breaking the law with Dakota Cassidy

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Series series. 

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

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

Or not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dakota

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

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

superheroes unite

I love being a writer. I do. It’s like having some sort of super power. Ok, as super powers go, it’s not very high on the scale. I mean, I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound or stop a speeding bullet.  And I can’t read minds, although, I do hear my fair share of voices in my head. And I may not have the power of invisibility, but in the middle of the night, as I dash around my darkened house in my underwear, I pretend I do.

But I guess, in all fairness to myself, as a writer, I have any power I want at my disposal. I can time travel to avoid kissing all the wrong boys, and be sure I kiss all the right ones. I literally have the world at my fingertips. It’s a wonderful place to live. Even better when you don’t have to  live there all alone.

I’ve spent the past few days working with one of my favorite editors. We’ve been going back and forth between our respective projects and it feels a bit like Superman joining the Justice League. There is strength in numbers…and all that ultimate power crap. When we join forces, it’s like magic.

Yeah, my metaphors are silly, but it’s the best way I can describe it. I’m so lucky to have someone to bounce ideas off of. It makes all the brilliance of me seem that much brighter. And she seems to think the same way.

So if I appear distracted, just chalk it up to saving the world from split infinitives and dangling participles and I’ll be back when the words are a safer place.

Until the next time…I’ll be writing.

nothing wrong with being a hermit

It’s not my fault. Or, I’m not taking the blame, at least. I’m claiming temporary insanity due to an extreme overdose of emotions. Blame hormones. Blame the husband. Blame the damn phase of the moon. But don’t blame me…please. I’ve had a rough week. I mean, what girl doesn’t go through a bout of major depression? Sure, PMS shows it’s ugly face, the husband gets mad because he’s out of clean underwear…again…maybe the kids make a snarky comment about never having dinner at home anymore. I am human, after all. These things get to me. So I hide in my room for a few days…ok, weeks. I live in sweats and stubbornly refuse to shave my legs. Who am I hurting, really?

Myself, apparently.

After a fun night of karaoke, I was feeling more like myself. I was ready to leave the house. Ready to rejoin society. Ready to go to the grocery story.

Baby steps, ok?

So, I did it. I showered, shaved my legs, and dressed in a cute pair of capris instead of my sweats. My clean hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, my lips were slathered with a light gloss, and even my toes were painted a pale pink. I looked human again. Ready to face the world as I headed to the grocery store to stock up on chips, ice cream, and cereal. What better way to get back on everyone’s good side after a miserable attempt at a health food diet? Snack foods make for a happy family.

Admittedly, I wasn’t hungry for snack foods, but I wasn’t going to let that deter me. I ate before I shopped…the first rule of grocery shopping…and I leisurely browsed the aisles for over an hour, tossing various chips, ice cream treats, and breakfast cereals into the cart. Once I was satisfied with my purchases, I queued up to the check out line.

It was a long line, so I spent the time glancing at the gossip rags in the racks beside me, pretending I was looking at the gum, or the travel size hand sanitizers in the adjacent rack, shifting my weight from one foot to the next, out of practice after a long week of social avoidance. Something brushed against my calf, a fly maybe, so I reached back to swat it away, offering a friendly smile to the man in line behind me. That’s when I felt it. Something that most definitely should not be on my freshly shaved calves.

A thick patch of hair.

What the hell! There was a thick patch of hair on the back of my leg. Less than gracefully, I spun around to investigate, undoubtedly drawing even more attention to myself, and gasped.

I had missed a four inch wide strip of hair all the way down the back. This was worst than a little line of hair.  The leg hair mohawk is almost expected, but this? No, this was a freakin’ toupee of leg hair. A thick, dark, rug of hair.

I was mortified…horrified…on the verge of hot, messy tears. But because I’m me and can’t help myself, I laughed. A loud, near hysterical laugh that had the entire check out line, and most of the produce section, staring at me. I couldn’t help it. If it had been anyone else, I would have laughed. And as I broke down in my crazy laughter, people moved ever so slightly away from me, as if I might be contagious. And let’s face it, laughter is definitely contagious. But as far as those things go, I’d much rather catch a bout of the giggles than a cold, any day.

I have no idea if anyone other than me noticed my gaffe. If they did, they weren’t talking. The lady who rang up my purchases gave me a little smile, as if she might be in on my secret, but really, I think she probably assumed by my purchases that I’d been smoking funny cigarettes before I hit the store. Little did she know, I don’t do drugs. I mean, can you even imagine? I had a few drinks at karaoke and the entire house was laughing at my lounge singer routine for an hour after I got home. But, hey…so what if I sing Sinatra at the top of my lungs…in my husband’s boxers and a holey t-shirt…on the back porch…after midnight.

Yeah, there will be no drugs for me!

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting a few days before venturing out again!

sunscreen optional

Ah, to be young again.

Or not. At least getting older has made me somewhat wiser. Maybe not more coordinated, but at least I’m not rubbing myself with olive oil to lay out in the sun. Not that I ever did that.

Right. Who does this?

While my skin thanks me for being comfortable with my ghostly pallor, my nineteen year old daughter feels the need to cook herself in the sun for a “healthy glow”, despite the threats of skin cancer and premature aging.

After spending the requisite amount of time reminding her of the dangers of frying one’s self in the sun, I simply shrugged and promised her I’d remind her again when she looked forty before she was thirty. She just laughed.

Youth…wasted on the young, right?

Well, if I couldn’t convince her otherwise, at least we could laugh about it. But seriously, I think living on the farm has done irreparable damage to her fashion sense. And not just because she was slathering her skin in oil to bake in the sun. She has, at least, upgraded from the Crisco she used a few years ago, after nearly cooking herself to a crisp. Again, I ask, who does this? Only teenage girls, it would seem.

Or, maybe that crazy tanning lady in the news.

But my daughter’s fashion sense has far deeper damage than a Crisco tan. I caught her lounging on the back porch in a sports bra and her boyfriend’s gay brother’s underwear. This, by the way, was her description, not mine. It was, apparently, important to her that I know which brother’s underwear she was wearing, because he has more than one…brother, I mean. I didn’t bother asking how she got a pair of her boyfriend’s brother’s underwear, or why it was important I knew it was the gay brother, as opposed to one of the other brothers…sometimes it’s best not to ask those questions.

No, instead of asking for answers I didn’t really need, I simply found myself transfixed by the fact that she was coated in cooking oil, laying on a towel, surrounded by chickens, a semi-operable fan blowing hot air on her as she lay in the sun in her boyfriend’s brother’s underwear and a bra. I couldn’t help but think it was sort of like she was in a convection oven.

Then, I thought about my quest to keep Clooney, the rooster, out of the oven and I laughed. We can’t cook the bird, but, apparently, the kids are fair game.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Until the next time…I’ll be staying out of the sun, on principle alone!

sometimes it isn't life that stinks

Ok, I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. I was pouting, and moping, and spouting out things like, “Life stinks!”

As it turns out, life isn’t what stinks. Dog farts are what stinks.

So now I’m doing things like Googling dog farts. I’ve done it before, and I’m not sure I’m getting any new results, but what in the Hell is my dog eating that makes his farts smell like burning tires? I’m not missing any shoes. He eats the same food, every day. I don’t feed him table scraps…not often anyway…and I make sure he gets plenty of fresh veggies. How could he possibly smell like he’s digested a skunk? Such is the life of an English Mastiff owner, I guess. If you’re not drowning in drool, you’re suffocating on gas.

I’ll survive.

That is, unless the demented ducks find away to get into the house at night. I’m still not sure what they’re up to, but I’ve definitely got my eye on them.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking up gas masks on Amazon.

failure is inevitable

Sometimes, the world feels very upside down. I know this happens. I expect it. And yet when it does, I still feel very out of sorts. We all have bad days. Whatever a bad day is. But on the worst of days, you have to know, things will get better. How can they not, right?

Failure is inevitable.

I’m having a minor crisis of identity, I think.

I used to define myself as a mother, but my children are grown and have little use for me on a day to day basis…so although I am still a mother, I am not using my mothering skills quite as often these days.  I used to define myself as a business banker, but I quit my job to focus on writing (instead of my high blood pressure) so I’m no longer a bank officer.  I once even defined myself as a singer…I am pretty good…but does karaoke really count?  So all I am left with is writer and wife, and after tonight it seems I’m not doing a bang up job as a wife either…so if I don’t write my blog, how would I define myself?  Who would I be?

More importantly, how could I ever give up writing? 

I’ve been writing as long as I can remember.  Writing allows me to step outside of myself and into a new exciting world where I hold the keys to everything.  And more than that, it allows me the freedom to be who I really am inside—without rules, definitions, or boundaries.

I can’t let myself forget for a single instant that I am a writer…and writer’s write…even if no one reads it.

That is what I am trying to do with my daily blog.  I’m trying to hone my craft while keeping it fresh.  I am trying to open a small window into my little world and let you in. 

So maybe…if I blog it, you will read.

I would ask that everyone who reads my blog today leave a little comment below…just something to let me know you were here.  And hopefully you’ll come back…I still have a lot more to say.

Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out in my private world, come on in!

nothing wrong with a little sweet tooth

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I O U

One Hershey’s with almonds.

Signed,

The Tooth Fairy

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

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

Dearest Tooth Fairy,

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

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

Amberr

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

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

all quacked up

I’m really beginning to wonder if those damn ducks aren’t demented after all. I took the girls out for a night of karaoke last night, and came home to find the ducks…all seven of them…standing in the middle of the yard at eleven o’clock at night.

Weird.

Aren’t ducks supposed to go in for the night? It wasn’t raining, so there was no strange ritual dancing around the baby pool. But still, standing in the middle of the yard…staring me down like I had interrupted a private meeting?

Again, weird.

I hear them quacking behind my back. I know they’re up to something. I just don’t know what. Maybe they feel neglected with all the recent Clooney drama. Ducks are strange.

But clearly I have a lot in common with ducks, because I spent my evening in a place called Ann’s Pickin Palace…and surprised the hell out of myself when I had the best time I’d had in ages. I was even asked to dance by a nice older gentleman. And I said yes. I didn’t step on his toes once, and he didn’t even complain when I tried to lead. Wonders never cease.

I hear Clooney in the background crowing again. He’s like a cuckcoo clock set on a fifteen minute timer. If I’m going to keep him out of the frying pan, I need to figure out how to reset his clock. Keep the votes coming in before the husband decides his time has run out. (I know, if it isn’t cock jokes, it’s clock jokes.)

Time for new jokes, I guess. What rhymes with duck?

Until the next time…I’ll be keeping a eye on those little quackers.

downpours, dead mice and demented ducks

I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I have a very odd existance. Not odd in a bad way…like, “Gee, did you eat a lot of paint chips as a child?” Or, “Wow, I don’t know what you’re on, but I’d like some of that.” No, odd in a different way. A sort of fun way, once I have a bit of distance from the day to look back on it. Like today. What a freaking weird day today turned out to be.

It started out normal…mundane really. My daughter was feeling sick, so after everyone else in the house had gone to work, she came storming into my room, fuzzy blanket in tow, and announced that she was sick, and bored, and would be watching TV in my room. This required a trip to the living room to swap out the only good batteries from the other Dish remote so we could actually watch TV in my room. Then, instead of getting a few hours of much needed sleep, I found myself watching Hairspray with my sick daughter…and the dog. Because the dog can’t have anyone in my bed unless he’s stretched out between us, making sure I’m completely safe from any sort of accidental arm brushing or nudging. So he slept on his back, head nestled in the pillow, snoring so loudly we had to crank up the sound to hear the musical. Right…this was the normal, mundane part of my day, remember?

I realized sometime after lunch that I hadn’t heard a peep (or a crow) out of our resident fugitive, the cocky rooster, Clooney, and I was worried my husband had secretly taken him out back and done away with him. He didn’t, but this is something I prepare myself for each day, even though I secretly think he’s starting to like him now that he’s getting so much attention on the web. So, yeah, keep up the pleas for Clooney, it might actually be sinking in.

So, once I discovered the chickens were in hiding and not the freezer, I set off on the rest of my exceedingly boring day. I read. I swept the dog hair and teddy bear fluff from the floors. And I ordered pizza because I hate to cook. Boring.

Then the storm hit.

It was practically a typhoon. I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly I was watching out the window for a witch on a broom, or something. I know…wrong storm, but it was seriously whipping up debris out there. My husband came bounding through the backdoor as if he was shot out of a cannon…a water cannon…and we proceeded to watch things blow around the backyard by the light of the intermittent lightning flashes.

I was worried about the flock. The last thing I wanted to see was my stupid rooster…the one I’ve been trying to save for days, or even weeks…suddenly splat into the window like a bug on a windshield. I was worried the ducks would drown. I’d heard about turkeys drowning in the rain, but are ducks as stupid as turkeys? I had no idea. It was pitch black outside, and the sound of the rain hammering the house would surely drown out a duck’s plea for help, so I was frantic. Well…mildly concerned maybe.

Then I saw them.

The crazy juvenile ducks, all clearly suffering from some form of avian ADHD, were dancing around the baby pool as it was pounded by rain. I could only see them as the sky lit up from above, but it was like watching some sort of freakish cult, dancing circles around the baby pool as if they were planning to sacrifice a virgin or something.

Once I could tear my eyes away from the spectacle outside, I heard one of the girls yelling that the cat had snagged another mouse in the back hallway. I was secretly hoping they were dragging them in from the yard, as cats often do. I didn’t want to think they were doing their jobs and hunting mice inside the house, but there it was.

Proof.

I have freaking mice on top of everything else this house has to offer. The ghosts, the flies, the spiders, the horrible plumbing, the scary basement…not enough. No, I had to have mice too. Well, at least I have cats, right? And damn fine hunters too. They’ve bagged three of those suckers in the past week alone, and it’s only Wednesday. My third least favorite day of the week, by the way. And after the day I’ve had, I might have to upgrade it a few notches. At least temporarily.

Until the next time…I’ll be buying special treats for my kitties!

free clooney

Back to rooster-gate.

Since a few days ago when Clooney was set free by…um…an interested party. Yeah, an interested party. He has continued to crow and roam the yard with the other chickens. Hubby just glares at him, unsure of what the next step should be. I know he wants to cook him. And I’m sure a nice looking rooster like Clooney would be a tasty meal, but it sort of makes me feel like one of the Donner party. Can I really resort to eating my friends? I don’t think so. It’s not like he’s a nameless, faceless chicken. I’ve known him since he was a chick. I watched him grow into the pain in the ass cock he is today. How could I enjoy having him for dinner?

In a very snarky turn, the husband has said to put it to a vote. Does Clooney live or die? Will he roam and crow, or end up in a bowl?

Come on people…tell me what you really think.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for your thoughts.

jail break

The rooster is free.

Or perhaps, on the run is a better way to put it. The rooster is on the run. All day long I tried to convince the kids to set him free. Set him free so he can live to crow another day. And all day long, they spouted off reasons why their lives were more important than his…how it would be a veritable suicide mission to set him free. In other words, my husband would kill them.

Ok, so kill is a gross exaggeration. He would be greatly annoyed at them, and none of them were willing to risk his possible wrath.

Enter the wife.

Yeah, I know…I said if it came down to me or the bird, the bird would be toast. And if my husband had been home yesterday, I would probably be telling a completely different tale. But he wasn’t home. So he has no idea how exactly the rooster escaped his cell.

And for the record…I. Know. Nothing.

Off the record…I might know something, but for now, I’m not talking. It’s safer that way. For all of us.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to the soothing tones of the resident rooster.

dead rooster walking

This is it. The beginning of the end. My husband may have actualy snapped this time. He’s seriously channeling Jack Nicholson in the Shining. Either that or Elmer Fudd in just about every cartoon Elmer Fudd has starred.

It’s true. I’m either married to a psychopath or a cartoon character.

He was spotted this morning, actually stalking the rooster, alternately wielding several different weapons. First he carried a very large stick…then a 2x4. Both of which he’d planned to use to bludgeon the poor rooster to death. Finally, a large kitchen knife, which he was apparently going to use to stab him repeatedly, a la Norman Bates. Who does this? Who creeps around the house in the early morning light brandishing blunt (or sharp) objects with the intent of using them on unsuspecting roosters? It’s more than just a little bit scary, if you ask me.

He even put a damn bounty on the bird’s head. Cash for his capture, he called it. The kids turned him down flat. They want no part in this sick melodrama, where our little rooster plays the part of the victim.

Tonight he captured poor Clooney and locked him in the pen. The little cock is apparently on death row until dawn, when he will likely meet his fate. Unless the husband oversleeps. Or the rooster escapes. I haven’t decided yet whether or not to sneak through the yard in the dark to rescue him. I know I should, just because I’d miss his morning crows…and his afternoon crows…possibly even his middle of the night crows. But damn it if the back yard isn’t really scary at night. Hey, I’m just thinking self-preservation here. I told you if it came down to him or me, he was going in a pot.

But, I haven’t given up the possibility of a last minute pardon. He’s not dead yet, after all.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the axe to fall.

dismembering chickens with Toby Neal

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Toby NealTonight’s post is a replay of The Reluctant Crimewriter, with guest 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!

dead body in the dining room

The rooster lives to crow another day, but the mouse has taken one for the team. I can only assume it was Henry Chow, ninja kitty, that put out the hit on the poor defenseless mouse. It’s totally his style, after all. But it was still a huge shock to see the tiny chalk line drawn around the cold dead furry carcass.

I sort of feel like I may have a hazy chalk outline drawn around my body today as well. I’ve been as sick as a cat with too much fur, all day. And if that wasn’t bad, I had to be the one to discover the body. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have found it while it was still alive, and admittedly, I’m a bit afraid it wasn’t found in the yard and carted inside. I have a tingling suspicion it was found in the house and killed there. This is, after all, why I have a ninja kitty in the first place, though…right? And why we can never eat the cat. He’s far too valuable as protection…from tiny, cute, beady-eyed, fur covered, rodents. I almost feel bad rejoicing in his death.

Almost.

I guess that’s what they call karma. The mouse may be dead, but I feel like I am. And the rooster has no idea death is stalking him.

What a weekend, huh?

Until the next time…I’ll be nursing a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

coc au vin

My husband wants to cook my rooster in a pot. And not just because of his culinary possibilities, either. No, the love of my life wants to commit cockicide.

Yeah, I know it’s not a word, but it doesn’t change his intentions. My rooster is crowing on borrowed time.

Mike has discovered the Henrietta’s and Clooney (rooster extraordinaire) in the neighbor’s front yard every morning this week. In fact, they’re knocking on the front door, panhandling for bread. This is not only embarrassing when the neighbor comes to the door empty handed, shaking a fist in the direction of my house, but also potentially dangerous for my three best egg layers. Mike is convinced Clooney is leading the hens a stray, and therefore needs to go.

My new mission is to protect my rooster from a death sentence.

I mean, I like chicken as much as the next person, I do. I can think of dozens of tasty dishes starring chicken that would get my saliva pumping. I even get a huge kick out of the Chick Fil A cows, pimping chicken on giant billboards all over town. But I don’t know if I could eat someone I know. You know? In fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. Even if he is a massive dick at three am, crowing loud enough to scare the crap out of even the deepest sleeper. There’s just something about the little shit that I like, and I don’t mean his delicious taste.

But I’m going to have my work cut out for me if I want to protect the strutting, crowing, hen mounting jerk…especially after this morning. Mike woke me up just after dawn, screaming through the house about how the rooster was dead…as in, dead cock walking. Nothing in recent months has caused me to shoot of my sheets faster than the thought of my husband stalking the yard, bloody axe in hand, like a Green Acres version of Jack Nicholson in the Shining. “Come here you little fuck, I’m not gonna hurt ya…I just wanna talk.” I may be exaggerating just a bit, but hey, that’s what I do, so I’m ok with that.

I heard Clooney crow just a little while ago, and I know my husband has long since gone to the office, so it would seem the bird will live to see another day. I can’t say what tomorrow will bring, but I can say this…if it comes down to it, no matter how much I adore the little guy, if it comes down to his neck or mine, we’ll be eating Coq Au Vin for dinner.

Just sayin’

Until the next time…I’ll be playing bodyguard for a chicken.

vampires and other assorted obsessions

It’s been an interesting summer. Well, truthfully, it’s was an interesting spring that morphed into summer without my permission. I didn’t see it coming, it just happened. Life had taken over, pushing me through the days in a rush, like the bulls of Pamploma. Or maybe like a swollen river, wisking me downstream faster than I could swim. Yeah, like that. It was out of my control, and really, isn’t life always that way? We like to tell ourselves we have control. We really don’t. We can’t control the weather. We can’t control those around us. And we can’t control the passage of time. The rest is all just window dressing.

And yet, I can’t really say I have many complaints. Sure, I have duck poop on my shoes most days. And I can’t close my eyes in the shower for fear a daddy longlegs will crawl on me. Oh, and I can’t seem to get a handle on my writing. But I’m working on it.

My obsession with vampires has been pushed to the sidelines while I deal with everything else life has in store for me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss them. I do. In fact, I have new things in store for my Daywalker Chronicles in the very near future…like maybe even tomorrow. But for today, I need to deal with my crazy life.

Seriously though, I’m just grateful my stalker tendencies lie completely with fictional characters, not real people. I’m thrilled that my addictions consist of Diet Coke and chocolate, not something far more dangerous. And I’m delighted my crazy life gives me so many things to write about that I have no time to focus on vampires and chick lit at the moment.

Now, if I could only find a good bookstore in my little tourist town. I just might think I’d died and gone to heaven. Or at least civilization…

To each their own, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be visiting a few vampires I know.

a laundry rant

Dear person who lives under my roof but won’t follow my laundry rules,

You know who you are…person who takes my clothes from the washer and puts it in the dryer when it was supposed to be hung dry. Oh yes, you know who you are. Did you not realize there was a hand wash setting on the washer? Is it inconceivable to you that some things aren’t meant for the dryer? Things like my favorite linen trousers, for example. Yeah…those. The very same linen trousers that are now way too short to be considered fashionable. All because you were in such a rush to wash your clothes, you didn’t care to wait for me to finish mine. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you had to mess with my lingerie. I found my favorite pair of panties lying on the floor where you must have dropped them while taking them from the washer. My underwear! Come on now. Is nothing sacred?

Pet peeve of the day: Don’t touch my clothes!

I used to assign laundry days. You had two days a week that were all yours to wash clothes. But somehow, that idea has been shot to hell. No one seems to want to folllow one simple rule…keep your paws off my clothes!

Seriously.

I know who it is, and I’ve warned them before, but for some unknown reason, they don’t find me that scary. They keep tossing my hang dry only clothes into a hot dryer until they begin to remind me of the high-water floods of my junior high days. I may end up with some sort of regressive complex or something.

My husband said I can’t kill them…so I’m going to think evil thoughts and blog about them instead. I don’t know, I might come up with some sort of evil revenge too…he never said I couldn’t torture them.

Until the next time…I’ll be standing guard while I do my laundry.

understanding men

I’ll admit it…I don’t get it. I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to figure men out, but I don’t think I’m any closer to the answers than I was before. They’re weird. They smell (sometimes). And they don’t seem to have any internal filter whatsoever.

Men!

But I’m not saying this out of anger, per se. I had a decent weekend. Oh, sure, there were moments here and there when I seriously questioned my motives for even bothering. But for the most part, it was nice. The kids went out, so the house was quiet. There was no angst to speak of. So why am I still asking myself…why?

Because once upon a time, my mom gave it to me straight, and told me what to expect out of men…and damn it if she wasn’t mostly right.

Ok, I admit it. It’s true. Even before I’d even I reached puberty, I’ve had issues with men. But, it really wasn’t my fault. It was what I had learned my whole life that had brought me to the place I was in. That blurry little place where the line between man and dog isn’t completely defined. When did I first get the feeling that man was a creature with major design flaws, structural inadequacies that threatened the entire human existence? I guess it all started on the night of my birth. December 31, 19(fill in the blanks).

While my mother was laboring to bring me into this world, my father was off somewhere, toasting the New Year, and his new tax write off. I don’t remember much of this, as I was very young at the time. But nevertheless, I’ve heard the tale countless times from my mother, who even then swore up and down that all men were bastards. In fact, for years, my sister and I believed that “bastard” was a term of endearment.  After all, that’s what she called him.

“You old bastard.”

Mom always said it with a smile, so surely it must mean something kind, and sweet, and full of love and respect. A belief we held on to until the horrible night my poor sister said, “goodnight you old bastard,” when Dad tucked her into bed. But, was my dear father delighted to hear those endearing little words uttered from his sweet innocent little girl? Afraid not! That was the first time I realized that bastard was not a term to be revered. No, it was her way of saying that men were the root of all evil.  Bastards who would use and then discard you. But not a second before trampling mercilessly all over your poor pitiful heart. It was several years before she spelled it out quite so plainly, but that’s what she meant just the same.

This was a lesson hard learned. My first memory of an encounter with a member of the opposite sex not related to me occurred back in kindergarten. He was the class clown and he had a major crush on me. He stopped at nothing to show his affection, including eating the dead flies on the classroom windowsill. Hardly the way to attract women, of course, and despite his countless attempts to woo me, no amount of candy bars or crayon scrawled love notes could ever dispel the fly eating imagery, so I never gave him more than a second glance. Although, I will say, I still remember him to this day, so he must have made some sort of impression, not the one he was working toward, I’m sure. But it was an impression nonetheless.

In second grade, I met the boy who would be my first real boyfriend. Which to an eight year old consists of holding hands and making goo goo eyes at one another. (No kissing or sex of any kind). He was the dreamiest eight year old at Breesport Elementary School, and all the girls adored him. He was a hero to all the boys, in no small part due to his unique talent for flipping his eyelids inside out, (an image that grosses me out to this day.) I, on the other hand, was a tall, gangly creature with an absolute lack of coordination (not much has changed there), long straight Marcia Brady hair, except mine was mouse brown, not blonde, and for a lack of a better expression, eyebrows that made me look like the mutated offspring of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.

Yes, I was a sight to behold, and yet this scruffy around the edges cutie liked me. He called me his Cherokee princess, and although I can’t begin to imagine the comparison as my skin was the color of mayonnaise and my eyes the color of fresh cucumbers, I was delighted by the attention he gave me. Not to mention the sweet gifts he bestowed upon me, small toys pulled from the bottom of Cracker Jack or cereal boxes. I tried desperately to hide any trace of evidence from my parents and sisters for fear of embarrassment. This unfortunately did not deter my evil sisters from mercilessly taunting me when they suspected the existence of this mystery man.

I, in turn, folded under the pressure and vowed to give up dating forever. This vow (curse) was one I struggled for many years to break without much luck.

Instead, I turned my attention toward a new man. It didn’t matter that he was a fictional character, or that he was older than my father. I was in love. Oh, this was much more than my earlier crushes on Donny Osmond or Speed Racer. No, this was true love. There was something about the way Starsky wore his brown leather jacket, and his bright blue sneakers and cruised the mean streets fighting crime with his partner Hutch in his bright red Gran Turino with the white swoosh down the side. (And I’m talking about the original Starsky, NOT the Ben Stiller version) I carried his picture, clipped straight from the TV guide, in my little plastic daisy wallet and showed it to all my friends, informing them that this was my new boyfriend. They of course believed me, because nine year olds are basically stupid creatures. At least we were back then, back in the days before the internet.

Starsky was merely the first in a long line of pretend boyfriends that included both Hardy Boys and, I’m embarrassed to say, Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett. They filled the void left by the lack of a real boyfriend.

Junior High was a blur. I learned how to swear, and it wasn’t long before “fuck” and “shit” became as much a part of my daily vocabulary as “please” and “thank you”. I don’t know what the fascination with cuss words was exactly, but my little group of friends and I couldn’t get enough of them. They were like food for our pitiful little souls, a miserably failed attempt to be one of the “cool” kids at school.

My friends were all social outcasts like myself, and included “braces girl”, “big nose girl”, “probably gay but still not admitting it boy”, and me “the stork”.

For a teenage boy to be described as tall and lanky is perfectly acceptable, but for a teenage girl it is certain death, social death that is. And I was the walking dead.

Why is it that “boobs” are such a big thing in junior high? (No pun intended.) If you have them, you’re made fun of and called names, and if you don’t have them…you’re made fun of and called names. All things considered, I would have rather had them, which of course I did not.

“Carpenter’s dream…flat as a board.” That was me, coupled with straggly hair, chapped lips, pale skin, and legs that went all the way up to my flat ass. And not as much as a swell in the bust area. I’m forced to rely on memory for much of this, as I have personally burned every photograph taken of me during his pathetic phase of my life.

At thirteen years old, I had yet to master the art of style. And my mother, with her checked pants paired with large print blouses, was little help. I can’t think of anything worse than having a fashion outcast shop for your clothes. It was years before I realized that you could actually buy pants that reached the tops of your shoes. Mine always seemed to hover just above my ankles as if preparing for an oncoming flood. My bargain shirts always looked like they housed deflated balloons, with extra air pockets trapped in the ill fitted bras my mother bought. I have often wondered where she was able to find such a wide assortment of embarrassing underwear, and why no one else seemed to own a stitch of it.

My hair was a constant mess no matter how many trips to the beauty shop I took. When my hair was long, I looked like a hippie with a hygiene problem, and when it was short, the layers clung to my face in a static cling nightmare. No matter how great the cut, I couldn’t make it look right. But, hair and clothes weren’t my only problems. The only make-up I had was my mother’s leftovers or rejects, the sorts of things no one should be wearing in the first place, so I stuck with the basics, bare skin and Chap Stick.

My little band of outcasts were famously close until the day, “he” blew into town on the tail of a storm. His name was Mark and he was tall with sexy brown eyes and fashionably disheveled dark hair. He wore a white tee shirt under a red flannel button down and perfectly worn Levis with construction boots. He was the poor girl’s Keanu Reeves, back before anyone knew who Keanu Reeves was. I wasn’t the only one with a crush on the new kid. But I was the only one to get his phone number. It was fun while it lasted, but it was my first real lesson in heart break.

I recovered from my teenage years fairly unscathed. I was a very late bloomer, but eventually, I grew into my body, and somewhere along the way my hair decided to behave in a respectable fashion. But somehow, while I was learning to properly tweeze my eyebrows, and apply makeup, I missed the lesson on how to date successfully. I’ve done quite a bit of research on the subject, and I was amazed to discover I wasn’t the only one having these problems with men. I started to think maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the guys. Maybe it was what I have since labeled as the “penis factor”. And maybe my mother was right all along.

Or maybe not…right Mike?  Love you honey!

Until the next time…I’ll be writing…

Erica

another cautionary tale

Let it not be said that my failures…my suffering…is for nothing. I live my life as one great big cautionary tale for the rest of humanity. That’s right. Learn from my mistakes. I’ve made many. After countless hours of trial and error…research, if you will…I can say with great certainty that one should never attempt one’s own bikini wax. The uncoordinated should never attempt pole dancing, especially in the presence of those born for such things. I’ve flooded stoves, tripped over air, embarrassed myself so many times they should name a disorder after me. And today was just another day for Hurricane Erica.

First, I’d like to say…you should never go commando when you live on a farm. Especially while feeding ducks in an open yard…in the rain. Oh, especially when the pen has been thrown together as a last minute project.

I’m just going to come out and say it. It’s not my fault. I was tired. It was early. My husband whispered in my ear as he left for work that I needed to feed the animals. 

“Feed and water the ducks. Pour out their baby pool and refill it,” he said.

Slave driver!

So I rolled out of bed an hour later wearing a white tank and a loose pair of sweat pants. My  pajamas. But it was raining pretty hard, so I slipped my feet into my husband’s muck boots and trudged out to the yard with a pitcher full of duck food.

As usual, the crazy ducks had escaped and needed to be tricked into their pen again. This takes careful plotting and strategy. Something I’m not prepared for in the morning, but I did it just the same. I fed them, watered them, and refilled the baby pool, all while getting rained on.

I’m sure you’re thinking, “Oooh, she shouldn’t have worn a white tank in the rain.” And you’re probably right, but that wasn’t my major catastrophe that morning. No, it would have been when the seat of my sweat pants got caught on the side of the duck pen. I mean caught. As in, I was afraid I would either have to ditch them, or stay trapped to the pen forever. And I wasn’t wearing underwear. And the spot my husband set up the duck pen is in direct view of the neighbors house…the only house on four sides of our property, and that’s exactly where I was stuck. My pants hooked on the pen in such a way that I couldn’t reach, and pulling was only making them tear.

So I struggled…getting further soaked in my white tank top. Seven stupid baby ducks laughing at me in their stupid quacking voices, as I debated climbing out of my sweats and making a mad dash across the yard to the kitchen door.

The ducks were daring me. The voice in my head was telling me I might be able to make it…and then it laughed, saying there was no way in hell I would make it without falling at least once, and the freaking lawnmower man had this new fetish for mowing in the rain. I was screwed.

And then the little rooster let loose with a cock-a-doodle-do from somewhere behind me, making me jump. My pants, the ones attached to the pen, jumped with me, causing the side wall of the pen to crash over, thus freeing me, but leaving me with a completely new problem to solve.

I suddenly had seven baby ducks running loose in the yard again…laughing at me as I propped up the side of the pen and proceeded to herd them inside again.

Crisis averted…message delivered. Always wear panties when feeding ducks.

Until the next time…I’ll be throwing the food over the side and running away!

sailboat living

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight DC McMillen

Tonight’s guest is writer, DC McMillen, author of

the The Rusty Nail. For more about DC, click on her photo to visit her website.

I like to spend summers on my sailboat. If you don’t have a sailboat in a marina, you are probably thinking, “Well, la-di-dah,” while visions of people who look suspiciously like the guy on the frozen fish sticks box hover in your mind. The truth, however, is that boat living is eerily similar to trailer park living. Let me run through a day in my marina. I choose….Saturday.

I wake up feeling grungy, hung over from participating a little too boisterously in the bon fire party at the beach the night before. I debate on taking a shower but the showers are a little further than I care to walk at the moment so I plug the kettle in to make myself a cup of Starbucks vanilla instant coffee. Before the water has come to a complete boil, I realise that I did not do dishes (again) and am now completely out of clean mugs. I look around for a solution that does not involve me walking my tub of dishes to the public sink in the laundry rooms. I silently curse my boyfriend for not yet fixing the tap in our boat an then my eyes land on my beer glass from last night.

Sighing, I pour some boiling water into the mug, give it a good swish and then make myself an instant coffee. I smoke a cigarette while drinking it on the back of the boat and tossing little bits of bread to the anxiously waiting baby ducks. They squabble and quack at each other as they greedily flock to my offerings. I see a friend across the basin and three boats to my right. She smiles, waves and then brushes her teeth, spitting foam into the lake surrounding her houseboat. Deciding I, too should brush the fur from my teeth, I dip back inside the boat, not so silently curse my boyfriend this time for not yet fixing the sink, grab my toothbrush and head to the public washrooms. As I am brushing my teeth a woman in an expensive, floaty dress and a lot of shiny gold jewellery walks in. She ducks into a stall and emerges after a couple minutes, pulls a toothbrush and paste from her oversize Gucci bag and uses the sink beside mine. It’s then that I notice she is not wearing any shoes.

I head back to my boat, check my email, check my blog, check twitter, check my Amazon page, check Facebook, check Goodreads, check Triberr, check my friends blogs, and then recheck everything three times. My boyfriend wakes up and I check my watch. Where the fuck did the time go?

The boyfriend reminds me that Spence and Nat are having a party today. I drag my ass to the showers, wash a few dishes so I can feel like I’ve accomplished something and then buy some blocks of ice from the marina store. When did they raise the price of ice from $2.50 to $3, I ask some people I know but don’t really know. This sets off a discussion about the rising prices at the restaurant and bar. Someone buys me a drink so I watch my ice melt as we bake in the sun, discussing how the marina used to be “in the old days.” I realize most of the people partaking in the lively discussion are in their 40’s, the average age of marina members. I’m in my early thirties, but from the way we are talking, you would think we are senior citizens discussing a bygone era instead of somewhat young people talking about ten years or so ago.  I wave to my boyfriend as he wanders by, beer in hand, to do his usual rounds. Everyone at the marina seems to do the rounds, visiting friends and checking out new boats.

I take the private ferry to the city, grab a bottle of wine for the party - and one more for the after party, a few groceries and head back to the marina. I wash the vegetables and prep them at the picnic table. As I do this, people stop by to chat, some of them help me stab toothpicks through grape tomatoes, leaves of basil and pearls of bocconcini but most of the visitors simply help themselves to an alcoholic beverage in the cooler beside the picnic table and wrap up their conversations when the can is empty.

Having finished prepping my dish for the party, I shove it in the icebox and spend the next couple of hours writing on my laptop. My boyfriend calls me when it is time to go to Spence and Nat’s. We walk together to the basin next to ours and put our wine, a bottle of $18 rosé between a $10 box of shiraz and $50 bottle of chardonnay. My appetiser skewers now sit on a picnic table with homemade coconut shrimp and roulade, a watermelon spiked with vodka, cooked from frozen pigs in a blanket, various dips and crackers and veggies, and celery portions slathered in either Cheez Whiz or peanut butter.

My boyfriend is talking shop (he’s a mechanic) with a yacht owner and the marina’s custodian. I sit with a group of people I know well and we gossip viciously about the woman who recently docked her boat next to mine. She’s a lovely woman but her boat is unkempt and cluttered with shit, which disturbs the aesthetic of our strip in the basin. We conclude she’s a hoarder and someone must complain to management about having her moved to a basin that is more…welcoming of her junk. Of course none of us will complain…we’ll just bitch about it until the gossip finally catches up to her, and then she will likely decide to move her boat to another spot all on her own.

My boyfriend flitters about the party chatting with everyone. Everyone at the marina loves him because he can fix boats and is best friends with a man who runs a towboat business. I stay rooted to a particularly comfortable lawn chair and talk amicably with all who join me. Every once in a while my boyfriend will bring me a fresh drink or a plate with some food on it.

I realize that I have had entirely too much to drink and I’m ready to go. My boyfriend joins me and we walk through the island’s public park that our marina backs onto. A Hare Krishna festival is taking place so we weave through it, leaning on each other slightly. We laugh and join in the clapping along with music. People offer us vegetarian food and we eat it. Someone wraps me in a sari and my boyfriend whips out his camera phone to snap photos. This is a dry event so my boyfriend and I try to be stealth while we drink the last our wine. We toss the empty plastic wine glasses in the recycling, I give back the sari and we head back to the boat, where I immediately pass out, er, nap.

I wake up a few hours later to the smell of barbeque. Grabbing condiments and dishes, I head out of the boat and join my boyfriend and a few new friends. Just as they finish eating (I was too full from party and Indian food to even think about eating), we hear a band start up. They’re playing at the marina bar and it is obvious even from a distance that they totally suck but what else is there to do? A group of us head to the bar and my boyfriend buys the first round. We dance to shitty music while drinking shitty well drinks, and we are having way too much fun. We party until the band catches the last private tender home at 1am, then walk to the beach to see who is at the bonfire tonight.

Someone from our basin is playing a guitar while others sing; I join in for a round of Proud Mary. We find out that one of our buddies has secretly installed a hot tub near his boat, which is in a secluded spot in the marina. The water doesn’t actually get hot but the jets are in working order. The BF and I follow him to the hot tub, well hidden by a group of trees to find several drunk, bikini clad women with fake breasts frolicking in the tepid water. Laughing at the site, we retrace our path through the beach and head back to our own boat. It’s getting late and I’m in the mood to play Scrabble, of all things. Our neighbours and favourite marina friends, an entertaining gay couple who keep their boat fastidiously spotless, have company. The air is billowing with the sweetest smelling smoke. They ask to use our barbeque and we consent. One of them offers me a puff of his joint and I take it. My boyfriend declines. We sit with them for awhile, chatting with their friends and playing cards. I give up the drunken notion to play Scrabble because I’m ready for bed. As I’m climbing into my boat, my neighbours tell me that they are having a party tomorrow, BYOB, and would I like to come. I agree, and promise to bring an appetiser.

The last thought I have before falling asleep is that I forgot to do dishes.

~~~

D.C. McMillen lives in Toronto, Canada. She enjoys writing about dirty sex in questionable places but has been known to write about other subjects, on special occasions.

D.C. is featured in MuseItHot’s Short & Spicy line up with The Rental and the upcoming story A Decent December. Her debut novella, The Rusty Nail, was recently published through Rebel Ink Press, and she is featured in several sexy anthologies.

D.C. is obsessed with Twitter and invites you to look her up at @mcmillendc, her blog, or on Facebook, where she goes sometimes.