenny the cat

My husband rarely involves himself with my blog. Well, if I beg him to type for me because I’m too sick to lift my fingers. Or if I’m away from my computer due to a blog fieldtrip of some sort. Or that time I was on way too much medication. But other than that…he steers clear.

Then there’s tonight.

We were sitting in the bookstore café, my husband on his laptop, me on my new Nook, and we were attempting to enjoy a quiet evening, surrounded by a crowd of people. On any ordinary evening, this is no problem. There is something sacred about the bookstore. People somehow know to treat the space within those walls like a church…

Or a library.

And then in walked Allison.

Who is Allison, you ask? Allison is the girl sitting two tables away… on a first date it would seem. How do I know it was a first date? Why…I know everything about Allison…she made quite sure of that.

Allison spoke as if she was on a stage, trying to ensure the people in the back row could hear her. And trust me…the people in the back row heard every word.

I now know all about her best friends Amy and Amanda…the drunken night they all spent at the local hangout. And the laundry list of guys who hit on them. And what they drank. And how Amanda was still just as drunk when she woke up the next day as she was when she passed out in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet.

And then Allison introduced us to her cat, Jenny. She talked a lot about Jenny.

Did I mention this was a first date? I wanted to walk up to her table and whisper in her ear, “Guys hate when you talk about your cat.” But I didn’t.

Instead I listened to the guest list for her impending college graduation. Oh, the party they had planned. Her aunt Millie was flying in from the Midwest. Aunt Millie is apparently one heck of a gift giver.

I wasn’t trying to listen. I really wasn’t. Allison was just such a consummate performer. The entire room was listening. We shared sideways glances at each other…wondering if we were the only ones who noticed.  And clearly…we weren’t.

I debated, once again, getting up and approaching her. I wanted to tell her how fascinating I found her conversation…but I’d rather not hear it just the same.  I thought about asking her to use her “indoor” voice. I considered going all “Bette Davis” on her ass and compare her to Joan Crawford. In fact, I found myself using my best Bette Davis voice as I talked to myself.

Things were getting bad. It was all I could do to hold myself in my chair. And the people around me were egging me on with their sympathetic looks. They wanted me to take her out…restore the serenity to the bookstore. And I so wanted to restore the serenity.

So instead, I pulled out my phone and clicked the voice recorder. Rather than going all ninja Bette on her, I decided to save her conversation for posterity. It’s not considered eavesdropping if she’s talking so loud my recorder picked up her voice from MY table…right?

And that’s when my husband decided to get involved with my blog. He said I absolutely MUST blog about the adventures of Amy and Amanda…and Jenny the cat.

And of course Allison…the girl who told the story so very well.

Until the next time…I’ll be erasing the recording so I never have to hear her voice again!

t'was the blog before Christmas

T’was the blog before Christmas and all through the town

The people were nasty…they all wore a frown

The stores were all packed with these last minute shoppers

With bags filled with perfume, TVs, and corn poppers!

And I was among them as if on a dare

One last present to find…but it wasn’t there

I searched and I scavenged without any luck

So on the day before Christmas I said, “what the fuck!”

“I’ll hop in my car and I’ll head to the store

There might be one place I hadn’t thought of before.”

But I wasn’t alone on my last minute outing

In fact, there’s a mob in the parking lot shouting

“On douchebag, on dickhead, on asshole, on prick.”

Guaranteed language to piss off Saint Nick

So when they open their stockings first thing Christmas morning

They’ll probably find lumps of coal and a warning

Remember that Christmas doesn’t come from the mall

It’s not about presents or shopping at all

I love giving gifts though the holiday season

But remember, gift giving really isn’t the reason

There are so many things that make Christmas for me

And most of those aren’t even under the tree

I wish peace on earth and goodwill toward men

But I just hope the kids let me sleep until ten!

Here’s wishing you a very Merry Christmas!

Until the next time…I’ll be spending some much needed time with the family!

santa vomit

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series

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

People approach Christmas decorating in three ways.

The bare minimum – a few lights, hang the stockings, perhaps an artificial tree. Easy, done. As long as the fridge is stocked with eggnog and the cupboard has brandy, life is good.

I call that MY KIND OF PEOPLE (of course, I don’t live in that house. More in a moment.)

There’s normal – gets the tree, spends a nice evening decorating along with decking the outside lights, bakes cookies for the neighbors and the kid’s teachers, sends out the Christmas cards the day after Thanksgiving…ya know, everyday people.

I’ve met them. I know they exist. They don’t live in my home, either.

Finally, we have over the top. You’ve seen those homes – blow up Santas, lights that can be seen from space, poinsettia-lined driveways. You enjoy the pretty lights as you drive by and thank the lord you don’t have their electric bill.

I live in Category Number Four: Santa Vomit.

See in my home, Santa has vomited his red and green jolly shit over every square inch of every single surface to the point that we hand out maps if you come visit so you can find your way back out.  

I didn’t know, when I exchanged vows that fateful October nineteen years ago, that the man I’d known for only five months and therefore had yet to spend a Christmas holiday with, was in actuality Buddy the Elf.

Surely it was a Jedi mind trick.

Though I suppose his idea of one our first dates in NYC: “First we’ll make snow angels for two hours, then we’ll go ice skating, then we’ll eat a whole roll of Tollhouse cookie dough as fast as we can, and then we’ll snuggle,” should have been a warning sign.

It’s not just that the ten-to-twelve foot tree (I withhold the penis jokes here ‘cause I did marry the guy and that area is not elf-sized. I know. Mazel Tov) has to be just so. Always a Noble Fir by the way. No other tree exists in our universe. It must be perfect. We visit at least three lots in our small town to be sure we’ve (and by that I mean he) has picked out the most perfect Noble in all the village.

I gird my loins with vodka first. And bring a flask, just in case.

I grew up Jewish. We had a few gifts on the fireplace and candles. Prayer, presents, done. When husband had our first tree delivered and I saw all the mishigas with the ‘watering mechanism’ and the drilling and the needles and…oy. I ran for the brandy and hid in the corner until he found his little jew girl and talked her down with promises of wine and chocolate. And a new Louis Vuitton handbag.

Not much has changed, really.

There are stacks and stacks of fabric-lined (yes, I did just write that) boxes lining every corner of the living room, filled with delicate, hand-blown glass ornaments collected over the years. (My Santa has a special storage unit JUST for the holiday stuff.) As he decorates the tree (placement is key), he has either traditional Christmas music on or one of the three Santa Clause, Deck the Halls, or Christmas Vacation movies on a continuous loop.

There’s also a small tree for the kids. Cause ya know, nobody touches the big tree ornaments. #gasp

One friend came by to pick up her daughter from a playdate and after she lifted her jaw from the floor (that is covered in sleighbells ringing), she said felt inadequate in her own decorating abilities. I said no honey, you’re just normal.

The table full of at least twenty-five Santas he’s collected over the years, staring at me with their beady little eyes, late at night while I’m up, writing, alone.

You might think I’m being harsh. Shut up. You don’t have fifty beady little eyes staring at you as you write this. Then talk to me.

So why is my husband such a Christmas psycho? I could go on and on but I’m just easing you in. I haven’t even discussed our four advent calendars, elf presents, the two Elf on the Shelf(s), the daily crafts and cookie baking (not by me. I repeat, I’m Jewish), and the daily trips to the m…m…mall.

His mom. His mother passed away years before we ever met. She adored Christmas. She went all out, cooked amazing meals, fed all the stray kids who had nowhere to go, and was, from what everybody says, the most generous person they all had ever known. This is his homage to her.

So while I tease him a bit and call it Santa vomit and feel like stabbing myself in the eye if another Santa Clause movie comes on, I indulge the man his collection of Radko ornaments, little villages, trains, and other stuff. He’s making memories for our kids just like his mom did for him.

Now go have a nog and wrap something, would ya?

Merry whatever. 

Thank you Rachel…for reminding me why I keep my decorating to a minimum. But I have to admit…in my head my house is an explosion of Christmas. Just like yours.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Until the next time…I’m going to have a nog or whatever and hit the sheets!

if we can't laugh at ourselves...

I was ten years old.

I remember standing in on the playground with the other ten year olds, laughing and playing. Too distracted by recess to worry about a full bladder.  Too engaged with jumping rope, chasing boys, and enjoying the sunshine to pay attention to a basic bodily function.

And yes…I wet my pants.

Horrified would sum up my feelings at the time. Embarrassed just wasn’t strong enough a word to cover the gross mortification I felt as I went back to class in the “emergency” pants from the nurses office, reserved for kids (like me) who couldn’t continue to wear the pants they showed up to school wearing, for whatever reason. There was no question in my case. Everyone had seen me pee my pants on the playground. 

Everyone.

And no one let me forget it…not for a very long time.

But in my defense, I was ten years old. I was a child. Kids have accidents. Children can be forgiven for such things…right?

So I’m trying to come up with a really good reason why it happened again.

I’m not ten anymore…but I’m also not eighty. I really have no good excuse for peeing my pants in public or otherwise. And yet…I’m here to tell you…it happened again!

For some unknown reason, my usual, camel-like ability to soldier on for hours on end without a bathroom break has come to a sudden, mysterious end.  So while wrapping presents this evening with my adult son, I suddenly had to go…for the third time in just as many hours.  I wasn’t in danger of not making it to the bathroom. I had time.

And then he opened his mouth…

“Geez…you’re going again??? What the hell Mom? Is your prostate acting up?”

And I lost it. I exploded in laughter and was unable to hold it a second longer. Of course, that made me laugh harder…and I don’t think I need to tell you what happens when you’re laughing and you have to pee really bad.

Yep…

I’ll spare you the gory details.  Suffice it to say; as I ran to the bathroom I was laughing so hard both my son and my husband thought I was hurt…and crying. I couldn’t speak to explain. They had to figure it out on their own. 

They followed me into the bathroom, checking me for missing limbs, or bullet holes until I shooed them away… still laughing hysterically.

And I didn’t stop laughing…not for at least ten minutes. I can’t remember the last time I had such a good laugh.  It even brought the dog running.

So why am I telling you this?

I tell you everything.  And why not? If we can’t laugh at ourselves, who can we laugh at? Life is far too short to cry over wet pants.

I mean…it’s not like I’m ten.

Until the next time…I’ll be doing laundry!

the annual christmas tree fight

The perfect tree.

If you celebrate Christmas, you’ve undoubtedly gone on at least one epic quest to find the perfect Christmas tree.  Even if, instead of trekking through the woods with a saw and a sled, you pull yours from a big box and assemble it in the middle of the living room, there had to be that first year when you went on the search for the perfect artificial tree.  My mother, who gave up on real trees somewhere around the same time my parents divorced, bought hers during one of the big “after Christmas” sales. 

This year, I got mine from the parking lot of one of the big box building supply stores. I found it in less than ten minutes time (it was really cold, and I didn’t have a coat.)

But it wasn’t always that way.  Once upon a time, in a childhood far, far away, the annual quest for a Christmas tree was something far more epic. 

Now, in my house, there was none of this “putting up the tree at the end of November” nonsense.  My father made us wait until the weekend closest to December 10th to get a tree. We never complained, and we always had our tree decorated at least two weeks before Christmas.   It also created a level of excitement throughout the first ten days of December that came close to rivaling the holiday itself!

The day was always clearly marked on the calendar.

My mother made us an Advent Calendar with a giant felt Christmas tree.  The calendar pockets were filled with delicate felt decorations…stars, stockings, wrapped packages, a small tree, and Santa, to name a few.  My sister and I woke each morning and raced to the calendar to put the next ornament on the felt tree.  The smaller tree represented the day we would trek out into the woods to find the real tree. 

We lived deep in the country in Western New York State, where nearly every day in December came with near blizzard conditions, and the snow was almost always up to my knees. Mom would bundle us up in snow pants and fur-lined coats until only our eyes were visible to the outside.  But despite the inclement weather…the blowing snow and ice…nothing deterred us as we set out to find that perfect Christmas tree. With saw in hand, and two young daughters in tow, my father would lead my mother into the winter wonderland.

We trudged deeper into the woods, passing tree after imperfect tree, as my mother would reject each one for some reason or other. 

“No…”she would say. “Too short.” or, “Too tall.”

The next tree was, “Too skinny.” And the one after that, “Too fat.”

The more trees we passed, the more frustrated my father would become.

Again and again he would ask, “…what’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s completely bare on one side,” was a frequent reply.

And every time, my father would shake his head and grumble under his breath.

After what seemed like hours, as the sun was getting lower in the sky, we would finally find a tree my mother could agree on. It wasn’t too fat or too skinny. Not too tall or too short. And it wasn’t bare on one side.

“This one!” she would shout.  And before she could change her mind, my father would whip out the saw to cut the tree down.

Now, we were pretty far into the woods at this point, and without a sled to tow the tree back to the car, so my father would drag it behind him, leaving a Christmas tree shaped trail in the snow.  Once the tree was loaded on the roof of the car…tied down with enough twine to secure a dozen trees…we would head home to do the decorating.

My mother pulled out the boxes of ornaments and lights while my father wrestled the tree, first into the iron base, then into the living room.  Mom always seemed to be too distracted with untangling lights to notice as Dad brought the tree in to the room.   

But it wasn’t long before she turned around to see her perfect tree, propped up in its base, and ready for lights.

“This isn’t the tree I picked out!”

“It’s the same tree.” Dad would grumble.

“It’s not the same tree.  Look here…” she pointed to the side of the tree at a very bare patch of limbs. “This has a great big bare spot!”

I think it must have been Christmas amnesia, because every year, after dragging the perfect tree from the woods to the car, it found its way to the living room with a giant bare spot that was invariably up front and center. And every year my mother reacted as if this was something horrible.

This is where the spinning of the tree came in.

My mother would give orders as my father rotated the tree, trying to ensure the bare spot would be hidden from view.  And every year, I listened to, “No, a little more to the right.  Wait…a little to the left. No…go back to the right.  I can still see it.  Can you see it from…try turning it just a little more…I said RIGHT!”

And then Dad, “It’s fine right where it is! No! I won’t turn it just a little more to the left. No! You can’t see the bare spot from this side. I don’t care if you can see if from the bathroom.  Just put more tinsel on it!”

By the time they had the giant colored lights strung, they weren’t speaking at all. Mom finished hanging the ornaments herself, and my sister and I helped toss giant wads of tinsel onto the branches.

The most beautiful tree everIt was always the most beautiful tree ever.

I’ll tell you what…there are some things you look forward to every year, and you don’t even realize you do until you have a chance to miss them.

My husband doesn’t do the tree lights.  He doesn’t hang ornaments. He will go with me to pick a tree and he will quietly stand by and wait until I have chosen the perfect one.

Without a single word.

Somehow I think he’s missing out on the best part of the whole thing.

My mom is coming to town tomorrow. And if I’m lucky, she’ll be in the mood to bake cookies and make some fudge. She’ll undoubtedly scrutinize my Christmas tree with eyes only a mother has…and I’ll just smile when she tells me there’s a great big bare spot in the back of my tree.

Until the next time…I’ll be baking cookies with my mom!

the ghost of christmas past

I’ve been on this kick lately. It seems like not a day goes by when I don’t watch one adaptation or another of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.  I don’t want to call it an obsession, but it just might be. Then again, it’s Christmas, and who doesn’t love a good bit of Dickens during Christmas?  Of course, thinking of Scrooge and his three ghosts…four if you count Marley…gets me thinking about my past Christmases and what would happen if a ghost were to come and take me on a journey to revisit some of the more memorable ones.

Where would I begin? Which Christmases would I include?

Matching Christmas outfits Mom made us.Of course it would only be natural to include a few of my first Christmases. My ghost would undoubtedly catch me in the act of meticulously unwrapping my presents under the tree to peek and then carefully rewrapping them and tucking them back in their places so my mother wouldn’t know. I wonder if she has any idea that I have been doing that for years. I suspect my children might do the same thing (it could very well be a genetic trait.) This may be the main reason I don’t put presents under my tree until Christmas Eve.

Or maybe I don’t put presents under the tree because of that one childhood Christmas when the dog tore through all the presents about two weeks before Christmas. We thought we had been robbed…until we saw teeth marks in the packages.

Surely the ghost would take me back to my first Christmas after marrying my ex-husband. My mother, my sister, and my sister’s husband (Uncle Paul) traveled to New York to spend Christmas with my new in-laws on Long Island. It was interesting at best.

Like the Osbornes spending Christmas with the Obamas.

Uncle Paul wreaked havoc with the water lines, ensuring that everyone got a nice little shock in the shower at least once. And my sister’s morning sickness, combined with my former mother-in-law’s dictator-like regime with regard to the kitchen, sent my family trekking through the backs of yards to the closest McDonald’s at all hours of the day and night.

The only worthwhile moment of the entire trip came in the form of a tour of New York City in the back of a beat up pick-up truck driven by my ex-husband’s crazy Uncle Jimmy.

Uncle Jimmy was not my ex husband’s real uncle, but rather a very close family friend. I believe he had served in World War 2 with my former father-in-law. He was in his sixties, and missing a few teeth as I recall, but he was a live wire who enjoyed life to the fullest.

It was December in New York, and the city was covered in snow. This particular night was especially cold, and even with a camper top on the bed of the truck, it was still freezing cold. Because my sister was pregnant she was allowed to sit in the front of the cab, and I was allowed to ride up there with her. That might have been a perk if the passenger window hadn’t been stuck in the open position. The heater was turned up to full power to keep the frostbite from setting in, but we were still wrapped up in wool coats and scarves like foreign immigrants landing on Ellis Island circa the turn of the twentieth century.

My mother rode in the truck bed with her sons-in-law, and had to listen to them whining about dying from breathing in exhaust fumes, despite the fact that the back window and the window to the cab were both wide open. I remember looking through the small opening at the three of them, shivering in the back as they sat against the side walls of the truck like a load of illegal day workers. My mother laughed the entire time as the men complained.

In the front of the truck, Uncle Jimmy narrated our journey…loudly…with more than a trace of Jack Daniels on his breath. We were introduced to every sight the city had to offer.

Uncle Paul shouted from the back that he wanted to see a real prostitute, so Uncle Jimmy drove us to 42^nd Street to find one. As we set out on foot, Uncle Paul approached several women dressed in flashy winter attire and inquired, “Are you a hooker?”

He was asked to leave two separate topless bars for similar questions.

We even ran across a religious zealot, shouting for us to save ourselves while we still had time, and carrying a sign that promised the end of days was nigh. Twenty two years later we’re still here, so I gather his timing was just a bit off.

There were many Christmases before that year, there have been many Christmases since, and hopefully there will be many yet to come, but I will never forget that night in New York City. It was the best tour I had ever taken, and the best tour guide a person could ask for. We even got to see the heart of Harlem and Lady Liberty from afar.

Uncle Jimmy past away several years ago, but he will never be forgotten, I am certain.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the spirit of Christmases yet to come!

it all started with a simple request

It all started with a simple request.

I wanted chewing gum, that’s all. I wasn’t particular about the brand. I was even flexible with the flavor. I gave him a choice…cinnamon or peppermint. Either would do.  I’m not difficult. Just please no spearmint…I really don’t like spearmint. Or the fruity flavors…I don’t like fruity gum. And absolutely not bubble gum…it’s too sugary. It definitely had to be cinnamon or peppermint.

Simple, right?

Perhaps I should go back just a bit. 

This weekend we celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary…we were married exactly one week before Christmas.  So Saturday morning, after having already gone to breakfast, our next outing would be to drive up to the country to visit old farmhouses and antique shops.  But after breakfast at Waffle House, and nary a toothbrush in sight, I was desperate for a pack of gum.  The closest stop was the local pharmacy, so I sent my husband in to brave the holiday aspirin shoppers for a single pack of peppermint or cinnamon gum.

I waited in the car, fumbling with the radio…searching for a station that played all Christmas music all day.  Halfway through the first chorus of White Christmas, he came back.

As soon as the door opened, he tossed a box of candy canes and a small tin of Altoids at me.

“They didn’t have cinnamon…or peppermint,” he said.

“How could they not have cinnamon or peppermint?” I asked. And seriously…how could they NOT have cinnamon or peppermint. It was the pharmacy. They have a whole aisle devoted to candy and gum. A whole aisle!

“All they had was spearmint and fruity gum. Have a candy cane.”

I tore open the package of candy canes and broke off the crook to pop it into my mouth. We rode in silence for a few minutes, but my curiosity got the best of me.

“They really didn’t have peppermint gum?”

“Nope.”

“None? Not even down the gum aisle?”

It was subtle, but I caught his sideways glance.

“Well? The gum aisle?”

He made that noise.  The husband noise.  If you have a husband, you know what I mean. It’s a cross between a grumble or a groan and a deep exasperated sigh. They don’t actually say anything…they just make the noise.

“You didn’t go down the gum aisle…did you?”

“There were people everywhere…kids crying for toys…women with coupons…I had to get the hell out of there.”

“So you saw the candy canes and you figured, ‘these are peppermint…I’ll just buy these…she won’t know the difference?’”

I expected him to make the noise again, but he didn’t. He started laughing.  Hysterically laughing and nodding his head. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

I didn’t get any gum…and I somehow went through an entire box of miniature candy canes in an afternoon.  But what a great afternoon it was.

And it all started out with a good laugh.

it came upon an unmarked truck

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

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

You know that one toy that every kid just has to have? The one that the sadistic toymakers only produce in limited supply? Yes, that one.  Of course, it’s different every year, and when my kids were little, I was just like the rest of the monsters, I mean, mothers, out trying to score that one thing, that one toy that would make them dance around the tree and scream “Thank you, Santa Claus!” Right.  The only fat man involved was the one I kidney punched because he tried to grab my Cabbage Patch doll. 

It was the year of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, and the only thing my sons wanted was a red power ranger action figure.  Of course, every child between the ages of four and fifty wanted the same thing and I had exhausted the search in my small town and surrounding areas.  Two weeks before Christmas, and I tried to explain to them that I couldn’t find it.  I might as well have been talking Furbish.  They knew that what Mom couldn’t find, Santa would take care of.  Damn the fat man.    

FAO Schwarz at ChristmasI had one more shot.  My aunt and I had planned to meet in Manhattan for a weekend of shows and Christmas fun.  Of all the toy stores in the world, surely, FAO Schwartz would have the prize, right? Well, kind of.  Amidst a mob of mothers I listened while the store manager explained:

“Our last shipment of power ranger figures will arrive in the morning at 5am.” Then he added. “By truck. In the alley.”

I wasn’t opposed to grappling in a dark, New York City alley at 5am for a power ranger, and I was pretty sure I could hold my own.  But these other miscreants, I mean, mothers, were pretty excited about it, and that scared me. I shrugged, and thought, oh well, in the spirit of Christmas, I’ll round up some brass knuckles and a cat o nines and take my chances.  What the hell.

I got there at 4 a.m., thinking I would be ahead of the crowd.  The others were obviously more experienced at alley jacking trucks, and there were easily two hundred women already there. Yes, two hundred Zhu Zhu warriors, ready to crack you over the head with an Easy Bake Oven, if necessary.

Seeing that my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle moves were not intimidating anyone, I knew my chance of actually getting through these angry birds was pretty slim.  They would be arm-loading, and if I got to the truck at all, the only thing that would be left would be, heaven forbid, a blue ranger. And from the looks of the crowd, I’d probably have to take a knife just to get that.

Red Power RangerI was ready to accept defeat.   I wavered between telling the boys that Santa is a jerk or to just blame their father. I started walking away, glancing back to the alley and trying to avoid the Christmas cheer that the twinkling lights and expensive decorations were there to encourage.  Then I stopped and looked more closely at the decorations that were strung through the streets.  “Well, Tickle Me, Elmo,” I said.  I turned around and walked one block, turned and walked one more.  Then I waited. 

At 4:45, an unmarked 28 foot box truck crept down the street.   At 4:46, I walked in front of it and forced it to stop.

“Lady, are you crazy!” Probably not certifiable, but that wasn’t the point.

“You hit me!” I yelled as I limped toward him and climbed on the step side.

“You are crazy.   Lady, you need to get off my truck.”

I nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll just call your dispatcher and say you hit me and kept on going.  Or, I could call him and tell him how professionally you handled Christmas Hell in that alley ahead.  Either one will go in your file, right?”

“How do you know what alley I’m going to?”

I shrugged. “I work for a truck line.  Last week one of our drivers took out Santa and all eight reindeer that were hanging too low across the street.  Look around, this is the only route there is to that alley, and you have a 5 a.m. appointment.”

He laughed.  “I guess you want me to open up my truck and get you one of those damn dolls.  That ain’t gonna happen.”

He knew he was packing the goods. But I was smarter than the average beanie baby.  “No! Of course not. I’m going to ask you to give me one of the ones you’ve got in the cab of this truck.  Twenty bucks for a $7 toy, and a glowing compliment from one of the mothers at FAO Schwartz.  Whatdya say?”

He thought for a moment. “What makes you think I have some in the cab?”

I gave him my best smirk and rolled my eyes.  I do love truck drivers. 

He thought for a moment and then sighed.   “You got forty bucks?”

“Forty bucks! Highway robbery!” I said as dug in my pocket and grabbed two twenties. Then I realized, it actually was highway robbery and I was a maskless Zorro.  “It has to be red,” I said as he leaned over and reached behind the passenger seat.  I heard him mumble, “Well, hell, like I don’t know that.”

He handed me two boxes.  I shook my head. “No, I only need one. “

Kelly Saves Christmas“One’s red and the other is green. They just came out with the green ones. You’ll be walkin’ in front of trucks for that one next week. I’m trying to save us both the headache.”

I walked back through the streets of Manhattan with more attitude than Holiday Barbie.  I stood across the street from Hell Alley and watched as the biting, fighting, screaming and general chaos began.  I couldn’t resist yelling  “Merry Christmas, losers!” as I turned to leave.  I smiled as I patted my coat, now bulging with two boxes—-a red ranger AND a green ranger.  I had scored.   And I’d be damned if Santa was going to get the credit for it.    

Help me in giving a great big thank you to Kelly Stone Gamble for sharing her hilarious Christmas experience! All she needs is a cape! Be sure to visit Kelly’s blog for her stories from the Hoover Dam.

Until the next time…I’ll be decking the halls for tomorrow night’s 12 blogs of Christmas!

what the world could learn from Dickens

The Ghost of Christmas Present “There are some upon this earth of yours,” returned the Spirit, “who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us.” 

- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

One of the odd benefits of having OCD is enjoying the same thing over and over again without getting bored.  It comes in handy from time to time. Although, it can be known to drive others crazy…my husband for one. My current fixation is A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.

I have watched A Christmas Carol several times this week, much to my husband’s dismay. I hear him grumble every time the opening music plays. 

It’s the new Disney version with Jim Carrey playing Ebenezer Scrooge, as well as each of the three spirits. And as far as adaptations go, I think it does an excellent job interpreting Dickens’ vision.  I’ve also been to the theater recently to see the play, so I would definitely say this constitutes a full blown obsession on my part.  But I’m not worried. It will play itself out sooner or later.  Hopefully before the end of December, if not sooner.

The thing about obsessing over something…you tend to pick up things you might have missed with only a cursory glance.  I’m suddenly picking up things I didn’t fully comprehend before.  I’ve even pulled the book out to better grasp the meaning behind every word, and my takeaway is this…the world could learn a few things from Mr. Dickens and his wonderful Mr. Scrooge.

I say wonderful not because of Scrooge’s miserly ways, but rather because of how he eventually saw the light and realized the spirit of Christmas is bringing joy, love, and compassion to those who need it the very most. Friends and family should be cherished. And charity begins at home.  He discovered that it’s never too late to change for the better.  Never too late to start fresh.

Mr. Dickens had a wonderful idea.  And it’s been more than 250 years since he wrote that most beloved story. And the story has been told and retold for over 250 years without losing a drop of that message. It’s about time we tried to live by the message brought to us by those spirits…

And so in the immortal words of Scrooge, himself, “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.”

Until the next time…I’ll be baking cookies with my kids!

we wish you a merry christmas

Ok, if you know me at all, you know I avoid talk of politics or religion. And it’s not because I don’t have an opinion…I do. I just prefer to keep my opinions to myself. But once I year, I feel the need to buck the system just a little bit and say out loud how much I hate how politically correct everything has become.

I mean…since when are people afraid to wish you a Merry Christmas?

I found myself in the Hellmouth this evening…otherwise known as the local WalMart (it’s Christmas, that’s why!) As I walked in the door there was a lady greeting everyone. She wore the requisite blue smock along with big smile and a necklace made of vintage Christmas lights. They were the kind my parents used to put on our tree…huge colored lights that burned hot enough to power an easy bake oven.  She smiled and waved, and said, “Hello.” But despite the lighted trees and blow up Santa’s that surrounded her, she never once mentioned Christmas. That wasn’t strange in and of itself.  I don’t necessarily run around town saying Merry Christmas all day long…but I’m not a greeter at WalMart either.  Even the guy ringing the Salvation Army bell avoided the word like it might draw fire from the angry natives. 

So what did I do?

I made the first move. I said, “Merry Christmas!” All happy and cheerful-like.  And like a spell had been broken, these people suddenly smiled widely and proclaimed, “Merry Christmas!” right back to me. It reminded me of years past…way past…when everywhere I went, people were wishing me a Merry Christmas.

I think it’s very sad that something so innocent has become such a political statement. In an attempt to be fair to all religions, they have managed to unfairly muzzle an entire group of people.  People who want nothing more than to send holiday wishes to those who share their holiday. 

Like I said, I’m not trying to make a religious or political statement, but this country was founded on the principle of freedom of religion. I would never prevent another individual from practicing their religion or celebrating their holidays.  It’s time that courtesy was extended to Christmas again.

Until the next time…I’ll be wishing you a Merry Christmas!

the reluctant crime writer

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

Toby NealTonight’s guest blogger is Toby Neal, author of Blood Orchids. For more about Toby, click on her photo to visit her website.

How did this happen to me? I’m studying Forensics for Dummies with a pack of Post-its. I’m cutting up a chicken in the kitchen with a butcher knife as “research” for a paragraph on dismemberment, leaning in close to listen to the wet thunk and gristly snick of the knife. I’m looking at gruesome pictures of autopsies for accurate descriptions. I’m pulling over to the side of the road and sniffing roadkill, trying for accurate words for the scent of decay. Oh, and I’ve watched about a dozen YouTube videos on handgun cleaning, shooting, loading and handling (still never have touched a real one.)

I’m putting out FB questions—“Anybody know a real policewoman I can interview?” A friend puts me in contact and I meet this intrepid soul for coffee and flattery,  studying her body language, stance, and verbiage while peppering with questions about procedure and the mysterious accoutrements on her duty belt. I’m jogging with my (tiny, fuzzy and idiotic) dogs, imagining myself as the physically fit, badass Lei Texeira, my protagonist, with her Rottweiler.

Through it all, and four books into it, I’m still baffled that I’m writing crime mysteries—but I’ve passed through the denial, bargaining, and anonymity stages and am well on my way to acceptance.

Here’s how it happened:

I wrote a short story on my anonymous blog about a policewoman who’d been sexually abused, who was brave and a little crazy in her persuit of justice. I wrote about the drowning of two young girls, a situation  that I’d dealt with in my real life role as a therapist, helpless to do anything but grieve and help others grieve. I wrote this story to try to work through the trauma of it, to understand it all better somehow.

People wanted to know what happened next so I posted chapters. About 60 pages in, further than I’d ever made it on any of my other attempts, I realized I was so into Lei’s story I was going to be interested enough to actually finish a novel (after about 10 aborted novelets? Novelinas? No-vellums that petered out.)

Blood OrchidsAnd I finished Blood Orchids.

I found Lei had more to learn, more cases to solve, more islands to explore, healing to experience and sex to have—and I was still totally into her story. Four books in, and I haven’t lost interest in the seedy underbelly of humanity (did I mention I’m a therapist?) and the dual faces of Hawaii—paradise, and purgatory.

I’m a little embarrassed by this. I’m a nice person, a people helper—staid and a little matronly in my flowered pants and tank tops with pearls.  This fascination with fighting crime really seems…unseemly.

But what I’ve also discovered is that I have a side that loves to root for the underdog, that revels in justice, and that wishes I could be more active than wiping the tears of victims. It’s that side that revels in Lei’s ass kicking of psychologically sick perpetrators… and so in a funny way I guess it all does make sense.

Anyone else surprised by what they like to write—and what they like to read?

Thank you so much Toby for your fun post! Remind me not to get on her bad side. She knows how to dismember a chicken!

Until the next time…Check out the Daywalker contest page for news about the contest…and check back tomorrow for a bonus!

you better watch out

It’s December 8th and I still don’t have a Christmas tree.

I know. It’s practically criminal at this point. It’s at the top of my To-do list for tomorrow.  I need to infuse a little holiday cheer into my life.  Sort of like an intravenous dose of holly and mistletoe.  I mean…you know who is watching.

Miracle on 34th StreetNo, not my husband.  Santa! 

And if I expect to get anything other than coal in my stockings this Christmas, I need to stop crying and pouting!  I need to wipe that sour Grinchy frown from my face!  I need to rinse the Bah Humbug out of my mouth!  I need to put on Miracle on 34th street and remind myself Kris Kringle is as real as I want him to be.

I wrote about this last year…

I had a debate with some friends about the age children should be told the truth about Santa. And if Santa is even relevant in this day and age.

I believed in Santa Claus as a child.

It is one of the strongest, most vivid memories I have from childhood. In fact, if I think back, I could probably recall at least one present from each year I believed. Santa Claus is quite simply the definition of the “magic” of childhood. I think I knew the truth long before it was confirmed, but I didn’t want to stop believing, so I held on for as long as I could. I was almost twelve when I finally had the indisputable proof. But because my younger sister still believed, I was able to hold on to the magic for a few more years through her.

And that is what it is all about for me. The magic. It’s something every child should feel and every adult wishes they could recapture.

Finding out there is no Santa Claus is the first official step away from childhood. And it’s a steep step most of us spend the rest of our lives trying to back track. At least a little. Even if it’s just once a year.

While my children were little, because of their belief in Santa Claus, my house was again filled with the magic of Christmas. It wasn’t quite the same as when I was a child, but it is the closest I have ever come to the wonderment from my childhood.

It certainly doesn’t stop me from trying to recapture it each year. I still watch the classic Christmas specials like Rudolph, Frosty, and Charlie Brown. I immerse myself in the twinkling lights, Christmas carols, and frosted cookies until my memories swirl around me like a tornado of snowflakes on Christmas Eve and Santa Claus becomes real again.

When my children asked me, so many years ago, if Santa was real, I told them Santa was as real as we believed he was. I still consider this to be the truth.

Christmas is the one time of year when believing in magic is not just for children… because Santa real if you believe.

And I believe in Santa Claus.

Until the next time…I’ll be making my list and checking in twice (and getting a Christmas tree pronto!)

when life gives you lemons

What the hell does that mean anyway? When life gives you lemons?  I might not mind life giving me a few lemons…it’s the whole, “pulling the rug out from under me” thing I have a problem with.  

Welcome to Wednesday’s challenge blog. Or as I like to call it…here’s lemon juice in your eye. Do I sound bitter? (Get it? Lemons? Bitter?) Ok, ok…bad joke.  But seriously…lemons can be far more dangerous than their bright sunny appearance would indicate.  Have you ever been hit in the back of the head by a low flying lemon?  No, me either (Mrs. Doubtfire called it a “Run-by fruiting.”) but I imagine it would hurt!  Or what about a whole lemon tree? Don’t stand under the lemon tree…especially if there happens to be a lightning storm and all that. 

Lemons could kill you!

Ok…so lemons don’t kill people…people kill people. But rub a little lemon juice in the wound and it’s not going to be pretty!

Hey, I’m not saying I don’t like lemons. There’s nothing as refreshing as fresh squeezed lemonade on a hot day. And lemon pie is pretty tasty. I rather like frosted lemon cookies. And I’m even partial to lemon pledge. But trust me when I say…there are way worse things than life giving you a few lemons.  In fact, bring them on. Back the truck up and pour them right here.  I’m ready for some lemons. 

Hey, if I can manage to get a Christmas tree in here, I can hang those damn lemons from the branches!

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

can we have a word?

Addiction.

I think we’ve talked about this before…but I’m afraid it’s time to bring it up again.  Why? Well, I’m caught in that tangled web of addiction yet again. No, not drugs…I’ve never dabbled. Not alcohol…I don’t really drink. Not even Diet Coke or cookies (although if you have a frosted Christmas tree, pass that over please.)

My addiction is Words with Friends.

I can almost hear you out there asking me, “What is Words with Friends?”

It’s a Facebook game much like Scrabble. Exactly like Scrabble, in fact.  You play with your friends in the cybersphere. You have your letter tiles and they have theirs. You take your turn then your opponent takes theirs. Seems innocent enough, doesn’t it?

So, I took my turn and waited. And waited some more. I expected my friend to be waiting expectantly for me to take my turn so they could take theirs. They weren’t. Technically, they don’t have to be. That’s the beauty of the game. You can play on your own time.  But for me? Therein lies the problem, my friends…I don’t like to wait.

I know patience is a virtue, but I must not be very virtuous because I don’t have the patience gene. There was probably a line passing out patience somewhere in the great beyond and I didn’t feel like standing in line. So waiting indefinitely for my unseen opponent to take their turn is practically painful!

I need things to move just a bit more quickly than that.  

So I started a game with someone else. 

Now I had two games going at once. Surely that would satisfy the need.  Calm the savage beast.

And it did…for a while. But in this new game I took my turn and I waited. Nothing. I had two people I was waiting for, but until they took their turn, I had to wait.

So I started another game.

Fast forward twenty-four hours and I have twenty games going with twenty different people.  It’s still moving too slow for me, but I suppose that’s for the best. I do actually need to write my blog. And eat. And if I can squeeze enough time out of the day, I might even sleep. 

But only if there’s time. I have games to play after all!

Until the next time…I’ll be making up words!

the dreaded Christmas card

The dreaded countdown to Christmas

Today is December 5^th.  Twenty days before Christmas, and I suddenly feel the pressure bearing down on me like an avalanche. Especially when I can feel the box of Christmas cards staring at me from across the room. I buy a fresh box of cards each year. It’s part of my holiday tradition to meticulously shop for Christmas cards that never get mailed. My pen is perched on top where I left it when I decided I would actually fill them out this year. I really do fill them out most years, but my epic fail comes when I get to the addressing and the mailing.  I have several years’ worth of poignantly written Christmas cards sitting in a box in my closet where they will likely remain for many years to come. That new box will be the exception…this year I’ll get them mailed. I still have a few weeks to go.

And what a crazy few weeks they will be.

I haven’t finished my shopping. And the bunch of bananas I bought to make banana bread may have gone off.  I haven’t made a single batch of cookies yet.

I don’t even have a tree.

That’s right. I don’t have a Christmas tree and it’s going to be December 6^th any minute now.  My neighbors all have trees.  Their houses are decorated with lighted wreaths and bows. Even their dogs are wearing festive bandanas and jingle bells. 

My dogs are wearing shredded tissue paper found inside a shoe box. They ripped it themselves.

So this is my plan for tomorrow…

Get a tree. Hang some lights. Bake cookies and bread. Groom the dogs and add jingle bells. Fill out Christmas cards (including addresses and stamps). Oh, and go to a Christmas party in the old neighborhood. 

Ok…maybe I’ll just get a tree.

Until the next time…I’ll be decking a few halls.

a panda, a parade, and the pearly gates

Panda’s require a lot of sleep.

How do I know this? I am a panda.  My husband says I am.

And I Googled pandas.

Mike has spent the past several days pointing out everything that defines his reason for calling me a panda.  I scrape most of the tartar sauce from my fish sandwich. “Panda!” he blurts out, pointing at my food.  I put on black eyeliner to go to the theater. “Panda,” he says pointing to my face.  I fall asleep in the middle of an expensive stage show at the theater. “Panda,” he whispers as he pokes me awake.

But the most important part of this is…as a panda, I require sleep.  Much more than I get.  Which was a total of four hours last night. 

Mike and I rolled out of bed at nine-thirty this morning after staying up til nearly dawn.  I had napped a bit during the show last night, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Sleep or no sleep, the plan was to have breakfast and jump into the car. Destination?  The mountains.  Our quest to find a historic farmhouse to renovate was renewed, and we had nothing else to do today.

I fell asleep in the car a few times on the way there, despite drinking a grande pumpkin spice latte (full caf) before hitting the highway.  (I dreamed Mike colored my eyes black and dressed me in white fur.) But once we hit the quaint little town, Mike woke me up just in time for the annual Christmas parade.

At least, I think it was a parade.

There was a man in uniform directing traffic. People dressed in their holiday finery were strutting down Main Street on horseback. And a guy dressed as Santa rode what looked like a lawn mower through the center of town. 

We were detoured away from Main Street, and as we snaked around the side streets, we found ourselves somehow entangled with the parade as it made its way from the other direction. Flatbeds wrapped in red plastic sheeting and carrying the town’s senior citizens strapped to weathered rocking chairs passed us on the narrow roadway.  The people on the floats, close enough to stick their smiling faces right up to the passing car windows, shouted, “Merry Christmas!” at us as if it was an order rather than glad tidings. 

This was a little too much for my husband to take, so we headed for the nearest parking space to abandon the car for a little lunch.

After drinking a grande latte for breakfast, I rejected the idea of eating Mexican cuisine (the most popular restaurant in town, based on the packed dining room) and instead, opted for a nice little bistro promising, “A little slice of Heaven.”

The Pearly Gates, as the place was called, was all but empty, and in retrospect, that should have tipped me off.  I looked at the sign as we went in and giggled to my husband, “I hope this isn’t the last place we ever eat.”

What was it DC said in her guest post last night?  Everything happens for a reason?  Well, my horrible stomach ache has got to be the direct result of the food I ate at The Pearly Gates. It cost twice as much as the McDonald’s I had the night before, but it was only half as good.  Even the “home-baked” brownie tasted as if it was baked last Christmas. 

We paid our bill in, “cash only please,” and high-tailed it out of there before the gates swung open and George Lucas poked his head out with his shiny Christmas light-saber. 

Despite the horrible meal, the rest of the day was sort of fun.  We found a few houses to look at, and even if none of them were perfect, the day was as close as you can get without a winning lottery ticket (or a brand new book deal!)

I even picked up a new wreath for the front door, bringing just a little bit of Christmas home with me. If I don’t die from food poisoning in my sleep, I might even get a Christmas tree tomorrow. Then again…I might just sleep in…we pandas need our beauty rest!

Until the next time…I’ll be working on this week’s Daywalkers!

life is like a game of broken telephone

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.

DC McMillenTonight’s guest blogger is DC McMillen, author of

the

Nauti-Lust

series

. For more about DC, click on her photo to visit her website.

Earlier this week I read a blog post entitled Feeling Philosophical. In the entry, the author mentioned that everything happens for a reason.

Everything happens for a reason.

I hear people say that a lot. Hell, I’ve even said it once or twice. But does everything happen for a reason, really?

In my opinion, the answer is yes and no.

Let me explain. Yes, of course, everything happens for a reason, as in, the resulting consequence of a previous action. Does everything happen for a grand purpose to ensure you fulfill your true destiny, though? Nope, I don’t think so.

Before everyone’s fingers start flying over the keyboards to blast me for not believing in a higher purpose or F-A-T-E, let me explain further.

I think fate is complete bullshit.

There, feel better? No? Okay then, I will concede a little. Maybe our lives do start out with a master plan that involves an individual or collective purpose. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending how you look at it), life is like a game of broken telephone. As an example, let’s say my initial agenda was to be the inventor of Viagra. Somewhere along the lines, though, something went terribly askew. I think it happened when I chose bikini Barbie over Doctor Barbie because she looked so damned hot in that pink fluorescent two-piece. My mom saw me drooling over Barbie and thought she had it all wrong. She dressed me up for Halloween in a princess gown and tiara instead of that smock and stethoscope she had her eye on. Whew, she dodged a bullet there. After wearing this frilly costume, I decided I liked being a princess and it became my new thing. I gave up my nerdy obsessions and tomboy habits. I even chose to finally accept that invite to play Cabbage Patch Kids in Carrie’s playhouse with the popular girls instead of joining the afterschool science program.

One thing led to another; we fast forward twenty five years and, thanks to the broken telephone syndrome, I am not a filthy stinking rich boner doctor. Instead I am a middle class erotica writer. Come to think of it, I guess that in this scenario I did kind of fulfill my destiny. I mean, either way, I am successfully stimulating the sex drives of people worldwide. Maybe there is something to this fate thing, after all…

Thank you to DC McMillen for reminding us how fragile the balance of life is, and why I’m really glad my mom swapped out that toy tractor for a Barbie doll when I was three.

Until the next time…I’ll be watching for Daywalker contest entries to start flooding in (are you playing?)

pandas bare

If you’ve been paying attention, you may have noticed that I’m compiling a book from my most popular blogs and some new material.  I’m calling the book, “Dancing Bare” and I want a dancing bear on the cover.  So I asked my husband (and someone really needs to remind me not to do this anymore, for a variety of reasons) what sort of bear would I be…if I was a bear.

So after a nanosecond of thought, he smiles and says, “A panda…without a doubt.”

Of course, I asked him why a panda. He just smiled and said, “Because you are.”

Lady Panda?What the hell, I thought.  I don’t wear a mask. I’m closer to a polar bear in coloring. And I wanted to be a brown bear because they match my hair.  But no.  He says I’m a panda.  And he won’t say why.

Fast forward to this evening when I had to pick a topic for the challenge blog. One topic stuck out like a sore…panda.  That’s right.  Panda bear was a topic! How could I pass up the chance to explore this a little further?  So I went in with another attempt to get my husband to explain why I’m a panda.  I had a challenge blog to write. He had to tell me…right?

He must have agreed…challenge blog is sacred. 

So here is why my husband says I am a panda (not the brown bear like I wanted to be)…

“Pandas are not technically bears,” he started.

Of course, I already knew this, but I didn’t care. I want them to be bears, so they are. 

“No, they’re not.” He likes to correct me.  Pfft. “Pandas are essentially giant raccoons.”

Right. So I’m a bear that isn’t a bear. I’m a non-bear? I actually asked him that.

“Right,” he says. “You’re a pretend bear in a bear world.” 

I repeat this sentence as a question and he nods.  I ask him if he realizes I’m blogging this shit.  He does. I start to wonder if he wants the world to think he’s some kind of villain.  I don’t ask him that, but I suddenly struggle with the urge to tell him to fuck off again. 

My need to know more about why I’m a panda prevails and I ask him. “Is that all? I’m just a non-bear in a bear world?”

No. That’s not all. Of course not.

“Pandas are not omnivores.  They eat bamboo and that’s it. They don’t like mayonnaise on their egg sandwiches.  They don’t like pickles on their cheeseburgers.  They don’t want their vegetables to touch their meat or potatoes.  They eat bamboo.”

So let’s recap… “I’m a non-bear in a bear world. And I’m a picky eater?”

He stares at the bag of oyster crackers I’m snacking from. “Yep. That’s about it.”

“So this has nothing to do with the black and white coat?  Or the cuteness?  The mask?  The cuddly appearance?”

Non-Bear Picky Eater“Nope. Non-bear…picky eater.”

I keep asking him, “Are you sure?  That’s it?”

Finally he makes the “mean” face and says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.  I think maybe I’ve drifted off into an alternate universe, but I know better.  I decide to grab a pair of ear buds to listen to music while I write…the non-bear in me likes music apparently…so I plug them into my laptop and turn up the music.  It’s barely loud enough to hear so I turn it up.  And up again, until it’s at max volume.  It’s still muffled, but I can hear my music, so who cares?

“What are you doing?” he asks…mean face still showing. 

I “Grrr” a little at him…like a bear…and tell him “I’m listening to music.”

“Uh, so am I…” he pops up an eyebrow and stares at my laptop like he hates it, so I pull out my ear buds to say, “What?  Oh!”

I plugged the ear buds into the wrong jack. The music was playing loudly into the room. 

“Non-bear,” he says as I switch the jacks.

“Fuck off.”

The music drowns out his reply.

This is why I love a challenge blog.

Until the next time…I’ll be kicking off the Daywalkers “Getting into Character” contest tomorrow!

have boobs will travel

Erica Lucke DeanWriters. 

We’re a strange bunch. Get a group of us together on a social network and the conversations run the gamut from pregnancy symptoms and Christmas lights all the way to Santa’s fertility (don’t ask…you really don’t want to know).

You do? You really want to know?

Ok…so one writer tells us she asked Santa to bring her a healthy pregnancy, and another writer says, “don’t you think your husband should be the one getting you pregnant…not Santa?” Oh sure, she was being funny. But the next thing you know there is an entire conversation revolving around the idea of Santa getting someone pregnant on Christmas Eve.  The religious ramifications notwithstanding, this was a funny conversation.  I mean…how old is Santa? Wouldn’t he need a heaping dose of Viagra to get his North Pole to work?

But I digress.

This was a bunch of women. We don’t really get into the dirty stuff. Lela Gwenn by Matt Slentz

Ok, I’m lying. We do. But the whole talk of pregnancy and the sticky gooey realities of that were too much for some of the single girls in the bunch, so we changed the topic to something much more demure.

Boobs.

A writer who would not be namedBut like I said…this was a bunch of women. We’re supposed to be beyond the childish games played by men.  We don’t get into a pissing match. We don’t pull out the ruler and compare dimensions!

Yep…lying again.  We totally do.

What started out as a fun exchange about boobs turned into a photo fest where we posted pictures of ourselves in various stages of exposure.  Nothing racy mind you…we’re writers after all. We have a deep-seated need to leave something to the imagination.  Basically, below the waist was out of bounds.  Everything above was fair game. 

Ciara BallintyneI’m kidding.  We just compared cleavage.  But the singular guy in our little tit-a-tit was browsing the boob pictures like a kid checking out Christmas lights displays.  I’m pretty sure I could actually see his mooning face via his comments. “OH. MY. GOD.” And, “AMAZING.” Oh and, “It really is Christmas!”

It’s like he was following the bouncing ball and singing along to a song in his own head… “Silver bells…Silver bells…It’s Christmastime, hey look…titties!”

Guys.  They really are pretty basic, aren’t they? You just have to follow one simple rule to get by…in case of emergency, flash boobs!

 Until the next time…I’ll be working on a challenge blog! Topics anyone?

if a tree falls in the forest

You’ve heard the old adage…if a tree falls in the forest and the only one around to hear it is a woman with PMS, does she fly into a rage trying to convince her husband it really happened???

I am completely convinced husbands do not understand the power of PMS.  Do they not realize they have to sleep at some point? And I don’t know a single woman without a sharpened razor at the ready! (For our legs, of course…but still!)

Men just don’t get the danger!

There, I’ve said it. It’s a wonder the human race has survived this long when you consider how often women get PMS and how often men mock our pain!

It’s ok…I’m fine now. I’ve had milk and cookies.  A few bits of leftover chocolate.  And a diet coke.  But less than an hour ago? Things were pretty dicey around here.

I’ll admit it. I have a love/hate relationship with conflict. I’m a writer, so I know a good story is isn’t complete without conflict.  Conflict drives the story. It’s what keeps us turning the pages.  

But in reality? Conflict is the crazy taxi driver of life!

My ride started with a trip to the grocery store…well, it started a day or so before that, but the trip to the grocery store brought everything full circle.  I made a passing comment to my husband about feeling an overwhelming urge to swear.  Specifically, the eff bomb. Repeatedly. Until heads turned and whispers of “does she have Tourette’s” filled the air. 

I didn’t do it.  It was just an urge.  An overwhelming urge, but I resisted. 

My husband listened to me with a blank expression then counted on his fingers before proclaiming, “Ah ha! PMS.”

“PMS and OCD are never a good combination,” I reluctantly agreed.  “It’s the dreaded acronym soup feared by men everywhere!” I added with a smile.

My husband tossed in his two cents with an acronym of his own.  “CFB.”

I mouthed the letters back to him, scrunching up my face as I tried to decode them. 

“Crazy fucking bitch,” he said with a sneer. And the winds began to turn.

What I should have said was, “Kind sir…why do you mock me so?” What I actually said was, “Fuck off!”

And with that primitive little phrase, I had opened Pandora’s box and let the eff bomb out.  Trust me when I say, Pandora’s box is like a brand new tent. It’s all nice and neat until you take it out, but no matter how tightly you roll it up, you can never get that fucking tent back into the bag it came in. 

The innocent little exchange became a full-blown war of epic proportions.

I think I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.  But don’t feel bad for me. I’ve booby trapped the bed with a little help from my “always willing to help with some drool” dog Indy.  And I swapped out the new toilet seat for the cracked one I was saving for just this occasion.  Hey, if a man sits on a broken toilet seat in the night and gets his butt pinched but no one is there to see it…will he still learn a lesson? Don’t ask me…I don’t give a fuck.  I’m just going to smile when he yelps.

Until the next time…I’ll be hunting for chocolate!