Summer Lovin'

A while back I was contacted by Omnific Publishing with the opportunity to contribute to a charity anthology. Included in the Summer Lovin' Heat Wave Anthology is a story I wrote. It is the fairy tale style story about an evil queen-to-be and her brush with a defiant warrior. She must learn to love someone other than herself to impress him and save her country. This Anthology is for adults, with some hot love. The authors participating in this edition are: Kasi Alexander, Debra Anastasia (me!), Robin DeJarnett, Jesssica McQuinn, Lisa Sanchez, BJ Thornton

All proceeds will go to the Save the Ta-ta's foundation. It's just astonishing how many lives breast cancer has affected. I don't need to tell you the stories of the people I know, because unfortunately you can most likely close your eyes and picture someone you care about's struggle.


So this effort is for the person that brings tears to your eyes when you see their bravery. This is for you if you've heard the diagnosis of breast cancer with disbelieving ears. As women we can stand together and do something. After all the pain, determination and sadness, how can we not?


However you contribute to the fight against cancer, you have my deepest thanks. If you would like to contribute to this one please click the link below. The Anthology goes on sale on July 5th and will read "sold out" until then.

 http://omnificpublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=36&products_id=52

Also, please check out the Summer Lovin' Summer Breeze which is rated for YA readers. It includes these talented authors: Hannah Downing, Nicki Elson, Sarah Glover, Jennifer Lane, Killian McRae, Carol Oates, Susan Kaye Quinn.

The link to the YA Anthology is here: 
http://omnificpublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=36&products_id=53



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Disney World

I'm going to be there on July 17th. Oh yes I am. For one sweat-soaked day. and I'm a crazy tits excited about it. 


I'm weirdly, perfectly obsessed with Disney. I try to go every year. Did you ever meet a Green Beret who can pack the bejeezus out of a bag? Like grenades, and knives and jerky for living on in the jungle? Well, me neither. But I bet they are good at that shit.


 I'm just like that for Disney. I can pack a bag within an inch of its life. Command Hooks, Sunscreen, Ponchos, hand sanitizer, band-aids, autograph books. No need for a Map because I got that all up here *tapshead*


I can't wait. Bring on the pulsating, mind-altering heat. I want to sweat through my underwear, pants, everything. I want to sweat so hard that I sweat through your underwear too. 


If you coated Hell in asphalt and scented it with hot waffle cones I would fight a rabies-laden alligator to walk around in there for a day.


 So, anyway. My hubby really likes to take pictures in Disney. He got a new camera for Father's Day. He is losing his mind with excitement. 


He was also thrilled when some camera equipment arrived in the mail. He had been all-atwitter about its arrival. Now, I trust the husband to make his own manly purchases. I watched as he happily pulled it out of the box.
 
He bought a stick. An expandable stick. As I eyed him with suspicion, he clamped his beloved camera to the stick.

And that’s it.

That’s all it does.

Me ~ “We bought a stick?”

Him ~ ”It’s a monopod. For my camera.”

Me ~ ""

Him ~ “It has a wrist strap!”

Me ~ ”A stick with a string? Does it have, like other legs to hold it up, or something?”

Him (scoffing) ~ ”That would be a tripod. This is a monopod.”

Now I'm blond, but I do know that mono means one. Hello, Monorail?! It only has one something or other that makes it different from the Tri-rails. And Mononucleosis only has one germ. Whatever. 
 
I watched as he delightedly stood with his camera on a stick and snapped pictures of the living room. I thought of Jeff Dunham and his Jalapeño on a stick.

Then my husband completely ignored me, and packed his camera in his obscenely heavy backpack that travels like Yoda on his back in Disney world.

And he clipped the collapsed stick on a string to the arm strap of Yoda. Then he had the audacity to look at me. Again.

He's lucky he's handsome with white teeth and a set of dimples. I shook my head at the version of my man I would be looking at in Disney. At least he's usually smiling.

So we're proud owners of a stick, which I fully intend on stealing to beat people with. I'll become the Disney Whisperer with that stick. Ever see Cesar Milan? With all his “Chuchch” and “See my hand? Dat is a bite!” (I love that man relentlessly, by the way.)

I'll take said stick and poke people.

Me ~ ”See that stick? It's a poke!” I'll use it to correct such unwanted behaviors as farting, nose picking, line jumping and body odor (in that order). And No, I won't use it on myself.

 If by some miracle, the husband gets through security with his overpriced expandable stick, I'll be prodding the crap out of “the undesirables of Disney.”

But in all honestly, I expect him to get a full body cavity search in the tunnels under the Magic Kingdom.

Toe Nail Clippers

Yesterday morning, I got to see one of the fun tricks being 37 plays on you. I spied that apparently overnight, four longish chin hairs had decided to make an appearance. So, I started my hunt. For my good tweezers.


After years of plucking stray eyebrow hairs with a poorly designed pair, I had bought expensive tweezers. By expensive I mean over $3, but under $5.


The old pair of pluckers was the worst design ever. They had the rounded edges. The design team of crappy tweezers must have sat around trying to replicate the sensation of using two newborn baby’s tiny fists to grab a hair. Slippery, inaccurate, and frustrating.


After cursing a blue streak at them one day, I realized there must be a better design. And made a mental note to grab a nice pair next time I was at the store.


Two years after that, I remembered to buy them. My mental notes are like throwing a message in a bottle at the seashore. You have no idea when they will find you.


So I purchased the high-class pluckers, for high class random hairs. They were like two razor blades sodered onto a sleek pincer. I came home and waged war on my facial hair. Anything that glinted in my harsh bathroom light was whipped away. I went overboard. Who knew that some of the hair on your face denotes personality and expression?


I stepped away from my overzealous pluck mania. I was surprised. My face was as smooth as a newly painted wall. I stopped feeling surprised, but my face refused to calm down.


Too much, I had plucked too much of my eyebrows.


For about the next two weeks, I spent much of my time explaining to the other humans I encountered that I was okay. I was not just back from witnessing a ghost. I was not carrying a pile of tacks in my underwear.

By the time the eyebrows had resumed their shape, I had lost my new tweezers/razors. Maybe it was divine intervention.


I went back to the trusty newborn baby fist pluckers.


Because I was now too stubborn to go out and replace the expensive tweezers.


When the errant, offensive 37 year old chin hairs alarmed me in the mirror, I began the hunt. For the tweezers. Preferably, the ones that meant business. I could recall the smoothness that they had inflicted on me. While searching, I could not help but keep on stroking the new hairs like Col. Sanders thinking about fried chicken.


The hairs were so coarse. I kept peeking in the mirror while ransacking my bathroom cabinet.


Oh Crap! One of the four hairs is black! Black! I feel like my chin is giving me the finger. What kind of crazy hormone is turning one chin hair black?

I give up on finding the fabulous, lethal razor tweezers, the Angelina Jolie of pluckers, if you will. I start searching for the baby fist tweezers.


Anything will do!


I feel like there is a spotlight on my chin now. If I don’t get them plucked soon, they will turn into a full-fledged goatee. Baby fists are missing too.


I'm ready to loose my plucking mind.


I spy out of my panicked eye, the toenail clippers. I seize them and run into my bedroom so I can get real close to the mirror.


Plucking chin hairs with a toenail clipper is tricky business. I wish I could say I have no experience with using toenail clippers for unconventional things, but you know and I know, I can’t.


Sometimes, I use them for scissors. Little, tiny inaccurate scissors.


So, I line up the clippers and the hair. I bite my bottom lip and stick my chin out like Jay Leno. I close one eye.
The husband walks in and sees me.

The husband wisely walks right out again without saying anything.


I focus back on the hair. I try and pluck just before I clip. Because if I cut them, well, then I'll just be trimming them back some. And that does not teach the hairs a lesson at all. Actually, trimming them makes them feel special and loved.


Turns out trying to judge the exact thickness of a chin hair is kind of hard. I wound up trimming them. Like a hedge. Or a Christmas tree.


Somebody remind me to buy expensive clippers again before the hair grows back.

My Oven Hates Me

My oven is losing its mind. Which would be funny if it wasn’t freaking true. When we bought this house, the oven caught my eye like a painted up floozy. It was maybe five years ago now? It’s a double oven. Not super fancy in-the-wall, but two ovens in one unit.

I was in love. I could cook two separate meals at once! Never mind that I hate to cook, it was the possibility that set my brain aflame. Now, it wasn’t a spring chicken but it could cook the fuck out of spring chicken. Twice.

Yes, I burned some meals. Yes, sometimes a morsel of food fell to the bottom and caught fire, but we worked it out, my two-headed oven and I.

But I’m afraid our relationship is puttering out. How do I know this? Because my oven, which has a digital display, has been calling for help.

Every once in a while, it beeps. And beeps. And beeps. Until I press the cancel button. Even though I’m not cooking anything. And then it will pick an oven to lock. Either the top or the bottom, I never know which one.

Then a scrolling message unveils itself where my time used to be. The message is:

Call an Authorized Dealer!

And it suggests an 1-800 number. Well, I totally read it as “Call an authority!” the first time I saw it. I expected my oven to call appliance 911.

At first it angered me. The beeping at odd times, sometimes waking me from sleep, etc.

Then I just ignored it. It’s been about a week now.

But now I’m starting to feel sorry for it. Sort of like ET with the frigging blanket and his large, light-up dildo. My oven wants to go back to the mother ship.

I want to phone home for this Maytag. It’s had enough of my crazy ass. I guess I’ll need a new oven. But how can I part with this one knowing it will be beeping in some junkyard, begging for someone to call the 1-800 number?

And what if I call the 1-800 like my oven is suggesting? Will it tell on me? All the times I didn’t line a pan? The drippings from all the gruel I’ve made for my family was hardly kept to Maytag’s standards.

I don’t even know what to do about this oven.

3rd place!

So a while back I entered a 24 hour writing contest. I wrote my piece and sent it in. I didn't think about it again until a fellow writer contacted me telling me that I was in the list of winners! How exciting, right? It's awesome. But I totally forgot what I wrote. I clicked the link.


I had titled my entry Hooker in a Casket 


As most of you know, I can't be trusted to write anything normal. I remember when I participated in a sweet friend's surprise birthday blog, I wrote her a short story about a prostitute on her last day of work. It was edgy and sad.


The day of her birthday I clicked the link to her blog and read all the super sweet, adorable birthday wishes. And then there was my entry about a hooker. Happy Birthday?? What the hell was I thinking.  She was very sweet and said she liked it. But you know in her head she's thinking, "Hairy Christmas, this girl is nuts." My story was like a pimple on a birthday cake.


Anyway, back to my winning entry. It has armpit hair, a wet sounding fart, etc. Yeah. So I call my parents and tell them the good news. They are so proud.


 Mom: "What's the story called? I'm going to send it to all your aunts!"


 Me: "Mumble mumble casket."


Mom: "What?"


Me: "Hooker in a casket."


Mom: "..."


Me: "Yeah."


 So good times in my family. Only I could manage to win something that might actually hurt me if I put it on a writing resume. I'm a nimrod. Well, we should all laugh at me, so here is a link to my craziness:


http://writersweekly.com/contest/3rdspring11.html

I held my book.

And it shouldn't matter. I've seen the pdf of Crushed Seraphim. I've read the words in that story a boopazillion times. So it really shouldn't matter. The cover was no surprise. 


 I had a full day on Friday, some of the following Monday's work was clogging up on me so I stayed a little late to get a head start. It was a beautiful day outside. I forgot to plan dinner, so as I drove home that was on my mind. After getting home, taking off my bra (hate you bra) and saying hello to the husband and kids there was a package.


 A book shaped package. 


 And yeah, it had my publisher's return address on it.


It's kind of funny because I had been getting reports from friends who got their copies, pictures even. It just made me want it more.


So then I opened the package, hubby snapping pictures and what spilled out was exactly what I expected. But also, it was so much more. Endless edits fell out, plopped on my lap. Hours fell out, spent in the very latest part of the night with my Mac. 


 Most importantly, a story fell out. I wrote that story. 


 Maybe I'm lucky we aren't completely digital in this world with our books because yeah, it so mattered. I'm afraid to crack the spine even though I'm usually a hard customer for a book. I snuggle with them, rip off dust jackets, toss them from the bed when I'm tired. But this book has been treated like royalty (so far). I've slipped it in my purse to go for a ride with me. Carried it into a restaurant and left it casually on the table. Because I could.


And I hug it from time to time. I know where it is, right behind me on the kitchen table. It was being the model for the bookmarks I'm making for the signed copies and bookplates. So I guess I'm playing dress up with my book now? 


 It shouldn't matter but oh my gosh, it really has been big blobs of fun. I have yet to sign one. I'll have to work up the guts to do that. I made my hubby and kids take pictures with the book. I don't even know what I'm getting at with this post. 

Maybe just telling you that holding my dream in my hand? It shouldn't matter, but it felt like wings and hope and I'm damn proud. 

How my mom functions.

You know, some days are more interesting than others. Last night, my husband took the kids outside to play. I was commencing the rigmarole that it takes to get my family ready for a weekday. Lunches, ironing, folders signed.

Lots of stuff.

My telephone rings. I glance at the caller id. The number calling me has an area code of “000." Now this perks my interest. Because as far as I know the “000” area code does not exist. But here it is, calling me. Maybe the call is originating in the Bermuda triangle. Maybe they installed a phone in Area 51 next to the black mailbox.

My curiosity gets the best of me.

Me (somewhat timidly) ~ "Hello?”
 
Expecting the high pitched squeal of an alien, or the deep timbre of a pirate swirling in the lost waters in Bermuda.

I get:
 
My mother ~ ”Hello!” She says it in a real chipper, nothing is wrong kind of voice.
 
Me ~ "Mom?! Where are you calling me from?!”
 
My mother ~ "My computer!”
 
Her voice resonates with an electronic echo. I'm perplexed.
 
Me ~ "How in God’s name did you manage that?”
 
My mother giggles ~ "I don’t know!”
 
Our conversation is interrupted by the beep of call waiting on my phone. I tell my mother to hold on. I'm picturing her all Max Headroom stuck in her laptop.

I glance at my phone’s display. Showing, like nothing could ever be more normal, is my mother’s home phone number.
 
I'm not sure what to do. So I answer it.
 
Me ~ "Hello?!”
 
My mother ~ “Hello!” 

She's all happy.
 
Me ~ "Mom?”
 
My mother ~ "It’s me!”
 
Me ~ "Holy Matrimony. How are you doing this?”
My mother ~ "I'm not sure.”

The best part is she does not care. She's not the least bit interested how she has somehow bridged the time space continuum and called me from two places at once, one of the "places" not actually a phone to start with.
 
She wants to talk to the grandkids and is frustrated that I'm having trouble comprehending the impossibilities I've been presented with. In her mind, she's on the phone and I'm wasting grandchild time with my slack jawed amazement.

Big Nuggets

Recently, My husband and I pulled up to a local Chick-fil-a, kids waiting for lunch in the back of the van. Now, my husband has one very weird problem. He sometimes uses a high pitched squeal when ordering from drive through speakers.This time the chick on the other end of the speaker forgot to address him as “'Mam”.
 

Which happens.
 
A lot.
To him.
And it makes me laugh.
Now, she didn’t call him “sir” either, but I keep the observation to myself.
We pull up. Respectable. Reasonable.
She looks him dead in the eye and says in a really loud voice

“WE ARE JUST WAITING ON YOUR NUGGETS, SIR”

Now that comment is just too much.
Come on.

So many jokes I want to crack.

Loud, inappropriate jokes.

My husband won’t look at me. He knows what I'm brewing. I start nose laughing.

He's still avoiding me. I'm surprised at his self control. Because he probably already knows what jokes I'm telling.

In my head.
 

And they are good ones.

This past Father’s day, I let my daughter pick out her dad's father day gift all by herself. She found a T-Shirt with a squirrel on it. She insisted on it. I did try to steer her in other directions. His face was precious when he opened it.



So only my comment, after we were clear of the hard working chicken girl, was, "Well, your nuggets are big."


hehe