you call that rejection?

And the madness continues...​

So since I last updated you on the craziness that is my life, I've gotten another request from an agent. For the full book this time, not just a few chapters. She apparently loved the sample chapters I'd already sent her and wanted more. This is always good. So that makes four agents saying yes to reading my book. That's four steps closer to success. ​

But like I said before, rejection is part of the game, and I did get a rejection letter tonight. It was easily the nicest,  most complimentary rejection letter I have EVER gotten. I mean, I'm considering framing it. Seriously. The agent said she wouldn't be comfortable marketing the book due to the sexy scenes, but asked if I would please contact her when it was published so she could buy a copy and read it herself. She loved my synopsis, and my sample chapter, and I guess, me. And they call that rejection? Seriously, I wouldn't mind a few more like that. I mean, if the odds say I have to have a percentage of these come back as no, I may as well enjoy them, right? ​

I'm telling you, this is the most bizarre turn of events in my quest to be popular and loved by all. A daunting task, but if things keep going this way, I might actually get there eventually.

Until then...I'll be watching my email with a little grin and a lot of hope.​

rejection... what rejection?

Once upon a time, I wrote about sending queries to agents and getting rejection after rejection, and sucking it up to tell myself, this is all apart of the business. Writers will inevitably suffer from rejection. And I have. At least my fair share. And I suspect I'll be rejected yet again. But not today. Today, I was decidedly NOT rejected. Today (or more specifically yesterday), I opened my email to see a  yes where I'd found so many nos before.​

Ok, truthfully, the last time I queried anything I got a great big yes...it was a book deal, right? So it's not like I can say my story ended in tragedy or anything. But yesterday as I sent out a fresh batch of queries for Suddenly Sorceress, my paranormal chick lit/romance with a sexy twist, I didn't expect to see an immediate response, and an overwhelmingly positive one at that. I mean, we all WANT that. We hope for it, dream about it, even plan for it, but it doesn't happen that often. It's the elusive white whale breaking the water with a mighty blow from his hole thing.

Anyway...so here I am, opening my email...expecting the standard rejection letters we writers are so well versed in. And what do I find? Not one...not two...but THREE requests for chapters. What? Chapters you say? Someone wants to read more? Umm...holy crap! Yeah, I said more R-rated words, but you get my drift. ​

So, maybe they won't love the book once they read more. But I'm not worried about that right now. I'm just flying high on the fact that they didn't say no. And like any teenager will tell you, a maybe is just as good as a yes most days of the week, and twice on a Saturday.​

Until the next time...I'll be sending off those chapters and waiting for more yeses!​

and then there were four

The garden gnome strikes again!​ We're officially down another duck. And now the four remaining ducks are hanging out in the yard. They absolutely refuse to wait like sitting du...errr...you know...they don't want to stay in their pen. But they're doing bizarre things out there. Strange for even them. We heard them quacking and moving into a circle (as best they can with only four of them) and I swear they're doing some kind of sacrificial ceremony. One of the chickens knocked on the back door until we opened it, and she came right inside. She must know the ducks are up to no good tonight.

The worst part of the whole thing is we're now down one layer. That means less eggs to eat. And to bake with. And there's no way I'm buying eggs from the store. Not after being spoiled by fresh eggs every day. That can only mean one thing.​ We need more ducks.

And we need to a trap big enough to catch a rogue garden gnome.

Time to head over to the Acme website to look for garden gnome traps. I may as well order a few mouse traps while I'm at it. You can never be too prepared.​

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for baby ducks.​

pssst...got cookies?

Has the world ended and I didn’t get the memo?

I mean…it’s less than a week until March and I haven’t seen a single Girl Scout selling cookies. Isn’t it about that time? Has my internal clock reset itself? I distinctly feel the unshakeable craving for a line of Thin Mints, fresh from the freezer.

I can almost hear the familiar crackle of the clear wrapping as I tear it open with my teeth, and the snap of the first cookie as I bite into the cool, minty goodness. Just thinking about it starts the tingle at the tip of my fingers as I long to rip open a brand new box!

Can someone please tell me if I should be having heart palpatations at the mere memory of the taste? I keep checking out that picture right there and I’m seriously considering taking a bite out of my laptop! Does anyone know a Girl Scout I can talk to? Or an addiction counselor? I knew I had a thing for chocolate, but since when does a picture of a cookie send a person into withdrawl? The addiction is real people…real, I tell you!

Ok…I need to get a handle on this. I’ve done an internet search to see if they’re selling cookies in my area, and I’ve come up blank.

Yeah…I know. You don’t have to say anything. I can feel an intervention coming, and I haven’t even touched my first cookie.

It’s going to be a long spring.

Until the next time…I’ll be calling my local Girl Scouts to pre-order a case.

food unchained

I have just come to the horrifying conclusion that this whole "food chain" thing is relative. Not relative to where you fall in the food chain as much as where you fall in the backyard. ​

I'm wondering if I can petition the DMV for a handicapped license plate. Because, I promise you, clumsiness can be life threatening.

The pigs tried to eat me again. This isn't exactly news. They've tried before, but they're bigger now, and like George Orwell said, they're smart enough to lead a revolution. ​The ridiculous thing is, I was in there to feed ​them. Ok, maybe that's just ironic or something. Woman goes into pig pen to feed them and gets eaten. News at eleven. Sure, I get it. It's sorta funny in a sick sadistic way. I know my hus...I mean, imaginary dead president...got a belly laugh out of the whole thing when I called to tell him. I didn't have to see his face to know it had tears running down it. He couldn't catch his breath, he was laughing so hard. And not just because of the pigs...no it was because I managed to splash kerosine over my entire body too. I was attempting to fill the tanks for the heaters when I got the nozzle stuck in the fill spout opening and as I tried to wrangle it free, fuel was raining down on me.

Yeah, I get it. You want to laugh. I'd probably laugh too if the adrenaline would take it down a notch so I wasn't still shaking like Ray Charles in rehab (hey, Jamie Foxx won an Oscar for that scene)​.

So here I am...hungry (I was going to eat AFTER doing the farm chores), cold (I only ended up getting half the fuel in one ​of the tanks after all that wrestling around)​, smelly (I was accosted by mammals that frolic in their own feces for fun and then poured kerosine over my entire body) and on top of that...well, hell, could it possible get worse than that? (I smell like I slept in a gas station restroom) oh wait...it can get worse. Someone had to go to the office today so I have no car, no Diet Coke, no chocolate, and no wine.

And I feel a case of PMS coming on.

But at least the IDP got a good laugh out of it. My work here is done.​

Until the next time...I'll be taking a long hot shower!​

attack of the zombie cat

I think my cat may be a zombie. ​

He still looks like a cat. Sorta smells like a cat. Makes cat noises. But he caught a mouse last night and only ate the brains. This is the epitome of zombie behavior...eating brains. Therefore...and I feel as if making this leap is the next logical step...my cat IS a zombie.

So, now what? Do I lay awake a night waiting for him to come after me? Nibbling on my brains one lick at a time? Do I at least give him time to rid my house of the mouse population before putting an end to his rein of terror? ​

I have no idea what to think. ​

On one hand, I'm jumping up and down, delighted to know I'm down at least one mouse today. But on the other, I'm sort of worried my cat will begin to deteriorate until I'm fighting him off with a can of tuna and a shovel. ​

Why can't life be simple? What happened to the good old days when zombies only showed up in grave yards and over-populated shopping malls? I guess the zombie apocalypse is upon us.​

Either that or I'm not feeding my cat enough.​

Until the next time...I'll be picking up cat food (and dead mice)​

it's just a fantasy

So, as I writer, I make a lot of stuff up. And let's face it, I need to make stuff up. The idea of a perfect man is so out there, it can only exist in the land of make-believe, right?

I was having this discussion with my hus...the IDP, the other day, and as it turns out, he was convinced I was trying to compensate for my real life by manufacturing the world I'd rather live in. And I guess he's pretty perceptive, that Mr. Lincoln, because isn't that what we all do to some degree?

But at the same time, he's way off base. The fact is, reality rarely lives up to the fantasy, even if you find yourself able to bring it to life.

Case in point...remember that super cute someone you admired from afar? The one with perfect hair, and perfect teeth, and perfect everything south of that? So, you pined for this certain someone, hoping to one day get married and have perfect little babies...then you met him...I mean the person. And perfection went straight out the window when he opened his mouth. Why? Because the fantasy is always better than the reality.

I mean, let's take having sex, standing up in a shower, for example. That sounds so hot and exciting...until you attempt to actually pull it off. Then it's more like a dangerous circus act, better suited for a special effects team than two clumsy, non-acrobats in a wet shower.

So, as a writer, I'm simply saving the world from harm by creating those fantasy moments for you. It has nothing to do with bringing my own fantasies to fruition. Honest.

Ok...maybe it does...just a little.

Until the next time...I'll be whipping up my next make-believe wonderment.

I'm too sexy for my hair

I've said it before, but getting old kinda sucks.

Ok, so it has its perks too. I mean, I'm certainly wiser than I was 20 years ago. But the years haven't improved my balance or coordination. Not one bit. And so what if I know a lot more useless trivia than I did before? That's really only something I can drag out at parties, and at my age, I don't go to many parties. And while it's true, my skills at writing have definitely improved, did it really have to come at the expense of my hair? 

It's like I have a traitor in my midst. Fifty streaks of gray? Really? And the worst part of gray roots is the process of fixing them. And make no mistake about it...they must be fixed.

See, the thing is, if your hair feels old, the rest of you follows suit, and I'm too young to feel so old. So until my hair has conformed to the illusion of youth yet again, I refuse to allow any form of photographic evidence of my existence. And I have a live Spreecast coming up in a week or two. So I can only hide for so long.

This is why I convinced the hus...I mean imaginary dead president, to play chauffeur while I hit up the closest beauty supply place in a fifty mile radius so I could stock up on hair color supplies. What? I'm not paying someone else a hundred bucks to do what I can do for less than ten! I may be old, but I don't have dementia.

Then again, I may just be crazy for coloring my own hair. Hey, it's a messy job, but somebody has to do it!

Until the next time...I'll be bringing sexy back!

of course you realize this means war!

Ever since I woke up this morning, I've been quoting Bugs Bunny. I have no idea why...it's just coming out that way. My thoughts as I woke to a freezing cold house were, "This doesn't look like Pismo Beach! I knew I should have made that left turn at Albuquerque." My hus...I mean my imaginary dead president, Mr. Lincoln, doesn't see the humor in such things, but I soldier on just the same. Humor is subjective.

Especially when the subject is mice.

So, when I opened up my silverware drawer to discover it was filled with mouse droppings, the Bugs Bunny-isms came out in full force. Most especially, "Of course, you realize, this means war."

And I'm not kidding. I am officially at war with a mouse. Or mice. I have no idea what I'm up against, but the sudden urge to Google Acme products is overwhelming.

Until recently, I was totally against using extreme measures to eradicate our uninvited guests, preferring to let the cats have a little fun, hunting them down like the wild animals they fancy themselves to be. But I've since had a change of heart. All of a sudden, I'm ready to go all Rambo on the little bastards.

So today, I'm on a quest for traps, and I'm just a little embarrassed to say I actually did Google Acme road runner traps. But I didn't take any of them seriously. Ok, so the giant cheese wedge costume had me thinking for a minute, but I blame that on the cold and the hour. I didn't get much sleep last night.

I guess I'll just stick with the standard glue strips and old fashioned spring loaded mouse traps that worked so well for Tom when he was trying to catch Jerry. (Note the sarcasm here. Tom never did catch Jerry, and I'm afraid I'll have much the same luck catching Mr. Mouse King and his little shit subjects.)

Can I just say someone needs to build a better mousetrap?

I guess it'll all be ok as long as I don't go too crazy and pull out the heavy artillery the way Nathan Lane did in Mouse Hunt. With my luck, I would blow up the house. And that would totally ruin my day.

And to quote Bugs, "Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive."

Until the next time...Shhh...I'll be hunting mice!

You might be a bridezilla if...

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight 

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

It’s Valentine’s Week—that’s right, it’s not even just a day anymore—so you know love is in the air! (Okay, so maybe that’s last night’s microwaveable burrito, but you know what I mean). Everywhere you look, there are red and pink candy hearts, rows of greeting cards, pounds of chocolate, and fluffy teddy bears. What does all of this have to do with love?

I have no idea.

You’d think I would. After all, I’m a wedding planner as well as an author. Romance is the name of the game. You’d think my focus would be on engagements, weddings, and how to direct brides away from overpriced red roses for their décor. Instead, Valentine’s Day invokes images of ravaged Hallmark store shelves and husbands grappling over the last Russell Stover’s box in the Walgreens’ aisle.

It also brings to mind Bridezillas. For whatever reason, more of the Valentine’s brides I’ve worked with have proven more difficult than other brides. I personally think it’s because they feel obligated to decorate with red and pink, two colors that don’t naturally reside well together. But I digress.

In the spirit of Valentine’s Week, I thought I’d put together a little list of traits and quirks that comprise a typical Bridezilla. Feel free to add your own in the comments if you’re also a wedding planner, personally know a Bridezilla, or consider yourself a card-carrying Bridezilla. We’d love your input!

Here we go. You might be a Bridezilla if…

…you get angry because the inspiration wedding on your Pinterest board totals somewhere in the six-figure range, while your budget is in the low four figures.

…you’re so overbearing while picking out the bridal party wardrobe that several attendants mysteriously can’t make it to the wedding.

…you insist that your outdoor wedding remains on hold until the weather clears, even if it means your guests have to wait for hours (or days) and your vendors will be late to other events.

…you e-mail your wedding planner at 6 p.m. on Friday and then again on Saturday wondering if she got your last e-mail “since you haven’t heard back,” following it up with a voicemail on Sunday…and your wedding is more than a year away.

…you set your wedding date three years in the future so you have “plenty of time to get every detail exactly how you want it” (a.k.a. torture your friends, family, and wedding vendors for three years).

…you direct your vendors on how to do their jobs on the wedding day, including posing the family group photos and rearranging the décor before the reception.

These are just a few red flags indicating that you might be a Bridezilla. Yes, I’ve dealt with all of the above, as well as a whole other list that isn’t fit to share due to the profanity, violence, and partial nudity involved. That, my friends, is a post for another day, a day not filled with helium balloons and grocery-store bouquets…everything a couple needs to express their undying love! (I think).

Ok...come on now...let's show Raine how much we heart her :)

To Katie With Love

Ok, the cat's out of the bag as it were. My cover has finally been revealed. And I couldn't be happier. I love it. Love, love, love it.

So in honor of my cover reveal, I'm going to leave you with a teaser....

Banker Katie James has a serious thing for romance novels. She's perfectly happy settling for a fictional character rather than risking her heart on a flesh and blood man. Besides, the only real man she’s even remotely interested in is her very rich, very unattainable client, the mysterious Cooper Maxwell. From the moment she woke up on her twenty-ninth birthday, she started the dreaded countdown to the big three-oh and another year of being single. But after Cooper crashes her little birthday soiree, looking less like the ultra-conservative man she knows and more like a drop-dead sexy character from one of her books, Katie finds herself in uncharted territory…Cooper’s bedroom! It doesn’t take long for Katie to realize Cooper is keeping secrets...dangerous ones. Unfortunately, when an overly flirtatious coworker sets her sights on Cooper and Katie’s meddling mother decides to make a surprise visit, Katie has a whole new set of problems to deal with.

Who would have guessed having an assassin for a boyfriend would be the least of her worries?

Until the next time...I'll be basking in the glory of a freshly revealed book cover.

A cover for Valentine's Day

It's  here! My official cover reveal day! To Katie With Love in print (well, just the title, but you get what I mean, right?)

I'm so excited I could scream! And use way too many exclamation points!

To Katie With Love, by Erica Lucke Dean

Does it get better than that? I don't think so! Click the image to visit Red Adept Publishing website and the official reveal page.

Valentine’s Day…We meet again.

I have a love/hate relationship with this particular day on the calendar. I love chocolate and flowers, (who doesn’t?) but I despise the stress of wondering…will my honey remember the day at all?

After our first wonderfully romantic Valentine’s day, when the bloom was still evident on our budding romance, followed by several botched holiday’s (yes, I still call it a holiday) where my significant other either ignored the day completely, or worse…trashed it as a ridiculously commercialized invention of the candy companies…I find myself at odds with the mere idea. I’m not sure if I should make a big deal, or ignore it completely. Then I remember… I’m a woman, damn it! And I’m not unreasonable…I don’t expect diamonds, furs or cars…but I do expect chocolate, if nothing else.

It's beginning to look like this will be one of those years when I need to dig the leftover bag of chocolate chips from the dark recesses of my cabinets and snack on them by the handful. I'm resourceful like that.

But I won't end up empty handed this year, thanks to my friendly neighborhood Pure Romance consultant, who dropped by this evening with a brand new pink Heart Massage heating pad, since I set mine on fire when I forgot about it on the stove. (It's a long story, you'll have to read the blog from Sunday if you want the details.)

Oh, and I got a surprise in the form of the final cover art for my upcoming book, To Katie With Love. And before you ask...no, I can't show you yet. You'll have to wait until the official launch. But trust me when I say, it's worth the wait.

So there you have it. Valentine's Day in a nutshell. At least Mr. Lincoln doesn't like chocolate chips. I knew there were benefits to having an imaginary dead president around.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for my cover to be announced!

I've got a secret!

Is there anything worse than having a secret and not being able to share it? I mean...sure poison ivy is pretty bad...though I've never had it. And I hear erectile dysfunction sucks hard...I mean is really bad too, but I've never had to deal with that either (thank goodness!) But when you have a really juicy secret, and you want to tell the whole freaking world, it's awful when you can't.

Like me...I have a secret. Like, a really, really good secret.

You want a hint. I can sense that. And hints are ok, right? Hints aren't cheating...because if you guess, then I didn't tell you. I'm so smart. Hints are perfect.

Ok...so, I got this email today, and in the email was a few pictures. These pictures might have been the concept art for To Katie With Love. And it's awesome!

Simply awesome!

Wait...was that too big of a hint? I mean, I didn't show you the pictures, so it's still sort of a secret, right? And I'll bet you're just dying to see it, right?

Dying. To. See.

But you can't. Because it's a secret. And I'm not supposed to tell you anything about it. Which I didn't. I didn't mention anything about dangerous boots, or orchids or books...I said nothing at all.

Nothing. At. All.

And it's going to stay that way for now. A great big juicy secret. For me to know and you to find out.

Until the next time...I'll be giving up the caffeine again.

melted hearts

And this is why I'm not allowed in the kitchen.

Ok, so I gave you the punchline before the joke. It wouldn't be the first time. The joke may not even be that funny...and yet, I suspect you'll laugh, despite the fact that I cried. But as my mother never said...there's no use crying over melted hearts.

We're just a few days away from Valentine's Day...my most dreaded holiday, if for no other reason than my husband (or Mr. Lincoln, for that matter) isn't a fan. Will there be hearts and chocolates? Doubtful. Will there be cards and flowers? Not likely. Will there be bickering and slammed doors? As the Magic 8 Ball would say, "All signs point to yes."

But does that mean the holiday is a wash? Hardly. In fact, I planned a pre-holiday gathering with a bunch of girl friends and we dragged our friendly neighborhood Pure Romance consultant to my house for an evening of delight and debauchery. Or as the laymen put it...a toy party.

Yes, we had a sex toy party at my house Saturday night.

Now, before you go trolling the gutter, a sex toy party isn't code for girl on girl porn. It's really just a fancy Tupperware party where the plastics sold are shaped more like penises than bowls. And sure, they sell lotions and oils...powders and make-up...but let's not mince words...the girls were there for the dicks.

Cakes...dick cakes.

One of my friends baked a cake shaped like a penis, and we all know how much women like red velvet cake, right? It's true.

So as we laughed...ok, cackled...the evening away, playing games with a dick of cards (I can't make this stuff up, I'm serious) where the prizes were flavored oral sex creams and body chocolates...we snacked on penis confections, dipped strawberries, and a homemade wine punch served by my husband before he got the hell out of dodge. 

Before the end of the night, I was even lucky enough to win a warming heart...a re-heatable mini heart-shaped massage pillow to snuggle with on the cold nights we've been having.

So tonight, I decided to fire up the boiling water and heat up my mini-heart to cuddle up to while I watched TV. But as anyone who knows me very well knows, I should never be allowed to operate the stove. After tossing my heart into the pan and setting the burner to medium-high, I proceeded to get lost in edits and surfing the net, completely forgetting I had something cooking...or rather burning, in the kitchen.

Yep, that's right. I melted my heart into a pile of pink ash. And possibly ruined my favorite pan in the process. And my weekend was going so well up til then.

I can't wait to see what Valentine's Day has in store for me. With my luck, I'll get stung by a bee sniffing roses or come down with a fatal allergy to chocolate.

Or worse...someone will steal my toothbrush again.

Until the next time...I'll be scrubbing my heart from the bottom of a pan.

finding Brando

Weekly Guest Spotlight starring Laura M. Kolar, author of the upcoming YA novel, Captive Art.

Thank you, Erica, for inviting me to guest blog tonight, though I’m not even close to your caliber of funny.

A few weeks ago, Erica and I were discussing whether or not young people (as in teenagers who YA books are geared for) will know, or recognize, names of actors and actresses from what is typically referred to as the Golden Age of Hollywood, the thirty years of film making from 1930 to 1959. She said yes, of course they will, how could they not? I, on the other hand, was skeptical at best.

After our initial conversation on the subject, I set out to determine which of us was correct, in other words, to prove that I was right. Much to my dismay, I was right. Why do I say it that way? Because it was extremely discouraging when I asked several people if they knew who Clark Gable was and they all gave me a blank stare, a bunch of them didn’t even recognize the name of his most famous movie. (Ten points if you know who he is and what movie I’m talking about. Ten more points if you can quote his famous line from that movie.)

At the time, I thought, “Ok, maybe he’s not a good example,” and I asked around if they knew who Cary Grant was. One of the responses I got was, “Who’s she?” Yes, I almost cried when I heard that. But then I remembered that I was asking about actors who were popular fifty to eighty years ago and even if the people I asked did watch A&E or TNT, they may not necessarily know the names of the actors and actresses in those classic movies. For that matter, will people fifty years from now remember that Brad Pitt played Rusty Ryan in the Ocean’s movies or Tom Cruise played Lt. Daniel Kaffee in A Few Good Men, probably not, though I do hope they remember that Christopher Mintz-Plasse played McLovin in Superbad. (Mmmhmmm...we do.)

So where does that leave me, well, a little sad and disappointed, but hopeful in that my current manuscript references some of these iconic Hollywood names and maybe some of the young adults who read my story will want to know more and take the time to look them up and watch the classic films that made these actors and actresses famous.

Just for fun, here’s a picture of my favorite Golden Age actor. Can you guess who it is? I’ll give you a hint…“Stella!”

Thanks again to Erica for letting me stop by!

pulp farmhouse

Is Quentin Tarantino directing my life now? Or am I being punished for making fun of Abraham Lincoln's dancing skills? Come on, Lincoln may have been known for a lot of great things, but none of those was dancing.

But seriously...first I'm nearly eaten by food (never get between a piglet and its breakfast)  then we have a tornado rip through town. And like the genius I obviously am, I chose to face the cyclone rather than braving the basement. Oh, it worked out ok, but let's just say, it wasn't my best decision, considering some of the damage I've seen around town. And now? I wake up to three agents from the Georgia Bureau of Investigations on my front porch with semi-automatic rifles, looking for an escaped fugitive and they wanted to search my basement.

I find this somewhat amusing, only because the basement beat out a tornado on my scary meter, and now I've got three armed men searching for a fourth armed man down there in what reminded me of a scene from Silence of the Lambs.

There was no one hiding in my basement...or my barn...thank goodness. But I'm definitely locking my doors at night from now on.

You'd think the ducks would have seen this coming.

Until the next time...I'll be sending Lincoln in with his vampire hunting weapons.

me and my imaginary dead president

You know, as a writer, I've been challenged to come up with many an idea, storyline, or fantasy over the course of my many years. But none have been quite as rewarding as my newest project. Living with an imaginary dead president.

First order of business when cohabitating with an IDP is to select your partner. And let me tell you, there is no lack of choices here. My thoughts ran the gamut of, "Do I select Washington or Roosevelt (there are 2 to pick from)?" to "What about Reagan or Nixon?" Thank goodness Clinton and Bush (the second) are still alive, or who knows where my thoughts would have gone. But even with the vast field to choose from, I had to make tough decisions. I had to rule out the guy with wooden teeth, and the dude with the 70's porn stashe. The former actor just didn't do if for me, and well...it's not like anyone wants to wake up to Richard Nixon's constant assertions of, "I am not a crook". I'm telling you, the snoring is bad enough as it is.

So that left me with the man on the penny. I mean, seriously...have you seen the size of his...hat?!

Ok, so maybe there was more to my decision. Maybe I already had visions of Mr. Lincoln haunting my house in the eerie pre-dawn shadows. Besides, the dude had a thing for the theater...and I've always liked the theater.  And let's not forget his mad skills at slaying vampires. When you live in a haunted house, you can never discount the possibility of needing a vampire slayer. And come on...who doesn't swoon at his Gettysburg Address?

So now that that's settled, all I need to do is get to the business of cohabitating. And Mr. Lincoln...this is the new millennium, you can leave your hat on (wink).

Until the next time...I'll be dragging my IDP to karaoke!

it's time for a break out

I'm just a few bars away from a prison cell. I feel like my mouth has been duct-taped shut. My hands are cuffed behind my back keeping my fingers far from the keyboard. Even my brain is on total lock down. I've been forced to eat beans and cabbage for dinner. But worse than that, I've been banned from discussing anything that goes on in my house...other than myself.

Crap. Not this again!

You send one tweet about someone who doesn't like attention and all hell breaks loose. It's not like I divulged bank account information...or intimate sex life details...though I suspect my readers would eat that stuff up. No, it was something I thought was totally innocuous, and yet, apparently I'd committed a fairly grievous crime. And as we all know, crime doesn't pay, but we all pay for crime.

So here I am, trying to come up with something exciting to write about, and drawing a great big blank. I haven't had a shower yet. I haven't left the house in days. Even the ducks are out of ear shot. I'm totally screwed.

And not in a good way. Not. At. All.

But for some strange reason, I find myself thinking about the Gettysburg address. And embarrassingly, I don't have it memorized. The balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, yes. Lincoln's most famous speech...nope. That's a writer for ya. A writer with nothing to say. Or more specifically, nothing I'm allowed to say.

So, I've decided from today forward, I'm making up a new life.

And in this life, I'm several pounds lighter and at least a decade younger. Handsome men are falling at my feet and I can actually walk in a sexy pair of Jimmy Choo's. Oh yeah...things just got a whole lot more interesting around here. Who needs the nouveau Amish and their snooty ducks? Not me. I have Henry, the Earl of Catnip and Cooper Maxwell. I have my own damn theme music and I'm walking through life to the sassy beat!

Right after I take a shower and shave my legs. Even I can't imagine this stuff while sitting in a dirty Eddie Bauer sweatshirt with a good month's worth of stubble.

Until the next time...I'll be having fun for a change!

only the shadow knows...

I woke up this morning...Groundhog's Day morning...to discover two things.

One, the groundhog didn't see his shadow, so my diet plans have gone completely out the window...again. This means I officially have six less weeks to squeeze into my favorite jeans before spring is busting out all over...or more aptly, I'll be busting out all over.

And two, the snow was coming down as if hell had indeed frozen over. So, of course, I had to wonder how these two unrelated things were, in fact, related. And I came to only one logical conclusion. Since we have six less weeks of winter this year, winter decided to pack them all into one weekend. This weekend.

But it's not the first time the groundhog failed to see his shadow. Oh, sure...it's rare. But it happened just a few years ago. How can I be so sure, you ask? Well...because I blogged about it, of course. And if you don't blog it...it didn't happen.

So for all you naysayers out there, here's the proof...a rerun from 2011...

Six Less Weeks of Winter.

If you get seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror, what price do you pay for running over the groundhog on the same day he predicts an early spring? Should I be more concerned about six weeks of bad luck or six more weeks of winter?

From the minute I woke up this morning until the moment I sat down to write my blog, my day was a total disaster. 

Honestly, it should have been a good day.  I was due.  For starters, the groundhog—my nemesis from last year—didn’t see his shadow, and we are expecting an early spring.  This doesn’t happen very often, especially with news crews surrounding him with artificial light.  I don’t know exactly what an early spring means.  When can we expect winter to be over?  Can I please get a precise date?   

But I digress…                  

Upon discovering that winter was officially on its way out, I decided that it would be a great day to take the dog for a ride.  I needed to buy dog food (a store he can actually enter) and he loves to go with me.  I got his leash out, hooked him up, and let him drag me to the driveway.

That was as far as we got. 

Mike had forgotten to unhitch the trailer from the back of the Land Rover.  I would have put Indy in the backseat while I struggled with the trailer, but the backseat was still filled with things from moving.  I apologized to my dog and took him back to the house.  There would be no trip for him today.  In hindsight I could have used his help to move the trailer once I unhitched it. 

One sprained wrist and a partially dislocated finger later, the trailer was parked haphazardly in the grass and I was on my way to buy dog food.  Another hour after that, three hungry dogs were pushing to be the first one to eat, as I tore into the bag, careful not to hurt my already hurt hand.  Once they had eaten, I put them out in the yard—pretty standard lunchtime stuff.  I would love to say that having one of the dogs escape the yard isn’t standard, but where Joey is concerned, it is more standard than I would like.  So I hopped back into the Land Rover, armed with his favorite squeaky toy, and began my forty-five minute circle around the neighborhood. 

I was almost ready to give up when my cell phone rang.  It was a man who lived three streets over.  He had found Joey. 

Once that adventure was over I decided to do something more ordinary—dishes.

Doing the dishes would have been far more effective if the sink had drained.  As I ran the water, the sink filled.  The only problem was, I hadn’t put the plug in the drain.  I didn’t get very far washing dishes before I had to stop. 

I added the drain and the hole in the fence to the growing list of “to do” items for Mike.  It is a very long list.  He would need those extra six weeks to get it all done before spring. 

For the rest of my day, I attempted to unpack as many boxes as I could, and put as much away as I was able.  I am definitely feeling a little overwhelmed with everything that needs to be done around the house now that we have boxes and baskets of stuff everywhere.  I was happy to take a break from the unpacking when my daughter asked me to run an errand. 

It was cold and dark when I got into the Land Rover and headed out into the night. 

I was driving along minding my own business, paying attention to the road (not texting or anything,) when he ran out in front of me.  I tried to stop, but there was no time.  I hit him.  The groundhog.  On groundhog’s day. 

What are the odds? 

Actually, the odds are against it.  On closer inspection I realized that it wasn’t even a groundhog.  It was an opossum.  They don’t care if they see their shadows.  They have no effect whatsoever on spring.  But I still felt bad—poor little thing.

I am just glad today is over.  I just hope I don't wake up and have to live it all over again like Bill Murray!

Until the next time…I’ll be starting my spring diet early since winter is ending soon!