You may remember me from such blogs as this one...

PEOPLE!

*opens arms*
*pulls everyone into group hug*

It's been ages. But let's not even talk about how long it's been since I've blogged. It'll only make me feel sad and old. And I'm sitting here typing this post wearing my contacts AND a pair of readers. I've met my daily quota of sad and old.

But, I will sum up the past few weeks months years:


I'm still writing.

My children are still awesome.

I'm still a total emotional, overly-sensitive basket case most of the time.

I've started meditating and became certified in Reiki level II in order to better manage said emotional, overly-sensitive basket caseyness.

After hours of research, meditation, Reiki (both self treatments and sessions with my awesome Reiki master), long walks and random conversation with the groundhog that lives under our deck, I am absolutely certain that we all have a unique light to shine on the world, and each of our unique lights matter, and when we shine them brightly, the universe truly does take notice.

No, I am not drunk and/or high.

I am continuously striving to practice the subtle art of not giving a fuck.

I started putting coconut oil in my coffee.

I still want blue streaks in my hair.

I still hate watermelon.


And that about sums things up. Oh, wait, I also decided that I want an otter as a pet.

And now you do too.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

As far as writing, I am currently birthing twins. Fraternal twins, that is. One is a more upbeat, amusing, silly sort of a do-dad and the other more brooding, serious and introverted. Both with my unique brand of darkness, because, hey, no matter how much you meditate, balance your chakras, take in nature or glean wisdom from a groundhog, you just can't shake that pesky shadow self.

The Girl

Hey, look, for once I'm not here to whine about writing.

Cuz in order to whine about writing, you have to actually WRITE, and all I do is stare at my computer and eat salted caramel squares.  (I guess I could whine about that, but I think it's sacrilege to whine about salted caramel.  Pretty sure it's in the bible.  Somewhere in the back.)

No, today I'm here to whine about my kids.  

I must preface this whining with the disclaimer that, of course, I LOVE my kids.  I'm crazy about my kids.  Bonkers over them.  Every moment with them is a blessing and, especially in light of current events, I feel so lucky to have them and cannot even imagine my life without them.  That being said...WHAT THE ACTUAL EFFING HELL IS WITH THE TERRIBLE TWOS, LIKE, OHMYGOD THEY HAVE A FREAKING VACCINE FOR EVERYTHING ELSE, CAN THEY GET ON THAT, LIKE, NOW PLEASE.  

See, it's The Girl.  The Boy is fine.  He's almost eight.  But even when he was in Terrible Two territory, he never ventured that far into the meltdown/tantrum forest.  Occasionally he would, but it happened so rarely that when he did go ape shit, I was like a deer in headlights.  But with The Girl, I'm less like a deer in headlights and more like a deer banging its head against a wall while the screeching banshee next to it tries to break its kneecaps with a sippy cup full of overpriced organic apple juice.  Someone please tell me why EVERYTHING gives her BLIND RAGE.  Here is a list of things that anger The Girl:

1.  When I won't let her do what she wants

2.  When I will let her do what she wants

3.  When I won't give her the one thing she is asking for

4.  When I do give her the one thing she is asking for

5.  Ritz Crackers (apparently they are of the devil)

6.  Everything else in the universe, including the non-existent swimming pool in our backyard that she suddenly realized we didn't have, and SWEET MOTHER OF CRAP, do you have any idea the level of fresh hell that is involved with trying to explain to a two year-old why you suddenly don't have something that you don't have?  How do you even form that into a cohesive argument?  Oh, wait, never mind, she's already forgotten about the non-existent pool and she's now trying to jam a fork in the DVR while giving her brother the Vulcan death grip with a PlayStation controller. 

I don't understand the logic (or lack thereof) of a two year-old.  Here's the super nice mommy lady, who gives you kisses and hugs and stays up with you all night when you're projectile vomiting hot dogs, and she's asking you nicely to not try to clean the brand new flat screen TV with play-doh.  Why wouldn't you go, "Hey, I love her and she gives me cuddles and doesn't laugh at me when I crap my pants.  I think I'll listen to her and stop."  But NO.  Let's smear the squishy stuff even harder onto the screen, then throw some at the nice mommy lady, then SCREAM LIKE A MONKEY ON CRACK until her ears bleed. 

Of course, because I'm an optimist (read: control freak), I google every variation of "Coping with Terrible Twos" possible because THERE MUST BE A CURE.  Something that can be administered with blow darts from across the room or something.  But there is no cure.  There's coping skills.  Ways to diffuse the situation.  You, as the parent, are to stay calm, speak to your child in a soothing voice, use "feeling" words.  ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME?  The child just tried to shiv me with a frozen mango-strawberry Go-Gurt because I touched it, or didn't touch it, or looked at it, or thought about looking at it, or said the word "sock", and it just rubbed her the wrong way.  If I walked up to someone and tried to remove their kidney with a frozen stick of fruity probiotics, I doubt they'd speak to me calmly and use "feeling" words.  I'd be on the news.  Insane woman attacks innocent man with yogurt, throws herself on the sidewalk and screams "mine, mine, mine" until police arrive.  Neighborhood Watches would be formed because of me.  Yet, when this pint sized dictator in my house tries to behead me, I'm supposed to stay calm and use "feeling" words?  Yep, okay, I have a few "feeling" words for ya.  How about PISSED OFF. 

Today, The Girl and I had a half hour "conversation" (me talking, The Girl talking then screaming then crying, me talking again, The Girl screaming more) about a shoe.  A SHOE.  No sane human should ever have a half hour conversation about a shoe.  That's not something normal people do.  If someone told you they just talked for a half hour about a shoe, you'd be all, "wow, maybe you should check yourself in somewhere, get some rest, take some pills, do some yoga".  Yet, there I was..."No, you need to have your other shoe, too, no, you can't wear the tupperware container for a shoe, I'm sorry, no, no, the shoe.  No, the shoe.  No, not the plastic banana.  The shoe.  Yes, the shoe.  Because, you need the shoe.  No, please don't give Mommy a lobotomy with the shoe.  Just put it on your foot.  The shoe.  No, not Daddy's shoe, your shoe..." 

I know it's a whole frontal lobe thing.  That part of her brain that imparts logic and reasoning into situations has yet to develop.  Again, I go back to the potential cure/blow darts.  I mean, seriously, can we speed this frontal lobe thing up?  Slip them a few "lobe accelerators" or something? 

Or maybe I just need to be hooked up to a Mojito drip at all times.  Then the shiving with the frozen Go-Gurt wouldn't hurt and I'd find the shoe conversation downright spiritual.  

Basically, what I'm trying to say is...KIDS ARE WEIRD.

They're also cute.  Really cute.  And adorable.  Which makes you forgive the near-death experience with the Go-Gurt.  Especially when they climb up on your lap and say things like, "I love you to you, mommy".  

Yes, I love you to you, too, you nutty broad. 

Trying to be a Writer

Hmmm, it appears from my previous post that I was not having a good day that day.

See, I'm being all coy, like I only vaguely remember posting that link, but I totally remember doing it and totally remember why.  I won't go into detail.  Writing makes me want to impale myself on sharp objects Writing is hard.  Trying to be a BON-EE FIDE writer is emotionally draining.  Here's what it's like:

First, you write the book.  Yeah, cuz that's totally no biggy.  Slapping out an 80K word story that sorta makes sense.  EASY PEASY.  Then, there's querying.  Huge time suck.  Then there's waiting, waiting, waiting, and then, one day...BOOM!  REQUESTS!!! Which make you go like this...

...more querying, more waiting, NA's ("no responses" to queries), waiting, waiting, waiting, more NA's, often to the aforementioned requests.  Yes, they request to read your book and then you NEVER HEAR BACK EVER EVEN WHEN YOU NUDGE.  So, then you're all like this...

And then there's other stuff.  When you write, you are ALL OUT THERE.  Like, naked with all your bits hanging free.  Whether it be sending stuff out for critiques or actually sending the finished product to agents, at some point, people tell you what they think.  And some people have no problem telling you that you have no talent, that your writing is flawed from head to toe.  In fact, I know someone that is so utterly convinced of my suckiness, they say the darndest things to me, like my suckiness is mutually agreed upon, so saying/implying such is no big whoop. Which kinda makes me go...

So, yeah, that, and then the other stuff, and you're just, ugh, it's like this only worse:

And then, inevitably, like a nervous tick, you feel the need to write another book.  Because the first one two three four were such fulfilling experiences.  Plus, you're under some demented delusion that you're SUPPOSED to be a writer.  But then you get a few chapters in and you're all...

 

Because you realize you TOTALLY agree with that person who is so utterly convinced of your suckiness, and you kind of want to call them and say "I KNOW YOU ARE SO RIGHT I KNOW IT TO BE TRUE!" That's when you realize you're like one of those sad sacks from the American Idol auditions, who they profile first, and you hear how they're convinced they were born to sing, and that singing is in their soul, in their blood, and they've got DREAMS and PLANS and stuff, and then they sing, and everyone is all...

But you still write it.  Because there is something seriously wrong with you.  

Basically, in a nutshell, THIS is what it's like trying to be a writer:

THIS

THIS pretty much sums up how I'm feeling about my writing career right now.

That is all.

Filler Blog Post

Anyway, this post is total filler.  My awesome writery/blogger friend Ray Veen tagged me in the "The Next Big Thing" Blog Hop, which I must do (if I can figure out what a blog hop actually is), but that means I'll have to stop not talking about the book I'm not writing and actually start talking about the book I'm not writing.  Which I am actually writing.  In fact, I'm almost done with the book I'm actually writing that I've been saying I'm not writing.  

Cuz, you know, that's what I do.  I write books.  Some people like them.  And some people don't. One thing that I've discovered though is that, for people who don't like my books, there is nothing I can do.  There is no way in this life or the next that I could write a book that they would like.  Even if I tried.  Even if they sent me an outline and told me exactly what to write.  It's like me and watermelon.  I hate watermelon.  It's looks yummy, but I cannot stand the way it tastes.  Watermelon could cover itself in salted caramel and espresso and Clive Owens, but I still wouldn't like it. 

It's like that quote.  It goes something like, "Write for yourself, please some.  Write for others, please no one."  

I just want to please some.  

Whatever, anyway, like I said, this post is just filler.  Oh, and to show you a picture of my daughter voguing.  

Don't just stand there, let's get to it, strike a pose, there's nothing to it!

Hey, don't laugh, she's come a long way.  She used to have funny hair and would spend all of her time blowing raspberries. 

Things that happen when you don't pay attention

So, y'all remember my last book? 

Oh, wait, no, you probably don't since it ended up in my "where poo goes to die" folder instead of on a bookshelf in Barnes & Noble.  (Okay, I'm being overly dramatic.  I realize that even if it had been published, the chances of it ending up on a shelf at Barnes & Noble are slim since their YA section is about as big as my closet, but you get the idea.)  I'll refresh your memory.  My last book.  Book #3.  The Grim Life of Kat Clark.  About a girl being trained to be an angel of death by her grim reaping dead uncle.  And stuff happens.  That one.  Right.  Ya with me?  Yes?  No?  K. 

So, way back while I was still querying, I tried out this website called WeBook.com.  They have this thing called Page to Fame.  You sign up and upload your first page and then other users on the site rate your stuff, and if they like it, it gets elevated, and if enough people like it, it gets elevated to the next round, which is your first five pages (with the option to upload an additional 5 "bonus" pages).  The goal is to keep getting elevated until it hits the final round, where a real live agent reads it.  The site, though very cool in concept, doesn't seem to be all that popular yet, and in the forums people were saying it can take months or even a year to even get enough ratings to move up.  So I did the initial upload thingy (this was seriously about a year ago) and just sort of forgot about it. 

Then about six months ago I got an email saying my first page of GLoKC had been elevated to the next round.  My initial first page had gotten an 85% overall rating.  Like...woohoo!  So, I uploaded the next five pages with the additional "bonus" pages and...kind of forgot about it again. 

Well, today I checked back and it's been rated 35 times and my rating is still hovering around 80%.  And people are giving positive feedback.  Does this mean anything as far as something happening with that book? No.  But...people like it.  When you try to go the traditional publishing route, you don't really think about that.  You want your crit partners to like it.  You want agents to like it.  But just regular people...that comes later and unfortunately I've not gotten to that "later" yet.  But it's kind of a cool feeling. 

Anyway, if you're interested, my submission on WeBook.com can be found here.*

And on a final note, just to clear things up because some people don't understand my psychobabble (I mean COME ON, doesn't everyone speak "bat shit crazy"?) - When I've talked about "the book I'm not writing" in previous posts, I am referring to the book I AM currently writing.  I birthed this new book in the wake of book #3 going into the pooper and I honestly had no idea really what it was, just that I knew I needed to write it.  Also, it's a bit of crazy pants reverse psychology - like if I pretend I'm not writing it, but I actually am, then...ummm, something magical will happen....??  Like, bunnies will appear.  In go-go boots.  No, wait, that would be weird.  Okay, I didn't know what exactly pretending to not write a book I'm actually writing would accomplish.  Give me a break.  I have issues.  (Obviously.)

*Let me just say that, although at the time I thought it was my best work, in re-reading my sample after several months of not looking at it, and working on this new book, which is totally different, kinda dark and angsty, I no longer think it's my best work and I see a lot of flaws in the writing.  Unfortunately, I can't edit once it's uploaded, but, just so you know, if you read and go "this isn't that great", I'm fully aware.  So shutty.  :)

This is me...

 ...updating my blog.

Oh, my little blog.

I had such high hopes for us when I started you six years ago. Things haven't exactly gone the way I'd hoped they would. 

I am still trying, though.  Remember that book I wasn't writing?  I'm still not writing it.  And I'm almost done not writing it.  So, you know, there's still hope, right? 

Anyway, I guess there's no gentle way to say this, but I've kind of been cheating on you here.

See, I don't have to SAY anything on my tumblr blog.  I can if I want to, but, honestly, I don't really feel like talking right now. 

Plus, I like gifs that give me all the feels. 

I'll be back some day and start treating you right.  I promise. 

I'm Not Really Here

I'm only doing this blog post to let you know that I'm not really here.  I'm not really posting.  I'm also not writing a book right now.

And incidentally, just last night, I did not hit the "save" button on a doc entitled "chapter fourteen", because, as mentioned above, I am not writing a book right now, and saving a document entitled "chapter fourteen" when it is not actually a part of several preceding chapters (one thru thirteen, to be exact) would be completely mental and as we all know, I am not the least bit mental.  Not even a skosh. 

Hang on one sec while I trim my toenails with my cat's teeth.  

K.  Back.  

Anyhoo, in closing, I'm not really here, I'm not writing a book and my cat hates me.  

And now, here's a picture of me as a zombie:

WINNING! or I Know What Merle Dixon Would Do, Sucka!

Okay, I'm going to flat out warn you that this post contains serious geeky fangirl material, and if that kind of thing makes you uncomfortable/twitch/break out in hives, you may want to out click right now.  

G'head.  I'll even give you a few seconds to get out unharmed.  

Whew, I'm glad THEY left, aren't you?  Nothing like having THEM around when you're trying to have a full on geeky fangirl stroke.  

So, everyone that knows me knows that I'm a total geek, and that I love zombies and that I'm a huge The Walking Dead fan.  For those who don't watch the show (What.  Ever.), I'll give you a quick rundown of all applicable geekery to bring you up to speed:

It's the zombie apocalypse.  A rag tag group of survivors band together to try to survive.  Two of those rag tag survivors are Merle and Daryl Dixon, a couple of bad ass, foul mouthed rednecks, played by the incomparable Michael Rooker and Norman Reedus.  In season one, Merle gets handcuffed to the roof of a building in downtown Atlanta and is left to be chop suey for hoards of hungry zombies.  But he gets away by cutting off his own hand.  

See?  Bad ass.

Of course, there's tons more awesomeness to the show, but that's all you need to know to appreciate this particular uber fangirl moment.  A few weeks ago, a fabulous fansite called Dixon's Vixens held a What Would Merle Dixon Do? contest.  Merle is coming back for season three, and the challenge was to photoshop a picture of Merle with what you thought he'd have affixed to that stump to help him fight off shambling hoards of the undead.  I did a handful of them (pun totally intended).  Sent them on to the lovely Vixens and went about my day (you know, coffee, that writing thing, geeking out on Etsy, painting my nails fourteen different colors, warping my children, etc).  Then, last Sunday, I get a tweet from Dixon's Vixens.  It simply says "Pssst.  Congrats!"

That's right, peeps.  I effing WON!

Yep.  Me.  I never win anything.  EVER.  I won a Night Ranger poster at a state fair once.  And occasionally I'll win a dollar on a scratch ticket.  But this....this is made completely of awesome-sauce.  Because, I didn't just win it randomly, like a raffle or the lottery.  I won it because they totally got it!  My geekery was validated!  THEY LIKED ME.  THEY REALLY LIKED ME.  

Errr, ummm...well, they liked THIS:

 

Yep.  That's Merle with a Rancor.  

My prize for winning the WWMDD? contest is an autographed photo of the epically awesome Michael Rooker and a Rookered t-shirt, that will go into my rotation of t-shirt I LUFF, along with my Zombie at Tiffany's shirt and my Little Miss Detroit shirt.  

Thank you for sharing in my geek stroke, and if you are a The Walking Dead fan in any way, shape or form, do yourself a favor and bookmark the Dixon's Vixens website, like them on Facebook, and follow them on Twitter.  They're a fab group of ladies (and gents, can't forget the Mixens) who are doing it RIGHT.  (And if you don't know how to fangirl something the wrong way, clearly you haven't spent enough time on Twitter.)

Strawberry Fields or Why I Am Awesomer in Stupid Pants

Hey, Vivi...isn't this blog supposed to be about WRITING?

Yes.

So, why do you keep talking about other things, like the zombie apocalypse and people who follow you on Twitter?  

Because I'm an enormous geek that gets excited about the little things in life and I'm also thinking ahead to the inevitable. 

Right, but, the last we heard, you were in a state of total and complete "meh" when it came to your writing.  Is that still the case?

Are you drunk?

Yes.

Awesome.  Fine.  If you must know....I am working on something.  That has chapters.  And, ya know....one of those plot things. 

WOW!  Wait, does that mean you've started a new book?

Okay, you're annoying me.  Here, have a Twinkie.

Oh, hey, thanks. 

(That's a big Twinkie.)

Yes, that's right. Apparently, I hate myself more than I thought, because I am officially working on..something.  New-ish.  But, I don't want to talk about it.  Seriously, stop smothering me.  Geez.

Anyhoo, I'm really here to talk about strawberries.  Because that makes total sense right?

You see, I'm not the green thumb type.  My thumbs are usually too busy shopping or texting or holding my googley-eyed owl coffee mug.  But, despite my non-green thumbness, I am excited to say that we actually have strawberries GROWING in our back yard:

Okay, I totally nicked that picture from some organic garden website.  Here's what OURS look like:

I can tell you're impressed.  

Now, I know you're wondering HOW I did this.  Well pay attention, because I am about to explain the intricacies of growing strawberries.

Step One:

Walk around in your backyard in your dancing olive pants, just to let all the vegetation within a ten foot radius know your completely mental.

Next, completely mock your husband when your sister-in-law gives him a handful of strawberry plants from her garden.  Make sure you sound like a big, fat know-it-all crabby pants when you inform him that they will NEVER survive the rodent empire that resides in the back yard.  Also, rolling your eyes while he's putting the plants in the ground is also helpful.

And that's pretty much it.  If you follow those two steps, VOILA...you will have your very own strawberries*.

And now, here's some baby drool.

*this is assuming that your husband becomes so hell bent on proving you wrong that he builds a fence around the strawberry plants so the rodent armies can't invade and decimate the crop.  This is an important detail.  You must ANNOY him enough that you push him to a fence building state of mind.  If you don't successfully annoy him, you will have no strawberries and you'll be stuck eating the ones from the grocery store.  Which, probably taste exactly the same.  But, whatever. 

I'm cooler than you (probably)

Just in case any of you were unaware of my level of coolness...THIS is how cool I am:

Yep.  That's right.  Norman Reedus, aka Daryl Dixon, aka Murphy MacManus, aka guy made completely of awesome, is following me on Twitter. 

Are you following me on Twitter?  You really should be.  Norman would tell you that.  

Why is he following me?  Please refer to the title of this post for that answer. 

Now, I'm not a super duper over the top devoted fangirl.  I'm just a fangirl who likes what I like, sometimes more in some moments than in others.  I get excited about things/people, but I also get distracted easily by shiny objects, so my attention and commitment tend to wane.  I've never joined a fan club or stood in line for hours to meet someone at a comic con.  I like what I like A LOT, but I like it from afar.  Mostly from my couch with a bowl of ice cream.  

So, given my level of laziness when it comes to LUFFing something, the fact that Norman is following me on Twitter is pretty much the coolest thing ever. 

Now, some of you may be saying, "So, it doesn't mean you're BFFs all of a sudden" and to that, I say, YES IT DOES AND YOU SHUTTY!

So, to recap, I'm cooler than you, Norman's my new BFF and I eat ice cream on my couch. 

Weird-o-Rama

I'm a weird mom.  It's okay, I'm used to it by now.  (No one else is, but who cares.)  

For a while, I tried to not be a weird mom, but I think I actually came off more weird than I did when I was just being my normal weird self.  I mean, c'mon, there's really nothing more wack-a-do than a weird person trying to act normal.  It's just awkward for everyone involved.  

The cool thing is that I have my kids totally snowed.  They have no clue that I'm weird.  For instance, we often have dance-offs in the kitchen while I'm cooking.  I convince them they're dancing for their food, and if they don't bust out some floor moves, they'll have to eat cat food for dinner.  Or, instead of cartoons, we often watch things like The Top 100 Heavy Metal Songs on VH1.  It usually goes something like this:

Child: "Mommy, what's a Dokken?"

Me: "Well, honey, once upon a time there was this place called The 80's.  It was magical and full of men like Mr. Dokken, with big hair and way too much eyeliner and mommy wanted to marry ALL of them!"

Child: "Oh.  Okay."

And then I usually teach him the proper way to jump over a microphone stand and, more times than not, we end up getting way too creative and then this happens:

Sometimes if you stand perfectly still in our house and listen, you can actually hear the sound of their cute little brains being warped.  

But then, the boychild does something like this, and it makes me realize that he is epically full of awesome, and the dance offs and the head banging and the goth gloves can only add to the well of awesome:

That's right.  It's effing Iron Man.

...and LOKI!  

...and Thor.  In a metal bikini.  

See, for most people, this would be "oh, whatevs, he drew comic book characters".  But for me, being a ginormous geek...it's full on freakin', frackin' bat-shit AWESOME.  

So, for those who think I'm weird and think my kids are weird, I say, "Yep.  Pretty much."  

And then I give them the devil horns and do the splits in the air. 

Still don't have my muchness

I really should start writing again.  

But unfortunately, this is all I really have to say:

Yeah, not a whole lot.  It's like someone stuck something into the back of my head and drained all of my ideas, while simultaneously jabbing something in my back and draining all of my drive and passion.  I'm left with...."meh".  You can't write a book about "meh".  "Meh" isn't all that interesting, and would most likely cause plot holes and flat characters.  

See, watch:

One day there was a girl who was all "meh" and everything was boring and nothing interesting happened because no one cared, bla, bla, bla, blabbity, bla, bla.  The end.  

See, I've come to a little realization.  Just because you have (or had, before someone jabbed you in the back) passion for something, it doesn't mean you're good at it.  You know what I feel like right now?  I feel like one of those poor bastards on the American Idol auditions.  They actually think they can sing.  Like, fully believe 100% that they can sing.  And then they sing and they suck the moose.  That's how I feel right now.  Only with writing.  And without Steven Tyler zoning out in the corner and making comments that only make sense to crack addicted raccoons.  

So, if you need me, I'll be over here.  Meh, meh, meh.  Meh. 

So that happened

Last month, I almost became an agented writer. 

I'm going to seriously "nutshell" it, because I've tried to write it many times, and I always end up with my knickers all in a twist.  And that's not comfy.  Literally and figuratively.

There was an agent who was interested in representing me.  And then that agent decided not to be an agent any more. 

Of course, there are knicker twisting details that I'm leaving out, but really, when I just stuff it into a nutshell, it doesn't sound so bad. 

Okay, it does still sound like total "DOH!".  But what can I do?  Such is life.  Have I spent the last few weeks moping around and feeling like a gigantic loser?  Ummm, yeah.  Have I seriously considered flushing my computer down the toilet and taking up something much less tumultuous, like stamp collecting or river dancing?  Yep.  Have I felt like I've lost every single shred of creativity and get a serious case of the icks every time I even consider trying to write something new?  Yes and yes. 

But it just wasn't meant to be.  And that's okay.  I have to believe it happened for a reason.  Don't get me wrong, the whole thing feels kinda mean spirited, karmically speaking.  Almost like the universe hates me just a teeny bit.  But I don't really want to believe that.  So I won't.  I'll assume the universe was looking out for me. 

Or the universe is trying to tell me that I shouldn't quit my day job.  

But, being a glass half full kind of girl, I'm going to go with option A.

So, it's all good. 

You know what else is good?  My zombie apocalypse dream team!  Please join us.  We need more.  And I've also decided that I really hope Emeril becomes a zombie and tries to eat me, so I can stab him in the brain with my looted Emeril knife set and say "Bam!  Bam!  Bam!".  Because that would just be downright poetic. 

Know what else is good?  IN 9 DAYS, I WILL BE IN VEGAS, BABY!!!!

So, the zombie apocalypse has to wait until AFTER I come back.

And if I hit it big, and you're part of the zombie apocalypse dream team, I'll just buy us the Millennium Falcon and we can just bust ass off this rock when the undead try and chew our limbs off.  Deal? 

My Zombie Apocalypse Survival Guide...plus cake

First and foremost, you should know that I am super bummed out right now.  I don't want to talk about it.  Soon, maybe.  But right now I'm still going through the post-"life handed you a pile of crap" rituals. Yes, rituals.  I totally believe in them.  Like, cake for instance.  You didn't get the job you really wanted?  Someone break into your car and steal your Night Ranger CD? Well, sweetie pie, then you get cake.  For a whole week.  And you get to watch really stupid TV and you don't have feel bad about it.  Because you've EARNED it.

I've totally earned my cake.  I can say that without any hesitation.

But, anyway, what I really want to talk about is the zombie apocalypse.  Yes, yes, I've been watching way too much The Walking Dead.  I can't help it.  I'm not saying it's the bestest show in the history of forever, but it's got zombies.  And this guy:

Enough said.

But, funny thing about The Walking Dead.  Despite it taking place in a very post apocalyptic world, highlights and precisions cuts seem to still be readily available.  And J. Crew still delivers.  But I won't fool myself into thinking we'd be THAT lucky.  No, I'm quite sure if the zombie-shit hit the fan, my hairdresser* and UPS man would be the first to try and eat my face off.

So now I'm totally freaked out.  Not just because of the shambling hoards of the undead outside my front door, but now I'm worried I'm going to look like a total hag while I'm stabbing them in the brain with the Emeril Lagasse knife set I looted from the Home Goods up the street because I can't find the ax in the garage (note to hubby: we should clean the garage sometime this century.  Ya know, just in case).

This brought me to the realization that I really need to have a zombie apocalypse plan of action.  First on the list, find the ax.  Second, find my tweezers.  This will lessen the risk of hag-ification.  I may not be able to have my highlights and lowlights, but I can at least have manicured, non prehistoric eyebrows.  Third, find this guy:

Ah, yes, there he is again.  This time with dead squirrels.  Aside from the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, I'd say Daryl Dixon is my only chance at survival in a zombie apocalypse.  Plus, he's a total MILWASICMHSCT (Man I'd Like to Write About So I Can Make Him Say Clever Things).  And he carries a crossbow.  I'd look super cool next to him with my ax (if I can find it) and Emeril knife set.  I'd tell him jokes and he'd find me charming.  Or I'd annoy the crap out of him and he'd put an arrow in my head.  Which would totally mess up my non-highlighted hair.

Hmmmm...what kind of shoes do you wear when you have an arrow in your head?

Oooh, which leads me to....

Fourth, have edgy post apocalyptic wardrobe clean and ready at all times.  Something like this:

Just, minus the guns.  And the straps going through the legs.  They work on Milla.  Then again. ANYTHING works on Milla.  You could staple a foot to her face and she'd still be stunning.

And fifth, find this:

No, I won't share. Not even with Daryl.  Sorry.

What's your zombie apocalypse plan of action?

*Sorry, Melissa, you're awesome, but if you go all undead on me, I will totally jam a flat iron into your brain.

Okay, I just got word from Melissa that a) I should jam scissors into her brain instead of a flat iron, and b) she's not going to turn into a zombie anyway since she's totally armed with sharp objects at all times.  So, she's joining Team Daryl Dixon & Vivi with the ax (maybe) and Emeril knife set.  We'll fight hoards of undead and have awesome hair at the same time.  My worries are over.  Bring on the virus.  

This is me talking in more than 140 characters

Okay, peeps, so here's what's been going down in the world of ViviVanGo (this would be my roller derby name, btw.  See my last post for more details).  First and foremost, I am now a Twitter-er.  Yes, I drank the Kool-aid.  See, Twitter confused/paralyzed me before because there was SO much talking all the time, I just wanted to run and hide with my binky (bottle of wine) and my woobie (box of cookies).  But, my sister turned me on to a little thing called Tweet Deck, and now my paralyzing anxiety is kept in check with wondrous things called LISTS!  See, I don't have to listen to everyone Twittering away at once.  I'm saved!

And just as a side bar, I'm totally following (stalking) one of the exec producers for The Walking Dead (fangirl, fangirl, fangirl) and I asked him a question and he finally tweeted an answer back.  Yes, it only took three weeks and about four thousand questions, but still.  I feel special now.  Which, umm, is kinda sad.

Next item of business in ViviVanGo-land is that my darling little sweet pea of a daughter is INSANE.  She is into EVERYTHING.  She has no fear.  None.  And she's smart.  I'm pretty sure as I type this, she's plotting to take over the world.  Resistance will be futile.  Which leads me to...

In less than 45 days, I will be in Las Vegas with my sister, a vacation that I have effing EARNED, dammit.  Do you realize I did not sleep at all in 2010???  Not once.  I should contact Guinness.  Or, just have a Guinness. (Wait...2010?  I meant 2011.  See how sleep deprived I am?  I don't even know what effing year it is.)

And lastly, on the writing front.  Whoa, it's been a crazy few weeks.  Like, bananas.  B-A-N-A-N-A-S.  I can't really say much at this point.  I have no idea what will happen.  Maybe something.  Maybe nothing. If something happens, you'll hear about it.  And if nothing happens, you'll hear about it.  Vague enough for you?  When will then be now?  Soon!  Also, there is no spoon.

What's going on in your world?  (and feel free to leave your roller derby name.)

I don't care. Just an FYI.

Last week, I emailed my sister with my fears that I was hurling headfirst into an "almost 40" crisis because I have this overwhelming desire to put a streak of blue in my hair.  Just a streak.  (Remember Nancy from the first Nightmare on Elm Street movie?  Like that, except blue.  And preferably done in a salon and not as a reaction to being haunted by a crusty dude in horizontal stripes.)  Here was her response:

Here’s the thing about turning 40 (even though you’re not there yet).  40 isn’t the new 30.  40 is “I’m 40, so I can do whatever the hell I want, and I don’t care what you think.”  

I love this.  I'm going to put in on a t-shirt.  Tattoo it onto the inside of my hand.  Sneak out at night and spray paint it on freeway overpasses.  So, the following are a few things that I'm going to do.  And since I'm (almost) 40, I can do whatever the hell I want and I don't care what you think. (Unless you think its cool.  Then I’ll want to hug you and buy you ice cream.)


Put a streak of blue in my hair


Sing Total Eclipse of the Heart at a karaoke bar in Vegas (because every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes.) 


Learn how to shoot a gun


Wear silly shirts, like this one, or this one


Take up roller derby*


Tell rude, inconsiderate people that they're being rude and inconsiderate**


Wear aforementioned blue streaked hair in braids and snap my bubble gum


Write a book based loosely on my experience with the douche knuckle who made my life hell in high school***


Get this tattooed on my back****



What?


You were thinking you'd see far more exciting things, like skydiving and bungee jumping?


No.  I'm a total wuss and am DEATHLY afraid of heights.  You will never see me jumping off anything higher than the footstool in my kitchen.  I'm fine with this.  You should be, too.



*I say this with the caveat that I've spent the last 38 years of my life realizing that I do not belong on wheels.  It's just one of those things.  Wheels + me = not awesome.  I tried to learn to rollerblade several years ago and I distinctly remember taking out my roommate.  Like, PLOWING into her in the middle of the street and sending her into the bushes.  But, since roller derby is about plowing into people, maybe it'll work out. 


**Okay, I already do tell rude, inconsiderate people that they're being rude and inconsiderate, but often times I don't come off as mature as I’d like.  My goal is to convey my disdain eloquently.  Perhaps whilst sipping tea and wearing a flowery hat. 


***This obviously isn't that controversial, but my "don't care" moment comes in when I hear people say things like, "Oh, the whole Y/A bully thing is so ten minutes ago".  I.  Don't.  Care.  It's a story I want to tell.  If writers only write what they think is on trend, we'd have nothing out there but poo. 


****I know, I know.  My homegirl Circe has issues.  And, yes, technically, she's poisoning the water.  But I've always loved this picture.  And I think it would be a very cool tattoo with all the blues. 

Just FYI...

Things I am currently addicted to:

Pinterest

Etsy (because they have things like this)

Sons of Anarchy

Books like this one

Mumford & Sons

Coffee (nothing new there)

Love

Dragon Rolls

My new boots (BOOTS.  That says BOOTS.  Not...you know...) 

Those effing chocolate and sea salt covered roasted almonds from Trader Joe's

Pretzels dipped in Nutella

Dancing in the kitchen with a spatula in my hand

Shopping for more boots to make my new boots feel jealous (cuz I love drama)

Things I am currently NOT addicted to:

cleaning

laundry

eating my vegetables

my treadmill (aka Lucifer)

cleaning up hacked up hairballs

Watching The Bachelor (which, by the way, instantly makes you 500 times stupider)

 Feel free to leave your current crutches in the comments.  Remember, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem...

Obligatory New Year's Post

First, Happy (belated) Holidays.  December was a full on bat shit crazy month for me.  Not only was I working on revisions, 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.  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

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 R&Rs: 1
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 to make a few tweaks (or hack the living crap out of it.  Ya know, which ever feels right).