is that a banana or a broomstick in your pocket?

Packing.

There doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. It was on the agenda from the first moment my eyes opened this morning until just a few minutes ago, when my feet screamed in protest.

Well…except for the time we went out for lunch. And the time we went out for dinner. Oh, and the time we went out for ice cream. Because packing makes you really hungry.

My husband’s youngest daughter has been here this weekend, so despite her pleas to be spared, we put her to work packing a few things today, too. Of course, there’s always a trade off. And the trade off this time was the constant stream of fun facts Mady shared with us while we stuffed boxes.

Mady’s favorite phrase is, “Hey, did you know…?”

“Hey, did you know a Hippo’s sweat is red?”

“Yes, I knew that,” I said.

“You did not!”

“Yes I did. Because, yeah…I am smarter than a fifth grader.” Or in Mady’s case, an eighth grader.

“Hey, did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?”

Has this kid ever heard of Jerry Maguire?

“Yes, I did.”

“You did not!”

“Yes, I did. I was in school for more a lot longer than you have been.” I rolled my eyes even though I wouldn’t have known that fact without the movies. But I wasn’t saying anything if she didn’t know that.

She went back to folding the curtains I asked her to pack…with less precision than my OCD would have liked, but my husband gave me that look when I considered showing her how to fold them…again.

Then she started in with the trivia again.

“Hey, did you know bananas are the reproductive organ for the whole tree?”

I sat quietly, because I wasn’t sure if this was a trick question. Do you have any idea how many jokes I could come up with using the words banana and reproduction?

At least a dozen!

“So are apples, pears, plumbs and peaches…all seed bearing fruits,” my husband interrupted, and I exhaled, relieved to have my thoughts stopped before they had a chance to get out.

“Bananas have seeds…you just don’t notice them,” I added. “And it’s the birds and the bees that spread the seeds around.” I was trying to be clever…but it was lost on them. They were too busy delving into the in-depth study of fruit and reproduction.

My eyes glazed over while I packed…still stuck with that original image of a banana in my head.

“Hey Daddy…how do you know all this stuff?” Mady asked Mike. “No matter what topic we talk about, you just seem to know everything about it. It’s like you have the book in your head or something.”

“Well, I’m much older than you,” my husband explained. “And don’t forget, I’m studying enviromental sciences.”

Not to be out done, I tossed in, “Hey, I know stuff too. Just ask me anything about Bewitched!”

Yeah…they didn’t care. In fact, I don’t think Mady’s ever heard of Bewitched. And if you ask me, that’s just sad.

Until the next time…I’ll be resting up for one more day of packing.

let's talk about sex...shall we?

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight 

DC McMillenTonight’s guest is writer, DC McMillen, author of the newly released novella, The Rusty Nail. For more about DC, click to visit her website.

In honor of DC’s book release, we’re doing something a little different tonight. DC has agreed to write a bit of frisky flash fiction for our reading pleasure. So, as they say, let’s get on with it…(or was that, let’s get it on? I always get those two mixed up.)

“Ball gag?”

“Check.”

“Furry hand cuffs?”

“Check”

“Silk ties”

“Check. But do we have to use my good ties?”

“Oh, so you want to wrap my wrists in cheap polyester?”

“No, Honey, you’re right.”

“Feathers? Candles?”

“Check, check.”

“Excellent. Now we need a safe word.”

“How about stop?”

“Nobody uses stop, John.”

“Okay, Banana.”

“Everyone uses banana.”

“Pineapple?”

“That’s stupid.”

“Mango?”

“Jesus, John. No fruit!”

“Mesopotamia!”

“No.”

“Curmudgeon?”

“Cur-what?”

“Michael Baldwin.”

“Just one word, John. One fucking word.”

“Tomato.”

“A tomato is a fruit.”

“It’s not a vegetable?”

“Nope, it’s a fruit. And a peanut is actually a legume.”

“Interesting. Did you know honey never spoils?”

“Perfect! Our safe word is honey.”

“That won’t work. I call you honey all the time.”

“But I don’t call you honey and I’m the one using the safe word.”

“What do you mean? Won’t I be the submissive?”

“Why would you think that? I am obviously the submissive here.”

“Whatever you want honey, you’re in control.”

“Peanut. The safe word is peanut.”

“Or peanut butter.”

“We do love peanut butter.”

“Especially with honey.”

“Yeah, peanut butter and honey sandwiches are the best.”

“You know, I’m a little hungry.

“Okay, let’s break for lunch.”

~
Thank you for reading my 200 word flash fiction piece. If you are interested in reading more of my work, I recently released an erotic novella called The Rusty Nail. Here is the blurb:

Despite the dim lighting in his rundown bar, Randall sees the seemingly random lives of his customers intersect in the most unusual ways. Why, in just a single day, he eavesdrops on a gay man flirting with his straight boyfriend, spies a Stepford style wife slip into the shadows of a cracked leather booth to join an Italian bombshell wearing a trench coat, stilettos and not much else, and demands a lunatic in search of chocolate milk to vacate his establishment, all the while hoping his slick and skuzzy landlord doesn’t show up to collect back rent.

What Randall doesn’t realize is that, other than their questionable taste in watering holes, these patrons all have something in common. Each one of them will experience a unique sexual encounter that will awaken, enlighten, or perhaps even devastate their lives.

You can purchase a copy of The Rusty Nail here.

Until the next time…I’ll be (sigh) packing!

I think I'd pack my head if it wasn't attached

I love moving. I do. It’s an adventure. A chance to decorate…and shop. But with moving comes packing. And I hate packing.

Have I mentioned how much I hate packing? If I haven’t said it enough times, I’ll say it again. I hate packing.

I mean…I really. Hate. Packing.

We’ve started the final countdown to moving day. And now that Mom is officially out of the woods with her illness, I can finally take a deep breath and get down to business. The business of…yep, you’ve got it…packing!

And there’s nothing like packing to unearth how much crap you actually own. And I don’t even mean the sort of crap you agonize over tossing out. I haven’t even gotten to that yet. I’m talking about the crap you really can’t bear to part with. The sentimental momentos like baby pictures, hand-knitted blankets made by Mom, the artwork from kindergarten, and other assorted items that don’t contribute to the day to day functions of life, but must be preserved, nonetheless.

And as far as the day to day items, I’ve already filled two huge boxes with linens. And these are just the linens we aren’t currently using. Those, I’ll worry about later. Like the clothes.

Until then, I’ve packed the heirloom china, and the everyday dishes, but I haven’t even touched the glassware. I discovered when we moved here that I have forty-two wine glasses. Forty-two! I don’t think I can drink forty-two glasses of wine by myself.

I can’t even get through one!

Maybe I’ll tackle the glasses tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll sort through the old magazines and DVDs and decide what’s going and what’s not. And hey, maybe I’ll even paint something.

It’s never too late to decorate…right?

Until the next time…I’ll be careful not to pack my head.

sometimes life isn't funny

I know I’m expected to be funny. It’s what I do. I’m supposed to dig through the druggery of life and pull out little gems of wisdom and humor.

But what about those times when life just isn’t funny?

My mother is in the hospital tonight, where’s she’s been since last night, fighting a terrible viral infection in her brain. There just isn’t much funny in that.

Maybe tomorrow…or the day after…when she’s on her feet again. Maybe then we can feret out whatever humor might be lurking in the situation. But until that time, I’ll just keep the faith.

Because in my heart of hearts I know she’ll be fine.

And I’m going to hold on to that until she is.

Until the next time…please keep my mom in your thoughts.

life in the fish bowl

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Michael DeanTonight’s guest is Michael Dean. Although, he’s not a writer per se…he does have a blog of his own…and he has his very own special brand of insight. He’s my husband. For more about Michael, click his picture to visit his blog.

It’s not easy being married to a writer. Especially one with some degree of public notoriety, and who occasionally likes to tell all.

You know Erica’s antics and the things she writes about. I’m unfortunately going to divulge that they are all true. I don’t always read her blogs. Mostly I’m afraid to know exactly what the world knows. What I do read is sometimes a little close to home, and I’m certain I wouldn’t have painted such a vivid picture of our lives.

I’m a private person.

I suppose you could say my role in the fish bowl is that of the sucker fish. I lurk in the background and corners of the tank, doing my duty, not really asking for much attention. I don’t have flashy colors. I don’t do tricks or chase the other fish, or make bubbles (unless we’ve had Mexican food). And I definitely don’t order food in the drive-thru…using a fake accent…and asking for my food to go! (And yes…she really did that once.)

I do get annoyed sometimes when folks come along and tap on the glass…it sounds like baseball bats on trash can lids to me.

Erica doesn’t seem to mind the crowd standing outside the glass. And I guess that’s good for someone trying to make a living in the public eye. Sure, Erica is interesting, and creative, and a walking encyclopedia of useless trivia, and sometimes a bit flighty even if she’s always funny…even a bit odd sometimes. She’s also a fiercely protective mother and leader of her family when needed. It doesn’t seem to matter that she didn’t give birth to, or even meet the rest of us until not so many years ago…all factors that made me love her. I had no choice.

So, in the end, I guess it’s not that hard after all having Erica for a wife. I do get to meet a lot of interesting people (vicariously) and discover their angles on life.

Besides, I suppose it’s not always easy being married to me.

I told Erica, not so long ago, if it weren’t for the simple fact that she lives in different world than most people, she’d have gotten rid of me a long time ago. She hasn’t noticed many of my flaws…yet…and the ones she has noticed, she just labels them as quirks.

Like the time I paid a LOT of money for a domain name I thought would be a good investment…but it wasn’t. Or the time I insisted on buying a piece of land in North Carolina that we didn’t do a thing with…but I still might someday. And then there was the time I had the idea I could build a shed in the back yard cheaper than what Home Depot could sell me a kit for…and make it better.

I ended up spending four-times as much on the materials, with the end product being a tornado-rated structure. But I’ll bet a lot of people build a $8000, 12ftx 12ft military bunker-style shed in the back yard…sure they do!

Afterall, when your wife has Salem witches in her lineage, you don’t want any loose houses flying around.

That just goes to show how she puts up with my antics just as much as I put up with hers. I guess you could say we have an interesting life. Sometimes I have to meditate on a saying of Helen Keller’s to help get me through.

“Life is a grand adventure, or it is nothing.”

I’m sure I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the pict…errr…the idea.

Until the next time…I’ll be tapping on the glass.

somebody pass the kleenex

What’s that old saying about spilled milk?

Sherwin Williams Shoji WhiteWell, it wasn’t exactly milk, but I found myself crying over white paint today…not even spilled paint. For those of you playing along at home, I finally found the right white (Sherwin Williams Shoji White ) and the minute I discovered it, the tears were flowing. Then the flood gates opened yet again while I considered the sentimental journey of packing my entire house as I pull up stakes to move to the mountains. Basically, I was crying over everything.

I’m not entirely sure if I’m finding myself suddenly nostalgic or if I’m simply suffering from PMS…again.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say, perhaps PMS is working in conjunction with a bit of nostalgia. After all, I just helped my son get situated in his very first place. It’s simultaneously exciting and heart-wrenching to watch my oldest child go out on his own. I’m sure he feels the same way. I’m sure he falls asleep each night almost wishing he was still home…close enough to ask me for a drink of water.

I’m sure of it.

And next I’ll be helping my daughter find her way. She’s younger…maybe less ready in some ways, but at the same time, I often think she’s more of an adventurer. More like her father than me. Fearless. Always willing to jump off the high-dive of life. So she’s been clawing at the nest for some time, ready to leap…to spread her wings and fly.

And I’ll miss her. I’ll miss them both horribly.

And this is precisely why I need another box of tissues. The extra soft, lotion infused kind. Feel free to send a box. I think I packed mine.

Until the next time…I’ll be drying off the packing boxes.

Ok...who put all this stuff in my house?

Time to take my head out of the clouds…cloud white that is. I was looking at paint chips as I reached my front steps and promptly tripped onto the porch.

This was the highlight of my day.

My house is beginning to look like an episode of Hoarders as I pull everything out of the cabinets, drawers, closets, etc to pack. I’ve unearthed assorted knick knacks, books, games, Christmas decorations, magazines, DVDs, not to mentioned all the other things I don’t even remember buying.

I mean…when did I buy purple and orange paint? And what on earth was I planning to do with it? It’s like I went through a comic book villian stage and completely blocked it out. These are the strange things people find at their local Goodwill. I guess I can find solace in the fact that someone will be delighted to find orange and purple paint samples one day soon.

And speaking of Goodwill…my husband has given me an ultimatum. I need to part with at least half of the magazines I’ve discovered. Half. Do you have any idea how many magazines he wants me to throw away?

Oh, hundreds at least. 

But I wasn’t done with those! They’re filled with really good decorating ideas. You never know when I’m going to redecorate my dining room using orange and purple paint splatters…oh wait. Never mind. I can get rid of that one.

And maybe the Marvel Comics Scene It game. I was awful at that. Oh, and the stained glass Christmas candle holders? Yeah, I probably won’t use those again. And I never once used the snowman muffin tins. Or the four bolts of fabric that were on sale but match absolutely nothing in my house…those can go too.

But do not touch the over one hundred white paint swatches scattered about every flat surface throughout my house. I’m definitely not finished with those.

But not to worry. I’ll find the perfect white paint yet. In fact, I’m almost there. Just a few more days.

Right…I’ll keep you posted.

Until the next time…I’ll be packing!

the dreaded white paint dilemma

To borrow from the Princess Bride yet again…picking the perfect white paint is a lot like going against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

The death of Vizzini courtesy of www.moviedeaths.comI’m not comparing myself to the Dread Pirate Roberts, mind you. In fact, I’m probably playing the part of the Sicilian here, as I clearly can’t choose the white paint in front of me.

In fact…I’m certain I can’t choose the white paint in front of my husband, or the white paint sample on the kitchen island, or even the white paint samples lined up along the top of the bookcase as I compare them in every possible light. I think I might rather drink the damn poison!

Ok…I’m exaggerating. A little.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I have at least a hundred color chips spread out across the kitchen table. And I’ve even bought a few of sample jars of paint to make large color boards, just like they say to do on HGTV. But the perfect creamy whites from the little chips all look chalky white when spread over a large area. Will I ever find the perfect color?

When it comes to white paint, I know exactly what I want. I can see it in my head. I just can’t find that magical color anywhere else. Well…maybe in a jar of mayonaisse, but I don’t think the paint Gods can color match a jar of Hellmann’s.

Then again…that may be a field trip for tomorrow. I’ll just spread some on a sandwich and I’ll have lunch when I’m done.

They call that multi-tasking.

And speaking of multi-tasking…I’d better get back to packing boxes if I’m ever going to get this house moved.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for that perfect shade of mayonaisse!

hey mom...can you bring me a drink of water?

Oh, how many times have I heard those words?

“Mom, can you bring me a drink of water?”

I know I spoke them myself, back in a time that now seems like a million years ago. And my mother always came running, bearing a glass filled with cold water to soothe me back to sleep.

And from the time my children were old enough to speak, they stood in their cribs shouting for a drink of water in the dead of night…or maybe it was breast milk…I don’t remember anymore.

As they got older they would call from their beds, “Mommy, I need a drink of water.” And I would get up and get it for them, because, like my mom before me I was a good mom, and that’s what we do, damn it.

Long after she was grown, my teenage daughter would send me a text from her bed…claiming she was sick and coughing in between abbreviations, asking me to, “Bring me H2O, pls!” And off I would run, cold water in hand for my poor child who was unable to fetch it for herself.

But tonight…tonight takes the cake.

Tonight is the first night my son is spending in his new house. He moved just a few miles away, and he was so excited to spend his first night in his new house, he couldn’t wait for such trivial things as water or heat to be turned on before moving in. He packed up the “essentials” and headed out on his new adventure, his dog (and a space heater) in tow.

At just before ten this evening, he called me to say he’d forgotten something. Or maybe he was just lonely. Either way I headed out to take him a cup of sugar (or a bag of dog food) and to visit his new house.  This is when I discovered he didn’t remember to pack any water for himself or the dog, and didn’t even have many of the essentials of living. So we hopped into my car and headed for the grocery store.

After filling a cart of everything we needed (minus the bottled water we set out to buy) we checked out and headed back to his house to realize we’d forgotten the most important item on our list.

“Can you just run to the house and bring me back some water?” He asked.

Um…No…I couldn’t. Not this time.

Instead, I reached into the cup holder in my car to the half bottle of water there, and into the backseat where there was another full bottle of water and handed them both to him. That would be enough to hold him over til the morning…when the water will be turned on.

Sometimes you just have to let go. As difficult as that may be.

And it is so hard…

Until the next time…I’ll be getting water for the dogs! 

just put my life in a box, why don't you?

If it weren’t for the actual moving part, I think I might love to move. It’s exciting…like starting a grand adventure, where I get to decorate a new space. To pick out new colors and shop for all the accessories, spending money like it’s water and I’ve been walking through a desert, until my husband discovers what I’m up to and puts a stop to it right away! (Deep breath)

Well…I try to avoid detection, but he always catches on eventually.

But before I can get to the fun and exciting parts, I have to suffer through the not so fun or exciting parts. The actual moving part.

Mike and I spent the lion’s part of the day packing up everything in the pantry. I have no idea how I’d amassed such a large quantity of Rice A Roni…or when I was planning on cooking this stockpile of the San Francisco treat, but now that I’ve won the bet and I’m not cooking anymore, I’ll let someone else worry about that. Besides, it’s all packed now.

Once we’d made a dent in the pantry, Mike shifted his focus to packing up the books, and more than ten good-sized boxes later, they’re packed too. I’d like to say we’re well on our way to being done, but the truth is, we have a long way to go. Lucky for me we have three weeks to get it done.

If only I wasn’t a chronic procrastinator.

Until the next time…I’ll be packing!

the zombie mailbag

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Dan DeWittTonight’s guest is writer Dan DeWitt. For more about Dan, click on his photo to visit his website.

My fellow zurvivors: 

Another St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us, and I think that it’s important to honor a great man for his epic accomplishment of single-handedly saving the Emerald Isle from aggressive beasts. Now, legend would have you believe that the beasts were snakes but, as the zoological record indicates that Ireland has never had snakes, legend is wrong. This is most likely not a result of intentional misinformation borne of malice, but of the caretakers of such knowledge being afraid to pass on the truth for fear of nationwide panic.

I think it’s finally time to tell that truth.

I’ve been in possession of a handful of St. Patrick’s letters; I will never reveal how I obtained them.

There may or may not have been sex involved.* 

“St. Patrick getting ready to open up a big ol’ can of whoopass.”St. Patrick was, in fact, the world’s foremost dispatcher of the undead.

With that in mind, I want to pay tribute to St. Patrick for everything from his hard-earned knowledge (which has literally kept me alive this long) to his indirect involvement in the creation of the Shamrock Shake. The best way I know to do this is to help you out as best I can. Many of you have managed to get messages to me in one way or another, so here are some answers. (Paul in Louisville, the carrier pigeon was missing a leg when I found him. Scout’s honor.)

From Jen Lyn: “Would animal meat distract as well as human? Should I sacrifice the neighbor’s dog or the neighbor?”

Jen, it’s important to note that sacrificing only works in chess and the occasional pagan ceremony. Zombies will only eat what they or one of their kind has recently killed. They can sense the difference between a fresh kill and plain old dead flesh. Having said that, unless your neighbor is exceedingly skilled at something, spare the dog. Dogs are a great early-warning system. Also, I’m glad I’m not your neighbor. 

From Erica: “Can the zombie virus be transmitted through kissing?”

Sounds like a helluva party. Anyway, there’s no scientific or anecdotal evidence that I’m aware of to suggest that a person who hasn’t yet been reanimated can pass on the virus through saliva or other bodily fluids. On the other hand, if someone’s kissing an actual zombie, well … they’re really not going to have much time to worry about it.

Laurence asks: “My zombified wife is chained up in the basement, and her incessant moaning is keeping me and my new girlfriend awake. Any soundproofing tips?”

First of all, congrats on moving on. Your wife would want you to be happy. Possibly. Regarding soundproofing, I can’t help you. However, if you have electricity, I have a simple workaround: hook up a DVD player and set it to repeat. Even in undeath, female zombies still manage to sob uncontrollably during “The Notebook.” Slainte! 

D.C. (the person, not the district) wonders: “Will a zombie chew on its own arm if it gets bored enough?”

Hmmm. I had to think about this one for a while. Zombies don’t get bored like you or I do, because they are driven by the need for palatable flesh. But, I suppose if they ran across an insurance salesman or Joan Rivers they might start at their own fingernails and just keep chewing.

Question from Warren: “I found a misspelled note telling me that Lawry’s Seasoning Salt wards off zombies, and that I should cover myself in it and go out. Thoughts?”

That’s an obvious trap, Warren. The only substance on Earth that can mask the living from the undead, if only for a short time, is patchouli oil. If it can cover up decades of hippie stank, it can cover up anything.

Next question from Jeremy: “Our farmhouse is just about surrounded, and we’ll have to run soon. How do I identify the slowest person in the group, because I really only need to outrun them, right?”

Listen closely, Jeremy. I want you to look at all of the other people you’re with. Everyone has a role. Leader, Fixer, Cook, Wiseass, etc. So you want you to find the Slowest Bastard Among You? Everyone else does, too. If you haven’t figured out who that person is by now, I have some bad news. You are that slow bastard. If I were you, I’d start convincing everyone that it would be safer to stay and fight.

Dave asks: “Can a zombie infect you if they wear dentures, or does it have to be with their real teeth?”

Great question. The virus is transmitted via saliva through open wounds, so if the dentures are still capable of drawing blood, I think you’re screwed. Regardless, if we ever bounce all the way back, I’ll be heading up Poligrip’s new ad campaign.

Finally, a lament from Penny: “I understand that it’s difficult to find time to shave during the zombie apocalypse, but I hate that all of the men have Paul Bunyan beards.”

Preaching to the choir, Penny. My other neverending battle is the one against my own hirsuteness. Fun fact: The very first thing to truly die in the zompoc is metrosexuality.

Until the next time…good luck, and don’t be sorry for zombie rockin’.

* Not with him. You’re nasty.

it's hard to blog with a cookie in each hand

I’m totally aware of how this might look.

After all, I’m a relatively intelligent person…other than the whole, covered in chocolate, smelling of mint, thing I’ve got going on these days. So it’s no surprise to me to discover how completely impossible it is to type with a cookie in each hand.

And before you say anything…I know. It’s sad. But that’s what addiction looks like. And Thin Mints might just be a gateway drug to the hard stuff.  Like drinking straight from a chocolate fountain. Next thing you know, I’ll be knocking over candy stores in the middle of the night for my next fix!

Oh, the shame of it!

I seriously need to get a handle on this cookie thing.

Can’t we get some sort of government restrictions put on Girl Scout cookies? Shouldn’t they be illegal? They’re so bad for me  us. This is totally why the groundhog goes into hiding for six weeks every year. He’s dodging the damn Girl Scout cookies! They’re the food equivilent of Angry Birds and I am clearly out of control.

But it’s March. I have to keep reminding myself the little cookie peddlers will be packed up and out of town in just a few weeks, leaving a trail of empty boxes behind them like a retreating circus.

If I can make it that long without developing diabetes.

So that’s it. I’m absolutely going to make a pact not to eat another damn Thin Mint cookie. Not one. I won’t even smell the box! Yep, giving them up.

Cold turkey.

Just as soon as they’re completely sold out in Atlanta. Maybe Birmingham too. Chattanooga? How far is it to drive to Savannah?

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to visualize healthy food…like salads and grilled fish.

I go, you go, just let go of the ego

I’ve been called a diva, a rock star, a bitch and a brat.  I know I’m a control freak with chronic impatience and OCD that rivals Howard Hughes, and I’ll willingly own up to every bit of that without batting an eyelash.

But don’t ever accuse me of letting my ego get in the way of a good story.

Oh, you can say I have an ego, sure. I ordered mine custom. But despite my lack of balance and coordination in most things, I know how to wield my ego with finesse.  

Basically, if you’re a writer you need to know when to keep the ego at bay.

I have very literally spent the past month running through edit after edit on my book, To Katie with Love. I had no less than five writers and editors with their hands in the story, each urging me to cut here or add there…each with a different perspective on my story, and the best direction to take.  And each one was right in their own way. The decisions were ultimately mine. And for the record, I think I made the right ones based on the feedback and suggestions from my crack team of writing experts, all working toward the same goal…making sure my story doesn’t suck. 

And not only does it not suck it’s a pretty damn good story! (Enter just the right amount of ego.) All thanks to the writers I will forever be indebted to, and friendships forged that I’m certain will last a lifetime.

That, as they say, is how it’s done.

Until the next time…I’ll be sending off that query letter (the one my crack team of writers helped me write!)

"doing a line" of thin mints

Every year, I tell myself…I won’t buy them this time. This time I’ll walk right by the little crack peddlers with their cute little uniforms and their sad little faces, and I won’t buy a single box of those unimaginably addictive cookies. And every year, I end up searching the internet for a twelve step program for Girl Scout cookie addicts.

This year will be no exception.

Not only did I fail to avoid them…I sought them out. Went looking for them. Driving around town, cash in hand, hoping to score a box or two.

My grown son was in the car with me when I saw the first group of Girl Scouts, standing in front of the grocery store, waving a sign. And thank goodness for that sign, otherwise I might not have seen them from the road.  The familiar tingle hit me right away, and I think I let out an evil laugh.

My son looked at me funny, asking me, “Did you drive all the way here just for Girl Scout cookies?”

“Of course not,” I lied, the money burning a hole in my pocket as I searched for the closest parking spot. “I came for…milk…no eggs…no…” I couldn’t think of a single thing I needed from the grocery store. “Yes…I came for the cookies.”

He shook his head. “That’s just sad.”

And he was right. It was sad. I only had enough cash for five boxes.

After a tense couple of minutes in line where the stack of thin mints was dangerously depleted, I loaded up my five boxes (four boxes of thin mints and a box of samoas to keep the kid from talking) and headed back home to toss them in the freezer.

But not before opening a tube.

I shoved the first cookie into my mouth with an audible groan and the resulting tingle ran all the way to my toes.

“Can I have one?” my son asked, but I pointed to the box of samoas.

“I bought you cookies…stay away from mine,” I growled, dragging the clear plastic wrapper until it was out of his reach, like a wild dog.

“You need help,” he said, shaking his head.

And he was right. I needed help stashing my cookies where no one would find them. The freezer was public domain. The whole house has access. I had to think of something quick.

I parked the car in the driveway and tucked the cookies under my arms to run into the house. I pulled open the freezer, digging around for the perfect hiding place.

I stashed two boxes under the frozen vegetables, another under a package of fish. The last places anyone would search for cookies, I was sure. The forth box (or what was left of it after I savaged the first tube on the ride home) went with me into the bedroom where I hid it under my decorating magazines. The one place I knew my husband would never look.

Then I settled in for the night.

I can feel my fingers twitch every time I think about the dwindling cookies near my bed. I reach over, telling myself I’ll just have one. But one leads to another, and another, until I’ve done a whole line of thin mints without even realizing it. I’m afraid I might even sneak off to the freezer for another tube in the middle of the night.

I’ve entertained the idea of taking up drinking just to kick the cookie habit…but I honestly don’t like liquor that much. Unless they come up with a thin mint drink…in which case I might need to go to rehab for real.

Until the next time…I’ll be “doing a line” of thin mints!

it's not every day you get to "ghetto the cat"

I’ve had the day from Hell. Not just your average day from Hell either. It was an authentic, fire and brimstone, forked tongue, red-headed-dude with the pointed rake, day from Hell.

(Okay, rake…pitchfork…whatever.)

My power was out.  All. Day. Long. And without power can’t charge your cell phone, or your laptop. And you  most definitely can’t get on the internet. And this makes for a day from Hell.

My husband, who was working from home, decided he would go to the coffee shop to hop on the WiFi, and have a cup of coffee while we waited for the electric company to come fix the outage in our area.

After wearing out his welcome at the local Starbucks, he picked me up and we went for lunch at the closest restaurant with a WiFi connection. The next stop was the book store, where we set up camp for several hours until our laptop batteries were going dead. The chicken shop around the corner had a booth with an electrical outlet, so we moved in there for a few hours, where I ate enough buffalo chicken dip to feel sick, and drank enough Diet Coke to stay awake for a month.

We played this musical WiFi game all day long, until finally I felt compelled to run home to feed the dogs.

So I left my husband in a parking lot, on a conference call, while I went home to stumble around my house in the dark, searching for candles and batteries. (Someone needs to remind me to stock up on candles, batteries and flashlights, by the way, because I didn’t seem to have a single one!)

Finally, after almost twelve hours without electricity, the power came back on…just in time for dinner. And since my husband was already in the parking lot of our favorite restaurant, it only seemed fitting to meet him there to eat.

Several drinks later, I was sending text messages and tweets without bothering to read them (something I’d sworn, just days ago, I would never do again) and I managed to tell the world I was gonna ghetto the cat, whatever that means. I think I was saying I was gonna go to the car, but after three drinks I really don’t know what I was trying to say. Maybe I really was about to “ghetto the cat”. Henry Chow would be a cool ghetto cat, with gold chains and a tattoo. After all, when he was taken by an owl, the owl brought him back. Only a ghetto cat could be that cool, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be nursing a hangover!

the word of the day is dirty

Remember when a dirty word was something you weren’t allowed to say? Or being dirty required washing of some sort? Well, dirty isn’t always bad, but it certainly makes things more interesting.

So I was thinking about the word dirty today and I realized how much I like it. It can mean something different every time. I decided I’d make a list…a short list perhaps…but a list just the same.

Dirty rice is a spicy dish.

Dirty socks…not so much.

Dirty dancing is spicy fun.

Dirty feet are simply gross.

Dirty sex is pretty hot.

Dirty crotch is definitely NOT.

Dirty words are secret fun.

Dirty underpants are worse than NONE!

Ok, so my rhyming needs work, but you get the point.  When someone calls you dirty it just might be a compliment.

Ok…and off the topic of dirty, but just slightly. I want to bring up the whole Auto Correct epidemic. I was completely infected today by an auto correct moment of epic proportions. I was napping. I know…the girl who doesn’t sleep was napping? And yes…I was. Even I need sleep sometimes. But I was awakened by a tweet or two, and felt compelled to respond immediately…before my eyes were completely focused, mind you.

My friend and editor Laura mentioned she had eaten marshmallows today. This is only significant because marshmallows play a part in my book, To Katie with Love, and these days the in-jokes are many…so we were laughing about that. And I mentioned I’d had a really good dream that was interrupted by the phone “just as I was about to put the brownie in my mouth!” (And what could be worse than being pulled out of a dream right before you get to eat a hot, fresh, just out of the oven brownie, right?) Wrong…even worse than that…wayyyy worse than that, in fact,  is when your auto correct changes that sentence to say, “And the phone rang just as I was about to put the brownish KY in mouth!”

And, of course, Laura was speechless. How exactly is one supposed to respond to that?

I swear on a stack of whatever book you put in front of me that I have NO IDEA why my phone chose brownish KY over brownie. And I suspect I will never, in all my years, live it down.

Or the other message I sent that changed the word long to kong (and again, I said, “Really auto correct? Kong?”) It’s amazing how something so innocent can end up being so…dirty.

But hey, it’s the word of the day, isn’t it?

Until the next time…I will be carefully reading every text before hitting send.

cheap ‘n easy beauty secrets for the lazy and incompetent

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

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

I’m the kind of woman who burns herself on curling irons and considers shaving my legs the height of party preparation. I’m not fussy, and the truth is, me and beauty products just don’t get along. In other words, I’m a Natural Beauty. (*cough*cough.* This really means I’m lazy, have a lot of allergies and can’t follow directions)

One of my sisters had a business making people over, consulting on everything from makeup to man-tailoring, and she tried hard with me. In return I tried hard to change, but after the makeover (like a diet boomerang) I ended up regressing worse than ever. I’ve tried all the usual beauty torments, from the infamous EpiLady (cue Scream soundtrack) to salon-made fake nails (woke up during the night with my fingers burning in white-hot agony. Apparently I was allergic to something.)

Still, being the resourceful type I’ve come up with a number of cheap n’ easy beauty secrets that would make my sister’s eyes roll and hair curl.

Hair Care:

I have a hair routine that lasts 3 days because if I wash my hair too often it turns to straw:

• Day 1: Good Hair Day. Wash, condition, put in gel, comb and run out the door late for work. It dries by lunchtime.

• Day 2: Semi-Good hair. Splash water on my hands in the shower, run ‘em through hair and scrunch it up, do a few Rock Star head tosses and call it good.

• Day 3: Bad Hair Day. Ponytail. Nuff said.

Skin Care:

• I’m still digesting the deeply ironic fact that the weird rash on my face is from becoming allergic to sunscreen (as a survivor of melanoma this is not good news) and my current face cream is a tube of prescription-strength Cortisone cream alternating with something called Imiquomod. This dubious and highly expensive goo comes in tiny one-use packets and is used to treat skin cancer and genital warts. (I’m using it for skin cancer.)

• I have nothing useful to say on Skin Care except WEAR A HAT AND DON’T TAN.

Makeup:

• If I was on Survivor and only got one beauty product to take it would be mascara. (I favor Maybelline Waterproof, because I’m a crier and wear contacts. However, I have to use the equivalent of paint thinner to get it off and I lose some lashes every evening, resulting in a piebald blink. The alternative is wearing nothing and looking like a rabbit. I have lived with this dilemma for many years.)

• I recently discovered that if you get a slightly darker shade of powder than your actual skin tone, you can kind of blend your uneven, blotchy skin tones (like we redheads have) into something passing for a tan. At least that’s what I tell myself because I don’t want to spend another $6 on the right color of powder.

• Wear something on your mouth. Due to my allergies, I wear Vaseline. Yep. Yummy. Also, it doesn’t add color to aforementioned freckly lips. Good thing my husband loves me and is visually impaired without his reading glasses.

Clothes:

• Well made, comfortable, simple, in interesting colors with a minimum of shopping= catalogs.

• After some experimentation, I buy from Land’s End once a year. (I spend my money on stuff like paying for a private editor, a new computer, and getting copies made of my manuscripts.) Clothes are fairly irrelevant but a necessary evil, to my mind.

• Foundation Garments: I have succumbed to Spanx for special occasions and buy three new bras every year whether I need them or not. White, beige, and black. The black one has a bow. Hawtt!

• I never thought I’d be this person but there you have it.

Shoes:

• I still like to own shoes. I have more than I can wear here in Hawaii and they mostly grow mold and clutter my closet.

• I have daily work shoes I LOVE and will recommend to anyone. They are like walking on a cloud, and the literature says I’m tightening my ass with every step!

• Sketchers Shape-ups, you guessed it. In black, brown and beige, the Mary Jane style.

Accessories:

• Here’s where I finally show a little personality and recommend you do too.

• Scarves! Love em! All kinds, especially animal print.

• Jewelry: I’m a collector and also make jewelry, so if I tried to wear a different set of something every day I couldn’t make it through my treasure trove in a year.

• Watches—who says the cell phone has made ‘em obsolete?

Fragrances:

• The Hubby is allergic. Can’t wear anything with scent. It’s taken awhile to get used to this but I’m finally okay with it after about 5 years.

• B.O. is still not good. Do something if you have it.

What are some of your beauty secrets? Is anyone else a “natural beauty” out of laziness or necessity?

Thanks Toby! If you’ve been reading my blog you know I’m famous for fashion disasters…especially of the waxing variety! It’s just about time for me to pull out the shears and get rid of my “winter coat” as they say.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for my husband to cook me something tasty!

never go in against a woman when never cooking again is on the line

Life is filled with goals. We set them, shoot for them, and with any luck, achieve them.

Back in August, my husband challenged me to hit 1000 Twitter followers and 300 blog followers. It seemed like a pretty lofty goal as I had less than 500 followers on Twitter, and less than 100 on my blog. He said if I hit the goal, I would never have to cook again.

This was a challenge I was ready to win.

It didn’t take me long to hit 1000 Twitter followers. In fact, when I did, my husband started sweating a little. He never actually thought I’d win this challenge. It was one of those things you toss out there when you’re pretty sure the odds are in your favor. So his confidence was bolstered when, after several months, my Twitter followers climbed above 2000 but my blog still lingered in the 200 range.

He would even toss out comments to the effect of, “Better get to the kitchen…you haven’t won yet.” As if cooking was destined to be in my job description until the end of time.

So I worked toward getting people to follow, and I got more Twitter followers. And my blog traffic increased by three and four times what it was. But the followers still just trickled in one or two at a time. Even I was starting to doubt my ability to win what seemed (to me anyway) like such an easy challenge.

Then suddenly, I was within ten followers of my goal. I didn’t want to jinx myself so I said nothing. I just watched in the wings as the occasional follower would join, silently jumping up and down in my head as I calculated the spread between the goal and where I was.

Each day, I casually mentioned to my husband how many I had to go.

And he would brush it off like it was an unattainable prize that would be forever outside my grasp. Like winning the lottery. Or squeezing into the jeans I wore when I was 17 (don’t ask how far from that goal I am…I will lie.)

Then earlier today…I had just one more to go. My friend and editor mentioned it and I got a thrill inside at the thought…I was only one away from never cooking again!

And then it happened. My email chimed, and when I looked, it was the 300th follower staring back at me. I had won.

As I felt my face stretch in a wide smile, my husband looked at me suspiciously and asked me what I’d done. I slowly turned my laptop around to show him. Number 300…in all her glory.

He’s not a happy man tonight. I don’t think he ever really believed I would win. He was sure, no matter how long the challenge stretched out, I couldn’t have possibly touched enough people to win his impossible challenge.

Oh, but I did. And I’m wondering as I type…what’s for dinner tomorrow?

Until the next time…I won’t be cooking ever again!

I'm a writer...not a farmer

We’re finally doing it. We’re picking up and moving to the country. My husband is beside himself with excitement at the prospect of living on a farm…he’ll have fourteen acres to work with…and he’s already picking out baby chicks and planning what to plant. He has wonderful dreams of taking his crops to the farmer’s market to sell, and being completely self-sustainable in the event of a zombie apocalpse. I couldn’t be happier for him.

Well…until he mentioned this little thing about me helping him out there.

Umm…honey? Yeah, I’m a writer, not a farmer. I’m the girl who flees the rays of the sun, screaming like a vampire on spring break. I will write you a story about a farm. I will fawn over baby chicks through the glass, and make pitchers of lemonade from the safety of the great indoors. But I will not be driving a tractor in the midday sun through a field ripe with bugs, and snakes, and things that buzz around me like I might be lunch.

No…I’m definitely not cut out for the simple life.

I’ve decided we’re living out that old 60s sitcom, Green Acres. My husband is ready to flee the big city, and I’m ready to go shopping. I’m wondering where the multi-screen movieplex is. I’m searching for the Barnes and Noble…the closest one just happens to be a over an hour away…few miles from where I live now.

It should be interesting. At least I love the house. And I can imagine myself writing amazing stories in the eighty year old farm house with a basement torn straight out of The Ring.

I suppose I’ll survive…as long as I have cable TV and a WiFi connection.

Thank goodness my best friends in the whole wide world are never more than an internet connection away.

I’m going to be spending a lot of time online!

Until the next time…I’ll be packing!

and now a word from our sponsor...PMS

I had the best day ever yesterday. Not as in, best day in my whole life…but the best day so far on my website. I had over 2800 page views on my blog. I know some people have that every day, but for me, that was more than 1000 views more than normal. It made me ask myself…does this have something to do with PMS?

I know it’s crazy, but for some reason the posts I write about PMS just get more attention. More laughs. More page hits.

Don’t get me wrong…I’m not complaining. I’ll gladly suffer for my art if that means you’ll come visit. But does this mean I should be doing more suffering? Or do you just like when I go all rogue…or Batgirl (note obscure vampire reference here) on society in general?

I’ve decided this subject is worthy of further investigation.

Are you fascinated with PMS, or a woman on the edge? And am I a woman on the edge or just a writer with a mission? Or…if we go deeper still…is a writer with PMS like a goose that lays golden eggs? It’s a scary thought. I mean, I love my readers, but I don’t know if I’m willing to have PMS all month long.

Well, whatever the reason…I’m really glad you’re checking in each day. I don’t exactly do this for the golden eggs. (Not that I’d turn them down, mind you) But, I do it for you…the readers.

So, I guess I’d better get back to it. I’ll dial back the PMS just a tad and see what happens. I know my husband will feel safer at night.

Until the next time…I’ll be wielding my mighty pen for the good of mankind! (Or not)