we argued about mayonnaise, peanut butter, music and religion…

With spring break just around the bend in my little ​corner of the world, I was reminded of spring breaks past. I found myself digging through Facebook to see if any of my old college buddies were there. I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming need to "catch up". I found a few people...some I added, some I didn't. But my very best friend from days of yore still hasn't caught up with the times. Eh, that's ok. We still talk on the phone. She even comes to visit on rare occasions, and sometimes I think rare is best. You know what they say about house guests and fish...

My daughters asked me the other day how I was able to still be friends with my best friend from college.  Even though our visits are few and far between these days, when we do get together it’s as if we were never apart.   We finish each other’s sentences, laugh at the same silly things we always laughed at, and argue about the dumbest things.

I told the girls a story about my first college spring break.  It was at the end of my sophomore year at the University of Pittsburgh and my best friend Mary Lou and I decided to take a Greyhound bus from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

Let me just say that spending fifteen hours trapped on a bus with anyone will make you just a little stir crazy.  The bus stops along the way were terrifying in their nastiness, and I think we visited every disgusting bathroom at every stop we made.  Add to that a heavy dose of OCD—I had some of my  favorite songs on repeat (on the only cassette I brought with my Sony Walkman) that we both listened to using two pairs of headphones—and a very limited budget.  We couldn’t afford to splurge on food.  We had to choose very wisely.

Our room had a kitchenette, so instead of eating out, we decided to shop for food and eat in for most meals.  This would have been ideal if not for the fact that we couldn’t agree on what to buy.

After more than twenty years, I would guess that she would still say I was being unreasonable, but if you are a mayonnaise person you just won’t eat Miracle Whip.  She would have been happy getting Miracle Whip to serve two purposes—as a sandwich spread, and as a salad dressing.  I was adamant that it would serve neither purpose in my world.  We had the same argument over which brand of peanut butter to buy.  Somehow we managed to find a compromise, but the trip to the grocery store set the tone for the entire trip.  Then, only one of us had a fake ID to get into the bars (hint...it wasn't me). We capped off the week by having a heated disagreement about religion.

And then we had to ride fifteen hours back to Pittsburgh on the bus!

This was the part of the story when the girls asked me how Mary Lou and I were still friends after all these years.  “It’s simple.” I told them.  “We just had to accept that we could never share an apartment.”  Or spend more than a weekend together without a break.

That’s just how friendship is…you make adjustments to accommodate each other.  Good friends are irreplaceable, but hardly perfect.  We make mistakes—sometimes even big ones—but true friendship is like a marriage, you’re in it for better or worse.  You accept each other’s flaws for what they are, and you love each other anyway.  I don’t know what I would do without my friends…even the ones who drive me absolutely crazy after just a few days of togetherness.  My friends have been there for me in my darkest moments, and I certainly hope they known that I will be there for them in theirs.

Unconditionally.

Until the next time…I’ll be giving thanks for my wonderful friends, both far and near!

dear easter bunny

This is it. The final stretch. Only days before Easter. And still, it snows.  ​

I know I've said it before, but I live in Georgia. It's supposed to be warm in Georgia. Hot even. I remember reading all about it when I was a kid, living in the frozen tundra of upstate New York, trudging through snow nearly up to my waist.​ Georgia has short winters, long summers, lazy days filled with lemonade and sweet tea...mint juleps and grits. Not snow in late March. Not frozen temperatures just days before Easter.

I was wrong. The Farmer's Almanac was wrong. It's freaking cold here, and I'm seriously thinking about getting a refund. Not that I love the hot summers...I don't. I long for cool breezes from June through September, but right now, I'd take a heatwave and be thankful for it, if only to avoid sleeping in wool socks and my cashmere scarf for one night. ​

Now, I'd like blame the groundhog and his misguided predictions, but as I was recently reminded, he's merely a captive prophet. (Ray Plasse, 2013) He likely wants no part in this circus he's forced to perform in each year. So if not the groundhog, who do I blame? The local weather man? No, he simply reports the weather, he doesn't predict it. Can I blame the pigs? I'd really like to find something new to blame the pigs for, but alas...pigs have no bearing on the weather. So where does that leave me? Right here, freezing my ass off in my 90-year-old farmhouse with crappy wiring, no insulation, and leaky windows...praying for spring to arrive with a vengeance.​ But my prayers have yet to be answered.

Now I'm left with only one wisp of a hope. The Easter Bunny. He brings joy, pastel colors, chocolate, and hopefully, this year, he'll bring warm weather. ​Because seriously, I was so cold yesterday, I forgot to blog. And that just can't happen. Hey, maybe if I'm lucky, Peter Rabbit will bring me a few packages of Thin Mints when he comes. Can't hurt to ask, right?

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for a basket filled with sunshine.​

kind over matter

Weekly Guest Spotlight

This week's guest is Joani Plenty, founder and creative director of the Giver Games.

So, a woman and a homeless man walk into a bar...

Well, not exactly but for one gamer of ‘The Giver Games’, the bar, a beer and a babe of a bartender turned out to be just what she needed after a rough but enlightening day.

March 15th is not only the day that Brutus shanked Caesar but it’s actually reserved for a kinder, yet, almost as dramatic day.  It’s the first day of ‘The Annual Giver Games™’; a mass global call-to-action in the form of a random kindness scavenger hunt which takes place March 15th-30th.  The gamers are given a clue each day via video.  Within the video is a clue that leads them to one of our sponsor’s websites for the next clue which is where they will need to determine what the kindness theme of the day is then head out to perform acts of kindness within that theme.  I was Inspired by the hit film ‘The Hunger Games®’ when I created the brand name (and the fact that I wish I were a superhero helped too).  The goal of ‘The Giver Games™ is to promote a minimum 15 days of consistent, comfortable, fun acts of kindness.  It takes 14 days to form a habit...we’ve added one more; just to be sure.

This story begins with the first ‘Giver Games™’ day starting out even better than expected.  The gamers received their first clue.  Some needed help interpreting the clues so they turned to their friends, family and fans for some help.  They were all off to spread some good.  Meanwhile, in Texas, a fan of ‘The Giver Games’ decides that she was going to participate as well and upload pictures to Instagram® using the hashtag #TheGiverGames for us all to see.  The woman wished to teach her daughters to have even more compassion for others, the responsibility that they have to society and how good it feels to give back.  All names have been left out to protect the innocent.  That’s not the truth but lets not mention “her” due to the choice of “bad” words used during the events that took place.

It was a cold and rainy day.  The woman headed into the city with her daughters to pay-it-forward.  A homeless man sat in his usual spot on the hard concrete unfazed by the downpour.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Well, except for the cardboard sign held by the homeless man that read, “Hungry.  Help me".  

The woman decided to do just that.  “C’mon.” she said to her daughters then made a U-turn and headed toward a nearby fast food restaurant.  “Oh good!  I want a kids meal, mommy; I’m starving!” said the youngest daughter.  “Not as much as that poor man sitting in the rain who probably hasn’t eaten in days.” the woman replied.  She purchased a large double cheese burger meal, then quickly headed back to the corner where the homeless man sat.  “What if he doesn’t like burgers, mom?” asked the oldest daughter.  “What if he is lactose intolerant and this cheese burger makes his life worse?  It’s not like he can just go to his bathroom in the west wing to relieve himself.  We’re trying to help him...you should just give him money.”  

The woman stopped, gave her daughter that motherly, “What-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you” look and continued on her quest to do good.  While stopped at a red light the woman rolled down her window and called the homeless man over to her car.  He leaned toward the window and said, “Howdy ma'am!”   The woman leans across the car resting on the passenger seat with her arm  "I saw u here; it's very cold out so we wanted u to have this." she said as she handed him the bag of food.

Just then, the homeless man threw the bag to the ground and said, “I don't need that shit!  I need money!”  The woman and her two daughters sat there in shock as the light changed to green.  Cars began to beep and pass them and the woman’s anger could be felt as if it were spreading throughout her body, up her throat, to the tip of her tongue.  “I hope someone comes along and supports your habit. I won't ever again.  I wanted you to eat."  The woman then drove off ranting hysterically.  “The audacity!  That %&*!”   “Mom...you should have just given him the $6.” said the older daughter.  The woman yells in disbelief for at least another 10 miles then turns her wordy speech into a low mumble, “Six dollars??  Six dollars?!  I wouldn’t give him six cents!  Unbelievable!”

The first day of giving did not turn out to be what the woman had expected; a point that I had hoped to make without wasting perfectly good French fries.  Performing random acts or should I say, “conscious acts of kindness”, is not always easy; it can change your view of others and even the world after a bad experience.  This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t do it anyway.  Was the woman’s experience uncomfortable and awkward?  I’d say so.  I’d also understand if she felt that she could never extended her hand to another homeless person again.  But then, aren’t we allowing our negative experiences to control us, hence, control our way of life and what is “normal”?  But what if we could control what is normal by creating more love than hate, turning negative experiences into positive ones and making those who perform acts of kindness without motive the majority instead of the minority?  What if people didn’t stare at you when you decided to push five shopping carts from the parking lot to the store because it’s something that everyone does?  What if people performing random acts of kindness wasn’t something that we felt we needed to “tweet” and say, “Wow” about because it’s the way of life?  What if random kindness scavenger hunts like, ‘The Giver Games’, spread and became as popular and traditional as having a bachelor party?  Well, I’d say that ‘The Giver Games’ is a pretty good start of something fun, consistent, and natural...something great.

“He wanted money!” the woman whispered to herself though it was heard by her daughters.  “Well, I’m not supporting his drug habit if that’s what he needed the money for but I also will not allow this experience to cause my daughters to believe that all of the homeless act this way.” she thought to herself.  “There are many people who appreciate the help of those more fortunate and that’s the person that I want my daughters to meet.”  The woman straightened her posture in the driver’s seat of the car and took a deep breath.  “We’re going back.” she said to her daughters.  “Not to that man but we’re going to try again tomorrow...we have to try again because of him...in spite of him.  This is too important.”  The woman dropped her daughters off at home, headed out to a familiar bar for a cold drink with her sister.  As the two women sat down at the bar, the woman turns to her sister, smiles and says, “You are not going to believe the day that I’ve had...”

​Joani puts the personality in “Social Media Personality” by connecting and making true friendships via social media. “Passing notes in class has finally paid off!”  

A former child bully turned advocate, actor and author, Joani’s expertise lie in relationships, parenting, Attention Deficit Disorder, motivational speaking and bullying which has brought in over 5 million Twitter impressions as a Twitter chat guest for 30Secondmom.com and The Ricki Lake Show’s social media community, ‘Friends of Ricki’.  Joani is the founder and creative director of The Giver Games™ as well as b4bully.com with thousands of followers via Facebook, Twitter, Pheed, IG, YouTube and Pinterest. “…People only love me for my donkey joke.” - Joani Plenty

For more about the Giver Games please visit the website, here.

it's the weekend, so what?

Well, it's Friday...again. A day that's almost exactly the same as Thursday and Wednesday and, I think you get what I'm saying. In the exciting life of a stay-at-home writer, one day blends effortless into the next. And today, it's cold again. ​

Although, the calendar tells me it is finally spring, all evidence points to the contrary, and I've about had it with the groundhog's lies. Spring did not come early and in fact, even now that it's here, it's still not springlike weather. I'm hiding under the covers in my bed to stay warm until the heat kicks back on. It was in the twenties last night and I'm still sleeping in wool socks a scarf! ​We're just a week or so shy of April and it's still blustering outside like we're in the middle of January.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the change of seasons, but it would be nice if it would change to spring now. I've been patient...ok, so I haven't exactly been patient, but I've waited long enough, haven't I? I never even got my girl scout cookies. How is it I managed to move to the only town on the planet without girl scout cookies? (Don't mess with my logic, I'm on a perfectly good rant here.) I'm craving thin mints like a vampire craves blood, without a single girl scout in sight!

And, it's the weekend. Another fallacy in a world filled with broken dreams. I'm a stay-at-home writer who can't tell one day from the next, and I'm supposed to get excited just because it's Friday? Ha! Not happening. Unless, there's an off chance I might get to go to the movies with my husband tonight. I might ​be willing to change my sour demeanor and my grumpty-times-ten attitude if I got an evening out of this whole thing. I suppose it's worth the effort to bring this up to Mr. Lincoln when he gets back from the office. I mean, I did feed the pigs for him yesterday...without dying, I might add. He might sort of owe me for that, right?

You know, there might actually be something to said about this whole weekend ​thing after all.​ I'll let you know how it works out.

Until the next time...I'll be changing out of my jammies for a change!​

spring at last

It's a beautiful spring morning. The sun is shining. The birds are tweeting (not that kind of tweeting...the old fashioned bird kind) and the pigs? Well, the pigs are squealing and dancing around the pen like they've won the lottery. Why? What would make the pigs dance and squeal like they're happier than pigs in...well...you know? No, it's not because the big bad wolf (or garden gnome, or fox) has taken his last bow. Oh no, they've gotten much better news than that. They heard I was supposed to feed them today.

I've clearly pissed off Mr. Lincoln if he's willing to let me enter the pig pen, bucket of feed in my hands, unable to defend myself against a multi-pig attack. I may as well dab a little bacon behind my ears and stick an apple in my mouth. I'm done for if I step foot over that fence...and we all know it.

I have no idea what about me appeals so much to the pigs. But after multiple demonstrations with witnesses, it has been determined I am their favorite. Favorite what? I have no clue, but I fear I'm their favorite dish. ​

If all the evidence pointing to this fact wasn't enough, I decided to step into the pen under the watchful eye of my daughter and a friend. I had something to prove.​ No one believed me when I said the pigs had it in for me. These attempts on my life always seemed to occur while no one was home. So over the fence I went. All the pigs were sunning themselves, paying no mind to the people in the yard. Well, until they caught the first whiff of me. Then they were up on their feet, heading in my direction, nipping and bumping me. When one of them tried to take a bite, I hightailed it out of there. Of course, Mr. Lincoln still didn't believe me, until the next day when the pigs all ran to the fence to see me while he was feeding them. They left the food to see me. He couldn't doubt it now, could he?

And yet, today he says I have to feed them. Should I worry that he keeps sending me out there to be eaten? Maybe I need to cook a really good dinner or wear something sexy tonight...you know, remind him of why he loves me? Maybe then he wouldn't be offering me up to the pigs like the sacrificial lamb. ​

Ok...well, wish me luck. But if you don't see a blog from me tomorrow, you'll know what happened. Pigs 1, Writer 0. ​

Man, that would make for such a good blog too.​

Until the next time...I'll be dressing in armor to feed the pigs.​

a catastrophic loss of duck

Well, it finally happened. Our last duck was taken by the unseen entity, or zombie garden gnome, as I like to refer to it. My hus...IDP refers to it as "The Fox." So we're officially duckless on the Leaning Duck Farm. (That's the official name, by the way.) I say we need to immediately replenish the duck supply (and add a few more chickens because we lost two more of those too) but the head honcho...the guy with the money...Mr. Lincoln himself, say, nope. Not so fast. First we need to fortify the perimeter. Secure the safety and well-being of said ducks, chickens, and assorted other animals around here...blah, blah, blah.

I say it's a bit late for that. Shouldn't we have secured the perimeter and fortified the electric surveillance ​stuff while we still had ducks to save?

But hey, what do I know? I'm not cut out for farming, remember? Unless the pigs are starving. And I'm beginning to see a pattern of me being asked to feed the pigs right around the same time I do something to make a certain someone annoyed with me. Coincidence? I don't think so.​ Let's just say, I'm going to start keeping track. To be safe, you know? Accidents happen and all that.

For now, I'm just going to steer clear of the pigs, and coach the chickens to roost up high until we get the fence situation handled. And then, who knows...another batch or two of ducks sounds like a good place to start.

Until the next time...I'll be watching for garden gnomes around every corner.​

who floods a stove?

I was having a conversation with someone today, explaining why it wouldn't be a good idea for me to attempt to use a firearm (even in the most supervised of situations.) I mean, I'm not even allowed to use the really sharp knives in my kitchen (I'm far too accident prone for that) and more than once, I've been banned from lighting fires in the fireplace.​ I'm a danger magnet who has destroyed pink heating pad hearts by leaving the burner unattended while boiling it in water, fallen into the chicken pen while stepping over the mesh fencing, and stepped on my own curling iron (while it was on) getting second degree burns on the soft underside of my toes. (Yeah, tell me about it!) If that isn't enough evidence for you, how about the time I flooded the stove?

Flooded the stove, you say? How...exactly...does one flood a stove? Well, let me tell you, shall I?​

Hop into my little time machine and let's head back to Feb 2010 for a few minutes.​

It was a relatively boring day—nothing much to write about really.  I woke up late like most mornings and rushed around to find something to wear.  I got dressed in my closet to save time, and managed to wear my underwear inside out for the third time this week, which is actually an improvement for me!  I also ended up wearing unmatched socks because I figured that a) no one would notice, (which they didn’t) and b) they were both the same color, if not the same shade.  Nothing exciting happened at work.  I did my usual Tuesday client visits with a business partner.  We worked for a while before having sushi for lunch—yes, I had the beaver roll, and yes, I ate it with chopsticks! (I guess you had to be there.) We had to eat somewhere good, because my coworker was so hungry she swallowed a twig while scarfing down the nuts that spilled out onto the floor of her car and nearly choked to death!  After lunch I worked some more.  Then I went home to get the girls and sat, paralyzed with fear, in the passenger seat of my car as my sixteen year old daughter drove me around town.  After I dropped them off at a friend’s house, I stopped to shop for a minute.  (Can’t discuss what I bought or how much I spent on the off chance my husband reads this blog too.)  Then I had this brilliant idea to go home and surprise Mike with a home cooked meal.  Me, the restaurant queen, was going to cook dinner.  Before you gasp with shock and amazement, I do actually know how to cook.  I may not use them often enough, but I actually have some skills in the kitchen.  Because Mike loves to cook, our kitchen was fully stocked, and I didn’t even need to make a grocery run before heading home. 

When my husband and I built our house (pre-farmhouse mind you), we incorporated a gourmet kitchen into the plans.  The kitchen has 2 sinks—one in the island for prep work and one in the counter for large pans—and a pot-filler faucet above the six-burner stove.  A pot-filler is nothing more than a faucet installed above the stove.  There is no drain below that faucet; it’s just for filling pots.  This is precisely why I should have stayed right by the stove while I was filling the pot to boil the pasta.  I should not have stepped away to let the dogs back in.  And I definitely should not have paused to answer the phone after that (even if it was my mother!) 

I don’t know how long I was away from the stove when I heard the sound of running water. (The kind of running water that is pouring from somewhere it should not be pouring from and splashing against a surface it should not be splashing against.) I ran back to the stove to find the stock pot overflowing and water spilling over the burners, disappearing somewhere inside and then seeping out of the oven door below.  My reaction was a hearty, “OH CRAP!” as I, first shut off the faucet, and second, rushed around trying to find something to soak up the water that was literally everywhere!  I was cursing my husband loudly because he refused to let me order the ShamWow that I'd seen on late night TV just recently. He said it was stupid, and who would ever need to soak up that much liquid with a rag? Right? Who indeed? If I'd gotten a ShamWow, the flood would have been instantly absorbed into the magic cloth!

I realized right then that I was a modern day Lucy Ricardo and I was going to be in a lot of trouble when Ricky got home! 

And that brings me back to the beginning. 

I am no longer allowed to use the stove or the fireplace.  I had already almost set fire to the house on three separate occasions while building a fire in said wood burning fireplace, which is why I am forbidden to play with matches.  But, who floods a stove?  In most houses that’s not even an option.  Not even possible! 

Only I could flood a stove.  

Now I will never be allowed to cook either.  And I had been doing so well.  I was almost incident free…in the kitchen anyway.  I had a slight mishap the other day with a grilled cheese sandwich, but that was just minor—a lot of smoke, but no fire.  I was only given a warning that time.  And come on…admit it…it’s easy to get distracted when you have teenagers, and pets…and a daily blog to write! 

Until the next time…I’ll be staying away from sharp objects and open flames.

​

a wicked good guest

Weekly Guest Spotlight

This week's guest, author Edward Lorn.

Where the hell am I? Are those flowers in the background? Holy crap, I've gone mad, haven't I? I've been hog-tied and set to rot away on the Isle of Frill and Romance.

Oh, hey there. I thought I was alone. Thank Tom Cruise you finally came along. My name's Edward Lorn. I'm not supposed to be here. Seriously, I write thrillers and horror and stuff. I added “and stuff” because I've been known to put, like, you know, emotions and other offal into my strokes of genius. But I digress. Don't get me wrong; I am awesome, but I need to get back to my point. What was my point? I don't think I came to one. Okay, so I should get to the topic is what you're saying? Gotcha.

Erica and I share a stable over at Red Adept Publishing. She steals my hay on a daily basis, and I must constantly remind her not to drop patties in my straw pile. But overall, she's a swell lady. She was kind enough to invite me over for tea and crumpets, so here I am. Sadly, there were no crumpets, and “tea” around Erica's household seems to be synonymous with pumpkin brandy.

Those flowers are really getting to me.

Anyway, I guess I should plug my own work. That's the thing to do, is it not? I wrote some stuff (quite a few stuffs, actually) so maybe you'd find it in your heart to read my wares. I was called “dark, malefic and often gross” in a recent review, so keep that in mind when you click the Buy Now button on your preferred bookseller's website. My newest book is Hope for the Wicked, in which a husband and wife hit-team run off to Mexico to find a kidnapped girl. Things go horribly wrong. It's a fun read, quick and to the point. Of course, by “fun” I mean traumatizing, and by “quick and to the point” I mean it bites and does not let go.

Now, where's the door? I'm obviously allergic to this type of flora. I'm starting to hallucinate. Next thing you know, I'll be calling myself awesome or genius or some such nonsense.

Coming through. Mind the ego!

Edward Lorn is an American horror author presently residing in the southeast United States. He enjoys storytelling, reading, and writing biographies in the third person. For info on his latest novel, Hope for the Wicked, click here.

the good, the bad, and the pigly

The last thing I wanted to hear this morning, was, "You need to feed the pigs." Especially since I was barely awake, and almost mistook the ringing phone for my alarm. I tried to hit snooze more than once before picking up the call.

"What do you mean I have to feed the pigs? I told you I was never going in there again." And I did say that. More than once. Especially after last week, when I fell into the chicken pen (occupational hazard around here) and the pigs went nuts, oinking and grunting their displeasure that I'd fallen where they couldn't reach me. I don't need to speak Pig Latin (or Pig English for that matter) ​to know they were wishing I'd fallen in their pen. "No way," I said. "I'm not doing it." I shook my head hard enough to fully wake up. ​

"You have to." The finality in his voice told me all I needed to know. He'd planned this. He was too far away to do it himself, and he knew my soft spot for hungry animals wouldn't allow me to let them starve. I was screwed.​

"Well...it's been nice knowing you," I tossed out. "If you don't hear from me by dinnertime, just consider me pig food."​

I didn't need to see his face to know he was rolling his eyes at me. For some strange reason he thinks I've exaggerated my relationship with the pigs. I haven't. They have it in for me.​ I'm fairly certain they have an unhealthy obsession with me, and I was about to willing step into their territory. That's like swimming in shark infested waters. Or dancing around the African Savanna calling out, "Here kitty, kitty!" There are more people killed each year by pigs than by sharks and lions combined (I'm guessing on the figures, I didn't actually look this up, but I'm pretty sure it's true)

Resigned to my fate, I pulled on my sturdiest jeans and farm boots and filled a bucket with pig food. The minute I stepped out the backdoor they started taunting me. Like I said, I don't speak pig, but I can only compare it to walking by a construction site in a short skirt. The things they were saying made me feel like I was nothing but a piece of...um...meat?

I crossed the yard, inching my way to my own doom, until there we were...staring each other down. Me versus 5 growing pigs. I spoke first. "Pigs. We meet again." They oinked in response, their flat noses pointed to the sky, drawing in my scent as I stepped closer to the electrified fence. I distinctively heard the haunting theme to "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" playing in the background as I approached, food bucket clutched in my hands.

"Listen up, pigs. I'm going to feed you but you'd better keep your snouts to yourselves. I'm no snack. You hear me?" ​

Their grunts grew more frantic the closer I got. I knew they were excited to see me. They had these sick little smiles on their faces. But I had an ace in the hole, and I reached into the bucket to pull it out.​

"Waffles!" I yelled as I started flinging left-over waffles from yesterday's breakfast into the pen. I tossed them as far away as I could, and just like I'd planned, the pigs went running for the sweet treats. I took that opportunity to hop over the fence and ran straight for the feeding trough.

Unfortunately for me, the pigs move faster than I do, and two of them beat me there.​ They grabbed for the bucket, stuffing their fat heads into the feed before I could pour it into the feeder. There were were, wrestling for control of the bucket. Me screaming obscenities as the other piggies jumped into the fray. It was an all out brawl as they nipped and prodded me to drop the bucket.

I finally turned it over, dumping the food over their heads, half into the feeder, half on the ground. The minute the food was dispersed, the pigs left me alone. There was even a short moment of peace as I patted their chubby (yet remarkably solid) bodies while they devoured their new favorite feed...something that was decidedly not ​me.

Hey, don't look so surprised...I took on the pigs and came out alive.​ All in all, not a bad day on the farm for the girl who could destroy the inside of a marble. 

Until the next time...I'll be leaving the feeding to someone more capable.​

hey, no pressure!

No, I will not join you on your imaginary farm. I will not listen to the scary, nightmare inducing music while I plant rows of vegetables I'll never remember to harvest, and collect animals I'll never remember to feed. I do enough of that on my real farm. It's a good thing the IDP takes care of the animals, because (and I quote) I am not cut out to be a farmer. Not even on an imaginary farm.​

But that doesn't stop my Facebook writer friends from sending me game requests to join them building cartoon communes. And they've gone a bit Chuck Norris on me lately with the peer pressure. It's not bad enough they send me requests, they send me HOURLY requests. And I know they're hoping I'll click those links by accident and stumble into the farm, only to be enticed by the ​looping sounds of the brainwashing music.

But listen up play farmers, I'm not falling for it!​ I have far more willpower than you think. Sure, I've given up Diet Coke, root beer and chocolate more times than I can count, just to fall off the wagon a few days later. But that doesn't mean I'm weak. It just means...well, I'm not so weak that I'll get addicted to Farmville. I'm not doing it. You'll have to step up your attacks if you think you're going to beat me at that game. I mean, if you had an imaginary Wonka World, filled to the brim with designer chocolates or something, I might be in danger of caving to the invitation. But a farm?

Heh! I can see pigs, and chickens, and duck (poor lonely ducky) all day long if I want to. And as far as a pasture filled with withering plants? I've got that too. And I don't even have to hear scary music on the real farm.

Seriously, that just creeps me out!​

Until the next time...I'll be watching my timeline very carefully!​

she lives!

Ok, maybe I'm being a bit overly dramatic. There was never any question as to whether or not I was alive. But I've been buried under guest posts and interviews preparing for my book release next month. It's crazy! I've never written this many blog  posts for someone else before, and having to do them all at once is driving me crazy! ​

Umm...crazier.​

I've gotten four guest posts done and two interviews. I still have three guest posts to write and four more interviews. And this is only if the tour sticks to 27 stops. If we get any more, all bets are off! ​ But it's not all bad. I'm really not complaining. I'm actually churning out some pretty good stuff. I can't wait for you to read it. We'll just have to wait until the tour, May 1-21st for that to happen. My impatience is not happy about this. Neither is my procrastination, since I can't put it off til April. I actually have to write them now, then wait until May to see them.

Eh, it'll be fine. And come May, I can take a great big breath of air and let the posts speak for themselves. Um...as I'm writing my regular daily posts. Right. No rest for the weary.​

I guess I'd better write a few extra ones for myself while I'm at it. ​

Until the next time...I'll be coming up with more brilliant ideas!​

the word of the day is dirty

I've been having fun lately, coming up with a new word every day. Most days it's a completely random, made up word that I define as I see fit for the circumstances. People love it. I love it. But sometimes you have to fall back on words that already exist. Sometimes you have to pull out a dictionary and say..."what one word best sums up my day?"

Today, that word is dirty.

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

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

Dirty rice is a spicy dish.

Dirty socks…not so much.

Dirty dancing is spicy fun.

Dirty feet are simply gross.

Dirty sex is pretty hot.

Dirty crotch is definitely NOT.

Dirty words are secret fun.

Dirty underpants are worse than NONE!

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

Ok…and off the topic of dirty, but just slightly. As I was throwing together my guest blogs for my To Katie With Love release tour, I was reminded of this really funny auto correct moment that happened to me about a year ago. I'd been napping. I know…the girl who doesn’t sleep was napping? And yes…I was. Even I need sleep sometimes. But I was awakened by a tweet or two, and felt compelled to respond immediately…before my eyes were completely focused, mind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

​

to blog or not to blog

To blog or not to blog? That's not really the question. I'm not contemplating giving this whole thing up to take up chess with the locals or anything. No, my dilemma is with a slew of guest posts I'm supposed to be writing for my blog tour to promote my book, To Katie With Love. I wrote one, and let me tell you, it was brilliant. I miss it already (since it goes on someone else's blog during the month of May). But then I realized I still had two more to write, and zero ideas. Then I woke up this morning to find an email from my publisher giving me three more to write! That's five guest posts I need to write, ASAP.

Can you say panic? ​

It's not like like I can ​write about my mysterious garden gnome, or my IDP. The readers on those blogs would think I was crazy. And if I just randomly mentioned my ghost or my screwy wiring? They'd be totally lost and confused. No, I have to come up with something brilliant for people I've never met. Awesome.

Now, I'm sure these are spectacular blogs...they are hosting me, after all. And I'm fairly cool and spectacular in my own quirky way, right? But you...my devoted readers...are well aware of how I operate. I wait until the last minute, think of something golden and start writing. Then I post it as soon as I'm finished (without as much as a single edit) and either fall asleep or go about my day without thinking about the consequences. I've been banned from speaking of (insert real life spouse name here)​ so I've made up an imaginary dead president who hangs out with me, keeping me company with his ridiculous beard and really big...uh...hat. What the hell am I supposed to write about for people who don't understand the bizarre dynamics of my life?

Therein lies the problem.​

And it's not like I can say, "Hey, no thanks, I'll pass." I'm contractually obligated to play nice and blog! I guess that's what I'll be doing today. Writing a whole slew of guest posts, in my pajamas, pretending I'm chained to the chair until I get them done. ​Someone send chocolate...it's gonna be a long day.

Until the next time...I'll be thinking.​

I stumbled into a new genre

Weekly Guest Spotlight

This week's guest is Mary Fan, the author of Artificial Absolutes​, a new science fiction novel. Click here for more info.

What the dickens is “New Adult”? The genre has been popping up in publishing news and book blogs for the past few months, and people seem to be both fascinated and confused by it. Well, the simplest explanation of the NA genre is that it’s fiction written for the 18- to 25-year-old age group, featuring protagonists who are either in college or in the early stages of independence.

Not so long ago, there were only two age groups for books: Children’s and Adult’s. Similarly, scientists who study human development only made that distinction in the stages of life. Then they realized that the teenage years are their own stage of development, separate from both childhood and adulthood, and culture shifted to accommodate that new perception. Products were made to cater specifically to teenagers, and the Young Adult genre in books was born.

These days, reports are coming in left and right about how the brain continues developing well into a person’s twenties. The age of privilege has made it clear as well: twenty-somethings are not quite adults. They’re still finding themselves, and many still rely on their parents. The New Adult genre seems designed for these not-quite-grown-ups who devoured YA fiction as teenagers and can’t quite relate to full-blown adult lit just yet.

When I was writing Artificial Absolutes, I had trouble finding a genre for it. That it counted as sci-fi was clear—the story’s set in outer space, after all—but the age group bothered me. Because of its young protagonist (Jane is a somewhat immature 22-year-old who’s graduated from university but isn’t entirely independent yet), calling it adult fiction seemed off. Plenty of grown-up sci-fi features protagonists of Jane’s age, but they are generally mature and sure of themselves. At the same time, Artificial Absolutes isn’t about teenagers, so although it “felt” more like YA, putting it in that category wouldn’t be right either.

Which is where New Adult comes in. When I first heard of the genre, I rolled my eyes. The examples given by the articles I read included stories about college girls and New York hipsters. Then it dawned on me that just like you can have YA fantasy, sci-fi, etc., you can have sub-sets of NA. In Artificial Absolutes, Jane not only flies starships, she also wrestles with a quarter-life crisis. Like most twenty-something’s, she’s no longer a child, but she’s not yet a grown-up. In other words, Artificial Absolutes fits nicely into the category of NA Sci-Fi, a category so new that I’m pretty sure no bookstore has set aside a shelf for it yet.

In other words, I wrote NA before it was cool. Go ahead, call me a hipster.

Mary Fan lives in New Jersey, where she is currently working in financial marketing. She has also resided in North Carolina, Hong Kong, and Beijing, China. She has been an avid reader for as long as she can remember and especially enjoys the infinite possibilities and out-of-this-world experiences of science fiction and fantasy.​

​

amish paradise

Here we go again. Another chapter in the saga of my ancient haunted farmhouse.​

The power is out in the kitchen again. This time, the stove and the refrigerator are on the only circuits working, so that's a plus. But the overhead lights and the outlets are apparently on another, and they're out. So I can cook...in the dark. The hallway, bathroom and dining room are apparently on similar circuits, because they're out too. So I have  darkness in half the house and no outlets...again. And it appears as if we're talking opposite circuits from the last ​time this happened.

So I wonder...are we talking 100 year old faulty wiring? Mice chewing through cloth covered wires? Ghosts toying with my sanity? Or just plain bad luck? I have no idea, but I'm on the verge of tearing my hair out.​

My hus...or rather, my imaginary dead president, Mr. Lincoln, feels right at home. He's actually enjoying the black out. He lit oil lamps and placed them around the house, saying he actually prefers it this way. Figures. He's on 1860s time. He wouldn't mind it at all if we were forced back into the time before electricity and connectivity.

Well, I can live just fine without the lights. As long as I still have the outlet that charges my laptop, the one that powers the internet, and the one that keeps my space heater warm. The rest of it's just gravy anyway.

Until the next time...I'll be baking bread by candlelight!​

I have to do what?

So, it's just beginning to sink in...the hard part of writing a book isn't the writing, it's the promoting. Ok, so it was the editing until I was finished with that part...and it was the writing before that...but this time I'm serious. Promoting is hard work.

But necessary. I mean, if I don't get out there and tell people about my book, how will people know? I guess it's a lot like actors who go out and do press for an upcoming movie release. It's part of the job description. They don't get to  play the role then disappear into the woodwork when the hard part of promoting comes along. And neither do I. I have to  do my part. Get out there and interact with people. Ok, so it's mostly online, but still. It's hard work staying on your computer in pajamas all day. Just nod your head and agree with me here.​

On my quest to promote, I stumbled across this idea...well, maybe it was handed to me by a writer friend...creating a book trailer. Sure, I'd seen them before. But I had no idea how to make a trailer. Where does one even begin? So I started asking around, and after a whole lot of digging and a little help from some friends, I now have my very own book trailer. And now that I do, I can move on to the next phase...interviews.

This should be interesting.​

Until the next time...I'll be promoting my book!​

ding dong my edits are done

I think I might have convinced my hus...I mean the IDP...that this whole writing thing is actually a job. I've spent the better part of a month, maybe two, working on edits for To Katie With Love.

The good news is, the edits are done. The book is amazing. And in less than two months it will be released! And I will officially join the ranks of all the other writers who managed to get a book published and into the hands of total strangers. And maybe then I'll get to take a nap.

Or not. There's still so much to be done. I have to write a dedication, an acknowledgement, a few guest posts, interviews, and if I can find the time...another book. ​

Yeah...definitely a job.​

Until the next time...​I'll be writing!

if I'm dreaming, don't wake me up

I've been here before. I'm dressed for the gala ball in my honor. My hair is done to the nines, my dress is fabulous, I can even walk in the shoes. But wait. When I look down, I realize I'm wearing a short skirt, and I haven't shaved my legs...in like a month!

Oops!

Then there's the dream where I'm just about to kiss my hot movie star dream guy when I wake up to a wet tongue and dog breath. We've all had dreams like this, where the world is perfect for one bright shining moment and then...pop! ​The bubble bursts and it's back to reality we go.

So, as I read through my email and discover I have yet another agent (can you say 6? Count 'em, six agents!) interested in my book, I start to wonder when the alarm clock is going to go off, dragging me back to my mundane little life of chickens, duck(s), and killer pigs. I'm sort of afraid to let myself believe it's all real, for fear I really will​ wake up and be disappointed.

But I guess, for now, the only thing I can do is go with it. Keep sending out those requested manuscripts while I wait for the other glass slipper to drop. Hey, who knows...maybe there really is a guy on a white horse standing in the wings, or a crazy top-hat-wearing-Johnny Depp character waiting to take me to the top in his glass elevator. ​

Stranger things have happened, right? And if I'm lucky, I'll get a piece of fancy chocolate while I'm at it. ​

Until the next time...I'll be waiting (not so patiently).​

interview with the demon

Weekly Guest Spotlight.

This week's guest is author Elizabeth Corrigan...or rather Bedlam, a character from Elizabeth's forthcoming book Oracle of Philadelphia, available March 25.

So, Elizabeth Corrigan wrote this book about my friend Khet’s life called Oracle of Philadelphia. Which is, you know, pretty cool, since more than anything I want us to become famous enough to go on that celebrity dancing show. I mean, I would have been more excited if Oracle were a blockbuster movie, because bigger audience, but in my long life I have accepted that I cannot have everything.

I should maybe back up and tell you who I am. I’m Bedlam, chaos demon extraordinaire. Or, really, the only chaos demon there is. That’s how it works, angels all embody a certain virtue or, like in my case, something less like a virtue that’s still fundamental to the world. Although maybe chaos would have been a virtue if I had been a little better behaved at the beginning of time. Anyway, the seraphim—read: important angels—get the good virtues like justice and mercy. And the cherubim are stuck with things like equanimity and punctuality. I guess I’m a cherub, since I’m definitely not a seraph, but I’m not a chubby baby in diapers, so don’t get any ideas

Anyway, Elizabeth tells me that, since I am the most popular character in the book by far, it is partly my responsibility to promote the thing. I have to say that this news comes as a surprise to me, since I’ve never been the most popular anything anywhere. I was never good enough for Heaven or evil enough for Hell, and both sides refused to understand why I couldn’t just follow orders like a good demon.  Angel. Whichever was more appropriate at the time. And humans… Well, humans usually don’t “get” me. But apparently I’m popular to this magical audience called “readers.” So points for me

“What does this promotion entail?” I wondered. So I searched the internet, and it told me that I needed a twitter account, like I had any idea what that was. I’ve got Google down, but anything more complicated than that, and I need some help. And Khet is the best friend anyone could ask for, but she is totally useless when it comes to anything technology-related. The last time her phone broke, she was disappointed that she had to replace it with a push-button one instead of a rotary dial.

But I persevered, or, you know, googled “Twitter” and went to the first site that came up. It told me I had to pick a name for my account, so, of course, I typed in “@Bedlam.”  And would you believe it was taken? Who do they think originated the concept? So I had two choices: go demonize the person who stole my name or pick another one. I honestly considered doing the first, but I realized I didn’t know nearly enough about computers to actually find that person. So I went with “@BedlamFTW.” Because I’m awesome.

Next I needed to insert a picture of myself, or I would forever be known as a white egg with an ugly yellowy-green background, and I’m far too vain for that. Trouble was, I didn’t actually have any pictures of myself. I didn’t even have any old printed photos that I could scan in. Yes, cameras have been around for a while, but Khet is afraid of them. She doesn’t think they’ll seize her soul or anything like that. She’s just afraid that there will be photographic evidence of her looking exactly the same now as she did fifty years ago, and people will lock her up and experiment on her. I suppose it’s possible that other people have snapped shots of me over the years, but I never stuck around long enough to get copies of any of them. Fortunately, I remembered there was a picture of me on this Oracle of Philadelphia book! Granted, it was a picture of me as a red reflection on Michael’s sword, but it was better than anything else I had, so I cropped it and stuck it in.

Then it was onto actual tweeting time. Once I figured out what that meant—any 140 characters I wanted about whatever I wanted! My conversation with Khet on the topic went something like this:

Me: This is the perfect opportunity for the world to experience my brilliant insights into life.

Khet: Yes. That or you will bitch about whatever is on the radio for two days and then lose interest.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous. I have the power to control all music playing in my presence. I never have to listen to anything I don’t like.

Khet: You do realize that you’re going to need something to tweet on, right? I’m not getting a computer. There’s no place to put one. You’ll have to get a mobile phone or something, and you know how you are about losing those.

Since she didn’t forbid me from using her money to buy myself an iphone, I got one of those and have been tweeting on it ever since. I’ve kept it up for well over a month, and I only lost my phone and had to replace it twice! So, ha! I am a successful twitterer.

So then I was telling Elizabeth about this, she told me I had to get a Facebook account next. Once I looked up what that was, I said, “No way!” I need a much better picture of myself to be seen in that medium. Get me on the cover of the second book, and then we’ll talk.

Elizabeth Corrigan has degrees in English and psychology and has spent several years working as a data analyst in various branches of the healthcare industry. When she’s not hard at work on her next novel, Elizabeth enjoys singing, reading teen vampire novels, and making Sims of her characters. She drinks more Diet Coke than is probably optimal for the human body and is pathologically afraid of bees. She lives in Maryland with two cats and a purple Smart Car.

​For an excerpt of Oracle of Philadelphia, click the link here.

What the duck is going on?

Well, we were down to three ducks yesterday. The garden gnome has clearly struck again, and I was greatly saddened to see another duck missing from the flock. Then last night, we heard a great commotion (that's what I'm calling it) and my husband rushed outside and discovered only one duck in the yard. ​

One.​

We were devastated, of course. We love our ducks and their crazy antics. We started with eight ducklings and after a minor mishap with a large dog paw, found ourselves with seven. And for months, we had seven happy, devious, plotting ducks wandering the yard quacking at their own jokes and making the farm a happy place. Then the damn psycho gnome moves in (or a fox as some unbelievers have suggested) and suddenly we had one sad, lonely duck.

A little later, another duck showed up, like he'd taken cover in the melee, (leaving the female to fend for herself like a typical male...duck) and now we have two. From eight ducks to two in less than a year. We clearly need more ducks. And probably a bigger gnome trap. I guess it's back to the drawing board and the ACME website to search for traps. I was really hoping we just had a wiley coyote in the area. Everyone knows they can't catch ANYTHING.​

Until the next time...I'll be getting a stronger electric charge for the fence.​