Sweet Mother of Fudge Ch. 6

Chapter solid 6

Ahhh. The last crispy ends of real summer. It’s like chewing the fried batter off the non-edible parts of the chicken breast. Yummy. But it won’t last forever.

I want to keep my kids from school. I never want to send them back. When they leave for the day it feels like my heart's draining like a bathtub. Nothing but ominous curly hairs left over.

The fall can pound salt, as far as I'm concerned. I've bought, no joke 47 boxes of 22 cent crayons at Wal-mart. I can’t stop myself from buying the crayons.

A few days before we left for Disney I was folding clothes, watching the E! channel. There was a newsbreak, regarding Angelina Jolie and her babies.
 
“We're interrupting your programming to give you an update from Angelina’s Doctor in France LIVE!”

The Doctor begins speaking to the reporters in French. The E! channel had obviously not counted on this stumbling block. They continued to broadcast the Doctor without a translator. I couldn’t believe it!
 
After all this time.

Finally.

In High School I decided to take French as a second language. I thought it sounded so chic. Turns out I have problems. With the French. Actually, I can not understand any accented speech whatsoever. If your everyday talking is more spicy than say, Mr. Rogers, my brain puts you on mute. I just watch your lips move.

I can’t remember names and suck at memorizing. So this all made French hard for me. I took three years of Regents level French. The only word I knew cold going into the oral final exam was “coqueluche." I thought it was hysterical that our screamingly old text books still had “whooping cough” listed as a vocab word. I was pretty sure that the malady of whooping cough had been vaccinated out of existence in 1913. So I would use it on my friends suffering through French class as a joke.

Really it was my only French joke. Well that and “tamponeux.” 
Which I can’t remember what that word translates to, but it was an obvious joke.
 
Anyway, back to my oral exam. The French teacher pulled me into the hallway. I was so scared. Gosh I was horrible at this subject. She knew me well enough to speak her part of the conversation in the slowest, non accented French she could. Teacher ~“Vous êtes dans le bureau du médecin, expliquer ce qui vous dérange?"
"You are in a Doctor's office, explain what is bothering you?"

(I could not believe my luck!)
Me~ "Eh bien, mon mal de gorge."
"Well, my throat hurts"
Teacher ~ "Que pensez-vous est faux?"
"What do you think is wrong?"
Me ~ "Je pense avoir la coqueluche!"
"I think I have whooping cough!"

I wound up getting an A on that oral exam and passed my Final because of it. The last day all the French I was hanging onto dropped out of my head like a hot potato. I was done. All done.

I started college and decided to change to a different school after two years. As I was arranging my new schedule all my credits transferred like a dream. Except I was missing one small credit. I needed a second language. And because I had a regents diploma I would be required to take the moderate level French. Even though I had my Mr. Rogers problem and only passed by the skin of my whooping cough flavored teeth. And moderate French is two semesters. Of course.

So I plunged into the French world. I hired a tutor. I studied all the time. After two semesters I squeaked out with a B. I was proud. Please hold your applause.
 
(BTW I graduated with a degree in Political science, determined to be a lawyer, until I found out that they scoop your soul out and replace it with an overactive bowel.)

So I had kids. Never touching my French with a stick. Letting it rot.

But Angelina Joile and the E! channel had given me my moment to shine.
I listened intently. I was able to piece together this information “The mother and babies are good. The babies are eating the cheese. We are trying to stop the babies from eating the cheese.”

Well, that can’t be right. So that’s that. I don’t even remember where I was going with this story. I should have saved it and busted out this freaky little mess in the world showcase part of the trip report.

Where was I in the story? Was this the Potty chapter? No, not yet!

We were dressed and ready. To go to the Magic Kingdom. We trudge over to the van. We almost always drive to the parks. Today we pile in and drive to Ticket and Transportation. We got to park in Minnie, we were so close. Until you realize that walking from Minnie takes longer than grabbing the tram. And of course, the kids’ favorite ride in Disney is the tram.
We make the time honored choice. Ferry or Monorail? What a wonderful decision to have to make.

Usually, we're ferry fans for the first ride. But, surprisingly, the kids picked the monorail. I think they felt cheated by Minnie Mouse holding the tram hostage.

We settle into our Monorail car. Mr. A snaps away with his camera.

The kids score window seats. And we're off. To my castle.

After getting through security and heading in the early breakfast line, we were there on Main Street. We're rushing now because our ADR’s are for 8:30am and it was 8:25. No time to get the dream picture taken (Should have risked it!)
So instead of the photopass guy taking our picture. We took his.


Not nearly as satisfying.

We get seated almost immediately at Crystal Palace. We can see some of our friends, Pooh, Eyeore, but they're just past our table. The waitress tells us to take our time getting our food, they won’t be back for a while.

Grandpa regales us with tales of being a character greeter.
 
Grandpa~ “When I used to bring Piglet here to the Crystal Palace, I used to say ‘Come on Piglet, they're running out of bacon’, boy how he would shake.”

Grandpa’s got a sick sense of humor.


We all got up to get some food. From our super fantastic DEEP. I could not wait to set BC loose on a buffet. The child, when home never stops eating. He's mostly a meatatarian. We've to cook him his very own steak at home when we make it for dinner. His favorite snack is deli sliced turkey.

He loads up his plate. I load up a plate. I felt a little guilty. There was such a long line at the buffet. The food I wanted was vacant. Should I wait in line for the food that was available? Mr. A had bumped to the front, got what he needed and moved on.

I had my inner dilemma and then grabbed what I needed. Get back to the table. GC wants something else, go back up with her. Should I line jump again? She wants none of the first grouping of food. I jump again. The angst. Oh well.

Get back to the table. BC is sitting all slumped over pouting at his plate. Who is this child? He has bacon? Why is he not eating?

  GC is not eating either. All the adults suck down the tasty offerings. The restaurant is very pretty on the inside and our server was full of Disney happiness. She kept coming back to ask the kids how they were doing.

First up for the kids was the parade. How adorable! I was happy BC was willing to march with GC.

Next up Pooh came to the table. GC runs to him and gives him a sweet hug. BC goes in for a hug as well. He's getting bigger, I wasn’t sure if he would go for the characters anymore. I should have known better. He's so easy going and always up for fun.

Tigger bounced over. I just love that striped guy.


Piglet waddled over. Grandpa decided to torment his favorite pig.
After snapping a picture, Grandpa said “Wait, I need to take that one again Piglet, you blinked”
Piglet stood for the second picture. Grandpa is part evil.


Last, was mopey Eyeore. We snuggled him up and wished him good luck with his gloomy day.


And our first DEEP was over. The kids touched very little food.
“Probably too early for them,” all the adults murmured to each other.

Our BBB appointment is for 10:25am, so we head in that direction. We stumble upon the Dream Show in front of the castle. And this is the first time it happened to me.

I was quite shocked. While watching the show, I looked around me. There was Grandpa, free of cancer, hand on PS’s head. Grandma , finally content, she can hug her grandchildren (when she can physically touch them, she can actually breathe, if they are far away, she's just faking it).

Mr. A, so very happy, in his favorite place in the world. The kids, looking at the stage, enchanted by this show. That’s Disney, you can just happen upon dancing animals, princesses and fireworks. So much better than shopping in Wal-Mart for my Crisco.

And yet despite the careful choreographing of making all my dreams come true, I realize Disney is not about what I am seeing. It is about who I am with.

The time to see the faces your heart holds dear for long periods of time. No pesky daily grind to take you away. No chores clouding the sweet voices describing something, anything to you with dancing eyes. You can hear them. Your eyes never leave your son's face while they tell a story. You can wrap your arms around your daughter and feel her sharp intake of breath when she sees Mickey and Minnie dancing for her.

I also realize that this year has been trying for the As. We have faced some things we never thought we would. And we made it out the other side.

So every time the word “ Dreams” is sung by our favorite characters. I bust a tear. The whole freaking show is about Dreams. Mickey's blinking, talking and saying “Dreams."

More crying. And not that perfect, attractive tear sliding down one cheek like some women (and Ronald McDonald) can pull off.

 And I am going to cry a snorf horfaling, chin dimpling, snot leaking, blubberfeast. In broad daylight. My sunglasses are large.

So I try to contain the cry.

To just my eyes.

I try looking everywhere else but the stage.

No luck. I think the script for that show goes something like this:

Mickey~ “Believe in your Dreams”
Minnie~ “Dreams do come true if you Dream really hard!”
Donald~ “I'm Dreaming my ass off, about Dreaming in my Dreams!”

 

Damn it.

BC says ~ “Mom are you choking on a little bit of left over Piglet?”

I hear~ “Mom are you Dream choking on a little Dream of left over Dream?”

The chin dimpling has crossed over to full lip pout involvement.

The word Dream is attached to my tear duct.

Finally, Goofy blows himself up dreaming or something like that and I pull myself together.
I grab my dear family. Dreams do come true. We are here. Together. And I am loving it. We head over to where we think BBB is. On our way we found the Fairy godmother.

This Fairy godmother was really bossy and not that friendly. She brushed me off when I mentioned that GC was about to be turned into Cinderella. Which surprised me.

And I should have learned me a lesson about the mojo change in the atmosphere. But I'm hard-headed and stubborn. I don’t pay attention to fates and signs. I play it my way.

Up next: Mrs. A brings a little bit of The Bronx to BBB.

Sweet Mother of Fudge Ch. 3

Ahhh summer. Isn’t it fantastic? The kids are home making a constant cacophony of childhood noises. Here we have long nights filled with firefly catching and frog trapping. We invested in a larger pool. I think it was $250 dollars. Which means we have paid about .50 cents an hour for the pleasure of having it.

The kids have dragged their Dad out for the games of “Dr. Tentacle arms” (we have paddles with suction cups on them left over from some game I bought at Wal-mart, Mr. A tries to suction the paddles on the kids' Beach Ball of Power while they pummel him and push him under water, the game is loosely based on Disney’s Phineas and Ferb. There's the “Big Whirlpool” (which is easy to figure out) “Giant Storm” (huge waves) “Volleyball” (we play volleyball).

Gosh we are weird. Typing up our weirdness like a term paper really sheds some light on our bizarreness.

Back to pontificating about summer, summer here in the middle of the country is much different than our beloved Florida.

When you leave in your van, the sun is hot and way high in the sky, like it is supposed to be. When you get out of the van in Florida, the sun actually walks on the ground next to you, like a person. The sun wears pants and a hat and throws his flaming arm around you. Instead of just hot, the Florida sky shoots fireballs, which explode all around you. When indulging in summer in normal parts of the country, your body becomes 3-D , every spider vain or stray hair visible. You must slather on the sunless tanner to make everything on your body palatable.

But our friend, Florida Walking Sun , makes your body 4-D. It burns through your sunless tanner, leaving you a shimmering ghost of body mistakes. In the Florida sun people can see your veins and what you had for lunch. And what you think you might have for dinner.

Where am I going with this? Well, as usual, I am going to talk about my body hair.


In normal world there is always time to take care of business. Keep things to a respectable level.

But in Florida we're always in a rush. Showering all the members of the family, getting them dressed, sun blocked, right shoes, towels if we are going in the pool, ear plugs for our infection prone son, favorite floaties. All this takes time. And wasting Florida time is inexcusable. There's only one place I can cut down on time. My own personal maintenance must suffer. Bye sunless tanner, Bye carefully applied Bare Minerals.

Let the Body Hair Triage begin.

Now, as in any triage, there are various priorities. I will outline the procedure below:
Each of the three main body hair areas receive a “toe tag” to establish who needs action first. The tags are colored (in my head)
 
* Minor priority #3 the area feels rough
 
* Delayed priority #2 the area would have looked great in the sixties
 
* Immediate priority #3 People will mistake this area for a spider and start slapping it with magazines.
 
* Black tag (no number) all numbers are present, only go swimming at night, alone.

In a Florida shower, I must use all my sharp focus and body hair horror knowledge. Reaction must be quick, efficient and fearless. In the end, only #3 is attended to. And the black tag? Well, it just isn’t safe to swim alone, so I can't let it get that bad.

I'm sorry I had to share that. Another thing I'm finding lately is that all my personal hygiene products must be labeled “Clinical Strength” or “Prescription style” to work effectively. But that's neither here nor there.

We spent our time at my parents. The kids got spoiled. I repacked all of our bags.

Next up: Grandpa’s Surprise 90th Birthday party.

This party is also functioning as a family reunion. One of my aunts had never met GC and BC was 6 months old when she met him. I was excited to show off my beautiful, well mannered kids. They are for sure the nicest thing that ever got removed from my body.

This meant getting up early, getting dressed to the nines, and driving three hours to his house. We'd be going right past Disney to get there. Mr. A and my Dad came up with a great idea. We would drive into Disney, go through the check in process, and then head to Poppy’s house. We all thought this was a time saver and very smart. When checking in using the cast discounts, it can sometimes take longer than usual and we'd not be back to POP until late that evening. This way, when we arrived we could march right in. Great. Wonderful. Perfect.

Anybody else see something wrong with this plan?

That’s right, we are planning on taking the kids to Disney, through all the signs, the heart pounding excitement, marching into their favorite place to sleep ever, which is the gateway to the World. And then we're leaving.
 
We are peeking at Disney. And than running. To go to a birthday party in a retirement park.

Now in our defense, Mr. A and I were only thinking about ourselves.
This quick stop was sharpening our Disney pencil of excitement. It was the cherry on top of the Disney flavored ice cream Sunday.

Grandma and Grandpa often stay in POP when they're contracting in Orlando, so it's very normal for them to do this.

But the kids, well, turns out, when you take them to Disney World, they want to actually go in.


BC took the news very well, being that he is a 65 year old man in a 9 year old body, he agreed with the logic.

GC, my little tinkleberry, was not seeing the logic of anything but the Hippy Dippy pool. And maybe an airbrush tattoo. Trying to explain things amongst giant yo-yos and bowling pins essentially puts a mommy voice on mute. How can I blame her? Sandwich Disney dangling in front of her with many hours in the van, top with a sprinkling of lack of sleep and I'm looking at a very persnickety six year old.

It's 10am and our day has not even started. Poppy’s party is an elaborate ruse that will take many hours. First we're arriving for our visit at 12:30 which he's expecting. Trickling in at that time as a pre-surprise “surprise” are his three daughters and their families, and his wife’s family. Just a smorgasbord of unexpected people. Then at 4:30pm, we head up to the clubhouse where a party of about 70 of his closest and oldest friends would be treated to dinner, music and fun.

I was doing the Math on that while looking at GC. How much can I expect from her? She's a real trooper, but the lack of sleep is scaring me. She cries as we get in the van to head for the party. We've a few hours left to travel. I'm hoping she will nap in the car.

By the way, in the little room for kids in POP by check in they had the Disney Channel playing on the TV. I really missed the old time cartoons. I guess I want to flush the real world down the toilet at Disney. I don’t want to see anything I normally see at home. Except my family. Well the body hair could go down the pooper. That would be better for everyone.

Up Next! Let’s surprise a 90 year old man!!!!

Sweet Mother of Fudge Chapter 2

****Flashback***

Just before we left for Disney I took the kids to a special program at the local Library. It was something about big and small critters. The programs have a decent reputation and considering how much GC loves animals, I thought it would be a good break before the long car ride. I was picturing live animals brought in for the kids to admire and maybe even touch. I had to pre-register months in advance. Expectations were high. I met up with a friend and her two boys there. We settled into our seats. Our kids got great ones, right up front. I looked at my friend with eyebrows raised. In the front of the room there were no happy cages, no safari dressed bubbly animal wrangler. There was a woman who was blasted out of 1972 and plopped in front of a number of taxidermy-ed animals. Really old dead animals.

Oh no! Will GC have nightmares? Will she figure out that they're dead? Front row seats mind you. We had two little foxes, faces arranged in snarls, baring teeth. A large bird, talons exposed, A black bear, ferocious glare in place. And the saddest piece of all, a momma raccoon with her small dead baby raccoon in her mouth. Holy Guacamole, who thought this was great show for kids! The refugee from 1972 began her presentation in the most monotone, boring tone of voice she could fester up. I think listening to an insurance salesman discuss the virtues of loose-leaf paper would pack more of a punch. The kids ranged in ages from 2 to about 12. They were like angels listening as 1972 picked up one dead animal after another pointing to various dead parts and moving them slowly in a macabre horror show. She got to the raccoon family. She holds them up. All of the mothers in the audience look horrified. 1972 points out that these dead animals are so old, the mama raccoon’s “fingers” have worn off to nubs. Why did I let my kids sit through this? Well, the reward was getting to “pet” the animals.
 
1972 pulls my son out of his chair. He always gets picked for stuff, but usually it’s good stuff. She hands him the two stiff, dead foxes. He dutifully stuffs one under each arm and holds them at the right height for the other kids to “pet” them. GC gets on line and waits for her turn. Her reward. All of us mothers stand around waiting for our kids to do the exact opposite of what we would tell them in the wild.
 
“Don’t touch the dead animal!!” is echoing through all our heads. I guess you can put anything in a library, label it a kids show and we will all put up with it. I'm thinking of all the road kill I'll try and prevent the kids from seeing in our hours on the road. But I brought them out special for this nightmare. 

I look at my friend and say, “I really hope the kids won’t be too disappointed when we get to Disney and the characters move around. Dead animals are so electrifying.”
 
We get in the van. I turn to look at their confused faces. BC sums it up with a: “Well mom, that was weird”
 
Sorry Kids. Oops. Let’s rub some Disney on that weirdness until it goes away.

We have one last home dinner before we leave. I sit us down at the dining room table for a little reminder course in table manners. We're indulging in our first Disney Dining Plan experience this trip. Cast members and their families get a deal and we love deals. We made our ADR’s after careful deliberation of menus, reviews, etc.
We came up with Crystal Palace Breakfast, Boma, Chef Mickey Breakfast, O’Hana, and Hoop dee Doo Review for our table services. Mr. A examined our list and came to the realization that we had unknowingly enrolled in the Disney Extreme Eating Plan. Every table service was All-you-care-to-Eat. Now, as far as we know, we're the first members of the DEEP. So here's a few tips for anyone else that has the gall (and the gallbladder) to enroll in this plan. First things first, you have to build up your endurance to get more than your money’s worth out of each meal.

Stretching your stomach to competitive eating strength is recommended. Begin shopping at a store like Sam’s or B.J.’s and buy your entrée’s and sides in bulk. Instead of dividing them up into more sensible portions, COOK IT ALL. And have at it. Eat. Learn to burp to make more room. Serve Tums in little finger bowls.

Back to our tutorial. Besides competitive eating, we like our family members to be polite at the table. There is only one sure fire way to remind the kids of the manners we like to see.

Show them what not to do. Mrs. A cracked her knuckles and her neck, poured a tall soda and served chili dogs.

After much inappropriate and then, corrected appropriate, expelling of digestive noises, including, but not limited to the sentence: “Kids, if you have to fart, try not to squeeze the cheeks, because that turns them into screamers!” Mr. A noted that he felt like he had just had dinner with pirates. The kids asked to be excused from the table (good kids!). We were ready to take on eating in the World.
******

Now the Anastasias were driving to Disney, straight through, cheating stops at McDonald’s when alas, eventually, after we learned that Georgia and South Carolina need Adult supercenters and their girls are TOPLESS! TOPLESS! TOPLESS!, we hit the first smattering of Palm Trees, then the Welcome to Florida sign.

We traditionally stop, drink orange juice take pictures, and move on. It feels wonderful there. Your whole trip is in front of you. Tinkerbell has been farting her pants off the entire ride, bestowing presents on my beautiful kids. I call my Dad for refresher directions to their retirement park. Really it’s like a town. This place is the Disney World of retirement parks. There are five pools, beautiful amenities, Mr. A and I want to retire in that very place when the time comes..

Me ~ “Hi, Dad.”
 
Dad ~ "I'll call back in a minute I am about to get a needle” Click.
 
Huh.

I have a great imagination. I'm coming up with nada. What the heck are they doing?

“When you wish upon a star” my phone sings to me. I know my father's getting Minnie Mouse answering on his end.

Me ~ ”Dad?”
 
Dad ~ (slurring) ~”I’m in the dentist getting a tooth pulled, the dentist is here.”
 
Dad slurs through the directions. And like a trooper hangs up to get a tooth ripped out. Last time I spoke to my parents, they were shopping in Wal-Mart. That’s quite a jump from buying yoo-hoo to the dentist chair.

We still have three to four hours of driving, so we pile in. Mr. A and I worry about Dad. I once had a tooth removed by a horrible dentist and wound up with dry socket and no way to get a pain reliever. I'm determined that Dad will not have to go through that.

A little about my Dad. I have known him my whole life. He's actually an invincible superhero. Tall, great looking, ridiculously strong with an impeccable sense of right and wrong. He's a superb driver, funny, and smart. When all the other Dads would sit on the beach at the lake, my Dad would be in the water throwing me and my sister high in the air, however many times we asked him, over and over again. My friends would line up behind me and he would throw them too. Our own personal water park.

None of the other Dads got off their lounge chairs. Now, as a grown lady, I realized how tired he must have been, working all week with overtime thrown in. It would have been so nice to lay on the beach for a little while.

He built me a tire swing, and treehouse and a dollhouse. He didn’t complain when he took me on Big Thunder Railroad for the first time and I peed on us both. What a great Dad. I have such high expectations for Mr. A. I am proud to say he has never let me down once. He's a kid throwing rock star too.

Right after Christmas my invincible Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He beat it. Get your PSA levels checked gentlemen, and ladies make sure your man gets his levels checked. It is a simple blood test and it can save lives. Easily run at an annual exam. Get a healthy baseline so you always know what your levels should be.

We were supposed to get a visit from my parents in April, but the cancer treatment needed to happen. We'd not seen them since Christmas and it was now July. I wanted to see my Dad. I know the cancer is gone, and I was happy, but I wanted to see him with my own eyes. And my mother. 38 years of marriage. My parents are inseparable, miserable without one another. What was it like to go through this worry with your two daughters so far away?

And they miss the kids. We get closer.
And finally, we pull into the driveway and flood out of the van, Hugs and kisses and holding hands. And breathe. There's Dad, looking great, saying he is no pain from his tooth removal. And Mom, happy, crying scooping the kids up.

We are here. We made it. Florida is so far away and I feel like we leave part of our hearts there every time we head back home. The vacation has started. Fill up the drinks with light up ice cubes, and make the music loud. We have arrived.  

 Today is International Short Story Day! 

Thanks to Carol Oates for the Button

I love short stories. I actually have two contest winners for you to enjoy free today and and longer free eBook as well.

 Download NC-17 here FREE! (Just One Bite Finalist)

Download Shackled Free Here! 

And last and maybe least is my humor piece that won third place in a 24 hour Publisher's Weekly contest titled:

HOOKER IN A CASKET

I can't believe that the judges put up with my armpit hair laden story. They are a brave bunch. Please follow the linky below to my other Omnific sisters. They will treat you to free stories as well. Happy Short Story day! 

Screw the Thick Skinned Nonsense.

You know, since writing has become a thing I do I often hear/read/ happen upon the phrased "thick-skinned" when referring to authors. 

There are many pep talks about bucking up, strapping in and bearing down. It's almost like writing is akin to taking a dump on the space station. 

And I get it. Obviously, I'm not the brightest bulb in the crayon box but I realize other authors are preparing the new ones. You will sit and create a life that lives between pages. Each sentence is carefully groomed and polished. The paragraphs wear their best coats and crisp, new shoes as you step back and lovingly send it into the street. 

You're maybe picturing a street lined with apple trees and sweet mailboxes and the occasional squirrel scampering around. And honestly the street is a fourteen lane highway bordered by hookers and an angry mob with sticks and flaming bags of poo. Your sweet little precious story is going to be trampled, kicked in the nuts, given long, hard, wet noogies. 




And as an author you are supposed to stand there, clasp your hands and hold a smile on your face. Nod understandingly when your story limps back holding its privates, snot running down its face crying.

Butt I say this: Don't get a thick fucking skin. Don't. I mean, for serious, don't fall down screaming like an asshole, but you can let the negatives wound you. If you're writing from the correct place in your body, you most likely have access to your emotions. If you have a story that means anything to you, your soul is like a giant fish tank at Petco. (You know, the feeder fish :( )

And you skim what you need off the top. While you're not writing, your soul is laying there open like the fish tank.  You're going to feel shit, absorb stuff, get sneezed in. So if someone gives your story a wedgie, you're going to commiserate with it and that's okay.


No really, let it burn for a few minutes. You earned it. With that job comes an equally important one. When something good happens, you have to fold that into you as well. The positive energy is three times as important as the negative, even if at times it's just you patting your own damn self on the back.


Have skin that needs a lot of hypoallergenic product and sun block. Be likely to develop skin tags from chaffing. Because whether someone pokes your book with a needle or tickles it with a feather, if you're not feeling it, then you might be doing something wrong. 


Word.

New books on my shelves: POUGHKEEPSIE BY DEBRA ANASTASIA

New books on my shelves: POUGHKEEPSIE BY DEBRA ANASTASIA: Synopsis He counts her smiles every day and night at the train station. And morning and evening, the beautiful commuter acknowledges...


The pictures on this one were just stunning! 

Welcome Lillie Spencer to the blog today! I recently had the opportunity to interview her about her awesome story, MANHUNT.

So you've had the journey of MANHUNT with you for a while, what is your favorite part about releasing it into the world?

It took me three years to go from writing this book, having it win two awards, and then nothing for a long time before finally getting it published. Note to aspiring writers - Never Give Up, Never Surrender! I think my favorite part is the wonderful feedback I have received from people who've read it. Their comments always make me smile, and I like thinking that in some small way my story made their day a little bit brighter.

Tell me what your perfect writing day is like!

I'm a night owl, so my best writing usually takes place after I get the kids and hubby to sleep and things are quiet. I'll make a pot of tea or have a glass of wine, put on some music and just type. I used to outline how I wanted the story arc to go before I started writing, but it never ended up the way I outlined. It always took on a life of its own.  MANHUNT was certainly that way, and I love how it turned out.  Now I tend to just let the story take me where it wants to go.

How do people react when they find out you are an author?

I'm a soccer mom on the PTO board with a background in wildlife biology who used to work for Disney. Needless to say, it always surprises people when they find out I have a romance novelist alter-ego. 
 

What is your favorite romantic song that corresponds to your new book?

"What About Now" by Daughtry, definitely.

What are some of the most important risks you've ever taken?

I dropped out of college and took on three jobs to put my husband (then fiancé) through school. Everyone thought I was crazy at the time, but true love won out. It turned out to be a risk well worth taking. He's now a rocket scientist, literally, and a wonderful husband and father.  I'd go through hell and high water before I let my own daughter do something so stupid, but it worked out for me.

Buy it at: Amazon ~ Barnes and Noble ~ All Romance Books ~ Tulipe Noire Press

Follow me: Facebook ~ Twitter ~ Blog



Thanks Lillie!  

Disney Trip #2 Chapter 1.35

Because I can't ever stay on track, I'm going off the "plot" to tell you some stories about cars. Shhhh. Tits totally painless. Mostly.


Maybe it only happens in my house. Mr. A kindly bought me the minivan of my dreams. He drives our crap vehicle. The one that you need two feet to drive, even though it's not standard shift. And the windows only work some of the time. I appreciate his sacrifice for my princess-like comfort. But apparently, an inspection goes on that I don't know about. As he comes in the house he "notices" our van. He's checking for damage. Every day.


The other day he walks in to the kitchen where I'm happily dancing the jiggler around. Big smiles.

He says, "There's a ding in the van"

No response from me, still smiling, less dancy, trying to pretend like I'm listening.

He tries again, "There's a ding in the front hood."

Me ~"Maybe it's from the storm the other night? A tree branch or something."

Him ~"No."

How the hell does he know it wasn't a tree branch? Coulda been. What is he the Columbo of the dings?

Him ~ "Looks like a rock."

Here he throws in a pregnant pause. Full of accusation.

Me ~ "Huh, you think the storm kicked up a rock?"

Silence from Mr. A. Then, the grilling stare. Like I'm in an interview room down in the precinct. He adds the always pleasant eyebrow arch.

Isn't that sumthin? Does he think that I wouldn't notice a rock banging on the hood of the van while driving it?

Need I mention that he has been driving the van both times we had damage to my princess mobile? Blew out the back window backing into a ladder and was at the helm when a actual rock hit the actual van and exploded out the back window (again)?

No, I won't mention that.

Granted, the women in my family have a crappy car history. Locking keys in running vehicles. Arriving to a lunch date in two cars leaving in one and forgetting about the second car. Until the next day.

But my sister has the worst stories of all. I was a passenger for one particular story. She was driving her spiffy Ford Feastiva. 

In the middle of the road, there was about a three foot high pile of manure that must have fallen off a farm truck, hay sticking out of it. Sis is doing about 55 miles per hour, headed straight for it.

Me (all calm) ~ "What ya gonna do about that pile?"

Her (all calm) ~"I'm going to put it between the tires."

Holy Crapamoly! Ever see a Feastiva? I have worn Maxi pads bigger than that car. I was sure we were about to launch Duke's of Hazards style over this giant pile of ****. I had to watch though. Couldn't believe my eyes. Like seeing a snake try and eat an elephant.

Boom, we hit. God Bless that little car, it didn't go airborne. But the grinding noise of the grill eating that mound of crap was alarming. Thudding and smooshing over it, my sister refused to let up on the gas. It was fun seeing my Dad's face when we pulled in the driveway. Her car always smelled like poop after that.


Needless to say it wasn't me. The ding. I blame him.

What did I say was up next last time? Retirement Jail, G-pa's 90th, More food poisoning ala chicken and more biting bugs? and of course "Princess Down, I repeat, we have a Princess down!"

Carol Oates

Is my wicked awesome friend that pimped my Poughkeepsie trailer and last night she hit my box with these things:

 

Are you freaking kidding me? I almost fell out of bed. Who has this kind of talent stuffed up thier sleeves? My girl Carol, that's who.

Did you know she's an amazing author as well?

Check it for FREE:

http://www.amazon.com/Unfinished-ebook/dp/B005HAU2WY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1339509728&sr=1-1

She also has two other full length, kick ass books as well and one is about ANGELS! Plus another free one! I highly recommend.

http://www.amazon.com/Carol-Oates/e/B005ANRTHO/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Sweet Mother of Fudge Ch. 1 1/2

Ahhh. Nothing like leaving for Florida. The Butt Crack of Dawn nowhere in site. Everything is sparkling with promise. 3:30am is a weird time of the day to be hyped up . There's a 14 hour ride in front of you. It was hard leaving the inmates. Peanut, the cocker spaniel who loves to “wookie” talk in the morning. She's not a licker, but she will put her mupplet paws on your legs and her spongy wet nose 1 millimeter from yours, staring at you. No licking, just the threat of licking.

Spike, a little maltipoo, (not much malti and more poo) that was rescued and delivered to us from Wyoming. He spends most of his time being cross-dressed by my daughter. He is a good sport about it. He's a licker and will dance on his hind legs to get close to some lickable hand.

Snowy, another pound rescue. She's a spitz mix. She can perfectly imitate a baby seal about to be clubbed. This dog is the one we will always want to clone in later years. She's like Nana from Peter Pan. She can be without a leash and stays with the kids in the yard. She insists on laying on the floor next to any sleeping member of the family. She's wonderful.

But, alas, they must stay with the pet sitter. Back to the van. Packed for my four separate trips. Our plan --fueled by our excitement- is to drive straight through. After our last trip’s nightmare, this plan gives me the tremors. (Remember the handicapped gentleman who was going to smoke cigarettes with every hole he had, and a few of my own?!) But the Anastasias are stubborn. Our ETA at my parent’s house is around 7-8pm that evening .

We're settling in, I'm playing the early morning game with the defroster, where you're talking happy talk with your husband and kids and then BAM The inside of your vehicle fogs up like David Copperfield is in your third row seat making the Statue of Liberty disappear .
 
Me to Mr. the King ~ ”All fans on high Captain, temperature set at the magical mid-way point between the hot triangle and the cold triangle” 

Do the Mickey salute to inspire confidence.
 
And then just when you think you won’t win and the fog will overtake you and force you off the road like one of the movies they show in the 50’s sci fi drive in Theatre. You win, the fog abates. But stay alert, it could attack at any moment between 3:30 am and 5:30 am.
 

In between my foggy battles, I've a game plan for the excited kids. Tinkerbell Gifts. You see Tinkerbell delivers green wrapped presents to the kids along the way. The first gift goes like this
 
Me ~ ”Hey kids, do you smell something?”
 
Kids ~”Yeah it’s like flowers or vanilla”
 
Me~ “I remember that smell from when I was a kid driving to Florida with Grandma and Grandpa, it was a Tinkerbell fart. Every time I smelled it I would look around the car to see if she left a surprise”
 
Kids~ Staring at me with wide eyes and eyebrows up
 
Me~ “A good surprise! Not related to the farting”
 
Kids ~ Frantic searching and locating of a Disney themed travel present. Both, without prompting, “Thank you Tinkerbell”!!

As the day gets brighter they start the game of: “ I SAW her!!” 

Birds, sparkling parts of pavement and little holes in clouds where sun peaked through became magic following us down I-95. I do believe BC was on to me, but played along for his sister.

The kids. I'm crazy about my kids. My son's going to be 10 this year. He's pure goodness and such a gentleman. He loves cars, planes and trains . He's such an easy child to be around. His patience with GC is legendary.

My daughter. Big, Blinky green eyes. She's feisty with a great sense of humor and she adores animals. Animals also adore her, no matter what she does to them .
 
I like Magic in this house. I'm grateful that the kids and Mr. A put up with it. Christmas time sees elaborate ridiculousness, including but not limited to, reindeer poop out on the deck on Christmas eve. 

(It was such fun when I walked over and popped a piece in my mouth declaring it delicious, the taste reminds me of melted Hershey kisses.)
 
Back in our Van, we're making “good time." That’s what everyone says right? When visitors arrive and you inquire when they left, then your standard reply is, “Oh, you made good time." 

What does that mean? I only knew two men who actually “made good time” in the sense that a trip took less time than it should. Both drove like maniacs, the type of car that flies by you and you say things like, “Rather have that fool in front of me than behind me” or “He’s got a date with a telephone pole and can’t be late” etc.
 

So really, we never want to “Make good time." We stop for breakfast in McDonald’s. Turns out the lower half of I-95 only has one official rest stop per state. Us travelers are expected to have steel-walled bladders for that system to work out. Otherwise you do the cheating rest stop. In McDonald’s. You slip in the side door, do your ditty, and sneak back out to the van without buying anything in the store. I feel guilty about that. Mr. A says he eats at McDonald’s plenty of times without using the restroom so he and McDonald’s are pretty much even. This particular McDonald’s got the full Monty, pee and some of my money. 

Now, where I'm from they've banned smokers from exhibiting anything that looks like smoking in public. So I was shocked to see smoking in restaurants. This McDonald’s had many signs and rules about smoking which made me laugh. The first one said “No Smoking in Line.” The “Smoking section” was about 2 steps from this sign. In another 2 steps you were in the Magical “No smoking” section. All the sections and rules were taking place in an open space just a little bigger than my kitchen. It was laid out such that if you were, perchance, a smoker, you'd have to smoke about four separate cigarettes to travel amongst the signage with out breaking any rules.
 

The food was sub-par. And you have to work really hard to make McDonald’s food any worse than it already is. But the Piece de ‘resistance was a particular art print on the wall. As if the sad, 70’s decor, the multi-cigaretted smokers and the greasy food weren’t enough, there on the wall to enhance the mood was a picture of Ronald the creepy clown. Now he's scary when he's happy. (I'm not a fan of clowns). This Ronald was depicted with his head tilted in agony with one single tear sliding down his cheek (He was even done up in Artistic Black and White.) It was enough to give me nightmares for a month. Ever see the sweet, heartbreaking picture with a dejected Mickey Mouse with one single tear? Gosh that's effective. I don’t even care what Mickey’s crying about I'm going to cry too. I just want to scoop that mouse up and cover him with glitter and chocolate until he smiles again.

But Crying Ronald is all wrong. Really any Ronald is all wrong but crying black and white Ronald in the smoking/no smoking section is well…just creeptastic

I brushed away the horror show and pictured myself sucking down fabulous orange juice in the Florida Welcome Center and we resumed “Making good time.”
Up Next: We arrive at Grandma and Grandpa’s place. Do retirement parks have Jail?