Vivi Bickell

Obligatory New Year's Post

2012-01-05T17:41:00.000-08:00

First, Happy (belated) Holidays. December was a full on bat shit crazy month for me. Not only was I working on revising my book for the agent who requested an R & R, but I also had to, you know, be a mom and play Santa and bake cookies until my eyes crossed and attend school functions and family gatherings and vacuum up pine needles and keep She Who Refuses To Sleep Like A Normal Human from climbing in the dishwasher. It was only slightly daunting, to say the least, especially when I realized I wasn't so much revising my book as I was rewriting the entire second half. But I survived. And only had to slip myself in the night deposit box at the local mental institution once. Woohoo.

And second...Happy New Year. It's 2012.

That looks weird, doesn't it? 2012? Remember when it was 1989, and the thought of 2012 sounded so space age and futuristic? Like we'd all have robot maids and we'd race around town in hovercrafts.

Wait, can you race a hovercraft? Or does it just...hover?

Whatever, my point is, it's 2012 and, aside from the pending apocalypse the Mayans have been good enough to schedule for us in December, I'm feeling like it's going to be a pretty good year. My goals are fairly simple:

Write. Write. Write. Eat sushi. Hug my kids. Write. See a movie. Write. Get a tattoo. Write. Write. Watch Big Bang Theory. Write. Write. Have dinner with friends. Write. Write. Write. Drink beer. Write. Write.

So, there you have it. I feel confident I can achieve every single one of those goals. And many can be done at the same time (except for seeing a movie and getting a tattoo. Probably a bad idea. Plus, the other movie goers might find the buzzing irritating).

I'm also hoping the year brings me lots of warm fuzzies. You can never have too many warm fuzzies, in my opinion.

Grabbing the Hatchet

2011-11-21T04:37:00.000-08:00

Shhhh....She Who Refuses To Sleep Like A Normal Human is actually sleeping like a normal human. Perhaps it's because I altered her DNA by pumping her full of cider mill donuts. See?

Yep, all that stuff around her mouth is pure sugar. I know, you're in awe of my parenting skills. It's fine. I'm used to it.

So, I thought I'd take this opportunity to share with you my current query stats so far:

Number of queries sent: 44
Number of rejections: 24
Number of full requests: 7
Number of fulls still out: 3
Number of R & Rs: 1 (which I'm super doing-a-happy-dance excited about)
Pounds of chocolate consumed: never mind
Amount of profanity hissed when opening inbox to a new email and discovering that, instead of a response from an agent, some prince in Nigeria wants to give me a million dollars: HUGE

So, as you can see from the stats, particularly the R & R, I'm diving back into my ms with a renewed excitement. I intend to hack the living crap out of it.

Ummm...in a good way, of course.

What dreams may come...

2011-11-11T09:54:00.000-08:00

The other night, after a reckless Kit-Kat binge, I had a bizarre dream. I was tending bar at a party in a hotel. All the of the party goers were writers (except for one person - the lady who mans the self check-out station at my local grocery store was there standing off in the corner, giving me the evil eye as she always does. Not sure if she's just a grumpy person or if I look like someone who might try and steal lettuce). The party goers would order their drinks and then get very upset with me because all I had to mix drinks together was ice and maple syrup. Trying to deflect their irritation with me, I handed them each a fake mustache from under the bar. When they'd put them on, they'd each get a brilliant idea for a book. They were so distracted by their new idea that they forgot all about the lack of alcohol.

Then I looked down and I didn't have feet. (This happens a lot in my dreams. Not sure what it means.)

Of course, at one point in the dream, I tried putting a mustache on and...nothing. Zip. Nada. Suddenly, stink-eye lady from the grocery store was bartending next to me, and she said, "It only works on them. They're real writers."

Wow...bite me, stink-eye lady.

I'm sure the dream would have gone on if She Who Refuses To Sleep Like A Normal Human hadn't jarred me awake with a swift whack in the face (yes, She Who Refuses To Sleep Like A Normal Human ends up in our bed almost every night in an effort to coax her into sleeping more. It rarely works, btw.). But, honestly, my subconscious wouldn't have needed to elaborate any further. I know what it all means (except for the missing feet thing). I've been querying my book and, of course, it's a trying experience. Stacks of rejections, handfuls of requests, more rejections, more requests... It's all good and I'm so very grateful for the whole experience, but, one minute you're feeling like it could actually happen, and the next you're feeling like you want to crawl into a corner with a gigantic box of Hostess products. (Okay, I usually have the urge to break into Hostess products regardless of whether I'm up or down, but you get the idea.)

Regardless, I may venture out to Target and hit the Halloween clearance bins for a fake mustache. You know...just to see what happens...

Some things I've learned in the last few months...

2011-11-03T07:16:00.000-07:00

- I can write/rewrite a book with a baby climbing all over me

- I can write/rewrite a book with a baby climbing all over me while being a total sleep deprived zombie

- Replacing every meal with a double tall iced latte is a great way to lose five pounds fast

- The world didn't actually end the first day I had to drop my son off at kindergarten, even though I was absolutely positive it would.

- Sometimes, someone you thought you could count on just doesn't come through. And that's okay. (...sort of)

- Sometimes, someone you thought you could count on does come through, and it is so very full of awesome.

- I still can't read while I'm on the treadmill. My brain is just not advanced enough.

- I can eat cider mill donuts until I throw up

- I cannot stop watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I can't. I've tried. It's just not happening.

- Sometimes I feel proud that I've written three books and, though I have yet to be picked up by an agent, I have a handful who love my writing and are waiting for me to hit the right story.

- Sometimes I feel utterly pathetic that I've written three books and have yet to land an agent and I get so frustrated and fed up that I want to throw my computer in the garbage, grow a beard and join some traveling freak show.

- When the aforementioned frustration sets in and I swear I will never, ever, ever, ever write anything ever again, I still wake up the next morning with the little bug in my brain spinning away at another idea for a book.

- My daughter - aka She Who Refuses to Sleep Like a Normal Human - will, in fact, eat the dirt out of my potted bay laurel tree when I'm not looking.

- Having a dance-off with zombies to Bad Romance by Lady Gaga is a really good way to prepare for the zombie apocalypse

- Charles Dickens is still my favorite writer.

- As much as I want to, I still can't watch Ghost Hunters without hiding in my husband's armpit.

How about you? Learned anything new in the last few months?

The end...sort of

2011-09-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, members of my fanbase (you there, Mom?), people who Google things like "dry heaving my way to the finish line" and end up on my blog...I would like to officially announce that the book is done.

DONE!!!!!

I mean, done, and ready for beta read, which means it's still going to get final edits, but it's done enough for other people to look at it, which is a wonderfully warm and fuzzy feeling.* I can honestly say that I am happy with the whole thing. It's an unusual feeling. My last two books, even when I began querying, there was something about each of them that I felt a little insecure about. But I don't feel that with this book at all. Maybe I've finally got a winner.

Or maybe it's the sleep deprivation.

Speaking of which, I actually think my head might fall off from lack of sleep. She Who Refuses to Sleep Like a Normal Human has been in rare form this last week. And to make it worse, I'm so tired when I'm up in the middle of the night with her that, to stay awake, I subject myself to reality TV on Bravo. I'm pretty sure Most Eligible Dallas is made completely of evil. I don't think I've ever wanted to punch so many people at once (including myself).

But I'm hoping that the sleep deprivation has actually worked in my favor and helped me write a book that will make some agent's heart go pitter patter. If it has, I might be in trouble. What if I produce my best work when I'm part-zombie?

That would kinda suck.

*I'm still looking for another beta reader, so if anyone is interested, let me know! The book is YA with a paranormal theme, a little on the off-beat, quirky side (think Heathers meets Dead Like Me) and it's coming in right around 55K words, so it should be a quick read.

So Close I Can Smell It

2011-08-19T14:11:00.000-07:00

...and it smells like rain, coffee, high school, burnt leaves, disembodied souls, Alfred Hitchcock movies, fresh baked croissants and Brad Pitt.

That would be my book, you see. As in, it's so close to being finished that I can smell all the little random details. No, no...please don't run away. I swear my book is not in any way, shape or form about Brad Pitt. It will all make sense when you read it. Which, if the fairies in charge of granting agents are listening, then maybe...just maybe...

Do not ask me how I've managed to write this book. I really can't tell you. I look back on my day and it's one big blur, yet, I'm staring at another chapter that I somehow managed to eek out. I write mostly during nap time, if She Who Shall Never Sleep Like A Normal Human chooses to actually take one. If she does, it's usually about thirty minutes. Forty-five if I'm lucky. Aside from that, I steel a few minutes here and there throughout the day. Which leads me to my next point....

I wondering if, when I got back to do edits/revisions, it's going to read like it's been written by someone who freebases NoDoz. I'm hoping not. Of course, if I'm doing edits/revisions under the same circumstances I wrote the first drafts, then I might not be able to tell. Which leads me to my next point....

I'll be looking for Beta readers soon. I've got a couple already set up, but could use maybe one or two more. If there's anyone up to reading and giving honest feedback/critiques (I'm looking for a little more than just "yeah, it was good" or "holy hell, it sucked rocks") in a somewhat timely manner (preferably not six month after I send it you) then let me know. I'd certainly be happy to return the favor at some point!

It's about time

2011-07-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about time. And about patience. Mostly because I spend the majority of my days feeling like I don't have enough of either. So, I've starting making a mental list of what I do and don't have time and patience for. It reads as follows:

Things I don't have time and/or patience for:

- dishes that don't wash themselves
- self check out lanes at Meijer (aka the 7th level of hell)
- the local news (stop trying to make me afraid of EVERYTHING. Please.)
- reality tv (with the exception of Food Network Star, Project Runway and Top Chef)
- LEGO pieces that like to embed themselves in my feet
- neighbor dogs that bark incessantly the minute I put my toe outside (it's been FIVE years. I'm not here to rob/maim your owner or pee on your favorite tree. And, P.S., you look like a mop with teeth.)
- people who suck (this includes people that tailgate, text and drive and people who douse themselves in cologne/perfume and ride elevators with me. Also includes crazy people who try and suck me into their craziness by handing me a bunch of BS to manipulate my feelings. I'm immune to this. Move on, please. You're wasting your time.)
- Rachel Ray (still the anti-christ)
- jicama (what the effing eff IS that crap?)

Things I DO have time/patience for:

- my kids (always)
- my husband (always)
- my cat, even though she honks up hairballs, like, fifty times a day
- reruns of Frasier on the Hallmark Channel (Hey baby, I hear the blues are callin', tossed salads and scrambled eggs...)
- my friends (especially the ones who make me laugh and help me eat cookies)
- my writing (even though it often makes me want to jam pencils in my eyes)
- caramel sauce
- Ella Fitzgerald
- pants that don't give me muffin top

So, what does your mental time and patience list look like?

Meeting My Imaginary Friends

2011-07-24T06:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got to do something so very cool. Not ONLY did the hubs take the offspring to play with their cousins so I could get a break from having to tend to stink-o diapers and Richter scale baby meltdowns, but I also got to attend the Carrie Harris's book launch party for Bad Taste in Boys. The day had many different levels of awesome.

Awesome level one was that my good friend/fellow mom/writer/blogger Maria came with me. She got to be part of a "Bickell Family Outing" which, of course, included running late, following the GPS to the wrong location and some creative colorful language. Yay for her!

Second level of awesome was visiting Nicola's Books for the first time and falling in love with every nook and cranny of this independently owned book store - a RARE find these days. I kinda wanted to just move in and live there forever and ever. Wonder if they'd mind.

Third level of awesome was, of course, meeting Carrie in person. We've been blogging friends for a couple years now, and I found out a few months ago that we lived only 40 minutes from each other (shut the front door!). So, I was so excited to be able to attend the book launch and meet her in person. It's such an bizarre thing to meet someone you've only know online. Even though they seem completely legit, there's always that small chance that they're just a figment of your imagination (or that they're really some hairy dude with a creepy doll collection). I'm happy to report Carrie was neither imaginary or hairy! She was awesome. Warm, welcoming, composed, articulate and...well, friggen' hilarious (but that's no surprise). She talked about the book, read an excerpt, answered questions, signed our books and fed us binge-worthy cookies (hello, muffin top!). Most of all, I was really inspired by what she said - she talked a lot about her journey to publication and if I took one thing away, it was that it CAN happen. You just have to do what you love, be true to yourself, and throw a little faith into the universe. Also, it helps to have a dress with zombie unicorns on it. Don't ask me why.

Next level of awesome was meeting another one of my imaginary friend - fellow writer/blogger Ray Veen. I've always had such admiration for Ray - for his talent, devotion to the craft, the fact that he's a super cool dad and that he loves a cold Guinness and isn't afraid to wear a puffy shirt and a kilt. Meeting he and his lovely wife, Cindy, was as awesome as it gets*. We had a chance to talk and catch each other up on the latest with our writing. All I can say it that my admiration for Ray and his motivation and devotion to his writing multiplied by a bazzilion. I fully believe that the stars have good things in store for him. I know someday soon I'll be attending his book launch party. I might even wear a kilt.

All in all, it was a multi-level awesome day. Ummm....aside from our adventure after the launch party when we tried to get coffee. I won't go into it. I'll just say that poor Maria had to bear witness to my total OCD coffee snobbery. Sorry, Maria. But on the upside, it wasn't so bad that I felt the need to pelt Sugar in the Raw packets at anyone. (Oh, wait....that's because THEY DIDN'T HAVE ANY!)

*ehem* Anyway...here are some pics of the awesomeness:

Carrie reading from her debut novel Bad Taste in Boys

Carrie and I (and the god awful flash on my phone. We both were seeing bright spots for about 10 minutes after.)

*total side bar - but Ray and Cindy look WAY too young to have teenage children. Srlsy. Not fair.

Bad Taste in Boys

2011-06-26T12:09:00.000-07:00

No, this post isn't a rehashing of my cringeworthy love life in my 20's before I met and married super-hubby (that's for another post. Someday. If we have time. Maybe). No, this post is about Bad Taste in Boys. As in the book! I'm sure you all have heard me mention awesome-sauce writer Carrie Harris a time or two. I've been following her blog for a couple years now, and not only is she hilarious, talented and a little wrong in the head (a quality I look for in most people I associate with), but I recently discovered that we live near each other, which means there's a remote possibility that I might be able to meet her in person in the near future, which would allow me to prove to super-hubby once and for all that my blogging friend aren't really creepy, toothless dudes with a stash of human heads in their freezers*.

Carrie has been busting her writing hump for many years and now all her hard...ummm...hump busting has paid off and her debut novel, Bad Taste in Boys, is coming out on July 12th!! Here's the scoopage:

Someone’s been a very bad zombie.

Super-smartie Kate Grable gets to play doctor, helping out her high school football team. Not only will the experience look good on her college apps, she gets to be this close to her quarterback crush, Aaron. Then something disturbing happens. Kate finds out that the coach has given the team steroids. Except . . . the vials she finds don’t exactly contain steroids. Whatever’s in them is turning hot gridiron hunks into mindless, flesh-eating . . . zombies.

Unless she finds an antidote, no one is safe. Not Aaron, not Kate’s brother, not her best friend . . . not even Kate . . .

It’s scary. It’s twisted. It’s sick. It’s high school.

So Miss Carrie is having a contest/raffle/double dog dare on her blog to get the word out about Bad Taste in Boys. The challenge was to get those super cool sugar lips from her book cover out for all to see. My initial idea was to paste a set of those sugary babes onto a pacifier and have baby girl hold it in her mouth while I snap a picture. But apparently, this was too much to ask. She wanted to grab, rip and throw said pacifier across the room. And when I tried to gently force the issue by putting a little applesauce on the sucky part, she thought I was trying to cram a rabid piranha into her mouth. So, that idea got shelved and I had to go to plan b - mess around with iMovie for an afternoon. This was intimidating because the hubs does this kind of thing for a living. But here it is. (Yes, my photoshop work is crude. I am aware.)

...and then, of course, girl child and I with sugar lips:

(It just dawned on me right now that this would have been a perfect excuse to eat massive amounts of sugar donuts. Wow...what's wrong with me?)

Anyhoo, go buy the book (and some donuts), kay??

*I guess I can't say for sure that Ms. Harris doesn't have human heads in her freezer, but if she did, it would be for research purposes only.

Reading, Writing and Kettle Corn

2011-05-03T12:16:00.000-07:00

I believe the last time we spoke, I was whining like a brat about how I missed writing, how I never have time to write, how I never get a moment to myself. Bla, bla and bla. Well, somehow, somehow I am currently on chapter 8 of my WIP. For someone with "no time to write", I'm not doing too shabby. So, I'll shut up. (For now.)

I also asked for book recommendations, and got some gems. Thank you, Amy Ellis *. How much do I love Gods Behaving Badly? Seriously, it's like Good Omens meets Melrose Place. I'm supposed to be reading a far more respectable book for my book club this month, but not sure if it's going to happen. Especially since I ping-ponging between God's Behaving Badly and Prom Dates from Hell, the first Maggie Quinn: Girl vs Evil book by Rosemary Clement-Moore. If Maggie ever had her own show, Joss Whedon would direct it. Yes, that's how good it is.

And, lastly, I just realized that it's Tuesday, so here are my favorite things this week:

Angie's Kettle Corn. I found a parachute sized bag of this stuff at Costco. On Thursday. And now it's almost gone. I don't get it. It's just popcorn, salt and sugar, yet it tastes like it's made completely of joy. Kettle corn's not fattening, right? I mean, it's mostly air, really.

My son. He's pretty much my favorite thing every week, but this week especially, because whenever I'm in the middle of doing something and the girl child starts howling like a banshee, he immediately comes to my aide and makes weird noises that make her giggle.

The new white iPhone. I don't have one, but if someone were to buy me one, I would do a little dance. Like this....

*Also, Ms. Ellis, do you realize you haven't updated your blog in a YEAR!? You know when I take over the world, you will be my evil sidekick, right? You might want to start flexing your "addressing the minions" muscles. Just sayin'. By the way, all global disputes will be settled with dance-offs. Hope that's okay w/ you.

(non-evil) Editor

2011-04-22T05:24:00.001-07:00

I really, really, really, really, really miss writing.

I also miss sleeping, showering whenever I want, shopping without a panicky feeling that, at any moment, one or both of my children are going to have a thermo-nuclear meltdown, eating without juggling a fussy baby and going to the bathroom by myself.

But mostly I miss writing.

Yes, I get a little in here and there, mostly in little five minutes spurts while baby girl is in her bouncer/swing/walker/jumpy thingy. But five minutes is usually the most I can get out of her. In fact, as I type this, she's starting to go DEFCON 5 on me from the swing in the living room. Hold on....

And now I am holding her and typing with one hand.

<insert long, heavy sigh here>

Cue my awesome husband, who heard shit fit and heavy sigh from upstairs and came down to take baby girl up with him while he brushes his teeth.

So, anyway, I miss writing. A lot. Especially since I had an awesome editing experience recently and it lit a little flame under my tuckus. Through the Write Hope auction, I won a 10 page edit from a freelance editor. I decided to submit the beginning of my new book. I was suuuuuuuper scared. I've never anything of mine edited by a professional before, and though I knew she would be constructive (read: I highly doubted she'd simply write "you suck rocks" all over my submission), it was still very intimidating. But, it turned out to be so freakin' cool. She pointed out things that I would have never seen. The biggest being that my entire 2nd chapter is one big flashback, and though it was all fine and dandy, she strongly urged me to GET ON WITH IT ALREADY! It was like a little "ping" going off in my head. DUH! She was totally right. It's like being served a meal that looks yummy, and having the chef go on and on and on and on and on and on about what it is, what went into making it, and the whole time you just want them to shut up so you can eat it.

So, now I am pining for time to write so I can change things around and get on with the story. But, I must just be patient. On the bright side, I got a Nook for my birthday so I could hold fussy baby girl and read. But I need book suggestions. Know any good quirky, funny, kinda dark and slightly twisted books? That's what I'm in the mood for. Either YA or adult.

And now awesome hubby has to go to work and I'm back to typing with one had...i mean hand. *shakes single fist*

Favorite Things

2011-04-05T08:37:00.000-07:00

First, let me tell you what is NOT my favorite thing this week: Spring. Because it's acting like Winter. Which I find really super lame and annoying. Also not at the top of my list: wind. And sinus infections. And I'm not exactly happy about the cat hacking up a hairball on my slippers. Which I wouldn't need to wear anymore if Spring would get a grip.

Now, for my favorite things.

The Woombie. Also known as the Baby Straight Jacket. Baby girl has crazy hands when she sleeps. If I put her down without being in the Woombie, she'll immediately wake up, punch herself in the face and pull her pacifier out. Then she gets mad at me.

Duran Duran. Note - they are certainly not a new favorite thing by any stretch. But I saw them on Ellen yesterday and immediately became a 10 year old again. Why do they look so good? Since I've been fangirling them since I was eight, shouldn't they look old and I look all young and dewy?

Friends*. Specifically ones who read my blog post from last week and dropped a care package on my doorstep, which included wine, chocolate and an almond torte that I had to stop myself from eating for every meal.

Zingerman's Chocolates. Thanks to aforementioned amazing friend's care package, I am now totally addicted to these things. I may have to change my muffin top to my Zingerman's chocolate top (thought, it doesn't quite have the same ring to it).

Feel free to share your favorite thing. Who knows, your favorite things might become my favorite things. And wouldn't that be something, eh?

*friends featured in this week's "favorite things" are not actually kittens. Cuz that would be really weird.

Feebs

2011-04-01T17:11:00.001-07:00

This was my day in a nutshell

(sorry, the drawings are crude and hard to read. I'd fix them if Illustrator and I could get along, but we just can't. He's rude, doesn't save things the way I want them to be saved and he smells like tangy socks):

C is for "I Need a Vacation"

2011-03-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, my son had his special helper day at preschool, which means he gets to bring in a "special guest". And this "special guest" gets to provide a snack and spend the morning trying to keep handfuls of five year-olds from sticking paintbrushes in their ears. I'll be honest, I'm not the best at being the "special guest". Mostly because I'm too busy mainlining Purell and dodging sneezes to notice anything else. But I decided to go a little out-of-the-box for snack time. Instead of the usual cheese sticks or Goldfish crackers, I wanted to make these:

That's right. It's Cookie Monster. Kickin' it old school with a cookie in his mouth. I was so excited about these. I saw the design on several different baking blogs and immediately had visions of being the coolest mommy ever, which would immediately trump my current status of being the weirdest mommy ever. But then something happened. I made them. Have you ever tried to make blue frosting? My only experience with blue frosting was at our wedding. We had a very whimsical wedding cake that had blue butter cream and white and yellow flowers. It turned everyones mouths blue, but luckily we had a margarita machine to take away any mouth-turned-blue trauma. Making blue frosting is a whole different beast. The blue food coloring was very ninja like. I thought I was being very clean and careful as I added it to the white frosting, but somehow it managed to breach my mixing bowl and end up FREAKIN' EVERYWHERE! It was on my hand, my clothes, the cabinet doors, my coffee maker, the floor...everywhere! There was even some of it smeared on my iPod which was upstairs on my dresser. Suddenly my visions of being coolest mommy ever turned to visions of being the most dreaded mommy ever. I imagined mobs of the other preschool parents dragging me out of my house and stringing me from a tree for turning their children a lovely shade of aqua. So, I had to ditch Cookie, in all his googly eyed glory. Much like getting on the treadmill or trying to wear skinny jeans, it was a good idea in theory, but a nightmare once executed.

In other news, despite my attempts at pulling one over on kid-germs and pumping my son full of vitamin C, echinacea and cod liver oil to try and get through the rest of the school year plague free, he came down with the mother of all colds, that quickly morphed into double ear infections and pink eye. The ear infections he can handle. A little "pink stuff" a couple times a day...no problem. But, have you ever tried to treat pink eye in a five year-old? It should just be illegal for a child that young to get pink eye. When you're an adult and you get pink eye, you can be rational about it. Yes, it sucks and now I have to put these drops in my eyes, and, yes, they're cold and sting and feel a little weird, but that's what I have to do to get better. You wouldn't cry and throw a fit and scream the same way you would if you were being chopped to bits by a maniac intruder. You know you're in trouble when the actual pamphlet from the pharmacy advises you to SIT on your child and pin his arms down to administer the medication. I'm not really a "sitting on my child" kind of parent, so, of course, I tried bargaining. I promised waffles and LEGO sets if he'd just lay still and let mommy put the ookey stuff in. I quickly learned that a five year-old is a big fat liar and will renege on any waffle/LEGO agreements at the last minute. Then I tried to scare him. I got all "fire and brimstone" on him, telling him if he didn't get the medication his head would fall off and he'd end up in the hospital where they'd give him shots every five seconds. This didn't work either, as it only made him freak out more. I quickly realized that the pamphlet from the pharmacy was wise beyond its years. The only real option is brute force. Now, don't get all judgey on me. I don't really use brute force, but I do have to hold his arms down and pry his eyes open. Then I'm "mean mommy" for about an hour after. The best part? I get to do this every four hours for seven days.

Please leave all wine/chocolate/cake donations at my front door. Thanks.

Favorite Things

2011-03-22T04:41:00.000-07:00

It's Tuesday, and you know what means!

Actually, you don't. Since Thing 2 gives me barely any time to write, I haven't had a chance yet to introduce my newest segment, Favorite Things. Every week I'll tell you about my new favorite things. Because I know how I complete you.

So, my Favorite Things this week are:

Anne Burrell. Because she can cook her kooky little butt off. Plus, she salts the CRAP out of her food. Good on ya, Anne. Good on ya.

Kuerig Platinum Coffee Maker. I don't actually have one, but a friend of mine does, and although the coffee purist in me wants to turn my nose up at it, the geek in me is drawn to it. Because...it's NEATO!! You just put the little pod in and hit go. And, yes, I'm going to say it...it makes a damn fine cup of coffee. Plus you only need one hand free. And it gets me one step closer to feeling like I'm on the Enterprise.

My mom. Because she's visiting and takes Thing 2 off my hands so I can do the things that bring me warm fuzzies, like cooking and writing and taking showers. Plus, she leaves her Facebook account open so I can go in and leave funny status updates, and make her "like" thing she doesn't really "like", like Fabio and David Hasselhoff.

Write-Hope. A fabulous blog started by a handful of kidlit writers who want to help the children in Japan after the devastating tsunami. They auction off kidlit books, critiques, and other prizes for donation to Save the Children's emergency relief fund. I'm gunning for an early copy of Carrie Harris' debut novel Bad Taste in Boys, but feel free to try and outbid me!

What are your favorite things this week?

Thing 2

2010-12-29T06:12:00.000-08:00

Yes, yes, it's been over 3 months since I've blogged. But I have a very good excuse. Right now, I only have the use of one arm, because I have this in my other arm:

Ain't she pretty? She's made completely of awesome. I know this sounds stupid to say, but I love her. Like, fan-girl love her. If there was mass marketing around her, I'd buy every t-shirt, bumper sticker, bobble-head and mechanical pencil. She'd be my set station on Pandora. If she was on TV, I'd set my DVR to record every episode. She'd be ring tone, my avatar, my hashtag.

I felt this way about my son, too, but since I was a new parent, it was interlaced with bouts of paranoid delusion. My inner monologue sounded a bit like this:

He pooped, oh my god, what do I do, is it good poop, is it the right color, has he gone enough, the hospital said he'd got three to six times a day and, oh crap, he just made a weird noise, what does that noise mean, is he hungry, tired, uncomfortable, itchy, is it an early sign of ADHD or...holy shit, his eye just did a weird thing, is he having a seizure, oh, my god, how do I know if he's having a seizure, I'd better google "baby eye weird seizure" and, oh mother of god, he just moved his head and I heard a noise, did he break his neck, should we call the hospital, I think we should call the hospital, his arm looks weird, is that a normal arm, what if it falls off or what if he has some weird arm disorder, oh, god, it's 3am, should I page the pediatrician, or maybe I'll just google "baby weird arm falling off"...

Luckily with each child, you become less and less of lunatic.

But, as awesome as she is, she doesn't yet support my need to write (hence the 3 month delay in updating my blog and cricket sounds in my "Poo Lives" folder). I attempted to do NaNo for about five minutes, because, yes, yes, I have ideas....so many ideas!!!! But for now, they'll have to just bob around aimlessly until I can a) convince baby girl that napping in her crib as opposed to on my shoulder is a super neat-o idea, b) get her to see that writing gets mommy to her happy place without the use of wine and/or Clive Owen movies and c) convince her that writing could possibly lead to success which could lead to riches which could lead to lots of shoes for her.

Wish me luck...

Stats

2010-09-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

I noticed the other day that, aside from being the lamest blogger ever, I haven't really updated my stats for my faithful fan base (you listening, mom?). In the last three months, I've had posts about killer tomatoes, blogging delusions of grandeur and buying chic notebooks and matching pencils at Barnes & Noble (which might explain why my fan base is basically my mom...she does find these things fascinating). However, I've given no info about the status of my book querying. Or the status of anything else, for that matter (except our freakish garden). So, here goes:

Queries sent to agents: 66
Full/partial requests: 7
Full/partials still outstanding: 4
Query rejections: 35
Queries close due to no response: 24
Months pregnant: 8 1/2
Gallons of ice cream consumed over last 8 1/2 months: 400
Number of donuts consumed over last 8 1/2 months: 78
Pregnancy pounds gained: 35lbs
Hopeful weight of baby: 35lbs
Real estimated weight of baby: 6 lbs
Number of lunges/squats I'll have to do to eradicate superfluous 29 pounds: 4,783,987,213,876
Number of times my son has told me I have a chubby tummy and that I should get on the treadmill: 54
Number of times I've hid his favorite Light Saber: 54
Estimated bouts of pregnancy rage: 8
Number of establishments I won't be showing my face for a while due to aforementioned pregnancy rage: 6
Number of times I've tried to talk husband into naming the baby Leia: 14
Number of times I've gotten husband to agree to naming the baby Leia: 1
Number of times husband has reneged on his agreement to name the baby Leia, claiming he agreed simply because I was in the midst of honking up dinner and he felt sorry for me: 1
Percentage of excitement over having yet another "most awesome child in the history of time" (regardless of her name): 4 Bazillion %
Number of times I've felt like the luckiest girl in the whole wide world: 6,000,000,000,000,001

For those non-writery types, the query stats may look downright pathetic. But in reality, they're actually pretty good. Considering most queries end up in a slush graveyard, to have even one actually a) read through by an agent and b) spark enough interest for a partial or full request is a true feat in itself. You have to understand that, though the book publishing industry is a business, it's all based on emotional reaction. You're not just trying to pique an agent's interest. You're trying to make them fall in love with your work. To the point that they'd want to take it dancing and buy it chocolates. That's a difficult thing to accomplish, especially when they're being bombarded every day by hundreds of other writers that want the same exact thing. I've realized that the best you can do is to just do what you do. Write what you love, send it out into the world and hope that someone decides to love it. Putting any more emotional stock into the process will result in lots of frustration, resentment and anger. And that's not good for our calm, right?

And for those non-pregnant types, the childbearing stats may look downright pathetic. And you would be mostly right. I fully blame my girth on the on and off (mostly on) morning-all day-night sickness. One minute I'm dry heaving at the scent of bananas and next I'm chain-swallowing Oreos. If I wasn't pregnant, I could totally be on one of those TLC shows about people with bizarre, OCD eating behavior, huddled on the kitchen floor at three in the morning eating all the Halloween candy left over from last year. (Just fyi...Nerds mixed with Bottle Caps are a match made in heaven).

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

2010-09-01T05:36:00.000-07:00

This is our official SOS call. We need help. We are being overrun by creepy , mutant red orbs from outer space. Okay, maybe not from outer space, but from out back yard, which, at times, can be considered outer space, full of UFOs (weird, icky bugs) and asteroids (squirrels chucking acorns from trees). See, my husband decided that this year we were going to have a garden, and when the man gets a plan in his head, there is no turning back. However, having never successfully maintained a garden in the past, we went a little crazy with our seedlings, assuming that half (if not all) of them would surely die a miserable death. Well, they didn't.

Perhaps you've sat back at some point in your life and pondered, "I wonder how many tomato plants are TOO many."

This is too many:

There are approximately 25 plants there, each bearing about 15-20 tomatoes each.

Now, hubby is a tomato lover. However, I am useless in the tomato appreciation department. Currently I am about seven hundred months pregnant, and I find them rather evil since just looking at them gives me a raging case of heartburn. But my complete aversion to wasting food has forced me to push through, and one day I made Tyler Florence's Roasted Tomato Soup. If you, too, find yourself in tomato hell, I highly recommend this soup. It was delicious. I had to eat about four thousand Tums afterwards, but it was worth it.

First you roast the tomatoes with garlic and onion, which will make your house smell like complete awesome:

Then you throw all the roasted goodness in a pot with some chicken stock, bay leaf and butter (*sigh*):

Then you add about a cup of fresh basil (also growing like coo-coo in our garden) and puree the heck out of it, then finish it with little bit of heavy cream. Pair it with a grilled cheese sandwich and you've got yourself a fine meal (Tums notwithstanding).

This soup was made with the tomatoes we picked in ONE day, mind you. Three days later we had just as many and I still had heartburn. Yes, there is canning, but a) I am not exactly the country, farming wifey type and b) canning requires effort, and just walking up the stairs to find a kleenex is more than my inflated, child bearing butt can handle these days. Besides, I have to conserve my energy for eating ice cream. If I don't, I might not reach my goal weight of "whale", and what a shame that would be. So for now, I'm resorting to giving them away to neighbors, friends, family, the mailman and the annoying people that come to my door trying to sell me gutter cleaning services, and slipping them into every single one of my hubby's meals (who says tomatoes on pancakes is weird???). If you happen to live in my area, and are need of homegrown, organic tomatoes for FREE, just let me know. You too can make soup and get heartburn. Sounds fun, yes?

Anyway, here's the recipe for the soup:

Roasted Tomato Soup
Recipe courtesy Tyler Florence

Ingredients

2 1/2 pounds fresh tomatoes (mix of fresh heirlooms, cherry, vine and plum tomatoes)
6 cloves garlic, peeled
2 small yellow onions, sliced
Vine cherry tomatoes for garnish, optional
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 quart chicken stock
2 bay leaves
4 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil leaves, optional
3/4 cup heavy cream, optional

Directions

Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.

Wash, core and cut the tomatoes into halves. Spread the tomatoes, garlic cloves and onions onto a baking tray. If using vine cherry tomatoes for garnish, add them as well, leaving them whole and on the vine. Drizzle with 1/2 cup of olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast for 20 to 30 minutes, or until caramelized.

Remove roasted tomatoes, garlic and onion from the oven and transfer to a large stock pot (set aside the roasted vine tomatoes for later). Add 3/4 of the chicken stock, bay leaves, and butter. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes or until liquid has reduced by a third.

Wash and dry basil leaves, if using, and add to the pot. Use an immersion blender to puree the soup until smooth. Return soup to low heat, add cream and adjust consistency with remaining chicken stock, if necessary. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Garnish in bowl with 3 or 4 roasted vine cherry tomatoes and a splash of heavy cream.

One Big Party

2010-08-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

So, back in June I had this brilliant idea that while I was slaloming through the pit of despair (aka querying my book) I would breathe some life back into my food blog. Now, at the same time, I was also having delusions that I should start a blog about my adventures in parenting because a) I have no idea what I'm doing and b) my kid is really weird (in a good way). But as I sat down to try and come up with a clever mommy blog name (which was futile since my son was having a thermo-nuclear meltdown over a broken crayon and the only thing I could come up with is "KILL ME NOW!!!"), I realized there is no way in this life or the next that I would have the time, energy or enough wine to manage three blogs. My brain would surely revolt and I would be left to stare out the window, drooling and mumbling and pointing at squirrels. Not really the look I'm going for. So, after much consideration (not really, I made the decision while watching Real Housewives of New Jersey), I've decided to just mush all my interests together in one blog. I hope my fan base can get on board with this (and that would my mom and the that refugee princess in Uzbekistan who keeps emailing me wanting to give me a billion dollars).

So, expect updates on my writing (*grumble, grrrr, grumble, grrrrr*), (possibly blurry) pictures of my culinary (mis)adventures, as well as lessons on how to get other moms to think your a few fries short of a happy meal. (It's really easy. Trust me.)

Ticking in my Head

2010-06-21T12:08:00.000-07:00

Words: doing revisions...too hard to keep track...probably somewhere between 1 and 9000.
Caffeine: Morning cup-o decaf and midday decaf iced latte
Evil Calories: these little mini mint chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches from Trader Joe's. Except, I ate all of them, so the "mini" element was sort of lost on me.

I am extremely good at mulit-tasking. Sometimes I think it just comes from being female, and sometimes I think it just comes from being awesome. (It could come from all the caffeine, but, right now, I'm going with the "awesome female" theory.) But over the last week I've been working on two bits of writing simultaneously, and sometimes it feels a little strange. Like I'm trying to pull off wearing socks with sandals. In one corner of my brain I am going back and working out revisions to my "finished" book, and in the other corner of my brain, I am doing a little two-step with an outline for a new little do-dad of an idea. Both tasks are filling me with warm fuzzies, but jumping back and forth between the two tends to leave me a little dizzy. A cheery dizzy. But dizzy all the same. Of course, that could also be the spoonfuls of salted caramel I just inhaled. Or, perhaps, the heat and the nine million percent humidity (which, by the way, is giving me total 80's hair. M...M...M...Motoring...What's your price for flight...)

So, in order to keep everything straight, I went to Barnes & Noble to buy a very chic notebook where I can keep detailed notes. Then, when I got there, I realized I probably needed two notebooks, since I have two different ideas to sort out. I also found a pencil holder, binder clips, thank-you cards and an M & M cookie that were also essential to keeping things in order.

I know. You're astounded by my ability to organize. I get that a lot.

Look what I can do

2010-05-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

Words: Up
Caffeine: Morning cup-o decaf
Evil Calories: Homemade peasant bread with either honey or Nutella. Every five minutes. Or so.

Who else here thinks mother nature accidentally drank her eye makeup remover again? Seriously, what is the with the weather? Last week I was freezing my cankles off, and now it's 80 and I'm sweating like a fat girl locked out of a donut shop. Just fyi...pregnant + heat = seventh level of hell. Ick. Just ick.

Anyway, in between hot flashes and Twinkie binges (I can't help it! They're spongy and full of cream!), I've finally breathed some life back into my food blog. A) because I love to cook and B) because it's a lovely distraction from all this querying. One cannot check their email every four seconds if one is kneading dough for cinnamon rolls or chopping vegetables for a stir fry, right?

Speaking of the querying - all I will say is that it's going much better than it did for my first book. Of course I've gotten my share of rejections, but I've also gotten a small handful of both partial and full requests. I even had one agent compare my little ol' book to one of my favorite books of all time, which I found shocking and incredibly humbling. Needless to say, I am a very lucky little bunny. Even if nothing ends up happening with this book, I know I caught the attention of a few agents, which can only help me on my next one.

Now, back to cramming my cake hole! So far, I only have a few entries in my food blog (which you can visit here), but with all my wild cravings and the hubby's exceptional photography, it'll be filled out in no time!

And so it begins...

2010-04-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

Words: 4
Caffeine: morning cup of boring, lame-o decaf that tastes like toes mixed with stale cigarettes
Evil Calories: chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, cinnamon roll, frosting, frosting, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, bacon

Ladies and gentlemen, members of my devoted fan base (you there, mom?), esteemed sock monkeys on my "I'm too pregnant to fit into anything but my pajama pants" pants...the time has come. Yes. That's right. The book is done. I've gotten fabulous feedback from my beta reader. I've made changes, polished it up and threw some holy water on it. So there really is nothing more to do than query the ever living crap out of it.

I know what you're thinking. "That sounds like fun!" Well, then, there's something wrong with you. Because in order to query, you have to have this pesky little thing called a query letter, which makes most writers want to stick fondue forks in their eyes and cram their heads down the garbage disposal. My main problem with the query letter is that I have two paragraphs to relay a 95K word novel. I'm not an "in a nutshell" kind of girl. I've been writing this blog for almost three years. I have 217 posts. Can you remember one thing I've really said? Cuz I can't!

But, alas, the query is the only way to tap on the door, so I'm left to try and cram all the key points of my novel into those two dreaded paragraphs without sounding like a ferret on crack. And obviously, from my 217 posts about NOTHING, I definitely have a "ferret on crack" tendency. Have I mentioned that I'm currently with child and I cannot drink? I can't even enjoy a simple glass of Merlot to lessen the "ferret on crack" ratio. Luckily being pregnant makes me really tired, so that might help a little. Maybe it'll be more like "ferret after a knife fight with a Yettie". Much better. Yeehaw.

So, wish me luck. Or just send me chocolate. And olives. The green ones stuffed with pimentos. And some cheese puffs. And some fried shrimp. Thanks.

Me, me, me, me!

2010-04-04T05:28:00.000-07:00

Words: yep
Caffeine: morning cup (decaf, but it still has a tiny bit of caffeine, right? RIGHT?)
Evil Calories: 4000 jellybeans

I know you've all been sitting around pulling your eyelashes out wondering what's been going on with me. I have neglected my poor little blog terribly, and, in turn, neglected my fan base (which is most likely been whittled down to my mom and that refugee princess in Uzbekistan who keeps emailing me wanting to give me a billion dollars.) But, for what it's worth, here's what's going on with me:

The book is done. Yes, I said done. Done, done and done. I'm actually really happy with how it turned out. I did a lot of rewriting over the last few months, revamped the beginning, cut some darlings from the middle, threw in a few knife fights for good measure, and I can honestly say it very much resembles what has been swimming around my brain for the last two years. Of course, the big struggle was finding some beta readers who would actually read it and get back to me (novel concept, I know), but I am happy to say it is currently out with one trusted source right now (who gave me great feedback and helped me tremendously with some English Professor details), and it will be going out to another trusted source in about a week. My goal is to start querying in mid-May, June at the latest. Call me delusional, but in the slight, slight, slight chance that it may win the attention of an agent, I need to it to happen before the beginning of fall, because come October, I will be out of commission for a wee bit. And by "wee bit", I mean the next 18 years. Give or take a year.

Yep. That's right. We are having yet another "cutest baby ever in the history of time". To go along with our other "cutest baby ever in the history of time". We're so excited. Mostly because we're really odd people with a bit of a "fly by the seat of your pants" approach to parenting, and the fact that the universe has deemed us fit to raise another is a huge compliment. Big ups to you, universe. We promise to teach this one to do The Robot and sing "Back in Black" in the middle of Target just as well as our little Z-man. We'll make you proud, universe. Or embarrass the hell out of you. You know, whichever.

And lastly, we're making a huge change in our household that is giving my creativity a serious high-impact workout. We're becoming Locavores. Have you seen Food, Inc.? Holy shit, is all I can say. You should see it. And then get ready to be afraid of your freezer. I actually purposely did NOT see it when it first came out because I knew this would happen, though I really had to NO idea how impactful the information would be. It was incredibly eye opening. But becoming a Locavore isn't exactly the easiest thing to do. It takes a lot of work (depending on where you live), a lot of research, and, for us, a lot of creative budgeting. So, I'm thinking of refueling my sad, neglected little food blog to track all of our adventures.

Cuz, you know. I'm so good at keeping up blogs. Makes perfect sense, right?

'ello, 'ow 're 'ou

2010-03-02T06:30:00.000-08:00

Words: meh...
Caffeine: ask me again later
Evil Calories: Heath Bar cookies
Bad Reality TV: ANTM reruns

Oh, my poor neglected little blog. Thanks to my super-awesome writer friend Ray Veen, I'm finally giving you some much needed attention. Awesome guy Ray nominated me for a super special blog award.

Ain't it purty? So,in order for me to accept, I must:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link them.
2. Add the award to your blog.
3. Tell six outrageous lies about yourself and one truth.
4. Nominate six creative liars ... I mean, writers and link them.
5. Let your nominees know they've been nominated.

So, first, I'd like to thank Ray, who is totally my hero. He's an amazing, talented writer and his resilience and devotion to the craft is inspiring. Plus, he drinks Guinness and aspires to live in a castle with robots. See? Super cool dude.

Next, the outrageous lies and the one truth. I'll let you figure out which is which.
1. My dad works for a secret, highly classified department of the government. I know the truth about UFOs and have proof that Ryan Seacrest is an evil hybrid android hungry for deviled eggs and human flesh. When my sister and I were little, we had our fingerprints permanently burned off for security reasons. It kinda hurt, but they gave us blue Rocket Pops after, which made it all okay.

2. I once broke my pinky toe simply by sneezing and hiccuping at the same time. I later found out that this is very common.

3. I used to live a haunted house in New York. One night my Grandma was staying with us and she said I walked into her room saying I was scared and that I wanted to sleep with her. She said I crawled into her bed, but when she rolled over a few minutes later, there was no one there. Then corpses started floating in our pool and my sister got sucked into the TV.

4. My mother is obsessed with geese. She has a strange, ethereal connection with them. It's a beautiful thing to witness. Seriously, brings tears to the eyes, people.

5. I'm a total right wing conservative. Ann Coulter is my hero. Her soul is so blindingly pure. Like snow, really. One day I hope to be just like her.

6. The following are my favorite bands of all time: Offspring, Nickelback, Hinder and Puddle of Mud.

7. I hate traveling. Especially to Las Vegas. Worst. City. Ever.

Now, I know the six creative liars I nominate should be fellow bloggers, but I'm going to do things a bit different. Mostly because I have a Pop Tart in the toaster and don't have a whole lot of time. So, here goes:

Of course, I have to nominate my super fabulous sister, Amy Ellis. I'd also like to nominate my son, who doesn't have a blog but makes amazing shit up all time (ie. the cat ate my X-wing so we need to go to Toys R Us to get another one). Then there is my awesome husband, who tries to convince me he didn't delete my episodes of Barefoot Contessa off the DVR to make room for more racing shows on the Speed Channel. Next, I'll go for the barista at my Starbucks who claims he giving my non-fat milk when I know it's really 2% (don't worry pal, I'll send you my liposuction bills). Actually, I'd like to nominate him twice, since he always tells me to have a "super delicious day". That's just weird. And I don't believe him. I think he wants me to really have a fat, sour, bloated day. And lastly, I'd like to nominate Maggie, my dear friend from high school, who told me, after getting the worst spiral perm known to man, that my hair looked good. I'll never forget that. She's good people.

Later on, we'll expire, as we dream by the fire...

2009-12-19T14:07:00.000-08:00

(I thought those were the correct lyrics to Winter Wonderland until about a year ago. Yep. I should really consider donating by brain to science.)
Words: shit-tons
Caffeine: midafternoon mocha
Evil Calories: Fudge, fudge and fudge. With a little fudge. Oh, and fudge.

First of all, since I know you're all planning to buy me Christmas presents, let's clear up any confusion. I do not need soap (or any incarnation of soap ie. body wash, body oil, body scrub, body butter, body brine, body engine coolant, body fertilizer etc). Nor do I need a dry heave-inducing sweater from the clearance rack at Sears. I know it's tempting because it's only 75 cents, but seriously, just walk away. I also have little need for a porcelain statue of a droopy eyed dog with a bonnet in its mouth. Yes, I know. I'm dead inside.

I do, however, need this:

Yes. It's a Princess Leia Polly Pockets fashion set. My favorite part is the little framed picture of Han Solo. Though, just between you and me, I doubt Princess Leia would ever have a framed picture of Han on her wall. That's just not how she rolls.

I would also settle for a Chia Pet, a Snuggie (zebra print, please) or the Clapper.

On another note, you all may (or probably not at all) be wondering what's going on with my writing. It's funny, because I notice that when I'm heavy into my writing, I rarely blog about it, and when I barely manage to eek out a paragraph over a three month span, I'll yap about my writing incessantly. So, read between the lines. I'm not talking about my writing. (Okay, well I am right now, but I'm just trying to make a point.) Not talking about my writing, meaning, things are moving, progressing, and I see something, sparkling off in the distance. Actually not in the distance. A lot closer than in the distance. We'll call it "just up ahead and slightly on the left".

SHAZAM! is all I have to say about that.

And lastly, I'd just like to take this opportunity to wish you, my faithful reader, bonnes fêtes, which, thanks to my awesome sister and her drive-by, ambush emailed French lessons, I now know means "happy holidays".

Sip a nice hot cup of coo-coo

2009-12-03T12:46:00.000-08:00

Words: 1245
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cinnamon spiced tea
Evil Calories: Milkshake from the Sander's store at the mall. Don't know what came over me. I blame Jon and Kate Goslin. Just cuz.

You know what I love? The mall at Christmas. Yes, it's a complete zoo and the parking lots alone are like an episode of American Gladiators, but there's a certain charm to it that I cannot resist. Of course, I love the decorations and the music and hung over Santa who looks like he's going to honk Milwaukee's Best all over a set of triplets in matching pink dresses. But what I really love are the people. You know which people I'm talking about, right? The little old ladies in high water green pants with their purses strapped around their shoulders, triple knotted and bungee corded to their waists to stave off the pickpockets after the thirty-two cents in their wallets (I can make fun because I will be one of these goofy old bats one day). The dude in the mustard stained Tasmanian Devil Harley-Davidson t-shirt sucking on a Super Big Gulp as he gawks at the sale window in Spencer Gifts. The angry man in ill-fitting slacks and a comb over. No one knows what has made him so mad. You'd think relying on four wispy strands of hair to give the illusion of a full quaff would make you more of a "glass half full" person, but no. He's pissed, and dammit, and you best get the f!@# out of his way, pronto! Then there's the disgruntled MAC girl on her fifteen, stuck in line at Starbucks behind an elderly couple who look as if they haven't left their house since 1972 and want to know what "expresso" is. And then my personal favorite, the people who decide to have defcon-5 shit-fits on the poor, underpaid sales people. I know it's frustrating when your 50% off coupon from 1987 is no longer valid, but that's no reason to go all Gary Busey. You do realize there are people who live with war in their countries, right? Just pay for your crap and SHUT IT.

I'm sensitive because I was once one of these poor, underpaid sales people. I lived in the Bay Area and worked at a Gloria Jeans in the mall in my late teens. One Christmas, I actually had a woman pour a Mocha on me because we didn't have the cow-in-a-moo-moo sugar and creamer set she was looking for. And then there was the guy who told me I'd live a long, sad, lonely life and die in a gutter with rats eating at my eyes because I wouldn't call the Gloria Jeans in San Francisco (who we had NO affiliation with) and have someone drive a pound of Jamaican Blue Mountain to his mother's house in Berkley. Cuz, you know, it's totally normal for a coffee shop to make house calls.

I'm much happier now just being a distant observer of the coo-coo pants behavior. (Though...okay, I DID elbow my way into the line at Starbucks and made the tween in front of me paranoid about her weight just to get my hands on the last banana chip muffin, but that's it. Other than that, I've been totally sane.)

Does chapter 16 make me look fat?

2009-11-15T07:28:00.000-08:00

Words: 1543
Caffeine: Harney & Sons Holiday Tea
Evil Calories: Someone please take the bag of Halloween candy. Please. My fat pants are starting to feel tight

I'm trying to decide whether or not it's good to get feedback when you're in the middle of your WIP. Even if you're on a second or third rewrite. It's sort of like getting dressed up, and asking someones opinion on how you look before you've had a chance to do your make up and put your shoes on. Without these final little details, you can look like a total shlump. And if you were to take someones advice to change your dress or wear your hair differently to avert any possible shlumpiness, you may end up not looking as fabulous as you could have had you stuck with your original plan.

I'm thumb wrestling with idea of sending my WIP out to a few trusted sources to get some feedback. Mostly because I feel like my WIP and I are floating out on the ocean in a bubble a million miles away from civilization. I'm pretty sure my writing has structure and that there is, in fact, a mildly entertaining story there somewhere, but I could really use a few smoke signals or a reassuring call from a coconut telephone.

Or maybe I just need donuts. With sprinkles. Yes, maybe that's all I really need.

On another note...how are all my Nano-ing mates doing? Feel like putting your head in the waffle maker yet? Yep. Me too.

Something wicked this way comes...

2009-10-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

Words: 1000
Caffeine: skipped morning cup altogether and went straight for a cappuccino because the boy woke me up at 6:00 to tell me that Spongebob doesn't have nipples. Don't ask me to explain because I cannot.
Evil Calories: was forced to eat chicken mcnuggets for lunch. They. Are. Disgusting.

Before I go into detail about the wickedness that will soon be invading my soul, I'd like to just take a quick moment to talk to my treadmill.

Dear treadmill aka Lucifer - You're fired. We've been doing this for many, many months now, and I look nothing like the girl on the infomercial. Screw you and the sales guy at Sears who claimed you were the most effective machine on the market. You're shaped funny and sometimes you smell like rubber scented poo. I hate you. Go away.

Anyhoo...

So, in just one week, I will once again be subjecting myself to the mind altering, soul squishing, self-esteem destroying phenomenon known as NaNoWriMo. (If you don't know what NaNoWriMo is, go here.) Now, there are some people I know who claim that the 50K word goal is a total cake walk, but for us normal humans, 50K words in 30 days is a-freakin'-lot. That averages to about 1600 words a day. This can often result in bouts of hysterical crying and cramming pencils into your eye. Even with the best word sprinting schedule, at some point you end up totally Barton Finking out. That being said...YOU SHOULD DO IT! It's a great creative work out and at the end you find yourself with the makings of a novel (I said makings. Meaning, mostly it will look like a steaming pile of garbage, but in between the moldy socks and stinky banana peels, you'll find some sparkly little nuggets of joy).

If you are NaNo-ing, please add me as your buddy so we can go coo-coo together. Then go visit my sister, Amy Ellis at Girlworks, and convince her to do it, too. She thinks she can be all relaxed during the month of November while I descend into the seventh level of creative hell. Ummm, no way. If I'm going down, I'm taking her with me!

Dead banners and zombie babies

2009-10-19T05:23:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yep
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: made homemade caramel sauce last night, and for a brief moment I thought I was going to set myself on fire, but I didn't and it was super yummy with Empire apples.

Due to minor technical difficulties, and the fact the blogger seems to have teamed with the forces of bad hair days to work against me, my banner seems to have disappeared. A normal person with wits and forethought would have their banner in a file somewhere on their computer as back up, but I am not a normal person with wits and forethought. I sometimes where my slippers outside and have occasionally put my outgoing mail into the return slot at the library. So, until I can figure out which portable hard drive my banner file is hiding on, I'm going simple (meaning I'm far too lazy to actually walk upstairs into the office, turn the light on and look around).

By the way, has anyone noticed that it's FALL???!!!! My oh-so-favorite holiday ever. Crisp leaves, pumpkin spice lattes, cider mills and fresh-out-of-the-fryer-then-eat-four-and-go-directly-to-the-hospital donuts. And, of course, Halloween. There is no measure for this love I have for Halloween. Maybe if you lined up cupcakes and about 400 Clive Owens, you could get a vague idea. And naturally, whenever anything Halloween related is on TV, I watch it. Like last night on the Food Network, they had a pumpkin carving challenge. I figured they'd have cake decorators or sculptors, maybe that Goodfellas-like dude from that Cake Boss show. But no. They had professional pumpkin carvers. Yes. Professional pumpkin carvers. I don't remember that being listed in any of our career planning material in school, do you? And, get this, one of the judges was the president of the haunted house association. I SO want that job. "This year I'd like to focus on splattering brain matter, people. And eyeballs! I want eyeballs launched through the splattering brain matter! And zombie babies. In skinny jeans! Yes, zombie babies in skinny jeans swimming in eyeball launching splattering brain matter. Go team!"

Actually, if I were really the president of the haunted house association, I'd kick it totally old school, like those old Disney haunted house records. Those. Are. Freaky. It would be all about subtlety. I'd take the things-that-go-bump-in-the-night approach. Ghostly screams, doors slamming, chains dragging. I think people should use their imaginations more instead of having splattering brain matter, eyeballs and zombie babies spoon fed to them. When you have an active imagination, you don't need a whole lot to scare the ever loving crap out of you. All you need are a few small suggestions, and you'll fill in the rest.

Of course I wanted the boy to dress as a Jedi for Halloween, but his obsession with robots trumped any of my ideas. I liked it better when he was 2 and I dressed him as Yoda and there was nothing he could do about it. Now he's all full of opinions. What. Ever.

Geeking it up

2009-10-05T15:34:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: suspended due to fear that I won't fit into my winter clothes from last year. Will live on shaved ice salads for a week until I work up the nerve to try them on.

This past week has been a momentous one in our house. My darling son has started to enjoy his very first Star Wars toys. (For the record, I had intended on my 12" Boba Fett being his first toy, but our evil feline monster ate his clothes, wookie scalp and rocket pack before little dude was born. Just FYI, they did not make Boba anatomically correct. Poor guy.) Now, I admit that I was a little more excited than he was as we stood in the toy isle at Target, mostly because after digging around I found a Han Solo action figure (the one where he's dressed as a Storm Trooper. Hello, nurse!) And, okay, I did have to keep dragging darling son's attention away from the Transformers toys behind us. "No, no, who cares about the Optimus Prime voice changer helmet! Look at the R2-D2 with sound effects and remote control!". (Note to the lady in head to toe Juicy Couture and four inch heels who was passing by and looked at me like my head was a knock-off Fendi - just FYI, You'd look better with more hot pink eyeshadow. And, perhaps, with my shoe crammed up your nose.)

Anyway, after a thorough deliberation over which toy to purchase (meaning the first thing I could grab before darling son had a thermonuclear meltdown over me refusing to buy a Hanna Montana guitar), we ended up with a Snow Speeder action set with a probe droid and Luke and Dak action figures. He thinks Luke's Lightsaber is a bat and keeps calling Dak the UPS man, but he is running through the house with the speeder making spaceship sounds. Gotta start somewhere, right?

On a lighter, less totally geeky note, I finally found long lost chapter 3. See, I was sitting at the library the other day writing and went into my "poo lives" folder to find and older version of chapter 3 that I thought might have some most excellent material, and I couldn't find it. Of course, much cursing ensued, especially when I considered that it may have been something I didn't get chance to pull off my old computer before it bit the dust. However, I dug around one of our portable hard drives and, sweet mother crap, there it was. Crisis averted. I would have been very distraught. Of course, I opened it and went, "geez, no wonder I scrapped this hunk of drivel". But, there were two valuable paragraphs I managed to pilfer. I love me. Through the oceans of crap, I sometimes manage to spew a few gems.

If I had time in a bottle...or a Starbucks

2009-09-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: Cherry pie, raspberry scones and chocolate chip cookies. Yes, sometimes all at the same time.

Okay, I have a plan. I know this makes you happy because surly you've been sitting by your computer going, "when is that crackpot going to come up with a plan?". Well, your wait is over. Because as I was fidgeting with my hair this morning trying to give the illusion that I sort of care about my appearance, I suddenly realized that I now have something that is more valuable than a shopping spree at a Macy's 1 Day Sale (okay, nothing is really more valuable than that, but just go with me, kay?) No, no, it's not wisdom or love or anything cheesy like that. It's time. Yes, time. See, darling child has started preschool, and though it's been a bumpy ride trying to convince him that a) school is fun and b) mommy would never, ever leave him, except for this small block of time where I do actually leave him (paging Dr. Freud), it dawned on me this morning that once I get over the trauma of dropping him off, I have TWO AND A HALF HOURS TO MYSELF. TWO AND A HALF HOURS. Funny how that can perk a distraught mommy right up! So, my plan is to head to the nearest library/Starbucks after dropping darling child off at school and reacquainting myself with that little old thing called MY BOOK. Hello, it's been almost a year. I'm almost fully engulfed in lameness for not finishing it already. And, I figure if I'm at the nearest library/Starbucks, I'll be close enough to darling child's school that if he consumes massive amounts of paste or gets a globe lodged in his eye, I can easily come to the rescue. So, there it is. Rock on with the plan!!!!

What? Oh, you were thinking my plan involved a solution for our real problems, ie. no job and house falling apart? Geez, gimme a break, I'm not Wonder Woman, people. I mean, yes, yes, I'm fully aware that if things don't change within the next few months and darling husband can't find a job, I'll have to dig out my "non-fat pant" clothing and go back to work myself. But the thought of it kinda makes me want to throw up in my mouth. So I'm not thinking about it until it actually has to happen. Until then, I'm holding on the delusion that I'm the next JK Rowling. What? It could happen.

A New Hope

2009-09-21T16:49:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: jackhammers on my kitchen floor
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: I can't even talk about it. Kitchen has been out of commission for a few days, so we've had to resort to fast food. Why does everything at McDonalds taste like it's been fried in ass?

So, as you've probably noticed, I decided to change my banner again. I had to get rid of my zombie eye. It was scaring the children. Plus, I like the image of this woman. She looks annoyed, yet slightly hopeful. Kind of echos how I've been feeling lately. If you've missed all the fun, allow me to catch you up. Darling husband's company went "poof", potential new job in Denver went "poof", one of our cats went "poof", and a pipe in our kitchen floor went "poof". It's been a trying couple months to say the least. Oh, and say goodbye to Sexy Beast. Soon he'll be going "poof" into the arms of a new mommy who can afford a $900 computer. I'll be purchasing an $80 hard drive for my old Powerbook. Yes, the one that died the slooooooooooow, alarmingly noisy death back in March. The one that gives me copious amounts of rage. The one I've threatened to run over with my car and put the remains in a blender. Yep. Rough times, people.

Funny thing is that I know what we're going through is simply an echo of where our country is at the moment. We don't hope for the same things we used to hope for. We used to hope for more money, better jobs, bigger houses, nicer cars, better clothes, more, more, more! Now we just hope we're able to keep what we already have. Though I've had momentary delusions of winning the HGTV Fall Fixup sweepstakes, I really just want to keep my house. If some little corner of the universe could flex its muscles and just make that happen, I'd be a happy camper. I'm not even asking to keep my house and be able to fix the 473 other things wrong with it. I'll be happy to take it "as is", with the carpet stained and the doorwall window cracked and the basement still tore up and looking like the unibomber's family room. I have a fabulous imagination and am totally willing to pretend like we live in a hip, industrial loft with all the exposed brick and slab floor. And, okay, I'll even give up on my hopes of one day having landscaping that doesn't resemble the side of the I-75 freeway at 8 Mile. If we could just move "keeping the house" to the top of the to-do list, that would be super great. Kay? Kay.

In other news, I've written exactly zilch in my WIP. With all the "poof"ing that's been going on, I'm afraid to touch it, lest my MC will just lurch out of my computer, punch me in the face and run away. I'll work up my nerve one of these days. Just not today. I already spilled coffee all over my favorite fat pants and got a bobby pin stuck in my hair. Maybe tomorrow...

long time no bloggy

2009-09-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: no words, just long, heavy sighs
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced mocha
Evil Calories: have successfully perfected my cinnamon roll recipe. Have also perfected my fat-assness in the process. Woot.

I know, I know, I've been away for a while. Don't act like you didn't miss me. Admit it, you've been checking daily to see if I've returned to regularly scheduled snarkiness. Well, here I am. I wish I was popping in to report utter fabulousness, but alas, I'm really just here to mope and feel sorry for myself, something I don't normally practice or condone. However, life has been serving up some serious sucker punches lately, and, well, I'm not made of wood, you know.

To sum up without boring you or making you outclick before I finish - a) hubby's company went under, so we're currently unemployed b) house is falling apart, kitchen smells like moldy bottoms mixed with tangy socks and basement keeps flooding and c) they stopped making my favorite flavor of Triscuits. These are the dark times, people.

So, needless to say, I haven't really been in the mood to write as much as I've been in the mood to freak out and panic. It's really hard to do both. But, in the moments where I sit down with a nice glass of Rose' (my new favorite summer beverage) and chill the hell out, I have contributed quality material to my WIP. I keep having this vision that the moment the bank comes to take away our house keys, I'll get "the call" from an agent, kind of like that movie The Prize Winner of Defiance Ohio where she wins the jingle contest right when the family is about to lost the house and disband.

Of course, that means I actually have a) finish and b) query it around, which sounds like a lot of work. With all this panicking and freaking out, my plate is pretty full.

A Mighty Wind

2009-07-19T08:03:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: home
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: peach pie and peach pancakes. Peachy, peach, peach.

For the last three weeks I've been visiting The Great Northwest, my former home, and also the home to my MC. While I always resided in Seattle, my MC busts out of the city, ventures through the mountain pass and ends up in a little town 80 miles southeast called Cle Elum. Funny thing, though...being the consummate city dweller in my eight years of living in Seattle, I'd never actually been to Cle Elum. And since I've moved away, I've only ever stopped there to gas up at the Safeway while making the long drive from my parent's house in southern Washington during my summer visits. Since I really had no clue what the real town was like, aside from piecing things together from Google, on this trip I managed to talk my mom into letting me take a photographic tour though the town. I should mention this took approximately six minutes, and that includes doubling back to reshoot the house where my MC rents an apartment.

I should back up a little. I didn't actually think I'd find the house where my MC lived. It just happened. See, when I write, I do these little "visual reference boards" where I find pics of everything in my story - towns, houses, apartments, cars, restaurants, parks, offices - whatever pertains to the story (thank you Google images!). When I made the board for my current novel, I got on Realtor.com and found houses for sale in Cle Elum, and found a house that would be perfect...it was big and had a large upstairs/attic with windows that could easily be an upstairs apartment. So, while I'm driving around the little residential streets just to get a feel of what the houses near the downtown area look like, I turn a corner and holy-crap-on-a-crap-cracker, there's the house! Of course, I started flipping out (luckily I've been flipping out about bizarre things since before I could walk, so this didn't faze my mother). It was the strangest feeling...this house that I've been staring at for months and months was suddenly in front of me, and it was exactly what it was supposed to be. Even the sidewalks, the street and the houses next door were pretty much exactly the way I saw them in my mind. Spooooky, no? Anyhoo, I took about a thousand pictures of it, then had to go back just to get more from the other angle. And it didn't end there. Even the building where the cafe is supposed to be in in perfect proximity to not only the house, but to an old movie theater that plays a big part in the story, as well as an Italian restaurant. It was like suddenly being dropped into my imagination. I was half expecting to see a dark haired girl walking down the street carrying a tiny, growling dog that resembled a mop with teeth. (That would be my MC manhandling the grouchy, free-peeing dog she's left in charge of.)

Now, here's something my MC could tell me about living in Cle Elum. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever wear a short-ish sundress. Since the town sits at the base of the Cascades, there this little thing called WIND. Like, circling, gusting, no-matter-which-way-you-turn-it's-going-to-mess-with-you wind!! Currently, I owe a heartfelt apology to the poor family sitting inside Quiznos just trying to chow down on some turkey and bacon sammies. I know you weren't expecting a peep show outside in the parking lot. If I've traumatized your children, please just forward me the therapy bills. I was simply trying to lift my child out of the carseat, and at 31 pounds, this is no longer a one armed endeavor. I couldn't hold the boy and keep the bottom of my dress out of my armpits at the same time. I promise the next time I pass through town, I will be thoroughly clad in my fat pants.

Speaking of fat pants...here's a fun new blog that you should visit!

I've been thinking...

2009-07-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced latte
Evil Calories: brownies, peach crisp, homemade ice cream
Reality TV: Life on the D-List

Oh, dear, sweet little blog. How I've been neglecting you. I feel bad, but you have to understand, outside of your fun little boxes of words and pictures and links, there is a great big world where there are some pretty nifty things. Nifty things can be distracting to a girl like me. And, to be honest, dear, sweet little blog, I've been feeling lately like you don't fully represent the awesomeness that is my life. You certainly give props to one of the main things I have mad love for - writing. However, my other passion - food - has been elbowing me for some time in the spotlight, so I'm trying to figure out how to nurture both of you at the same time.

I wonder, dear, sweet little blog, if you would be willing to share some cyberspace with the foody side of me. Or, perhaps it's best if I give it its own room. After all, you've had this all to yourself for a long time now. I can't ask you to suddenly clear out half your closet. Where would we put all your shoes?

I guess, dear, sweet little blog, you'll just have to stay tuned, and when I suddenly adorn you with a curious little link to your sister site, please know that, though I will love you both the same, you will always be my first baby.

You people are wrong in the head

2009-06-29T14:43:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: 4 or maybe 2000, not sure which
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced mocha
Evil Calories: currently addicted to chips and salsa. Mainly the chips part.
Reality TV: it's far too embarrassing to admit

So, I have this nifty little thing on my blog called SiteMeter. It basically tracks every visit to my blog. Yep. I'm watching you. C'mon, get that finger out of your nose and, for god's sake, change that shirt. You've been wearing it for a week now.

No, seriously, I can't actually see you (but you should still change that shirt and keep your fingers out of your nose). But I can see where you are and how long you stayed. AND, it also will tell me what search term you tippity-tapped into google if you happened to simply stumble upon my blog. And, as it turns out, some of the more interesting search terms that lead to my blog are "I'm too sexy for my cat", "I'm too sexy for my heels" (both of which have this post to thank) and...wait for it...wa-a-a-a-a-it for it..."cat sexy in heels".

Okay...if you are one of these "cat sexy in heels" people and you are reading this post, please step away from the computer, grab the yellow pages and try to find yourself some urgent, low-cost shock treatment. Or just jab a fork in your eye. Or maybe even take your brain out and soak it in bleach for a while. Seriously, what's wrong with you? You're embarrassing your mother. I think you should leave. Everyone else can stay and play, even the "too sexy for my heels" people. Though, I suspect you have a certain...ehem... "need" that my little ol' blog will not be able to fulfill. But after you find your weirdo-rama smut, c'mon back for some nice, wholesome entertainment.

Let them eat cake

2009-06-10T04:39:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: breathing
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: 400 therapeutic cookies
Reality TV: Chopped

I'm one of those people who reminds myself that no matter how grim my life seems to be, there's always someone else who's been dealt a harder hand. Yes, things have a taken a harsh downward turn for us, but I'm quite certain that there are handfuls of other people out there nosediving straight to crapsville. We're not nosediving yet. We're just circling it slowly, which still gives us time veer off into greener grass. But I'm not here to post about how things have gone slightly ass over teakettle in my world. I'm here to post about cake.

Yes, cake. I don't mean the Betty Crocker boxed mix with the tub of chocolate flavored trans fat. I mean CAKE:

(That last one is the cake from our wedding! It was so awesome, even though the frosting turned everyones lips blue)

People always ask were writers get their ideas. I, like many, get mine everywhere. A simple trip to the grocery store can spark an idea. So can sitting on the couch like a sloth watching the Food Network, which is where inspiration pounced on my head last night. I realized that I'm missing a huge opportunity in my WIP. I love cake. The love to look at cake, eat cake, and when I'm feeling frisky, I love making cake. I love the whole concept of cake. No one is ever sad or suffering around cake. Cake means people are happy. Then I thought, duh...why am I not writing about cake? I mean, hello, one of my characters runs a cafe the revolves around cake, yet the plot of my story currently has little to do with the actual cake. It's just a backdrop. But the thought of bringing the cake into the spotlight makes me giddy and happy, and I'm all about the giddy and happy right now.

Obviously, this opens a whole new door of research. Sugar arts, fondant - and probably five thousand other things I know NOTHING about. But my MC knows nothings about them either when she first walks into the cafe, so we can figure it out together. So, in the next few weeks if I ramble on about frosting or post pictures of demented experimental sugar flowers, just roll with it. K?

I'm old

2009-06-01T18:29:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: where's my walker?
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced latte
Evil Calories: chocolate chip muffins that came out like bricks (but I ate them anyway, cuz chocolate chip bricks are still yummy)
Reality TV: ANTM reruns on Oxygen

For reason that are still beyond explanation, I wandered into a dark corner of the internet today and found myself watching the 2009 MTV Movie Awards. Yeah...um...I just have one tiny little question. WHO THE CRAP ARE THESE PEOPLE? I know who Andy Samberg is and I know what's her drink from Twilight...Kristin "can't act my way out of a paper sack" Stewart and Cedric Diggory from HP who plays the girly vampire dude - but seriously...the rest of them...no clue! There are a bunch of Vanessas and a few more Kristins and some chick with slicked back hair who just sat in the audience and tried to look all sexy and brooding but instead looked like she had a bug in her brain. And then these Vanessas are being nominated for their "breakthrough" performances in High School Musical part 435. I realize these aren't the Oscars, but pu-leeeeeeeeeeeeez!

So, I was sitting there being all snarky and pissy and judgmental, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Duh. I'm old. AND MTV is no longer cool. It's been overrun by douche bags and muffys with highlights. So, it's not just me getting old, it's MTV going through a midlife crisis. If MTV still played...oh, gee...what were those things...hmmmm...let's see...oh, that's right...VIDEOS, perhaps I wouldn't suddenly feel like I need to find myself a walker and look into a career as a greeter at Walmart.

I'm still convinced that we (Gen X-ers) were the last great generation. We had Nirvana and Wayne's World and Reality Bites. Ethan Hawke vs. Zach Efron? C'mon! (and if there are any Gen Y-ers reading this and you only know Ethan from Training Day...get thee to Netflix and add Reality Bites to your queue!)

So, who's old with me? C'mon. I know you're out there...

Revision quest

2009-05-30T15:26:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some old, some new, some borrowed, some blue
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: pretzels with peanut butter and little hunks of dark chocolate
Reality TV: ANTM reruns on Oxygen

Today I visited my old stomping ground, the cafe at Barnes & Noble. It's been months since I parked my keyster in the cozy little corner and tippity-tapped an entire day away. Funny thing about revisions, though. When I'm working on the first draft of something, I just go, go, go and go. Revisions are a different story. I can only go, go, go and go for little sprints before I want to tear my head off and throw it at someone (preferably the girl yammering at top volume on her cell phone about, like, how, like, so annoying Evan is, like, he totally, like, bugs, and, like, did you see what he was wearing? It was, like, so bananas. BTW, I thought "bananas" was good, but Evan apparently was not dressed well. So, "bananas" is bad now?) Anyway, revisions for me are a lot of stop-start-stop-start-go back-stop-start-go back-go back-go back-go back-start-stop-scream-stop-scream some more-start-stop. The whole process makes my brain go squish, which is why it's good that Barnes & Noble has cheesecake.

I don't actually eat it, mind you. I just watch while gaggles of rail thin tweens cram their cake holes. I hope they know that some day they will no longer have the metabolisms of rabid weasels on crack.

And on a more introspective note, it occurred to me today that I might, might be dragging my heels just a teeny, weeny bit on revisions because revisions lead to a completed manuscript, which leads to queries, which leads to rejections, which leads to me hiding in my closet freebasing Funyuns and Hostess products. But, I'll delve deeper into that psychological phenomenon when I'm having a better hair day. I'm already in a fight with my bangs. I have no room on my plate for further self doubt.

Creepy eyeball and my cousin Brad Pitt

2009-05-26T10:10:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: I hate regurgitated hair-balls
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced latte
Evil Calories: ice cream with homemade chocolate sauce that unexpectedly turned into that chocolate shell stuff you get at Dairy Queen which made us almost weep with joy
Reality TV: Tori & Dean

I'm still very much on the fence about my new banner, so if you see it come and go over the next few weeks, don't be surprised. It's okay, but I look WAY too nice. I am nice, but perhaps not the "tea cozies and masterpiece theater" nice the picture is alluding to. I mean, just below the picture and to the right, I illustrate my firm belief that Rachel Ray is the anti-christ. There's kind of a disconnect. Besides, I find my enormous zombie eye a little disturbing. If you stare at it for too long you might try to eat someones brain.

In other news, I had yet another dream last night about my cousin Brad Pitt. Yes, again. I've lost track of how many dreams I've had where Mr. Jolie is my cousin. I really can't figure out where this stems from. I'm not exactly a fan, I don't find him dreamy and I most of the time feel he couldn't act his way out of a paper sack. But last night I found myself off in dreamland in some weird triangular apartment with mustard colored walls, trying to convince Brad that he should have some Breyers Slow Churn ice cream instead of the regular because it had 1/2 the fat (this stems from a discussion my husband and I had before bed - have you ever looked at how much fat is in regular ice cream? Frightening! It's a wonder our arteries don't just slam shut). So, Brad says, "I'm sick of dieting," and I said, "You don't have to diet, just don't inhale trans fat at light speed." And then he stood up and his pants were really tight...not good tight, like busting at the seams tight, so I said, "Ummm...don't take this the wrong way, but those pants make you look like ten pound of shit crammed into a five pound bag," and he dropped his shoulders, let out a long sigh and started doing push-ups on the table. Then my dad walked in and started talking about a house fire (he's a fire chief, so this is quite normal) and my mom walked in with a casserole (she's Lutheran, so this is also quite normal). The end.

Well, sort of "the end". There was something about ghosts and then somewhere in there I broke my salad spinner and I was very upset.

Why can't I dream about cool things, like ninjas or flame-throwers?

Makeovers and makeunders

2009-05-15T05:22:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: 4. Or maybe 700. It's hard to count when you're editing because you're using a lot words you already wrote. (note to self: thank self later for writing so many usable words.)
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: Demonic chocolate chip cookies. They are made entirely of evil.
Reality TV: Fashion Show

So, as you can probably see, I'm playing around with some different looks for my bloggy blog. Not sure about this banner yet. It didn't quite come out like we hoped. I look like an advertisement for a British adaptation of an E.M. Forster novel. Oh, well. I've been using Gimp, which is the knock off version of Photoshop, and although I realize that it's free, I'd still like to find the geek squad who created it and give them gigantic wedgies. I can dig minor quirks, but when I'm yelling, "OHMYGOD, YOU SUCK DONKEY BALLS!" at 7:00 in the morning, clearly some serious tweaks need to be made. Especially when 7:00 in the morning is prime writing time. Curse you, nerds with greasy t-zones. If you'd stop playing World of Warcraft for three seconds, perhaps us dead broke, pseudo-creative wannabes wouldn't suffer so.

Speaking of writing...

By show of hands, who here writes in their head as they're trying to fall asleep? It's unfortunate that they haven't invented some kind of telepathic wi-fi brain-to-hard drive downloading system. They really need to get on that. (Of course, it would also record the completely asinine things I often think about while falling asleep, like what Jabba the Hut looked like as an infant, or why the hell the Shamwow guy is wearing an earpiece. I think it's supposed to be his microphone, but I'm convinced he's really getting directives from zombie aliens who want to eat our brains.)

I've been in a nasty stand off with Chapter 1 lately, though I've been at a loss to figure out why. But last night as I was dozing off, my subconscious elbowed me in the eyeball and spelled it out. Two words: Information dumping. Aha! I sprung out of bed (7-8 hours later, mind you) and opened Chapter 1 again. DUH!! Chapter 1 should be in traction from the amount of crap its trying to relay. So, I've taken a hatchet to it, and we're getting along much better now. Thank you, subconscious elbow to the eyeball!

Care to share any writing epiphanies you've had while slipping off to dreamland?

(Oh, btw, if you have a moment, go visit my writery friend Debra at Write on Target. Today is her 100th post, and she's giving away some fab prizes to mark the occasion.)

Fairly-odd-something

2009-05-10T05:02:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: too many, none of which were my own
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: Cookies n' Cream ice cream - only because my son asked for it and I've heard that denying your child's innocent requests for ice cream might negatively effect their SAT scores later in life.
Reality TV: Millionaire Matchmaker (I'm not proud of this)

What would you do if you knew you could not fail?

...say a little fairy god-something-or-other lands on your shoulder and tells you that you are destined for wonderfulness once you actually do the thing you truly want to do. It's an interesting topic and one that was discussed this week in my lovely little writers group. (yes, I have a writers group! And it's a "live and in person" writers group, as in they come to my house and I make brownies that (sometimes) come out really yummy (when I don't accidentally add an extra egg to the batter) and we sit and talk about writing! It's just about the coolest thing ever and I highly recommend you try it! Forming a writers group, that is...not adding an extra egg to brownie batter. That sucks.)

So, what would you do if you knew you could not fail? Would you make writing your number one priority? Would you stay up late, wake up early and forgo basic daily grooming just to get those extra seconds to put into your work? Would you tell everyone you know to rally behind your efforts because your fairy-god-something said that you were destined for greatness? Because before your fairly-god-something landed on your shoulder, there was always the tiniest sense of futility to your writing efforts. You could hope, dream, send happy thoughts out into the universe, but in the back of your mind you knew it could end up going no where. But now you know, because your fairy-god-something told you that awesomeness awaits, and fairly-god-somethings don't lie.

Now, here's where I have one of those "a-ha" moments. Shouldn't we be going along as if our fairy-god-somethings really did land on our shoulders and told us of our pending greatness? We're writers. We spend our days suspending reality. Why should this be any different? Yes, it may take us a step into the "nuttier than a fruitcake" forest, but I'd be willing to bet most of us already have a pretty good campsite set up there. (Mine has a tent with an indoor swimming pool and a ski-ball arcade. Thursday's are tournament nights. Bring your A game, sucka!) Remember, writers are supposed to be weird and wacky. It adds to our charm.

So, from this moment forward I'm working under the guise that I've had a visit from my fairy-god-something (who has currently taken the form of Tim Roth since I've spent the last two days ODing on episodes of Lie to Me on Hulu before they expire). He doesn't actually land on my shoulder...he just sits down at the my desk and hands me a cappuccino. Plus, he wears Prada:

As fairy-god-somethings go, he's pretty darn good.

Who would your fairy-god-something be? And what would you do if they told you that you could not fail?

Several levels of batty

2009-04-30T17:14:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: a metric shit ton
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced cappuccino
Evil Calories: chocolate chip cookies (I may or may not have stood in the kitchen for twenty minutes chainswallowing the entire batch.)
Reality TV: Millionaire Matchmaker

a) Just so we're clear, you CANNOT get "swine flu" by eating bacon. An intestinal bug, maybe, but I don't think it's even biologically possible to contract a flu virus from something that is a)dead and b) cooked at 400 degrees for twenty minutes. I understand the mass media's need to keep us all scared shitless of everything, but c'mon peeps. Use thine noggin.

b) Currently I hate chapter 1, which is bad because there are 31 more chapters that need to be revised, yet chapter 1 is all up in my face giving me static. Trying to rework it is like trying to jello wrestle with a porcupine. I want to punch chapter 1 in the face, give it an enormous wedgey, freeze its bra and dip its hand in warm water while its sleeping, but I can't quite figure out how without doing serious harm to Sexy Beast.

which leads me to...

c) I must find my center. I must breathe. I must trust myself. I must do all that crap I tell everyone else when they're armpit deep in dry heave inducing revisions. I must not go postal on Sexy Beast. Sexy Beast is my friend. Chapter 1 is my friend. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

d) Those "Jon & Kate Plus Eight" people on TLC really bug me.

e) I can do this.

Motivational Posters

2009-04-28T17:17:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: okay
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: Coconut madeleines (I heart you, Ina Garten!)
Reality TV: Biggest Loser

I couldn't resist posting these, because I feel I must share anything that makes me laugh so hard I almost spew Ritz crackers out my nose. Thanks to the fabulous Amy Ellis for sending these to me and almost causing me to embed flecks of Nabisco treats into my brain.

*WARNING - MATURE LANGUAGE BELOW. DO NOT VIEW IN THE PRESENCE OF CHILDREN OR OVERLY SENSITIVE ANIMALS! IF YOU OFFEND EASILY, DO NOT SCROLL DOWN (OKAY, IF YOU OFFEND EASILY, WHAT THE CRAP ARE YOU DOING HERE??)

(by the way, I have NO idea why there's a big blank space down there before the comments. Blogger gives me rage.)

Bow-Chica-Bow-Bow

2009-04-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: shiny
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: chocolate chip cookies, massive amounts of sushi for dinner last night (I'm on the fence whether this is actually evil. I did have to lay down after because I was so full. I really need to learn to stand up and take little walks in between spicy tuna rolls.)

So, my fellow writery/blogging friend, the talented and witty Debra Schubert over at Write on Target, nominated little ol' me for the prestigious Sexy Blogger Award! What does one have to do to have their blogging considered sexy, you ask? Well, here's what Ms. Legs-for-days-Debra had to say about me (seriously, check out the pics on her blog. She has stems to die for):

Vivi's the bomb. She's an awesome writer, keeps us updated on "evil calories" and thinks Rachel Ray is the anti-Christ. How sexy is that?

Never in a mil' did I think my propensity for sugar and my firm belief that Rachel Ray should play the next Pinhead could elevate me to "sexy" status. But if the shoe fits...

So, in order to accept this award highlighting my blogging sexiness, I must list FIVE SEXY THINGS ABOUT MYSELF! (I have no idea why all that is in pink, so don't ask.) Then, I need to pass this award along to bloggers that I think bring a little sexy somethin'-somethin' to our blogosphere. Wow, no pressure or anything.

Okay, let's start with the FIVE SEXY THINGS ABOUT MYSELF! (again, no idea why it's all in pink.)

1. My neck. It's long. According to my hubby, this is a good thing. I always thought I looked slightly ostrich-like. But apparently this is sexy. It's funny because I spend very little time on my neck. But now I'm thinking I should start investing in scarves. Hermes, naturally. Also considering bedazzling my neck from time to time. Must first investigate whether the glue will give me a rash. I'm fairly certain flaming red bumps would not be sexy.

2. I write. Okay, I think it's sexy. But I'm convinced only writers find writing sexy. Everyone else thinks we're a bunch of weirdos.

3. I can cook my ta-tas off. Hells, yeah. Life is too short to eat shitty food. I HEART cooking. Last week I believe our dinner menu consisted of spicy corn chowder w/homemade tortilla chips, slow cooked pulled pork tacos with a cabbage and pickled onion slaw, and ham and asparagus frittata. I love making things from scratch and I DETEST prepackaged convenience foods. In this country we've been hoodwinked into thinking we can't make anything. I mean...frozen mashed potatoes??? Prefab pot roast? Seriously? And they try to make you feel like you're saving time/money. It's BS peeps. Come stay with me for a week. Mama teach you how to make some good eats.

4. The fact that Dumb & Dumber is one of my favorite movies. It's true. I've probably seen it about five million times and the part where they eat the hot peppers still sends me into hysterics. As does Lloyd's daydream sequence where he fights the chef, the part with Harry in Mary's bathroom after Lloyd put laxatives in his tea, the part where Lloyd sees Harry and Mary together and starts to dry heave, and hubby's favorite, when they show up at the fundraiser and Lloyd sprays breath spray into the bad guy's eye.

5. I can throw a punch. First, let me say, I am NOT one of those crazy girls you see in a bar starting a fight with another girl over a fugly dude in a Kid Rock t-shirt. But I took kickboxing for many years and I can/will go all Jean-Claude Van Damme if I need to. I was taught well. Of course...my kickboxing instructor is now in prison for having questionable relations with an under-age girl, but still. (ever hear of Ken Levy? Yeah...he got himself into a bit of pickle.)

And now I have to pass the sexy blogging torch:

First one has to go to Bonehead Racing. Okay, so he hasn't updated his blog in about a year. He's still smart, handsome and happens to be married to me, which is awfully convenient. He likes to talk about tires and turbo injected thingy majiggers and torque modulated bla-blas, which usually makes me glaze over, but he can also make me laugh until I pee my pants. Now, that's sexy.

Second goes to Amy Ellis over at Girlworks. Of course I have to give one to my own sister! Clearly this "blogging sexiness" runs in our DNA. She's smart, her writing rocks and she's a total Star Wars geek. Hubba, hubba!

And lastly, I've got to give one to my girl Elizabeth over at Inside My Oyster. She's funny, her writing is amazing and her passion for digging around, finding the truth and telling it unabashed is inspiring. Plus, she looks like Laura Dern. I mean, c'mon. If you look up "sexy" in the dictionary there's a picture of Laura Dern. It's a no brainer.

So, thank to Debra for passing along this illustrious award. I will try and live up to the blogging sexiness that is expected of me. But mostly I'll just keep eating evil calories and throwing holy water on the TV every time 30 Minute Meals comes on the Food Network. That seems to be working for me.

I'm goin' in, people

2009-04-20T16:59:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: okay go
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: AMAZING chocolate chip cookies that my dear friend Jessica brought me for my birthday. I've been chain-swallowing them by the handful.

I know I said we needed time apart. We weren't getting along and we were so sick of looking at each other we had nothing but curled lips and stink-eyes to share. I vowed to stay away until at least the end of May. But I can't. Because writing a book, that, for some sick and twisted reason you were meant to write, is like being in love. Real-life love, not cliche, stereotypical, birds chirping/butterflies fluttering, fakey frosting with sprinkles love. Real-life love can make you feel sick, can give you a headache, can make you question everything about yourself. It can make you feel like a dull, talentless sub-human with fat ankles. But you can't just walk away. You have to grab it by the ear and make it work, because you've come too far; put way too much of yourself into it. And even though you may appear silly, deluded or just plain stupid, you believe, in every nook of your bones, that you can make it work.

So, starting tomorrow, I am beginning my rewrite on AC. I've got my checklist all ready:

- fridge stocked with grapefruit flavored seltzer water
- desk candy jar fully stocked with Runts
- playlist assembled on iTunes (featuring Apres Un Reve, Op 7 No 1. If you haven't tried writing to this song, you should).
- gardenia scented hand lotion
- picture of The Brain from Pinky and The Brain on bulletin board
- box of tacks ready to maim above mentioned picture of The Brain, because he represents my stinky-faced inner critic and he can go suck it as far as I'm concerned. If he gets in my way I'll go medieval on him. I'm not kidding.

So, breathe...namaste...bonsai...wax on, wax off...paint the fence...there is no spoon...yadda, yadda, yadda...here I go...

Copious amounts of "duh"

2009-04-16T09:40:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: up
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: Let's not even talk about it, okay. Life is about moving forward and not dwelling on things like onion rings, coney dogs & cheesecake

Does anyone else have spring allergies that make your head feel like it's part cotton candy, part lava-lamp? I hate it with a fiery passion, and no matter how many allergy meds I take, I still feel like my head is about to fall off and bounce away. What's funny is that I notice odd things when I'm cavorting around town. Thing perhaps I wouldn't notice if my head were clear and non-slurry like. When I was at the mall, I bypassed all the spring handbags (clearly I'm ill) and zeroed in on the men's fragrance display. Namely, the men's Hummer fragrance that is now available for douche bags nationwide. Yes, Hummer. Because, you know, nothing says "sexy" like smelling like the gaping hole in our ozone layer. "Gee, babe, you smell like the death of our planet." "Thanks, it's my cologne. It reinforces my manliness when I'm going 90 on the freeway in the pouring rain, cutting off insignificant, fuel efficient vehicles and taking up 4000 parking spaces at Whole Foods."

Anyway, the other thing that suck rocks about having a head that feels like it's made entirely of Easy Cheese is that I find it slightly challenging to write anything worthwhile. However, I shant let the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition pass me by. I encourage all of my writery/blogging friends to participate as well. There are several different categories and the grand prize is $3000 and a trip to NYC. Although, you do have to pay to enter a MS, but, c'mon, what brings us more joy than shelling out $20 so some half stoned skater dude in the mailroom at Writer's Digest can spill Mountain Dew all over our work? Gives me warm fuzzies just thinking about it.

my week

2009-04-10T05:18:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: see below
Reality TV: ANTM reruns on Oxygen

Last Sunday morning, I woke up to this:

Monday morning, I woke up to this:

So, I spent the week making these:

However, not wanting to compromise my recent EIGHT POUND weight loss and ending up with this physique...

...I sent them to work with hubby. Because I'm counting on those EIGHT POUNDS to help me convince the world that, even though I'm going to be 36 tomorrow, I am still young and chic:

...and not:

Because I swear that just a week ago, I looked like this:

(note the stylish eyepatch and homespun haircut. Love ya, mom!)

Anyway...happy weekend everyone! Oh...

...and Happy Easter!

Excerpt

2009-04-05T11:02:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: morning cup + lunchtime cappuccino
Evil Calories: evil fudgey brownies
Reality TV: ANTM reruns on Oxygen

I'm having one of those days. I'm sleep deprived, the darling boy is coming down with a cold and has spent most of the day using me as a pillow, and a snowstorm is fixing to dump on us at any moment. I was going to post, but when I dug into my bag of wit and charm, I came up empty handed. So, instead I decided to post an excerpt from chapter 6 of After Charlie. There's no particular reason, other than when I went to pop in and say hello to my vacationing AC folder, it was the first chapter I opened and was reminded how much I miss my girl Annie. It's not edited in the least, so it may seem clumsy and disjointed, but whatever. It's me. Currently I'm clumsy and disjointed as well.

Chapter 6

On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, Annie received a strange call from a total lunatic. She wasn’t in the midst of a huge celebration surrounded by mingling friends about to slice through layers of sponge cake and butter cream when the phone rang. She was alone, watching the X-files and picking mats of yellow and white fur off of her cat, Poe, who, at nineteen pounds, had a rather difficult time tending to task by himself.

Aiding Poe in his grooming process wasn't exactly the way she'd envisioned ringing in her leap to adulthood, but when she dug the cordless phone from between the cushions of the couch and answered, her world took such a deep and neck-wrenching plunge that dander-ridden tufts of tabby hair where heavenly in comparison.

“How would you like to come to California for a weekend?” where the first words that came barging through the receiver, the voice abrupt and deadpan. It wasn’t that Annie was shocked that after fourteen years, her mother was making an attempt at parenthood; it was that, after fourteen years, these were the first words that her mother chose to say. It seemed not much had changed; that her mother still didn’t deem Annie fit for basic social pleasantries. No “hello”, “how are you?” or even a simple “happy birthday”. Her next words were, “There’s great shopping in the city. You should see for yourself. They have an FAO Schwartz too.” Annie wanted to pause the moment, pull out a pen and paper and begin making well arranged, bullet-pointed list of how flawed the conversation had been so far. Starting with the offensive non-greeting, moving on to the fact that Annie lived in a city and she was well aware of the shopping to be had, jumping then to the fact that she, her mother, had the audacity to suggest what Annie should or shouldn’t see, as if she’d been living in a barrel inside a cave for the last fourteen years and hadn’t seen anything worthwhile and thank God she called and decided to make an attempt at being human so Annie could finally live, and lastly moving on to the fact that, though her mother may have missed this little detail since she’d been away and missed so much, Annie was no longer seven, and the dangling of an FAO Schwartz in front of her face had little effect.

Annie would later realize that the pain stretching from her forehead all the way down to her pinky toe was absolute, unadulterated dread, and there wasn’t enough sighing, groaning or burying her face in her hands to capture just how much she did not want to go to California. Of course, to her dad it was a Greek tragedy in the making. Go meet your mother, the cold, cavernous void from whence you sprang, soak up all the irony, study all her nuances for signs of guilt and regret, have tense, metaphoric conversations, grope for answers, but end up leaving with more questions, then come home, write it all down in iambic pentameter and call it something deep yet quirky, like Regret is a Bologna Sandwich on Rye.

Annie agreed to go, not because of her dad, but because of that little pest inside of her, nudging her, like she was passing a crumpled, overturned car on the side of the road. She didn't want look but she had to, just to see how bad it was. To say they were the worst three and a half days of her life would be far too mild a statement, since it limits the horrific weekend to just her life, when more accurately it would have been the worst three and half days for anyone in the history of time had they been forced to live it. Within five minutes of Annie’s mother picking her up from the airport (out on the curb at baggage claim, mind you, not actually parking or coming inside) they’d covered every topic (“how was the flight?” and “are you hungry?”) and every moment from that point on was drenched with a unnerving silence that made Annie’s skin hurt. Her mother had remarried a balding, alpha-male know-it-all with three kids from a previous marriage, who acknowledged Annie only when she accidentally unplugged their Nintendo 64 to plug in her alarm clock. There was no actual trip to the city or to FAO Schwartz and instead her mother offered to drop her off at the mall to shop on her own. When her mother wasn’t shirking her parental responsibilities, she’d just sit and nod along with her husband while staring out the window, seemingly as unattached to her current family as she had been to her last. On the last day of the trip, Annie broke her oversized sunglasses, came down with a horrible sinus infection, and discovered as she was packing that their evil Siamese cat had been using her suitcase as a litter box.

It was unclear why the distinct, prickly memory of that weekend suddenly hit Annie while she was re-filling coffee cups at the counter, looking up every so often to see Pepper Ann giving her little nods of approval from across the cafe. Just a few short minutes before, she'd introduced Annie in way that made everything in the room feel like it was letting out a long, relieved sigh.

“This is our friend Annie. She’s giving us a hand today.” She said it proudly, without apology, without that slight cringe that read, “I’m sorry she’s not Phoebe, but we’ll push through.” Our friend Annie. Not even our new friend Annie, just our friend, giving it weight and history. Our friend, instantly fusing Annie into a close-knit circle, which made her feel strange and content. And the customers didn’t protest or reject Annie’s attempts at small talk. Even the silent shriveling Len, who hadn’t seemed to notice her going from customer to pseudo-employee, put on his best fork-raise when she filled his coffee cup.

Her world - the one laden with boxes of letter and absent parents, traveling sort-of Aunts and silent, empty condos, estranged jobs and retreating friends – immediately lost its luster compared to the world of “our friend Annie”. She wasn’t usually one to entertain thoughts of a being a different person and heartily subscribed to the theory of the grass always seeming radiantly greener on the other side. Every life had its pitfalls, and yes, she could sit around imagining herself four inches taller, boobs a cup size bigger, hair thicker, wallet fatter, friends nicer, career sounder, but it would do nothing but make her feel worse when she when to live out the less impressive life she already had. But as she delivered eggs benedict and a sausage omelet with well-done hash browns to table six, passing Pepper Ann, who was itching the end of her nose, but still managed to smile and make it look effortless, she was “our friend Annie”, snuggling into it like a thick, wool pea coat.

Today's List

2009-03-29T14:57:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: morning cup + late afternoon cappuccino
Evil Calories: cookies. lots of 'em.
Reality TV: ANTM reruns on Oxygen

Things that are awesome:

- My son, who now can say, "hey, why are you all up in my grill?" thanks to the other awesome man in my life
- My glass of wine
- The fact that I ran 4 miles earlier while watching Hellboy II: The Golden Army. Which leads me to...
- My new Macbook, which can actually play movies without going into cardiac arrest
- My writing
- The new Jim Gaffigan special on Comedy Central tonight
- Asparagus

Things that are not awesome:

- The snow that is falling outside my kitchen window
- My hair, which is suffering the effects of the 4 mile run
- The fact that I'm going to be 36 in a couple of weeks
- Cat boxes
- My writing
- The fact that I'm going to be 36 in a couple of weeks
- Dry contact lenses
- Beets
- The fact that I'm going to be 36 in a couple of weeks

It is done

2009-03-25T14:35:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: Shazbot!
Caffeine: morning cup + late afternoon cappuccino
Evil Calories: No! I lost another pound last week and am close to my goal of 120, so be gone you evil, sugary demons!
Reality TV: ANTM

Now, before you get your panties in a bunch (as if my measly adventures in writing would really have any effect on you panties anyway), allow me to clarify the above title. Yes, I am done with the book. But I am done with the book because I have to be, because if I spend one more second looking at it or thinking about it, I will jab fondu forks in my eyes. The final four chapters are clumsy, ill-paced and full of holes. But I must put it down before I flip out and write in an alien invasion or zombie attack to wipe out all of my characters. So, I shall lend it a muu-muu, give it a mojito and send it on vacation until the end of May. Two months should be enough time for me to be able to look at with clear eyes. Or at least slightly less "going postal" eyes.

In the meantime, I will start work on my next idea, which is pure, unadulterated fluff. AC has been a huge challenge for me. Trying to be witty w/out being flippant, trying to be poignant and melancholy without making myself dry heave. I hate sap, but it's hard to write about a girl's father dying without letting a little drivel in. It's been tricky, to say the least. But my new endeavor has none of that. I mean, my MC is being trained for a job in the afterlife by her loony dead uncle. It's pillows of marshmallow all the way. Woo-freakin'-hoo! All hail brain candy!

new kicks

2009-03-19T05:17:00.000-07:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: kickin' it old school with little wheat crackers with peanut butter and little chunks of dark chocolate
Reality TV: ANTM

For the past few weeks, my secret little spot has been the Starbucks cafe inside of Barnes & Noble. When you don't have the means to pull a proper Agatha Christie, you've got to take what you can get. I like it there for several reasons. They don't have power outlets, so it's rarely crowded (thank you, Sexy Beast, and your bad-ass eight hour battery), the cafe is gargantuan, so if it does get crowded, it never feels crowded. And lastly, they serve cheesecake. I don't ever order it, mind you. It just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy that they have it. Oh, and as an added bonus, the barista looks a little like Han Solo (if you can imagine Han in a green apron and bad shoes).

But there are odd things at my secret little spot as well. For instance, rival gangs of elderly canasta players. I'm telling you, one of these days the lady in the purple muu-muu with her wig on backwards is going to throw down with the woman in the green high-water polyester pants. It's only a matter of time. Then there's the dude in the Superman t-shirt who chews on his Starbucks cup. (I can't even make a joke about this one. It's just bizarre.) Lastly, the old dude who comes in every day at 2:00 to make phone calls. There are people in his life that need detailed accounts of his bowel activity. Apparently, smack in the middle of a Barnes & Noble cafe is the ideal place to relay this information.

Odd, paper cup eating dudes aside, I'm writing my ta-tas off. It's forced writing, which can be tricky. You know, the "I will finish this by next Wednesday or I'll tear my own arm off and beat myself to death with it" kind of writing. Sometimes my brain cooperates and sometimes I sound like I'm writing an episode of the Teletubbies. So much effort to make my writing seem effortless. My poor brain is going to need a serious spa day after this.

Spring forward

2009-03-07T15:56:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes and yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: Girl Scout cookies (little wenches cornered me at the grocery store. Resistance is futile.)
Reality TV: Make Me a Supermodel reruns

Just a few things you should know:

a) I am springing forward. See, I even bend at the knee and put my shoulders into it. I plan on colliding headfirst with a Gardenia or a Cherry Blossom. Screw winter and the deranged horse it rode in on.

b) I used pancetta in my pasta e fagioli tonight instead of bacon, and sweet mother of crap, it was so very many kinds of awesome. Husband made fun of me because I used the phrase "it rounds out the flavor", but it really did round out the flavor, if the flavor of soup can be round, which, if you've had enough merlot, it most certainly can be, along with being oblong, square and triangular.

and finally

c) My mom is town, which means I get massive amounts of time off, which means by March 25, when a Southwest Airlines flight whisks her back to Portland, After Charlie will be done, done, done, done and done! If I'm a bit absent in the next few weeks, you'll know why. I'll be hiding in various place - the library, the Starbucks up the street, the laundry room at 3:00am - tapping out my last few chapters. Freakin', frackin finally. Finishing this book as been like trying to shit an oven. Very much near impossible.

fall asleep to dream

2009-03-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: zzzzz......
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: things
Reality TV: ANTM reruns

This is Pep, my evil, three-legged, wheezing feline monster. Sometimes Pep and I don't see eye to eye, like when he jumps up on the bed while I'm trying to write and decides it's the ideal time for a thorough kitty-parts cleaning. Kitty-parts cleanings are not subtle things. Those of you with cats know what I'm talking about. Now imagine if, along with the thwick-thwick-thwick sound, your cat wheezed. Thwick-hrreeeeee-thwick-hrreeeeee-thwick-hrreeeeee. It's not good for my calm. But, sometimes, Pep gets it right, like in the above photo. That is exactly how I feel. Sleepy, sleepy-sleeperson. I always feel this way this time of year, bobbing around in the armpit of winter. Four straight months of arctic conditions with no end in sight and the mind, the body and the spirit start to check out. The only logical thing to do is sleep. Time passes much faster when you're sleeping than it does when you're looking out your kitchen window at the trees bending sideways from the below zero hurricane winds. And sometimes I think it's worse when the sun is out this time of year, because it just illuminates how dead everything looks. Bare trees, brown grass, dirty snow, salt residue on EVERYTHING - your car, the streets, your clothes. Bla, bla and bla.

March = ick

I'm too sexy for my cat

2009-02-27T12:35:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: Shazam!
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: chocolate covered pretzel thingys
Reality TV: ANTM reruns

So, Sexy Beast arrived yesterday, and I'm one happy little bunny. Did I mention that it's sexy? It's so sexy, it almost makes me look sexy, and I have on fuzzy pink slippers and drawstring pants. And it does fun things like this:

Okay, I'm no Twiggy, but I bet Andy Warhol would still be impressed.

and this:

That's me with a mutant super hero from planet StinkyPants. If you don't hand over all of your Nilla Wafers, he'll rearrange your face.

Oh, yeah, it it works great for writing too. But, okay, as sexy as Sexy Beast is, it feels a little strange writing on a new computer. I was so used to my old PowerBook, with the feel the of keys and the look of the screen, that Sexy Beast feels a little foreign to me. Plus, I don't have my Office: Mac software yet, so I'm writing on text edit, which is just bizarre. I have a little OCD when it comes to writing. It must be a word document, magnified to 115%, font Time New Roman (not Times...Times New Roman. If I try and write with Times, I start twitching), and the document must be pulled to the left of my screen so I can still see a little bit of my wallpaper (which is currently a picture of Princess Leia pointing a blaster). I also can't wear socks when I write because when I sit and ponder plot, dialogue, etc., I like to fiddle with my toes. I probably need some sort of medication, but for now I'll just self medicate with peanut butter M&M's.

Does anyone else have any odd OCD writing quirks or am I the only weirdo?

Dead inside

2009-02-24T04:44:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: computerless
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: therapeutic chocolate chip cookies to cope with computerlessness
Reality TV: ANTM reruns

At approximately 4:15 pm yesterday afternoon, my PowerBook G4 had a massive brain pause and died right in my lap. Right before it left this world, it let out a strange sound reminiscent of baby pigs being run over, and then, poof. The screen froze and when I tried to reboot, I got nothing. Just a grey screen. I'd prepared myself for that moment. I backed everything up on an external hard drive, backed it up again on our old demonic beast of a desktop upstairs. But still, when it happened, I couldn't help but feel a sense of shock and loss. I've had that computer for over five years. It helped me write my first book. Granted, that was a tumultuous time in our relationship. It liked to crash a lot back then, and once it didn't auto-save and I lost a whole chapter. That was the closest I ever came to beating it with sticks and chucking it through a window.

Actually, there were several times I wanted to get medieval on it. I believe there are several posts within this blog where I vow to run it over several times with my car then put it in a blender.

Wait a second...I'm glad that piece of shit is dead!!!! So long, sucka! You've been replaced by this sexy beast:

Except, I'm forced to take a short sabbatical until it arrives, which sucks rocks because I'm so close to being done with After Charlie. But I don't trust demonic beast of a desktop upstairs. I'm convinced it feasts on the souls of small children.

RIP (soon please)

2009-02-21T08:08:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes, yes and yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: Easter M&Ms
Reality TV: Project Runway reruns

Did I mention that my computer is dying a slow death? S-L-O-O-O-O-O-O-W, meaning, not completely dead yet. It's only mostly dead. It needs to hurry up and run into the light already, because it's totally vamping out and scaring me. Yes, I'm scared of my computer. This can't be healthy. I'm already afraid of my toaster oven, and I have serious trust issues with my hair dryer. I don't need to be manic about another inanimate object. The scary thing about crap-on-a-stick (pet name for my computer) is the noise coming from the hard drive. It's not just channeling my old Plymouth Arrow. It's also making this horrid, high pitched, nails-on-a-chalkboard sound anytime I pick it up. I'm so afraid it's going to implode or burst into flames or slime me or something. That sound can't be good. Anyone ever had their hard drive go poo? Does it make this sound? Or should I be throwing holy water on it?

Random

2009-02-16T04:52:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: those waxy frosted animal cookies with the little sprinkles
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns

Well, it's happened. My computer has caught the plague, and is dying a slow, painful and alarmingly loud death. I'll just be tapping away on it and all of a sudden the hard drive sounds like the engine of my old Plymouth Arrow (which, by the way, was my very first car when I was a teenager. It was a hunk, wouldn't go over 35 mph and I had to drive fifteen minutes out of the way to and from school because it couldn't make it over the big hill on Las Positas, and then some asshat broke into it just to get his hands on a Night Ranger tape). Anyway, my only hope now is that Apple lists some non-cringeworthy priced refurbished MacBooks, or else I'm stuck trying to write on the demonic shitbox of a desktop upstairs. It eats files for breakfast and has a passion for kernel panics. That is not good for my calm.

On another note, just peek, PEEK, at my word count meter for After Charlie (don't stare, you'll make it uncomfortable). I'll say no more lest I throw a monkey wrench in my groove. Groove being the key word, in that, yes, oh, yes, it came back and now we're groovin'.

And lastly, I realized something yesterday. As I was writing my first book, I was sure, and could feel, in every nook and cranny of my bones, that it would be published. Which is probably why my life sucked rocks for a little while when I couldn't find an agent and had to bury it my "poo smells" folder. This book, I feel the opposite. Though of course I have the occasional delusion of grandeur, I'm fully aware of the fact that it probably won't be published, nor will it land me an agent. I can't figure out if this is good or bad. I'm still writing it with the same passion and fervor and when it comes time to query I'll give it my all. But, I don't know, that whole process just seems like an afterthought to me right now. Call me crazy.

Wuv, twu wuv...

2009-02-14T05:00:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: lots
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: nope, must weigh in today
Reality TV: Bad Girl's Club

Love at first sight is easy to understand; it's when two people have been looking at each other for a lifetime that it becomes a miracle. - Amy Bloom

We cannot really love anybody without whom we never laugh. - Alice Reppler

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love. - Charles M. Shulz

Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come. - Matt Groening

Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that's a real treat. - Joanne Woodward

Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity. - Albert Einstein

Men are from Earth. Women are from Earth. Deal with it. - George Carlin

Confess

2009-02-10T18:31:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: 3000+
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: pretzels with melted hershey's kisses on top
Reality TV: Biggest Loser

I have to just get this off my chest, and I apologize to any of you who have never read the book, or have never had an interest to read the book, or who think the book is fluff and wouldn't come near it with a ten foot pole, but...what the crap have they done to Confessions of a Shopaholic?

Now, before you out click on me, just listen. I don't care if you only ever read historical-sci-fi-erotica-YA-romance, if you're a chick and at ANY point in your life you've chosen a pair of shoes over groceries, you should really read this book. To this day, it is one of the funniest books I've ever read. (And let me specify that I'm ONLY talking about the first book. By the second book I wanted to push Becky Bloomwood out of a moving cab.) But now the movie is coming out, and every time I see the trailer for it I want rip my head off and throw it at the TV. They have totally destroyed this poor book. They made Becky American (weird because the girl that plays her is actually British), they put her in NY instead of London, they made her this muffy, airheaded fashionista who pines for a job at a fashion magazine, and, the biggest kick in the nards, they have Luke Brandon "speaking Prada". And she works for him or something, and they appear to get along, ugh, I mean, COME ON!!!!!! The best thing about the book is that she spends most of it hating him. Oh, and they gave Suz black hair. OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!!!

You know where my mind immediately goes? To Sophie Kinsella. Did you know that she was already a writer under her real name, Madeleine Wickham, and when she wrote Shopaholic she queried her own publisher under the name Sophie Kinsella and she sold it without them knowing it was her. And now she's sitting there watching her book get dismembered. That cannot be a pleasant feeling. And this could happen to us one day, peeps. These books that we're pouring our souls into could be miscast, gutted and rewritten beyond recognition. How would you handle it?

There is no spoon

2009-02-06T04:58:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: Taco salad last night for dinner (not good for my muffin top)
Reality TV: ANTM reruns

For my WIP, I have a full, long-winded layout, character outlines and even visual references for specific places/objects in the story taped all over my desk. (I also have a picture of The Brain from Pinky and Brain. He represents my evil, smelly, hairy knuckled inner critic. I've taped a Barbie dress to him and stuck tacks through his eyes. That way when he says things like, "that sounds like a bucket of smashed a-holes", I can't take him seriously.) However, even with all these elements to guide me through my writing, there is a huge difference between knowing the path, and walking the path. (I also have a picture of Morpheus. He's my inner Buddha, because I think everyone should have an inner Buddha who wears bad ass clothes and knows kung-fu.)

Now, I'm not saying this is a bad thing. Just because it comes out different, doesn't mean it comes out wrong (although The Brain thinks so, but he does the cha-cha like a sissy girl, so he can go suck it). But it got me thinking about how I write, and then curious how other people write. I always see the story first, so it's almost like watching a movie and then translating the moving images into prose. My writing becomes the distinctive voice narrating the images.
But what about you?
Does your voice stream directly from the images of your story, or do the words come first and the images follow?

Sleep. Oh how I crave those little slices of death.

2009-02-02T05:06:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: coffee
Caffeine: yes
Evil Calories: cheesecake bar that tasted like feet mixed with armpits (but I still ate it. It's cheesecake. C'mon. I'm not made of wood.)
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns

I officially hate winter and think it should be banned. I have been very understanding thus far of the ongoing butt-ass-cold conditions, but this morning I'm sleep deprived and have no capacity for being positive or uppity. In the last two months, I believe we've had TWO days where it's actually gotten above 20 degrees. You know what would be awesome? Walking outside and NOT feeling like your face is going to fall off. I know. I'm a dreamer.

So, back to the sleep deprived thing. The boy has had croup (funky cough that sounds like a seal being bludgeoned to death) so I've been on night duty. Last night was the third night and this morning I actually think I can see through time. Sleep deprivation is a strange thing. It messes with your brain. You begin to ponder strange things. Like, why hasn't anyone invented the tractor beam yet? Someone should get on that. It would be very handy. And why doesn't Donald Duck wear pants? Why did they give him a shirt, but not pants? He should at least have shorts or a loin cloth or something. And was there a bathroom on the Millennium Falcon? And why aren't the children on Sesame Street afraid of Mr. Snuffleupagus? I gotta tell you, if I was eight and saw a twenty foot brown hair ball with a trunk, I'd bust ass home. I certainly wouldn't try and play with him. What if he turned on you. A chihuahua turns on you, no big deal. A twenty foot brown hair ball with a trunk turns on you, you're screwed.

Pray for me. There isn't enough coffee in the solar system to save me now.

Geek love

2009-01-29T18:18:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: chip chop chip
Caffeine: morning cuppa
Evil Calories: these crazy cookie bar thingys that I made, they have chocolate chunks and currants, which seems weird but tastes like joy
Reality TV: ANTM reruns

I am a geek. It's something I don't even bother trying to hide. Yes, I could feign being normal, throw away my X-Files hat and vow to only wear my Han Solo t-shirt around the house, but I believe in living out loud, dammit. If it helps, I'm never the same kind of geek. I'm a fluctuating vat of gooberness, so I may be a little weird but I'll always keep you on your toes.

The following is my geek list, in no particular order:

Star Wars - this comes as a shock to you? Yes, Episode 1-3 sucked donkey nads, but that changes nothing

X-Files - my sister and I actually attended an X-Files Convention. I think Skinner was there, but we never actually saw him. (or was it The Lone Gunmen?)

Halo - I actually finished this game before my husband did, and my biggest moment of joy was when I advised the mail room guys at work how to finish the last level because none of them could figure it out.

Grand Theft Auto - Vice City was my absolute favorite. Yes, you can car jack people and run over prostitutes. So what?

Coffee - An espresso shot should pull for 18 seconds, to achieve this you must have a fine grind, humidity in the air effects the grind, so you must check it every half hour and if you get in front of me at Starbucks and order a triple vente nonfat decaf sugar-free orange-mint-pineapple-chocolate mocha latte, I will hunt you down and cram sugar packets down your throat

Firefly - I've already discussed this...let's not revisit the pain

Law & Order - The show officially jumped the shark when they killed off assistant DA Borgia and now the writing is downright horrid. The older episodes are better.

Mafia movies - I can recite Goodfellas from start to finish (but I only do it when no one else is around because that could be very annoying)

Elvis - and I don't mean the young, svelte Elvis. I mean the fat, farting, peanut butter and banana sandwich Vegas Elvis. If you don't understand this, you've never been to the right parts of Vegas, baby!

Okay, that's enough. I don't want to slip too far into the dork forest. But now it's your turn. What do you geek out about?

Smelly monsters and Hall & Oats

2009-01-28T05:23:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: 3.4987602
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: cheese, cheese and more cheese
Reality TV: me

I've decided that I can live without being published. The absolute worst thing for me is when I lose my story. Or, more accurately, when my story gives me the finger, packs up its designer diamond and chocolate studded luggage and hops the next magic carpet to Toledo (I don't know, it's a story, it can do whatever it wants, right?). I realize the two are closely connected, especially when the little pesky monster in my head is constantly waving them in my face. You're not published because your stories suck. Duh! Simple concept, dumbass. He has hairy knuckles and smells like tangy underpants. I wish he'd go away.

We were getting along so well, my story and I, buying each other ice cream, painting each other's toenails, brushing each other's hair. But you know how it is when you start to lose faith in something. Your story starts staying out late, sleeping in until noon, eating your favorite cereal without apology. Soon you can't be in the same room together, and when you are, the moments are filled with snide remarks and dirty looks. It's inevitable at that point. If you listen close enough, you can hear the slamming of closet doors, the slap of clothes hitting the bottom of the suitcase, angry feet on the stairs, down the hall, keys, coat, door. Silence. Then it's just you and the cursor. Blinking on the quarter second, because now you have plenty of time to do ridiculous things like shuffle through the junk drawer in the kitchen for an hour, find the digital timer, swap out the battery in the DVD remote just so you can time the one thing that is forcing you to hear a Hall & Oats song in your head. Blink, she's gone, blink, oh why, blink, what went wrong?, blink*. Then you wonder how you'd look with a handful of pencils jammed in your eye.

Will I still finish my book? Yes. It'll sound like a big bag of wank, reminiscent of something you'd find in an episode of the Telletubbies. But I can't just sit around and wait. I have handfuls of other stories screaming for my attention, and I must tend to them before they get annoyed with me too.

*the author of this blog is not responsible for the emotional or physical damage resulting from getting the above mentioned Hall & Oats song stuck in your head. Though she strongly recommends slamming your head in the fridge door a few times. That sometimes makes it go away.

You know you're getting old when...

2009-01-25T11:45:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: don't ask
Caffeine: morning cappuccino
Evil Calories: strawberry shortcake for dessert last night
Reality TV: bad things on VH1

...you're flipping through channels, stop on a movie with the girl who played Clare from the original 90210, note that she looks way better with long hair, then allow yourself to get totally sucked into the movie, and finally notice after calling your spouse in to show him the cool coloring technique and editing style that it's a Lifetime movie.

And then you continue to wade through all the Fancy Feast and Estroven commercials to watch the rest of it.

/gwloh*&^TGI

2009-01-20T15:29:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: uh
Caffeine: uhbwumuh
Evil Calories: umphhum
Reality TV: kjf;daiuhen;fadwsdd&&&&&&&&&&&

Has anyone seen my brain? Check the bottom of your shoe, you may have stepped in it the last time you were here. Anyone? No?

See, the reason I ask is because I sat down at my computer today to work on chapter 16 and...nothing. Again. Yes, again, as in going on the third day in a row I've sat down to work on it and ...nothing...crickets. This is how the words in my head sound:

I like write. Write is good and smart. I write pretty and shiny things. Oooh, a peanut. It's round. Sort of.

Usually the words in my head flow like buttery ribbons of joy. I'm reverting to zombie cave-woman. Help. Please, take a moment to look around for my brain. Check under your seat or in your pocket. It could be confused for belly button fuzz, so check there too. And if you find it, please return it. I really need it. I'm cute, but I'm not that cute. I need my brain.

Disconnected

2009-01-19T04:16:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: oy
Caffeine: yes
Evil Calories: none that I will admit to
Reality TV: bad things on VH1

My writery friend Tamara sent me this - it's an interview Poets & Writers did with four young literary agents. It's very interesting...lots of insight. Plus, they seem to get a little tipsy as the interview goes on. But, in reading it, I kind of wanted to close my computer, throw it in the garbage and curl into a little ball on the laundry room floor. Specifically when they talk about their ideal client. A gifted writer who is really well connected. One even jokes that their ideal is "the author who's so well connected that he's sleeping with a producer at ABC News...".

Ummm...yeah, okay, let's see...I know the staff at the Starbucks down the street, the guy that collects the shopping carts at my grocery store, a couple handfuls of people I used to work with in advertising, and many, many, many years back, I worked at a coffee cart in downtown Seattle and, on occasion, made drinks for a few key members of Pearl Jam. They knew me as "coffee lady". That, my friends, is my dizzying array of connections.

I know authors handle most of their own marketing and PR, often on their own dime. If I were being published, I would do everything to self-promote, just short of sinking myself into heaps of debt (little mounds of debt are okay, but not heaps. Heaps are scary). But it seems that having connections is just as important as having talent. And, to take it one step further, would an agent actually decide against rep'ing a writer who was talented but had little to no connections?

Friday (sort of but not really) funny

2009-01-16T05:05:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: blegh
Evil Calories: blegh
Reality TV: blegh

Darling son passed the plague on me. It's fun dividing your time between sleeping and feeling like you're going to die. It has put a serious damper on my tryst with the treadmill. I'm hoping she'll be understanding. She gets ugly when she's angry.

So, with my brain set on gravy, I've not much to say, so I though I'd take this opportunity to tell my joke. Yes, my joke. Everyone needs a joke. If you don't have one, get one (but don't steal mine or I'll send the plague after you).

Bobby, a spry young man with taste for fast cars and even faster women, set his sights on Marie, a shy girl from quiet little part of town. Bobby finally asked Marie out, and Marie accepted. Like so many star-crossed lovers before them, they had their first date at the county fair. As they made their way through the sea of overalls and pleather, Bobby asked Marie what she wanted to do first.

“I think I want to get weighed,” she replied.

So, they went to the “guess your weight within a pound and win a crappy Dokken poster” booth. The toothless man guessed Marie’s weight dead on (112 lbs) and they walked away empty handed. After blowing an hour at the ring toss game, again Bobby asked Marie what she wanted to do.

“I really want to get weighed,” she replied.

So, back they went to the toothless guy, who guessed correctly again, and happily took another five dollars from Bobby. Totally annoyed and finding Marie boring as hell, Bobby cut the date short and took her home.

"How was your date?" asked Marie's dad when she walked in.

“Eh...It was wousy,” she replied.

the big 10

2009-01-12T14:08:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yep
Caffeine: yep
Evil Calories: yep
Reality TV: yep

So, it appears, after standing for months with 9 followers, my blog has finally hit the big 1-0. Oh yes, a whole 10 people who openly admit they like the cut of my jib (whatever that means). However, the 10th person is one of those shaded silhouette people so I can't see who it is. I'm convinced it's Clive Owen. Or my pseudo-cousin Brad Pitt. Or both. They hang out on the weekends and read my blog. They fight over me...which is weird because Brad is my pseudo-cousin and even in an alternate universe that would be frowned upon.

And in other news, you may have read on girlworks blog that the lovely and talented Amy Ellis and I are participating in a muffin top throwdown. I'm convinced that my muffin top will reign supreme, since I'm doing both morning and evening workouts (except for today because my time has been taken up by a hurling toddler. Please read that carefully. I'm not hurling my toddler, that would be very mean. My toddler is hurling. Like, everywhere. I feel so bad for him. But he's handling it well. When he's done, he says, "no problem, mommy, I done frowing up")

So, in closing, Clive Owen is following me, my muffin top rules, and I don't throw my children.

hurty ick

2009-01-09T17:19:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: many choice ones
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: none...feel like utter poo
Reality TV: whatever happens to be on

When I was little, this was my favorite book:

Blossom Culp had me at hello. I can honestly say I still haven't read a first person narrative that has grabbed me as much as she did. Although, maybe we just can't get grabbed like we did when we were young. We're all old and bitter and unimpressed by everything. But I remember so well sitting in the library of my elementary school watching some show on PBS where a guy read a story and, at the same time, drew a scene from the story, and when I realized he was reading Ghosts I Have Been, I freaked. No one else in my class seemed to connect with this book, and I just didn't get it. For the early 80's, it was very edgy, especially for a YA book. All I'd been exposed to were books like Beezus and Ramona and Charlie & The Chocolate Factory.

I mention this because I woke up feeling like utter poo this morning. The kind of utter poo that makes you wonder if you accidentally slept on train tracks the night before. Everything hurt. Even my eyelashes. So, I spent the ENTIRE day in bed, which sucked because it was my one "mommy" day off. But, halfway through the day, I suddenly wanted this book. It's like I was seven years old and home sick from school (real sick, not fake sick) and just wanted my favorite things. So, with lots of moaning I dragged myself to the spare room, because I swear I bought it many years ago just to have in my collection. But it wasn't there. I was sad. Tomorrow I'll probably wake up feeling better and suddenly I'll be all grown up again and the urge to read it will fade.

oh, well...

What was one of your favorite childhood books?

How many Pitts we got on this ship, anyway?

2009-01-08T05:04:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: 30+800+1+9+44+65+234
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: have cleansed kitchen of all fat-ass inducing treats in preparation for upcoming weight loss challenge
Reality TV: Top Chef

I believe, in an alternate universe, Brad Pitt is my cousin. I'm not saying this because I find him dreamy. The contrary, actually. Though I love him in the Oceans movies and find him to be an okay dude (thought I'm still on the fence about him leaving Jen), he doesn't do it for me in the least. He's way too pretty. But, I keep having dreams about him. Dreams, where he's my cousin.

One I had many months ago where I drove to my Aunt's house for Christmas, and we got stuck in a huge snow storm, and when we finally got to her house, Brad and Angelina Jolie were there, and Brad and I talked about running, and he informed me that he ran 52 miles a day, and Angelina Jolie (who never spoke a word) kept autographing all these random things - sticky notes, gum wrappers, napkins - and handing them to me, all smug like she was on the red carpet. Then Brad asked me if I still had our Grandma's tractor beam (to which I said, "no, no, Amy got the tractor beam"), and then he asked if any of us wanted to go to dinner at Perkins.

So, then last night, I had a dream that I was out walking and I happened on a bunch of really posh luxury condos. I walked up to get a closer look and Brad was standing there. He told me he was there because he was thinking of buying all of them. I was like, "Dude, no, don't you have enough on your plate with your compound in France and your five children? You're going to break out in hives again" (seriously, I said this. Apparently in the parallel universe, he has a hive problem). Then he said he wanted to buy it and have me manage it, but first he needed me to take a conflict resolution class, because there were rumors of a dog fighting ring. Then suddenly there were ninjas handing out pamphlets on organic gardening.

See a theme here? (Aside from my dreams always taking a header into obscurity toward the end.)

In other news, you've probably noticed my new bad-ass header, thanks to my bad-ass husband who has mad skillz with Photoshop. I just thought my blog needed a little color. It was looking mighty gloomy.

Yo Mama

2009-01-06T17:54:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: many, many, many
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: chocolate cake that most certainly added to my girth but me no care
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns

First, I would like to share my very favorite Yo Mama joke of all time (and if this joke happens to offend anyone, allow me to say in advance, "I don't care!")

ehem....

Yo Mama so fat, when she plays hopscotch, it goes like this: New York, Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Los Angeles.

heehee...I challenge you to google Yo Mama jokes and NOT laugh your ass off. G'head. Go. I dare ya!

And now, a list of reasons why I will not be making Mother of the Year (aside from posting distasteful Yo Mama jokes on my blog):

1. Whilst watching Vh1's top 100 Rock Songs, I taught my son to scream "Back in Black" and make the devil horns with his hands.

2. I'm a teeny bit late for his three year check up, because check-ups = hysterical shit-fit and he always manages to somehow pee all over me in the throws of said hysterical shit-fit.

3. Today, while lost in thought over my current WIP, I accidentally let him eat 12 cookies.

4. I let him pick out scratch tickets from the little machines at grocery store.

4. I've convinced him that Paula Dean is his grandmother. (This isn't bad now, but I have a feeling this may confuse him later.)

Now, see, this all may seem shifty now, but I'm convinced it will just make him that much more interesting when he's older.

Shiny

2009-01-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: pancakes for breakfast (but they were oatmeal pancakes. That's not so bad.)
Reality TV: something vile on Vh1

I would just like to take this opportunity to announce that I am still a huge Firefly geek, the geekiness being roused last night with the Sci-Fi channel's airing of Serenity. And as with all viewings of anything Firefly related, I feel a bubbling sense of rage that people will sit and watch wadded, festering piles of crap like Heroes, while a brilliant, intelligent, well written show like Firefly gets canned. Me no get it. And I also hate the fact that Nathan Fillion hasn't had a decent job since that show. In fact, no one but Summer Glau seemed to bounce back. And I love Joss Whedon with all my heart, but he went and killed off Wash and Shepherd in the movie, so even if all us fans threw in twenty bucks to bring the show back, it wouldn't be the same.

Okay, sorry, enough of the geekiness. On to writing...

If all goes well, and nothing catastrophic happens, like my head falling off or the planet colliding with the sun, I will be finished with my book by the end of the month. Possibly before. I'm at the point where I can sort of, kind of, almost catch a glimmer of the finish line in the headlights. That's much better than seeing nothing but roadblocks and giant, hairy, soul-eating yetis.

Out with the bad, in the with the good

2008-12-31T07:34:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: Grease (it's the word, it's the word, it's the word)
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: peanut butter cookies
Reality TV: No time. New Year approaching.

2008
was not great
it was not great
2008
it was not horrid or evil or vile
nor morbid or dreadful or dripping with bile
it was simply not great
not stellar
not keen
2009
better not be as mean

Okay, no more rhymes now, I mean it
(anybody want a peanut?)

No, seriously, I'm done. It's all my son's fault. He forces me to read The Cat in the Hat 4000 times a day. At times, I feel just like the fish in the pot. Do I like it? Oh, no I do not!

Sorry.

Anyway, I thought I'd share a few of my resolutions:

1. I will treadmill at least six days a week (notice how "treadmill" has ceased being a noun and has become a verb, as in "please don't put the cat on the belt, mommy is trying to treadmill")

2. I will avoid Law & Order marathons on TNT and will only allow myself to watch them if I'm doing something useful, like folding laundry (or if Jesse L. Martin is in the episode. C'mon, I'm not made of wood, people.)

3. I will not throw things at people for ordering triple vente decaf nonfat sugar free strawberry/kiwi/mint/cardamom mochas at Starbucks. I will accept that to acquire a taste for coffee is a sign of character, and a hell of a lot of people just don't have character.

4. I will, WILL, WILL, WILL finally learn to play something relevant on the guitar that is currently collecting dust in our spare room, because a) there's always time to become a rock star and b) it will get the boy interested in music

5. I will write. I will write and write and write and write, and I will love every minute of it. And when I don't love it, I will let myself hate it just for a minute, so I can love it again

6. I will learn to make paella, tempura udon, naan, a really good curry dish of some kind and creme brulee

7. I will stop wearing my drawstring fat pants in public (maybe...still on the fence about this one)

Care to share any of your resolutions?

Aftermath

2008-12-28T05:19:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: hot diggity
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: leftover desserts from Xmas...mother-in-law's cherry pie that gave me heartburn but it was worth it
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns on Bravo

Well, we survived our first "ain't buying shit" Christmas, and I have to say it went over pretty well. Even with charred index finger and a seven hour power outage on Christmas Eve, we still managed to show up for the festivities with massive amounts of homemade yummies. Everyone went a bit mute when we handed them over. I'm not sure if this is because a) they're petrified of my cooking or b) they weren't expecting so much stuff. I'm hoping it was the latter, however, there was lemon pudding cake incident about four years ago that would certainly validate a fear of getting within three feet of anything I had hand in making.

And though we got some lovely gifts in return, this, by far, is the winner:

Oh, yes. A de-fat-ass-inator. From us, to us. Could we afford it? No! Were we being irresponsible? Yes. Will we be poor but svelte with rock hard butt cheeks? Yes! (Okay, actually, no, I won't, only because I'm of good German stock and I don't believe rock hard butt cheeks are in our DNA.) I tumbled right into my sordid affair with the Crosswalk 480, and already my calves feel like fiery wads of goo. She's a cruel mistress.

Was Santa good to you this year?

...and I heard him exclaim

2008-12-24T15:35:00.001-08:00

...as he drove out of site. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good Clive.

(Adult content. No Veenie Babies allowed. Not suitable for children under 30! )

Christmas casualty

2008-12-23T10:33:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: ouch
Caffeine: ouch ouch
Evil Calories: ouch
Reality TV: son-of-an-ouch

Crafty? Yes. Graceful and coordinated? Hell no. Speaking in fragments because I burned the crap out of my index finger. Was making oatmeal and cardamom pancakes. Last minute addition to the list. Confused flesh with lumpy batter and sizzled tip of finger. Swore. A lot. Now we have a problem. French baguettes are sitting on their second rise, will soon need to be manhandled. Will have to use elbows or toes, I guess (now aren't you glad you're not on my xmas list?) May start drinking heavily to dull pain. Have doused finger in above pictured ointment (god i hate that word), but 'tis not helping. 'Tis pissing me off. 'Twas almost $10. 'Twill write letter to company once flesh on finger is no longer crispy.

She's crafty

2008-12-21T15:48:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: snow
Caffeine: morning cup+ midmorning cappuccino from girl at Macy's cafe who made really good foam
Evil Calories: currently obsessed with making the perfect carrot cake...still not there but am eating my way through
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns

Did I mention we're not doing any Christmas shopping this year? We're not skipping Christmas altogether, mind you. We still put up our sad little $20 fakey-fake tree from Target, still went to the mall this morning to walk around and see all the decoration, still plan on ordering our traditional Chinese take-out dinner on Christmas eve and watching TNT's marathon of A Christmas Story. But, no shopping. Everything we're giving this year is homemade. That is, if you live within a 30 mile radius. If you don't live within a 30 mile radius, you're getting a long distance high-five from us and that's about it. I don't mean to sound like a Scrooge, it's just that the industry that basically keeps my cute little homestead afloat is in Washington right now begging and pleading for money. I told them not to throw all their eggs in the SUV basket, but did they listen????? Noooooooo!!!!!

I could go on and on for days about this because I spent many years of my life producing commercials for one of "The Big Three". Asshats. That's all I'll say. Asshats who wouldn't know a good idea if it came up and started madly humping their leg. That's why they're broke, peeps. But I digress...

So, you may not know this, but I'm crafty and have mad skillz. When I say we're giving homemade presents, I don't mean cookies and "free hug" coupons. If you live within a 30 mile radius, and I give a crap about you, you will be getting the following:

homemade French baguette
roasted garlic butter
sweet potato biscuits
honey butter
homemade beef jerky
eggplant bolognese
pasta e fagioli
ratatouille
herb stuffing (made with homemade bread, cuz that's how I roll)
carrot cake cookies
English cream scones
three legged wheezing cat

Okay, I'm not really giving away that last one, but am tempted to since evil feline monster has chewed off bottom branches of aforementioned $20 fakey-fake Target Christmas tree. This is why we can't have nice things.

Anyone else boycotting the blue light specials at Kmart and giving homespun yummies instead?

Movement

2008-12-19T06:36:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: feelin' it
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: "trapped inside due to mother of all snow storms" breakfast - homemade hash browns, bacon, eggs...hospital please...
Reality TV: DVR'd Celeb Rehab

First, thanks to all my peeps who talked me through my brain clog. Words are moving again, not quite tumbling, but coming in at moderate speed and I no longer feel like I want to close my head in the dryer door. And thanks to awesomely funny dude Bryan B. for spurring the "pom pom" controversy. I gotta go with Big Plain V on this one. As a former Pop Warner cheerleading captain, I can say for sure that it's pom poms. (Here's where you're supposed to be impressed. I won't mention the fact that anyone who tried out for Pop Warner cheerleading made the squad. They just grouped all the rejects together and assigned them to the reject football team. Guess which squad I was captain of? Yep. We were sad. We had three girls with asthma, a girl who was pushing 200 lbs and a girl who broke her foot at tryouts. Did you ever see Wedding Singer? Remember the rejects at table nine? That was us.)

Anyway, since it's Friday, here another video to make you snort!

The Landlord by Will Ferrell

Brain clog

2008-12-17T05:28:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: trying
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: more carrot cake
Reality TV: Top Chef NY

I really need my brain to cooperate with me right now. I'm trying to finish my WIP by the middle of January, but at this rate, it will simply sit in my "poo lives" folder getting crusty edges and collecting dust. I don't quite understand what my problem is. I have my entire book mapped out, I know exactly what is supposed to happen, yet, when I sit down to write it out, it feels like I'm trying to tap dance in in quick sand. Why is it that sometimes the words just tumble out and fall exactly into place, but other times I have to practically reach up my nose to dig them out?

I think I need to get that book that my sister is always talking about. The one where you write like mad in a journal every morning to unlock your inner genius. Of course, with my luck, I'd unlock her just as the boy started a defcon-5 toddler "sick of being cooped up inside" shit-fit, and I'd end up sitting at the play area at the mall writing on my arm. That's just what I need. Anther reason for the other moms to give me funny looks.

Nailed

2008-12-15T06:00:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: many
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: carrot cake
Reality TV: trashy things on Vh1

About a week ago, I found a nail in some coffee beans I bought from one of our foofy local grocery stores (you know, the ones that try and push $5/lb bananas and gourmet, organic, free-range toilet paper). Of course, I didn't actually find it until it was jammed in between the burrs of my grinder. This is bad. You do NOT want to mess with my grinder. That is the wrong thing to try and break. I will kill you and eat your soul if you keep me from my coffee.

So, in order to keep me from going totally postal, hubby took the whole thing apart so we could get it out. Luckily, we managed to stop the grinder before the nail did any major damage (had it stripped the gears or chipped my burrs, you would have surly seen me on the news). Once I was able to speak in normal, non-howler monkey tones, I returned the coffee and the nail to said grocery store. The manager just stared and me, looking like he was going to throw up and/or piddle himself. I was little irritated because he wouldn't say anything except, "oh, geez." Ummm...hello, you almost killed my grinder, I think you need to be the one carrying the conversation. So after a looooooooooooooooong uncomfortable pause, and several more "oh, geez"s, I suggested he give me a refund. He did...a whole seven dollars. I gotta say, if I were the manager of a store that just sold someone nail ridden coffee beans, I'd be falling all over myself to make it better. How 'bout a free pound of coffee? Nail free, I promise! Or how 'bout a nice bunch of flowers. Maybe some mangos?

Whatever. I'd love to stand here all day and watch you on the verge of tinkling, Mr. foofy grocery store manager, but I gotta go.

So, when I got home I decided to an email to the roaster. They're a small, local company, so I hoped it would find its way to a non-piddling manager who would freak out, send me a truckload of free coffee and even possibly do something bold like name me woman of the year for not suing them. But it's been a week and nothing. No response, no free coffee, no plaques with my lovely face etched in bronze. What has this world come to? What's happened to customer service? I realize a nail is better than a human finger or a dried wad of poo, but it's still bad!

Friday Funny

2008-12-12T05:09:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: soon
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: sugar cookies
Reality TV: DVR'd Celeb Rehab

My hubby finds the best videos. He's Bonehead Racing over there on the right. Now, this may shock you, but racing is not exactly my thing. However, he built his little racer from scrap, so that's pretty impressive. If you visit his blog, you must leave a comment. It would totally freak him out.

So, when hubby's not obsessing about race cars or engines or stock bla-bla things or turbo injected fruppel-cupped bling-blongs (I have an attention deficit problem when it comes to racing), he's making me laugh in some way. This got me the other evening as I was trying to make dinner. If you've never seen David Blaine Street Magic, you might not find it all that funny. But the "David Blaine" guy in this made me spit my wine every time he looked at the camera.

Guest blogger Amy Ellis!

2008-12-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

So, back in October, I held a (lame) "name that movie" contest, and the lovely and talented Amy Ellis was our illustrious winner. The prize, of course, was an opportunity to guest blog while I was busting ass on NaNo. Now, there was no question in my mind that winning this (lame) contest was the zenith of Ms. Ellis' existence, however, she has one of those nifty things called a job, and things went a bit headfirst into the shitter at said nifty job, forcing the poor girl to divide her time between comforting disgruntled employees and chain-swalling carbs and therapeutic bacon.

But, since I'm her sister, I get to do tacky things like bug her about guest blogging when she clearly has far too much on her plate already. She asked if she could do something else, like guest-handbag shopping or guest-wine tasting instead. I said no (mostly because she does that every day anyway). Finally, after one more attempt at dodging her "prize" by sending me seven pages of U2 lyrics instead of a guest post, she relented.

"The Guest Post to Get My Sister to Shut Her Yap, in the Form of a Letter to Santa"

by Amy Ellis

December 10, 2008

Kris “Santa Clause” Kringle
North Pole

Re: Vivi Alden

Dear Santa:

I know that it’s only socially acceptable for adorable little children to write precious, misspelled letters to you. But here’s the deal. The world is a pretty rough place right now, and, when you think about it, kids have it easy. Somebody else pays the bills, makes the food, cleans up the poo/projectile vomit, and has to love you even when you’re having a completely uncalled for and ridiculous meltdown.

So I think it’s only fair that you start accepting letters from bill-paying, cooking, poo/vomit-cleaning, loving-even-when-it’s-irritating adults.

And in order to sweeten the deal, I’m writing you on behalf of my sister. Before you look her up, I’m quite confident that she’s been good all year. (I really don’t think that making fun of a short Chippendales guy in Vegas counts as a bad deed. And before you say it, your sleigh has never been cut off by a Detroit hoopty, now has it?)

I respectfully request that you send my sister good hair days for Christmas, and make sure that the Feria does not turn her hair strange shades of green like happened to her in high school. Granted, her hair was much larger then. But so was mine. Combined, our hair could have taken over the planet. However, I know for a fact that girls in New Jersey had much bigger hair than we did.

Anyway, that’s not really the point, is it?

Second, I think she needs hand-crafted cappuccinos every day. No, I don’t know how you’re going to accomplish that, but you’re Santa. You can do anything. And please make sure they have good foam, and don’t – under ANY circumstances – put syrup or sprinkles in the cappuccino. Hasn’t she been traumatized enough by the questionable coffee-drinking habits of Michigan residents? Besides, think of all those mornings she spent getting up at 4 am to open the cart in the cold, dark, and rain in Seattle only to have to pretend to care about those goofballs who worked at KOMO 4 news.

Next, please give her Clive Owen for Christmas. Make sure he comes with a big blue bow to match his pretty eyes. Yes, I know, she’s a married woman, but all I need him to do for her is shovel snow, get things down from the tall shelves, and mix her afternoon cocktails. This would make up for the fact that she missed that party that Kiefer Sutherland attended a few years ago, and you know how many times we watched The Lost Boys when we had hair big enough to take over the planet.

Then, I need you send her an agent with a brain who will get her published. See, she writes really brilliant stuff I’d pay good money to read, and that’s saying a lot coming from me. If I’d buy it, that means all the other millions of women who buy the crap that’s already published would want to read it, too. I mean, really, Santa. NASCAR romance novels? What brand of crack are these publishers smoking?

And then, if it’s not too much trouble, please give her a Burberry coat. It would go well with Clive’s accent; plus, if you could slip around $10 million in the pockets, I think she’d be all set.

Thanks so much, Santa! And by the way, I had nothing to do with that little incident involving the screen door and the scissors when I was 10. Just so you know.

Sincerely,
Amy Ellis

Amy Ellis is an English major, writer, semi-professional shoe shopper, Star Wars junkie, closet super-hero, and possibly the best sister in the history of time. She lives where it rains every 4.2 seconds, and though she is officially Bono's soul mate, she went outside the box and married a really cool viking. Someday, she will live in Paris, where she will eat pan au chocolat and shop Christain Louboutin on a daily basis. In the meantime, you can find her at girlworks.blogspot.com

A book is like an onion (actually, not really)

2008-12-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: 700
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: left-overs from boy's happy meal
Reality TV: probably something on Bravo

As I write, I find myself wanting to be understood. Wanting people to pick up what I'm putting down. Wanting people to catch what I'm throwing. But I walk a thin line between "subtle" and "overtly obvious". I like subtle. A little hint, hint, nudge, nudge is much better than several large whacks over the head, yes? But it dawned on me today how much we have to trust our reader. I'm just going to drop this little crumb here in chapter 10 and hope you pick it up, because if you don't you'll be really confused in the chapter 19. But that's what I love. That's what makes me read a book or see a movie over and over. Those teeny, tiny little microscopic details that you don't pick up the first time around, but often lend to the overall symbolism of the book.

Ugh, I just said symbolism. Am now having a flashback of my 12th grade English Lit class. My teacher....Ms. S - something, can't remember, she looked like a flagpole with limbs. She had alarmingly long fingers (and you know what they say about people with long fingers. Long gloves.) She would go on and on about symbolism, which I always thought was pretty cool, but my classmates, especially the stoner dudes who sat behind me, thought was lame. "Why can't we just read the books? Why do we have to talk about symbolism?" Then Ms. S would get all fidgety and twittery and look a little like her head was going to launch into orbit and the stoner dudes would "dude" each other ("dude, high five, dude, she's freakin' out, dude, look at her dude, she's gonna crap herself dude, awesome, dude.") Meanies. I felt so bad for her and she'd spend the rest of the class trying to actually explain to dumb-ass A, B and C behind me that symbolism was important. Ms. S...they just snorted some of that powder soap in the bathroom. They don't hear you right now.

Anyway, I digress...

My whole point is that it takes us definitely two, sometimes three and in many cases four or five drafts of our books to finally get all the little pieces exactly where they need to be. But it never occurred to me until now that it could take just as many readings to pick up all those little details we've so meticulously placed throughout the story. This makes me a little sad. I would never be so bold to think that anyone would read a book of mine over and over, so that means they'd miss some of the juiciest little morsels.

Guess I should just shut up and enjoy writing them...

bad hair day

2008-12-08T05:14:00.001-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: where's your hat?
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: chocolate chip cookie bars
Reality TV: bad things on Vh1 that I won't openly admit watching

Okay. The post-parental unit visit haze has lifted, and I remember where I was in my book. I was standing in the entry way of the apartment with Beatrice, trying not to offend her. Well, I wasn't , my MC was. I was huddling in the corner writing and cramming my face with cool ranch Doritos. By the way, you can't not offend Beatrice. She's just one of those people, but my poor MC is not aware of this yet. She thinks she's just caught Beatrice in an off mood. Silly MC.

Today, I will finally get on with the next chapter. I have vowed not to leave the house, not just for the sake of writing, but we're also having a very bad hair day. And when I saw "we", I mean my poor child. See, hubby and I decided that we weren't going to pay the stinking $15 to take him somewhere so he could scream his head off while some poor woman tries to maneuver scissors around his head. Instead, we pulled out the clippers and went to town. And now it looks like he got his head caught in the vacuum cleaner. It's all patchy and different lengths. It's not even messed up enough to be considered punk rock. It's just bad. And, due to the odd, hair clogged noise the clippers made, any mere suggestion at letting us try and fix it launches operation toddler shit-fit. He's now convinced the clippers are trying to eat his soul. So, until we can come up with a plan B, we're staying in.

50 Ways to Leave Your Lover

2008-12-05T05:01:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: Once upon a time...
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: more sugar cookies
Reality TV: Celebrity Rehab w/ Dr. Drew

Hubby and I had a (rare) and wonderful chance to actually go out to a nice dinner the last night that my parental units were in town. I say rare because a) we usually eat at home and save our money for neat things like diapers or laundry detergent and b) if we do happen to splurge, it's at our favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint, and spazzy three year old is always with us. It was very nice to be able to have a conversation without having to be on "child possibly sticking fork in his own eye" patrol. And this was a good thing because we ended up talking about the worst ways we've ever been dumped, which requires full attention.

Now, let me preface by saying that I'm sure we've had this conversation before, seeing as it is more of a fourth or fifth date topic and we've been together for almost 9 years. But your brain melts and turns to lumpy pudding after you have children and you often don't remember anything that occurred PSC (pre-spazzy child).

Of course, my famous "worst dumping" incident was back when I was in my early 20's and my pseudo-sort-of-but-not-really boyfriend showed up at the coffee house I worked in and broke things off during my 15 minute break. It was horrible. I had to go back to work and make double tall nonfat mochas serve people croissants. I believe the world should stop for at least an hour after pseudo-sort-of-but-not-really boyfriend breaks up with you in the back hallway next to a case of soy milk, but that's just me. (oh, and just a side note...he worked near by and came in a few hours later to order a coffee and see how I was doing. Boys are so stupid.)

Hubby's story wasn't quite so dramatic. A girl he was dating in high school ended things by turning Goth and never speaking to him again ("wow, what did you do to that poor girl, honey?") Of course, his story was better when he was dumper instead of the dumpee, and admitted to dumping an old girlfriend during her birthday dinner (ouch!). I was just about to give him a decent tongue lashing on behalf of all women, when suddenly something surfaced from my lumpy pudding PSC brain that might trump my 15 minute break story.

I worked at a music company many many years ago, and I was asked out by one of the tech-heads who worked in our other building (we'll call him "Dill-hole"). Dill-hole and I went out a couple times, and though he was really nice, there just wasn't a lot of chemistry there. But, whatever, I was young and he was in a band and really when you're 20-something, what more do you look for in a guy? So we were in that "after date two with strong possibility of date three" phase when my friend Wendy found me at work on a Monday morning and told me she'd heard that Dill-hole had hooked up with another girl we worked with over the weekend. So, I put on my mature face and decided to pay him a visit. When I walked into his office, he said the following words to me:

"Hey, champ!"

I feigned being in a hurry and pretended I was actually there looking for "so-and-so" and busted ass out of there as soon and I could. I'm a smart girl. When a guy calls you "champ", it is over!

What's your best dumper/dumpee story?

aftermath

2008-12-04T05:28:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: maybe
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: crazy chocolate espresso mousse thingy that made me see through time
Reality TV: Top Chef

Parental units have departed. Have house all to myself again. No more funny sounds (unless they come from me). Now, if I could just remember what I was doing before they got here...

Oh, right. Trying to write a book. That's it.

As soon as I remember what it's about, I'll get back to work.

For now, I'll just listen to my new favorite song:

Tales from the back seat

2008-12-02T04:58:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: two more days, two more days, two more days
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: sugar cookies the size of my head
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns

So, the road trip...

It wasn't bad. Really. Really. Okay, there a few moments when I looked around for the emergency exit. We were only five minutes from the house when I realized my mom had decided to douse herself the latest and greatest overly pungent Avon body lotion. I just sat sniffing my Burt's Bees chapstick for the first twenty miles, hoping that may deflect it, but by the time we hit the "Live Nude Girls" sign on I-94, I had one of those fabulous white hot poker through the eye headaches. No problem, I packed EVERYTHING in my tote bag - Advil, Aleve, Pepto Bismol, Sudafed, Valium, Premysn PMS, Vitamin C, Iron supplements. Then I realized my tote was buried in the back under 400 piles of far-too-much-crap-for-a-four-day-trip. I rested my head on the side of the boy's car seat and whimpered. He then looked at me and said, "don't cry, mommy, you're a big boy."

Right. I'm a big boy. I'll just get my computer, put on my headphones and watch my Law & Order DVD. Nope, sorry! Opening my computer has initiated the launch sequence on operation toddler shit fit. If I do not hand over the device and play his favorite Jorge the Hawk/Go,Diego Go DVD, he will scream like a rabid banshee for the remainder of the trip, turning aforementioned white hot poker through the eye headache into head simply exploding into tiny, gooey bits all over rental car. So, I forked over my computer and tried to get comfortable in the 4 centimeters of butt space I had crammed in between the door and the boy's super-mega-ultra-gargantuan car seat.

Husband was in the front seat with my dad, at one point I caught him trying to stick a pencil in his ear. Not sure what exciting sound/sounds my dad was making. I officially love the people at Toyota and shall send them cookie bars. With all the road noise in the RAV-4, I couldn't hear anything that was going on up there. Shockingly enough, I fell asleep. Woke up a few hours later to find husband driving and dad sitting in passengers seat. Not sure what happened. Assuming husband somehow bribed dad into letting him drive in order to get to my aunt's house faster so he could then find a nice doorway to bang his head against.

Oh, by the way, I have seen the seventh level of hell, and it is the I-294 freeway through the Chicago suburbs. And since hubby is now driving, dad is in charge of toll money. This is bad. My dad is the biggest spazzy, control freak ever in the history of time. Toll booths along the I-294 freeway are a bit willy nilly at best. This does not comply with federal standards of spazzy, control freakism. They sort of post how much the toll is, but it's on a little sign off to your right, and if you blink, you miss it. Of course, my dad misses it, and starts shitting himself as we get up to the little booth thingy. Yes, tearing ass through the poor little zip-loc bag of change and swearing at top volume is definitely called for. I kept saying, "I'm sure they'll tell you when you get up there. Calm thineself!" But no. For some reason my dad believes that if you do not have your money ready when you pull up to the booth, the seventh level of hell toll booth police come out and start flogging you with angry bunnies. And then my mom starts in, "It think it said sixty cents. Or fifty. No, look it's a dollar fifty! A DOLLAR FIFTY! That's ridi--oh, wait, that's for trucks. I bet it's seventy five, cars should be half of what trucks cost. Or maybe they just charge a dollar, that would be easier, then they don't have to make change. Oh, look, no parking, no standing, violators will be towed at owners expense, merge ahead, roadwork next four miles, give 'em a brake..."

Oy...we should really be able to remove our brains and soak them in warm, soapy water from time to time, don't you think?

Anyway, aside from those little low points, it wasn't a bad drive. Though, once we finally made it through the seventh level of hell, we realized we'd passed the very last "Oasis" (rest stops with gas stations, Starbucks, and every fast food joint you can dream up). We had to scour through no mans land between Chicago and Madison, WI for a place to eat, and finally found a Subway that was about the size of my left coat pocket. Eating Subway on a road trip is just wrong. Road trip = fast food and donut holes, not healthy turkey subs and Sunchips. Of course, we made up for it when we finally reached my aunt's house and consumed massive amounts of pizza and cheese curds.

So, that's the story. And now I have to simply survive two more days of my parents just sitting in my living room all day. I can do this. I can, I can, I can, I can...

I have seen the future, and it is made entirely of cheese

2008-11-30T06:03:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: whatever they are, they are written with a tangy Wisconsin accent
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: let us not relive the last four days, shall we
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo (yeah, right)

We went to Wisconsin. We did everything you're supposed to do in Wisconsin.

We ate these:

Cheese curds. The real ones that squeak with joy when you bite in to them.

We drank this:

which tasted a little like bland sock fuzz.

And we did this:

...and I realized that I still suck the moose at bowling. My three year old beat me. I'm not kidding...look (he's "Z"):

We also played 500,000,000,000 games of pool in my aunt's "rec room". Yes. Wood paneling and all. And no Wisconsin bathroom would be complete without a creepy perfume duck (which my cousin Krissy and I immediately took on rec room tour):

Am home now. Feel as if body is made completely of cheap beer and squeaky cheese. Have sudden strange urge to watch football and get spiral perm. Will say more interesting things later...

Run, poor little turkeys! Run! Run!

2008-11-25T06:00:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: gobble gobble
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: pre-dinner donut last night
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

a) Happy Thanksgiving a few days early, dear friends, even though some of you already celebrated your giving of thanks back in October. For what it's worth, I give you full permission to eat massive amounts of mashed potatoes and pie this week.

b) I am officially reverting back to my teenage years. I am this close to dying my hair black, digging out my old Doc Martins and listening to The Cure incessantly. See, when my parents come to visit, they don't do anything. They just sit in my living room all day. All day. My dad sits whistling or blowing his nose or clearing his throat or tapping his foot or making those "choo-choo-choo" sounds, or doing a combo of some or all of those things at once, and my mom sits and reads, sneezes forty times in a row, and does this weird head shake/nod thing that makes me want to tear my own arm off and beat myself to death with it.

See? Teenage angst.

But see the nice thing about being an adult with teenage angst is sometimes you get married and then have someone else to validate said angst. Things pretty much all came together for my husband once he met my parental units. "Oh, so this is why you're so weird! They broke your brain! I get it!"

Lucky for us, we get to spend 8 hours in the car with them tomorrow. Oh, happy day!

c) Speaking of tomorrow...three years ago around this time, I was huge. HUGE. I was the most pregnant woman in the history of time. I was a week late, busting out of my maternity clothes, and was seriously considering changing my name to either Fatty McButterPants or "Damn! How many you got in there?" (which is what I heard about eleventy billion times in the three weeks leading up to my son's birth).

And then I woke up the day after Thanksgiving to a small twinge in my belly, which, by 11:00pm that night, turning into a large twinge, similar to the large twinge you would feel if you were trying to shit an oven (I'm just guessing here). Nineteen hours later (oh, yes, it was a doozy), I had this:

He was, and is, so many different kinds of awesome. He'll be three years old tomorrow, so happy birthday, my little baby boy. You will always be my greatest masterpiece.

Break-ups and breakdowns

2008-11-21T05:21:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: la-la-la
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: 4000 cloves of roasted garlic with dinner last night. I smell like feet.
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

Oh, NaNoWriMo. We had such a good run, didn't we? Stealing time in the wee hours of the morning, slipping away in the afternoons while the boy watched far too much Noggin. But I fear that it is not meant to be this year. It's not you, it's me. I just have a lot on my plate right now, and need to be with a novel writing incentive that doesn't move at shotgun, break-neck speed. I hope you understand. NaNoWriMo, don't go away mad. Just go away.

*insert bad 80's song from butt-rock group whose name I can't recall*

Yep. NaNo go poof. Don't worry, I'm not totally throwing in the towel, but I have officially snubbed the 50K word goal. There's just no way. Not with parental units in house and road trip to Wisconsin next week for the holiday. My new goal is to finish by the end of December.

Speaking of road trip...

Let me paint a little picture for ya. Take my dad, who cannot go a nanosecond with making some kind of noise - clearing his throat, blowing his nose, humming, making weird "choo-choo-choo" sounds for no obvious reason. Add my mom, who must read every sign she sees ("oh, men at work", "bump ahead", "road may be icy, hmmm"). Then throw in my almost three year old, who can (and will) recite lines from Go, Diego, Go! for HOURS on end. Add in my husband and I crammed in the back seat with him, husband trying to give himself a lobotomy with a coke can and the corner of a Cheese-Its box, and me, sneaking some left over Valium from when my neck was all wonky and slipping back into my "happy place", where I spent most of my childhood.

Ahhhh...memories in the making.

*insert theme to Vacation...holiday ro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ad, holiday ro-o-o-o-o-o-o-ad*

Rah-rah-rah!

2008-11-19T12:04:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: eh
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: none, prepping for Thanksgiving
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

Before I really got into this whole novel writing thing, I very rarely ever read the author's little forward at the beginning of the book, thanking everyone who'd helped make it all possible. But now, it's the first thing I read, mostly out of curiosity to see who their agent and editor are (little hint, by the way, if you are dying to know who reps a certain author, look there. If they don't thank their agent and editor, then there's something wrong). But I've also noticed the over-freakin'-whelming support that some writers have. I suppose it can be a little like winning an Oscar...you just thank everyone you ever met because you're so excited to be tasked with writing it in the first place. Or perhaps once you begin down that road to being published, a huge cheering section begins forming at the sidelines, blowing you kisses and tossing confetti in your hair.

But...what about the cheering section now?

See, my friends suck (and I can say this openly because NONE of my friends read my blog.) I sometimes actually have to remind them that I'm trying to be writer. So no cheering section there. My family? Well, my sister has an enormous set of pom-poms for me (Ewww! That sounded a lot better in my head) but my parents have a very "fly be the seat of your pants" approach to encouragement and support (which is probably why my sister steps up to the plate, as she's very familiar with this method and knows how annoying it is). My husband? A huge part of my cheering section, mostly because he takes it seriously and always makes sure I get time to run away and write for a few hours a day. So, at this moment, if I had to write that little page, it would be very short and sweet: Sister, hubby, you, my fellow writer/friend who actually reads my blog, and darling son (even though he flips out every time I try and open my laptop).

How's your cheering section looking right now?

Poo

2008-11-17T11:25:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: poo
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino spiked with Baileys Irish Cream (not helping)
Evil Calories: 900,000,000 Runts (you know, those yummy-ass Willy Wonka sucky things shaped like fruit.)
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

I am officially having a brown out. I am preparing for the arrival of my parental units, which means I'm running around trying to make my house look as if actual humans live there as opposed to cave dwelling folk who bath in dirt and eat tiny bugs. Evil wheezing three-legged feline monster missed the cat box this morning and le poo'd all over the laundry room floor (I swear to god, can there be a day in my life when I'm not handling everyone else's poo? Toddler poo, cat poo, neighbor's dog's poo, more cat poo, I mean, for f*ck's sake!!!!!) I'm SO behind in NaNo right now, and on my god, I am spewing pure crap. It has gone from flowy ribbons of yumminess to crap dipped in crap, stewed in crap, then covered in crap and sprinkled with crap, served with a nice side of crap. I suck and have no business being a writer, and feel I should report myself to the FBI (no idea why, it just sounds like a good idea.) I need to join a 12 step program for delusional people who think they are writers, or seek alternative experimental therapy where they rig a laptop to slam down on my fingers every time I try and write. Then, to dip the day down even lower into the fecal abyss, I can't find my favorite pair of fat pants, so I'm wearing a pair of "not" fat pants that make me look like ten pounds of shit crammed into a five pound bag, and every time I pass the mirror I want to crumple into a heap, but can't because I have to keep cleaning!

send medication...

go away, me

2008-11-16T06:58:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: le poo
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: none, must fight onset of winter fatassness
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

This video is a perfect metaphor for the relationship between a writer and her inner critic:

We don't eat our kitties

2008-11-14T17:15:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: I'm going to kill the cat
Caffeine: morning cup + midmorning cappuccino
Evil Calories: Had jar of Smarties at desk, now Smarties scattered about in office due to annoying feline monsters
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

My three legged, wheezing feline monster is plotting against me. He sits on the bed in my office/spare room and licks himself. Constantly. I believe he has a bit of a Fabio complex...totally obsessed with himself, unaware of just how much of boob he actually is. I mean, for craps sake, who needs to lick their belly for an hour and half? IT'S CLEAN ALREADY! You're an inside cat and I'm fairly up on my domestic abilities so you can't be that dirty! (Okay, that's a load of crap, my house would probably make you itch, but in my defense, I'm trying to write a novel in 30 days. One cannot type and Swiffer at the same time. Yes, I've tried it.) I sit and try and write, and within thirty seconds I hear thwick, thwick, thwick and it's not a clean, dry thwick, it's a wet, slurpy kind of thwick, that makes me want stick my finger in my eye and swirl it around into my brain. And cats aren't like dogs. If you try and scold them, they just sort of look at you like, "Stupid human. You know I could eat your face while you're sleeping."

And then there's Pele, feline monster #2, our old pissed off bitty of a cat, who hisses at air. If she had a purse, she'd swing it at you. So, when Pep (three-legged monster) isn't licking his foot 7894 times on the bed behind me, Pele comes in and licks the filing cabinet. Yes. The filing cabinet.

Kill me please.

Oh, and this what I would look like with Fergie hair - though I believe this hairstyle went down in popularity after her Today Show appearance, when she sang (destroyed) Heart's Barracuda and humped the stage in front of a large group of children:

Update

2008-11-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: shoo-be-do
Caffeine: morning cup + midmorning cappuccino
Evil Calories: I now have a candy jar at my desk. I write, and I eat Smarties. Happy girl.
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo (not really, am watching ANTM and the premiere of Top Chef NY...shhhhhhh, don't tell!)

Just a quick update:

a) It snowed here yesterday. One word: PUKE!!!! It's not even freakin' December. I loathe snow. Don't try and make me like it cuz it won't work. Don't give me crap about how great skiing or snowboarding or cross-country-yoga-snow-shoe-spoon-hockey is. I spent 10 years of my life in Alaska. Been there, done that, now want sunshine and swimming pools year round.

b) I'm NaNo-ing like the wind. So much so that at this very moment, I cannot remember when I last showered. Gross, I know. But, hubby hasn't kicked me out of bed yet, so I guess I haven't reach the yetti stage yet.

c) This is what I would look like with Gwyneth Paltrow hair:

In case you were wondering...which I'm sure you were. Now you can sleep at night.

NaNo-Go!!!!!

2008-11-11T12:23:00.000-08:00

Daily Stats:
Words: taking donations
Caffeine: morning cup + midmorning cappuccino
Evil Calories: chocolate chip cookie bars
Reality TV: suspended due to NaNoWriMo

And I can move! Oh, yes. I can look from side to side, up and down, I can reach for things. I can even put on socks without wanting to dry heave. And last night I slept w/out drugs and w/out the foam neck thingy. I have yet to do The Robot, but I'm feeling confident I'll be there by the end of the week.

With that said, I am SO freaking behind in NaNo it's not even funny. I'm busting ass as much as my ass allows busting (okay, that sounds kinky...you know what I mean), but...I'm also approaching a significant part of the book, and I don't want to thrash my way through it like a drunk howler monkey. Yes, I know, the point of NaNo is just to go, but, I'm telling you, this draft has to be a solid, workable "first" because I'm only willing to give it one, yes ONE rewrite, because I've been dragging this thing around for almost a year, already having written it 40K words in the wrong direction, and I need to just freakin' pass it already. Push it through. Get it out. Call it done. Think about something else. So, I am stopping for the moment. Will resume once insane almost three year old goes to bed tonight.

Now, side bar...those who've been reading my blog for a while know that I'm a total coffee snob, so this will come as no shock to you, but when I was at Starbucks today, I heard a woman order a triple decaf vente three pump sugar-free vanilla nonfat latte. And a brownie. Obviously I still have traces of Valium in my system, or I would have begun assaulting her with Sugar in the Raw packets. What the f*ck is the point of ordering that??? For those who haven't a clue what that is, I'll break it down:

triple = three shots of espresso, which is more than any human should ever have in one sitting
decaf = okay, so three shots of espresso for no reason. Okay, maybe you just like the taste of espresso. Oh, nope, that can't be it, cuz you want...
THREE PUMPS of sugar free vanilla syrup = offensive, offensive, offensive and only serves to mask the flavor of the espresso. The espresso that is pointless because it has no caffeine. And sugar free? It's syrup! hello! Perhaps rethinking that noggin-sized brownie would be a better "sugar-free" option for you.
Nonfat = Seriously? Okay, so no caffeine, no sugar, and no fat. Yet, you're paying $4.50. How 'bout you just sit there and get nothing. It's basically the same thing and you save a few bucks. P.S. you might need a psychological evaluation.

My dream one day, aside from being a professional writer, is to own my own quaint little espresso shop. Of course it would close in about five minutes because I'd yell at all my customers. I'd be like the soup nazi from Seinfeld (only with a thinner mustache.)