Have a Rockin' Merry Christmas

We're leaving tomorrow for DFW to spend Christmas at "home" aka my parents. I hope you have a fabulous day, relish in your traditions, make new ones, laugh and hug your friends and family and be forever grateful for them. Eat, drink, and be merry. From my family to yours, have a rockin' Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa: Define "good"

We were at my parents in DFW for Thanksgiving, and my oldest, Shandie, was playing around with my mom's rockin' cool digital at the park with the smaller two.

Shandie: So say Santa decides you weren't good this year...
Syd: Define good.
Shandie: Let me see what faces you'd make if you wake up to only coal this year.

This is the result.

Note that Cooper looks like a broken-hearted little boy. Sydney, however, looks like she's considering Jingle Bell Castration.

I sound like my mother.

Not really. Not that it's a bad thing if I did. My mom is one of my best friends. We're just VASTLY different. And besides, that's really not the point. The point is I said a "motherly" thing. Ugh.

I had lunch with Sydney and Cooper. Syd leaves after lunch to go to recess and it was kinda cold out. And I kid you not, the words came outta my mouth: "Where's your jacket?"

Before *I* had a chance to cringe at my own words, Little Miss Six Year Old piped up with, "Mom, it's not THAT cold out."

Well yeah, I knew that. She didn't have to roll her eyes to get the point across either. Needless to say I felt decidedly old. Major suckage.

In other kid news, Syd's also at that age where she's constantly losing teeth. I remember thinking it was super cool when I was little, but man oh man, it squicks me out when she walks up and wiggles a floppin' tooth with her tongue. Worse yet is the laughter she emits at my reaction. A couple of nights ago she came up to me with tissue in her mouth and her tooth held triuphantly in her hand.

"Did you pull it by yourself?"

"No, Cooper punched me in the mouth and it fell out."

Oh. Well, okay - whatever works.

Then she had the audicity to say that the $2 she received from the Tooth Fairy was fake. FAKE!

I said, "Well give it back then!"
She said, "Why would I give it BACK to you when it's FROM the Tooth Fairy."

Uhhh.
Right.
Oops.
Nevermind!

Sassy little thing. And we wonder why her five year old little brother smacked her in the mouth? I think not.

You know it's Thanksgiving when...

You can say these things and not get in trouble:

1. Talk about a huge breast!

2. Tying the legs together keeps the inside moist.

3. It's Cool Whip time!

4. If I don't undo my pants, I'll burst!

5. That's one terrific spread!

6. I'm in the mood for a little dark meat.

7. Are you ready for seconds yet?

8. It's a little dry, do you still want to eat it?

9. Just wait your turn, you'll get some!

10. Don't play with your meat.

11. Just spread the legs open and stuff it in.

12. Do you think you'll be able to handle all these people at once?

13. I didn't expect everyone to come at once!

14. You still have a little bit on your chin.

15. How long will it take after you stick it in?

16. You'll know it's ready when it pops up.

17. Wow, I didn't think I could handle all of that!

18. That's the biggest one I've ever seen!

"In Bed"

Okay, I think we all know the rules of reading fortune cookies, right? You take the saying and at the end, you add "in bed".

Here are our fortunes from when we had Chinese:

The wise thing to do is to prepare for the unexpected
(in bed. "You wanna put WHAT WHERE?!")

There is always time for you to try a new path (in bed. Path? Suddenly it feels like hiking, which is exercise, which isn't as fun when viewed like that).

Be moderate where pleasure is concerned and avoid fatigue (in bed, cuz yeah, that'd be bad!)

Be yourself and you will always be in fashion (in bed. Because I was really worried about fashion faux pas while bumping uglies).

There will always be delightful mysteries in your life (in bed. Well ROCK ON!)

And my personal favorite: Soon, a visitor shall delight you.

Bet you added "in bed" to the end of that one automatically, huh?

Halloween 2006

Our first Halloween in Cameron. Yeehaw.

We obviously live in the country, what with the horses and turkey (down to one now, the other committed suicide) and chickens, etc. Neighbors cows and donkeys. Smells GOOD out here. Not.

So we drove into the "city" (cough cough) and drove around the area where the schools are. One of the things that stuck me as odd is no one was walking. They were all driving around, pulling up to a house, kids get out, go up, get candy, come back to the car and drive to the next house. Why no, we don't live in a lazy society at ALL. Of course, part of this is because neighborhoods overall don't seem to have consistent amounts of people home handing out treats, so you'd have five dark houses for every lit one. But that's a rant for another time.

We moved here in February, so my kids attended the end of the 2005-2006 school year. Of the 100 graduating students, 10 were pregnant. 10%. Nice. And I think I saw one of those girls Tuesday night. There was a girl walking around in a tight, "sexy" kind of costume with a little baby, maybe 2 months old, in its own costume, going house to house. It struck me as horribly sad. A child with a child - that was her "friend" to go out and about on Halloween night. No one else was with her. No huge group like my oldest went out with. I found it sad. I still do.

Then there were the really weird people. Backs of vans open with massive amounts of legs hanging out, kids jumping down and out of vehicles before they were stopped. I don't know how many accidents I saw almost occur. I was almost in one, because some girl around 16 thought she'd pull over all the sudden, and oh wait, there's MY CAR. She literally got within 3" of hitting me. Other kids were sitting on TOP of the cars. Not the back on the trunks, not the hoods. On the ROOFS. There were flat-bed trailers being pulled with 20-30 kids in the back. And all I could think were "Where are these parents?!" Well, I did see that one parent, but she was a teenager, so I don't think that counts. We went to one neighborhood and it was like inner-city scary. Super nice houses, but the mobs walking around were downright frightening, and no kids in costumes! I wouldn't have handed them out candy if they weren't in a costume. Then again, maybe I would, since they look like they'd shoot up your house if you didn't.

Needless to say, it was an interesting night.

As for our night:

We'd been to a couple of houses and then came upon this one house on a corner that stood kind of by itself since none of the others on the block were lit up. I pulled in front of the house and pointed out lots of things. Kids on the porch handing out candy. The flashing lights. Decorations in the yard - one of which was a coffin. Standing next to the coffin was "Dad". No costume, just standing there, overseeing the action. Good for him.

Too bad I'm going to have to de-ball him someday soon.

Since there weren't any others lit up, Carly (age 12) decided to take Sydney and Cooper by herself and I'd wait in the car. Okay then. They're walking up to the porch when surprise surprise, a teenager comes flying out of the coffin. Carly starts that nervous giggling. Sydney, being Sydney (age 6) does her shrinking thing. She gets super quiet, kind of goes inside herself and you can practically see her size reduce as she visually disappears. Cooper... ~sigh~ (age 5), in his Ninja Turtle Glory, screams a scream to wake the dead and DARTS back down the driveway. Now, what's the one rule about haunted houses and scary places like that? Chase the one who's scared. So the kid does.

Cooper's little dinky legs couldn't go fast enough, and big scary boy rounds on him, getting in front of him, between Cooper and the car where Mighty Mom sits, granted laughing my ass off. I'm getting out of the car because I know he's honestly scared, and I see Cooper screaming, hugely crying with ginormous tears, and swinging his candy bag like a man gone wild. He sees me, darts around the boy and literally skitters up my body, arms and legs like little vices around me.

Ends up it the girls handing out the candy were friends of Carly. Too bad all the kids got too freaked to remember to GET any candy.

About that time, obviously missing his cue, the Grim Reeper comes running around the corner to the front yard. Dude, not only are you late, but there is NOTHING you can do to scare these children more.

What irks me about this is that normally dressed Dad who stood there next to the coffin. There should have been some kind of kick to the coffin to let the teenager know there were little kids, to simply sit up and say BOO, which would have scared them enough. Thus, said Dad must be de-balled as an example to dads everywhere.

I get the kids loaded back up, snuggling Cooper next to me in the front seat while Syd and Carly go to the next house. (He decided to take a small break - imagine that.) I said, "Dude! You were scared and you were crying, but you were still kicking serious butt by swinging that bag at him!"

Ya know, build up that self-confidence!

Cooper: "Yeah, I did good, Mom, and I was aimin' for his WINKER!"

Just not much left to say after that, ya know?

Happy Winkin' Halloween!

The Wrath of God and Birthday Cake

There were the Twelve Plagues...

There was Noah and the ark...

(We have an animal theme in common, that Noah and me!)

And then, 37 years ago today, God perked on His heavenly throne. "AHA! I have it! A new torture for civilization that shall forever confuse scores of humanity and leave them scratching their heads in wonder! There shall be a face to go with the chaos!"

Poof! I was born.

Thirty-seven candles - that's obnoxious.

A Piece of... Work

Shan, the oldest, is in 11th grade, but two o fher courses are taken at the local college, one of them being advanced English. It's called dual-credit: she gets her high school credits plus college credits. Way cool.

Her first assignment for English was to write a paper - autobiographical.

On February 19th, in the year 1990, I was born to Jon and Brenda Fontenot in San Franciso, California. My first birth certificate read that my name was Martha Jane Fontenot, weighing in at five pounds, three ounces, and measuring fifteen inches long. It wasn't until my father flew back home from an art convention three days after my birth that the mistake was noticed. My older sister's name is Martha Jane; my mother had named me after her other daughter while she was high on the anesthetics. When I was born, Martha was nine and Paulson, my older brother, was seven. My grandparents came to visit me the day after my father did, but, unfortunately, got in a fatal car wreck on the way back to San Jose. They both died instantly. My mother, an only child, received all of the inheritance. Our family is very fortunate, despite the great loss that I'm positive my grandparents were.

My childhood was very auspicious. My father was, and still is, a world renowned sculptor, and my mother sang in jazz clubs during the night. I began attending a vocational, arts-based elementary school in uptown San Francisco called Randolf Primary Academy when I was five years old until I turned ten. I took many classes that are often not taught in standard elemenatry schools, such as art history, vocal, theatre, and dance. I picked up on all of it instantaneously. Dance was my main passion; I devoted all of my spare time to perfecting myself under the training of Ms. Judie Forrester. After five years of intense training, I took part in the Bazmark National Dance Competition. I took second place, defeating people years older than myself and landing a position in an international tournament. The next year, two weeks after my twelfth birthday, I danced at the Mostiko Nuto International Dance Tournament in Japan. Against two-hundred competitors. Celia Mathis approached me and invited me to join the Mathis Dance tutors, but then quit right before the start of seventh grade. I wanted to be a normal girl.

I began grade seven at Salizar Junior High in Ft. Worth, Texas. We moved to Texas during the summer to try to settle down and get away from the big city. Ft. Worth was big, but not as big as my hometown. I attended that school until the first semester of eighth grade, when I was expelled after being caught smoking in the girls' restroom. My parents, under the assumption that the influence of the public school system caused my downfall, immediately registered me in Brooley's Reform School or Young Ladies. I stayed in the boarding school for two years, visiting my parents on holidays only. We relocated to Copperas Cove, Texas, before my freshman year of high school. I became pregnant and delivered my beautiful daughter, Fiona Calecia, on July 2th, 2004. We stayed in Copperas Cove for one more year before moving once more to Cameron, Texas, where my mother started a horse ranch and I acquired the nickname Dinaes. I am now a junior at C.H. Yoe High School.

I plan on following in both my mother's and father's footsteps. I have my own art room and I also have coaches who continue to train me. After I graduate, I hope to attend the San Francisco Art Academy to double major in the dance and art studies, during which time I will enroll my daughter in a full-time boarding school. I do not want a husband, nor do I desire more children. In this class, I don't aim to get a specific grade. I will do what I want when I want, and whatever grade that leaves me with is the one that I will ultimately be satisied with. Although I believe in reincarnation, I also believe in living for myself like I will never live again: No regrets, no would-haves, could haves, or should-haves. This is also why I have no problem with exceeding the word count limit; you asked for my childhood and I gave it to you. Leaving things out would cheat you out of a great story.

When it comes to literature, I'm a not picky woman. I read studies on mental disorders and novels about people like myself. I enjoyed the book FARENHEIT 451 because it was easy for me to pull apart, and I loved THE GOOD EARTH by Pearl S. Buck. I like books that I can find the symbolism in. Likewise, I enjoy over-the-top works of fiction that make one wonder about whether something like that could really happen. I dislike boring, superficial books that do not have any meaning behind them, that leave me with nothing more than a headache.

Want to take a wild guess on how much of that is true? I'll tell you. Out of ALL of that, "1990" and "Jon and Brenda Fontenot" is it. AND - she got a 93! The professor made all kinds of notes, like "I'm so sorry!" for her grandparents dying!

Gah. So apparently I'm not the only storyteller in this family.

Big Shoulders and Tight Butts.

It's kind of odd - I've been married twice, and neither of them are/were (one's dead, after all) big on watching sports on TV. For some unknown reason, B's watching the Cowboys tonight (and c'mon, if you have to watch football, at least make it the Cowboys, right? Right.) I sat here checking email and spun around in my chair to oogle men with unnaturally broad shoulders and tight, spandex-ed butts and realized football really IS the ultimate in men being MEN.

Over the last few decades, we've taken the men out of men. We want them to be more sensitive. We want them to understand us. We want them to carry equal weight around the house (yeah - right. Never happen, and don't write me telling me you're the exception, because dollars to donuts your wife would tell me the TRUTH. Your delusion is cute though.) We want them to be interested in our lives. Why? Why would they care about a sale on clothes or what happened on Desperate Housewives? Do we REALLY want men like that? We are so busy blending and blurring the lines that distiguish men from women that there's a freakin' term for it: Metrosexual.

Which is weird in general, I think. Don't label EVERYthing. That's a rant for another time though.

I miss MEN. Dominant, this is my way men. Cavemen mentality. I hunt. I protect. I drag my woman by the hair at night and have my way with her.

Purr. Yum.

What's so bad about a woman wanting this anyway? I can't see a single thing. I want my guy to provide for me, to protect me. I want him to hold me and know I'm safe, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally too, and I can go "all girlie" on him while watching a chick-flick or after reading a book or being all stupid because the shoes I wanted went on sale. I want him to think it's cute - I don't want him to UNDERSTAND it. If I wanted that, I'd call up my girlfriends instead. I don't want to think, "Oh goodie, if someone breaks in, my guy can teach him how to wax the backhair off - or hose him down with his hair gel." Oh yeah, that gives me goosebumps.

Ya know how girls complain because her guy is always trying to "fix it" and all she wanted to do was vent? Guess what? That's what guys DO. It's part of protecting us. If we're complaining about something, we're unhappy. If we're unhappy, they want us happy again - thus they try to fix it. I LOVE this about men. I think I should have been a woman in the 50s or something. I don't know.

Women are always told we should celebrate being women. Yeah, well, I think we should celebrate men being manly men. Give me an alpha-male and I'm a happy girl. I want him because he knows I look pretty, not because he knows I use the same hair products as Carmen Electra. That's flat-out weird.

Which brings me back to football. How great are these guys? They get PAID (overly paid, but not the point) to do what men want to do: Kick-ass without getting hurt like in a bar fight. Slap each other on the butt without being called gay. Scream profanities at the other team's line. Watch cheerleaders bounce around in skimpy outfits, because what guy doesn't love that? They have this energy and anger and driven purpose and they go at it 100%. They ooze testosterone, and I think that's a really fabulous thing.

Green, Gooey Glop

There's nothing quite as disgusting, much less disappointing, as bad guacamole.

Comforting

I think one of the neatest things is what we find comfort in. We feel bad, and we want Mom's soup. For me, it was her potato soup. She makes the BESTEST. I've tried to make it myself, but it's just not the same. Gotta have that MOM aspect to it, I suppose.

But it's not just food we find comfort in. Songs do that for me too. Some songs just soothe me. Some wrap themselves around me and simply associate it with what I'm feeling at any given moment. Movies especially. Like a song, they can bring back a memory - how old you were the first time you saw it, what was going on in your life, the feelings it gave you when you saw it, and if those are happy memories, it brings those back to you. Like THE PRINCESS BRIDE, for example. The first time I saw it was in a huge auditorm, my first semester at Harding University in my first week there. I was on this high, I guess. First time away from my family, on my own (although in a "dorm" at a university with strict rules, but still...) It was a happy time, and even now, when I watch it, that good feeling comes back.

I collect quilts. My quilts are a comfort. Some are never used though. My grandmother made a couple of them. One was on my bed growing up - that old "Amish doll" style. I don't use it anymore - it's on a quilt rack - because I don't want it "worn" anymore than I did to it as a child. I don't want it to give out and have to get rid of it. I have two others she made - and when I say made, I mean MADE. When I was little, we'd go out to visit Granny and Papa and Gran had this HUGE rack that suspended from the ceiling that she'd lower to work on it, all hand stitched, from the piecing all the way to the actual quilting, matching the batting and the backing. The talent is awesome. The uniform stitching is a true talent. Another one of my quilts was made from my great-grandmother. Heirloom to the extreme.

But other times, I pick up some up at garage sales. I love the softness of them. I love the idea that someone made such a difficult thing out of a need to express herself. And now it's mine. And it's soft. Not too heavy, not too light. Perfect to wrap up in. Even though it wasn't made specifically for me, it brings me comfort anyway, and I like to think that the original creator knows it goes on, bringing peace and warmth to even a stranger.

Right now, my comfort item is a couch. I LOVE this couch. It's so comfortable, and the memories of it are ... well there are no words for the memories this couch holds for me. We just rearranged the entire living room to accomodate this, making it the center of our living room. The last couple of days have been super bad ones for me, and wrapped in a quilt, watching some of my favorite movies, resting on The Couch has been one of the best things ever.

Now if only had my mother's soup.

Update, Bren! Update!

Bossy people!

I had planned on updating after Nationals and uploading some pics to here at the same time. I don't have the photos yet, thus the delay. I actually DO have lots to share, but I really wanted to add the visuals with it, so those things will have to wait for now. So for an update on Nationals, hold up awhile longer.

In the meantime, I've actually been writing. I finally got the laptop working on all fronts, and now it's back to acting stupid again, so I'm trying to write here on the PC. And now my keyboard is going out, hating the E and J keys and refusing to type them until my fingers finally force it out. J isn't that bad, but the E - well, we use E a LOT, in case you didn't realize that. I used to use a split keyboard, which I LOVE. This one is a regular one. Since it's going out, I thought I'd get a new split one, right? Yeah. $70! I couldn't believe the price difference, and places like Walmart and Target don't even carry them now. So looks like I'm going with the $10 plain one from Walmart. Yeehaw.

School has started up here again. Last year, for those that remember, my plan was to write while they were in school, since my youngest would finally be attending fulltime. I kept anticipating the first day in 2005 and then that day came and went and nothing happened. This year, I refuse to lose that time and so I'm working on what I can do to make it easier.

When I started out, the plan was to write romantic suspense. That got shifted over to romantic comedy as I learned about this thing called "voice". Now I'm shifting again - to be announced later - but taking some real life knowledge and applying it to fiction. Should be interesting to see where that goes. Either way, my plan is to take babysteps. I get overloaded on the "big picture" and freeze up. I have this "all or nothing" mentality and it's making me nuts, along with others close to me who witness it. Just like blogging - I put it off until I could do what I'd planned, rather than ANYTHING - which, of course, is better than nothing. Frustrating to be me.

Yesterday, Syd Vicious, age 6, came up with a song. The words are, "I didn't know who you were when you walked into my door, but in a week you changed my life forevah!"

I stared at her for a moment then asked, "How old ARE you?!"

She grinned. "Sixty-seven."

Why am I telling you this? 1) It's cute and my kids are rockin' cool. (By the way, those wondering about Shan's blog - blogger problem and she's going to be redoing it.) 2) Part of my new writing exercise is to blog SOMETHING daily. So those little things like what one of the kids say may be all I have to share. Gotta get you used to it now.

Because I'm sadistic like that.

A Vacation from Vacation

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to DFW for a week. It wore me out. Between constantly running around and constantly being with my parents and my mother's need for constantly eating, I was draggin' big time. I haven't even unpacked yet. I thought this week would be my resting, recovering from the "vacation".

Then my husband's appendix exploded.

Thankfully, he was in surgery when it happened. It was all really fast, actually. Well, as fast as hospitals EVER are, right? But when they went to do it the easy, fast way (laporoscopy), he started bleeding out. He'd had a heart attack like two months ago, and the blood thinners were messing it up. Thankfully, the surgery had been delayed for a couple of hours while they had platelets brought in from Austin, so they'd planned for this possibility and handled it. Then the surgeon went to remove the appendix, and "it fell apart in his hands". To quote him, "It was the nastiest thing I've ever seen." Coming from a SURGEON, I figure that's pretty gross, and did not allow my brain to visualize. So now his recovery will be longer.

That gives me another week. I have a week before I head back to DFW to ditch the kids --- errr --- drop off the kids at my parents. I'll get to DFW on Friday or Saturday, then Tuesday, I'm heading for Atlanta for RWA's National Conference. Shari and I will be having fun, but it's a big time, hectic, fast-paced kind of fun. Getting up early (that means before noon - yikes) and getting to bed around midnight (if we decide to crash early) with constant events in the meantime. Seminars, the bar, classes, the bar, editor/agent appointments and panels, networking, the bar. See what I mean? It's crazy, but in a super fun way!

I'll return from there on August 1st. And I'll need a vacation. Recharge and all that. Because for the next two weeks afterward will be all about BACK TO SCHOOL. For four kids. That's a lot of shopping. I figure coming August 16th, I'll be ready for a day of nothingness in the worse way - the first day of school, and once again, my house will be nothing but QUIET!

Now, if only I can survive til then...

The Sweetest Thing

I've been gone to Dallas/Ft. Worth for the last eight days or so. I take the kids up there to their Vacation Bible School. And my mom got the date for her cornea transplant while I was there. I knew she was going to have one - I knew her eyes were bad, but what I didn't realize was HOW bad they are.

Until church Sunday morning.

Something caught my eye, but when I looked over at my parents, nothing was there. Then I caught it after the next song. My dad quietly slipping the open song book onto my mom's lap, while she passed him her closed song book. After each song, the same thing happened.

My dad was turning it to the page number for her, then silently slipping it onto her lap before he took the one she handed him and turned his own pages. Never in my life have I seen such a sweet thing.

So small, and yet so incredibly significant.

I sat there, blinking repeatedly, vowing not to cry and being so happy for them to have that kind of devotion, that kind of love.

She's back - Be Afraid

For those who have read the blog for a long time, you may remember my teen daughter who was linked from this blog. She took the site down (sniff - sob - sniff) but she's back up and running. The mentality of a 16 yr old is kind of scary sometimes, but it's neat to look back and remember how it was then, the emotions and chaos and everything else, through her writing. I know she'd love for anyone and everyone to drop by and please feel free to leave a note (YES! Even you, Dwight!)

Check it out HERE

According to Cosmo

Men equate saying "I love you" with having sex.

Does this mean everytime they're plugging it in, they LOVE that person? I mean, they may be GRATEFUL, which they dang well should, but I don't think this would be LOVE. I mean, I'm a GURL and even I don't equate it 99% of the time, so I can't fathom how a guy can.

If they mean "in a relationship" he shows his "love" through sex and thus equates it that way, that's crap. Grow a spine, open your mouth and SAY it.

Of course, being that I write romance, this could particular irk me. As writers, we work really hard to have ANYTHING, from words to actions, reflect the movement in a relationship. To that point, yes, often times if you do choose to have a sex scene, and since it does need to have relevence in the book, it can mean that, but I refuse to acknowledge that because then Cosmo is at least partially right.

Then again, I write heros with spines. That's one of the things that makes him a hero, after all.

Pass the IV Please

So, I got sick.

Really sick.

B had cold-like symptoms, then I did too. Ya know, the basics: runny nose, cough, blah blah blah. He started to get better. I got a fever. I kept treating the symptoms. I got worse. My fever got higher. By Day 9, I knew I was really sick. Then I started coughing up blood.

I went to the ER. They gave me three breathing treatments upfront. Man oh man, that'll give ya the shakes bigtime. They shot me up with morphine (that stuff hits FAST, by the way!) My fever hovered around 102. I have pneumonia - both lungs, and the kind I have attacks something in the back of the lungs which caused incredible pain (thus, the morphine). I was admitted to the hospital and stayed two days, IV antibiotics and morphine every two hours.

I'm home now and better. I'm still on the meds and percocet for the pain, with cough meds with codeine in it. They said in a couple of weeks, I'll be back to my ol' feisty self. So ya'll get a little break from me for awhile, but no worries: Like Arnold, I'll be back!

6.6.6

Insert evil laugh here.

Hold on - I think Sydney's throwing a party. I still think she could take Damien down in a heartbeat and have that boy begging for mercy.

So how fitting is this little thingy I found today for today's date?? I hobble into the gas station for more medication. (I'm on Day Seven of what appears to be the flu - or virus from hell, not sure which). I'm standing at the check-out. They always have these little keychains and a lot of times I like them. I bought one once because it said, "I'm out of bed. What more do you want?" (Those that know me know I'm a sleeper, dreamer, napper kind of woman.) So I'm fingering through them, nothing too funny, and my finger brushes against something soft.

And furry.

My eyebrows raise. My interest, in a fog of fever, is piqued.

Oh look. It's a cute little rabbit's foot keychain. Nice and normal. We've all owned one.

BUT WAIT! These have been MADE TO LOOK LIKE THE RABBITS AGAIN! One looked suspiciously like a cat. Little ears, little tails, little red beady freakin' eyes. Out of honest-to-God rabbit fur. Holy crap, this is a scary freakin' little town!

So I'm commenting on the demonic virtues of these to the cashier.

Me: That's messed up.

Him: Squeek.

Me: Pardon? (again with the raised brows)

Him: Squeek.

Me: blank face like :|

Him: *eye roll* THEY SQUEEK!

Uhhh. So of course, what do I do? I reach and squeeze the little real-rabbit-fur-dressed-up-to-look-like-mini-rabbit-with-beady-red-eyes-from-Hell and SQUEEK! It sounded like I imagine it would as a dog gnawed on it.

I paid and left. I'm almost convinced now that it was a fever-induced hallucination. I'm mostly afraid it's not. And if they're still there when I go back, I'm buying one just to take a pic to show you guys how truly scary it is.

UPDATE!!! B just walked up to me while I sat here at my desk and I heard the ever-familiar demonic SQUEEK SQUEEK SQUEEK. He bought one!!!!

It's all about CHARACTER!

As I delve deeper into my new book, I'm plagued by nightmares of revisions - ya know, those horrible rewrites my first novel is still waiting for me to complete.

Granted, I knew NOTHING about writing when I spewed forth that 100,000 word mess, but the premise is still good, the characters are still good, and so I suppose someday I'll open it back up and frighten Shari by saying, "Ready for the revisions on this one?" Then she'll scream and run into the night - which is okay now that winter is over in Wisconsin.

As mentioned in a previous post, I have GMC by Deb Dixon and it really, truly is an amazing craft book. So you take the revisions of my first novel and the insight of GMC, and think: Hmm. If I do this right the FIRST time through, I won't have to face those scary, demonic revisions.

Sounds like a plan, eh?

I thought so too. I whip out GMC and start to go through it with this new book in mind. Kate wants ________ because _______ but ________. There ya go. First blank is her goal. Second is her motivation. Third is her conflict. I wrote that out, just like that, on a piece of notebook paper and proceeded to stare at it for thirty minutes.

It's such a simple little sentence, is it not? And yet at the same time, my brain cramped up and my eyes glazed over and for a short period of time, I lacked the ability to speak coherent sentences. My family worried for a bit, then relished the silence and figured not to mess with a good thing.

Through this painful process, I've discovered I cannot create character worksheets. I have to simply write and let the characters reveal themselves to me in whatever way THEY decide. I'm just the scribe, the slave to the keyboard as THEY tell their tales.

Even my characters are bitches. What's up with that?

You Are My Sunshine

The day after I brought home the puppy, B got off shift and showed up with a tiny, tiny kitten.

There are two ways to get to our house from his work, and for some reason, he took the "longer" way home. As he came around the bend of the road, a huge vulture took off and B saw something moving, and stopped to see.

There were three tiny, tiny kittens. Two were dead. One wasn't. The vulture worked on making it so before B's interruption. Her eyes were really messed up - I'll spare you the details - and her front leg was broken. Our guess is that it broke when she was tossed out a window by whomever did this to them. They were VERY young kittens - maybe four weeks old.

You could feel her spine. She was starving and because of her eyes, she couldn't find food, she couldn't see to run and hide from the vulture, and of course, her leg would have made it near impossible anyway. We cleaned her up and fed her, and put her under a heat lamp. We named her Phoebe. Solid gray, long hair - gorgeous. And fit in the palm of my hand, with room to spare.

For the last seven days, we babied her when we could. Cleaned up her eyes and fed her several times a day and put her in the litter box. We know she could see some, probably just shadows, because she would follow the movement of our hands and try to hobble and follow us sometimes. She ate well most of the time. We truly felt she'd pull through.

She didn't eat well this morning, but that's normal. She went in spurts sometimes. I went to check on her this afternoon, and instead of being all balled up, she was stretched out. I picked her up to wipe her eyes and she felt cool to the touch.

I picked her up and tried to feed her more. I tried to get water into her too. It was hard - she fought it. She couldn't stand up. It didn't look good.

I took her outside to the backyard and in my black t-shirt, I held her in the Texas sunshine, letting her absorb my heat and the heat of the sun. And I stroked her back, I talked to her, I sang to her. She grew weaker.

Titan, my horse, came up and stood there. Just stood there. And then he'd kick at the fence til I finally took her to him. He kept his head down over the fence and he'd blow really warm air on her, so soft and gently. It was amazing. He knew.

For twenty minutes, Titan stood in silent vigil there at the fence. For twenty minutes. Not a sound. Just those huge brown eyes watching me, and if I walked her close to the fence, he'd blow that warm air out so softly against her. Over and over again, for such a long time.

At 4:41, Phoebe died in my arms.

Whomever did this to this little kitten, I hope with all my might that karma finds them. I continue to sit here and second guess myself. All the things I should have done. The things I could have done better. But I know with everything in my heart that kitten died knowing she was loved. She died being fed, and held, petted and sang to. She died against my chest, listening to my heartbeat, feeling my arms around her, hearing my voice and feeling my hand softly petting her.

I walked to Titan and nudged my head against his and whispered thank you. He walked away, his head still lowered.

As I grow older, I'm not sure what all I believe in. I do believe in higher power and in an afterlife. I watch John Edwards (psychic) and he just knows too much - he's amazing. He may be a fraud, I have no idea. I don't care. But watching him, he talks about validating those who have past, and he's mentioned animals too.

In 1995 my grandmother died. She was the keeper of the secrets, all of our best friend. I was there with Granny as she died, and the entire time, between begging for her to breathe, I'd sing "You are my Sunshine" - her and my oldest daughter's favorite song to sing together - over and over and over again until she took her last breath. I know it's stupid - I KNOW it's silly - but while I rocked the kitty Phoebe, I sang it to her - over and over and over again. And I told her all about Granny, and the kitten Granny had to leave behind when she left us, and that if Phoebe couldn't fight anymore, if she had to go, to go and find Granny, and that Granny would love her. Just like I loved her.

Just like I'll always love the little gray kitty that hobbled into my life one Friday morning.

Well this is neat - I think

While blog-hopping for a bit this morning, I saw posted on Gina's blog this link to Blog Explosion. Not exactly sure what it all involves, but I'm checking it out.

Update: I can't figure it out - granted, I didn't take a lot of time to try either. I was hoping someone could give me a clue and what kind of benefit there is from this. I'm assuming if you have a lot of time to invest into the "system", it'd have some kind of pay-off. I can only see this as really a good thing if you have a paid site or something, right, where you make money based on hits or ads. Ideas?

A Moo to You Too

There's nothing like going out to the sunroom and looking out into the backyard and seeing a yard full of freakin' cows.

Apparently B left the gate of the backyard open this morning after feeding the chickens. The cows liked this idea, and decided to come and roam the tiny backyard - as opposed to the huge 10 acre field they have right behind the yard. Yup, makes sense.

Cows are surprisingly paranoid animals. I think I heard one whisper, "Carnivore!" I walk outside and they freeze. The few of them back there aren't babies, but they're not full-grown either. More like teenage cows. Teens without parental supervision who look up at me with expressions screaming of, "Crap - we're so busted!"

So I walk out there, and they start to slowly step back. There wasn't a lot of room to back up though - small yard - so their collective roast rumps hit the fence and their heads swung back and forth, huge eyes looking at each other like, "Oh man, now what??"

I, on the other hand, have Samson - MIGHTY DOG! I get the lead, put him on it, and ZOOOM, off he goes, jerking me along with him, herding those stray cows right back out the gate.

The cows stop once they got in the field and gave me a look like, "Was that all really necessary??" Samson looked back like, "Heck yeah, wanna play again?" The cows slunk off to the back pasture, the adventure over.

I called B: Honey, leave the gate open this morning?

B: No, why?

Yeah - right.

Meanwhile, I stand there wondering why I've suddenly started to create imaginary conversations amongst my animals. Not a good sign.

Happy Mother's Day, 2006

Normally, I'd have a lot to say ont his particular subject, given I have two mothers. Well, I have my Mom, and then I have the lady who birthed me. Thankfully I had the fabulous opportunity to meet her thanks to my ability to manipulate the chicks who work for the State of Texas, but alas, that's another story.

I called Mom and wished her a good Mother's Day.

I called my 96 yr old grandmother. She will forever be my ultimate heroine, considering she raised seven kids (six of which are boys!!). She asked about the kids, I said they were heathens and with only four compared to her forever-impressive seven, I had no idea how she'd done it without Xanax. She laughed and said, "It was a farm - I shoved 'em out the door and into the fields and made 'em pick their dinner or go hungry."

I love that woman.

To summarize my life as a mother, my almost 16 yr old captured it to perfection with a homemade card. It's sporting a rather beautiful painted flower, and then it reads as follows:

"If mothers were flowers, I'd smash you in a book."

Summer Preview from Hell

Yoe Day.

In Cameron, Texas, this is an official school holiday. It's true. I didn't make this up. To begin with, why WOULD I? The district has designated students from the schools go and put flowers at the grave of Mr. Yoe.

Yeah, well, I can't think of anything else to say about this. So we'll move on.

So Thursday was the Ever Delightful and Yet Oh So Odd Yoe School Holiday - no school. Today they didn't have school either - why? An unused weather day. This would make sense except that the kids had to go to school on Good Friday to make UP for a weather day. Huh. That's logical.

Now, take four kids home for a super-long weekend, and toss in a new puppy. Yes, a new puppy. This lady at Walmart was holding up a sign which read "FREE UGLY PUPPIES". How can you NOT stop and see in the box, yanno? So I did. And because it was Yoe Day, I had all four kids with me.

Can you see where this is going?

They weren't ugly - well, maybe a couple were a bit ... different looking. Weird. Odd. Yeah, okay, some where ugly. They're 1/2 black lab and 1/2 "some neighbor's ugly-ass dog". Oooooooh-kay. I picked up one, held him up face to face. He's all black except for this little white "soul patch" under his chin, and he had this look of "WTF, Mate?!" and I fell in love.

So I called B on the cell.

"Hooooooooney!!!"

B: "What?!" he asked warily, knowing the tone meant trouble.

Me: Free ugly puppies!

B: NO!

Me: Please?

B: NOOOOOOOOOO!! We have enough animals.

Me: Yeah, yeah, you're right. I know you're right.

I hang up, and Cooper, holding one of the truly ugly ones looks up at the one I'm holding and says, "Samson would have a baby brother" - which sounds so way meltable cute from a four year old little boy who isn't quite understanding why his pleas of having his own baby brother will forever go unrealized.

I get out the cell.

B: NO!

Me: I haven't said anything yet!

B: What?

Me: Cooper says Samson would have a baby brother.

B: Cute, but no.

Me: Fine! (and I hang up.)

Now, my middle daughter, age 12, is just like me. Looks the most like me, people-person like me, runs at the mouth like me and drives me nuts on a regular basis in a way I'm sure I did my own parents on a regular basis. She's also twisting things to suit her own purpose as often as she can - like her father did. *blink*blink*

Carly: It could be your Mother's Day present since I know Dad didn't remember to get you one yet.

Shandie (ever so cynical 15 yr old): She's got ya there.

Me: ~evil grin~ Indeed.

We take it home. His name is Spencer, and compared to Samson, this puppy is TINY. And he's going to be THE fattest, useless thing ever to grace the planet because my younger three children refuse to put him down long enough to allow the dang dog to develop a single leg muscle.

Samson thinks Spencer is a chew toy.

The kids fight over who holds him, who feeds him, who takes him potty. Screaming, arguing, blah blah blah.

And only two weeks of school left until they're home ALL THE TIME. Thanks so much, Mr. Yoe, for giving me a glimpse of the summer to come - two weeks early.

November & December

Well, at the demand of Peggy to update, here I am. I never know what to say. Right now I'm working on some craft books that I truly felt I needed to read. Thanks to G, I finally got GMC by Deb Dixon and omigod, what a fabulous, eye-opening book. Then I read Hero's Journey, which wasn't nearly as fun to read as Deb's. Now I'm on Bob Mayer's Writer's Toolkit, which I really like a lot. Maybe it's because I've met him and I've heard him speak so I can get the tone and infliction and it's really fun to read it. Dunno, but that's what I'm doing. And I'm taking notes on my characters while I do it, so I'm actually working on a novel. Amazing, I know.

Did I mention I don't know what to write on here anymore? Gah.

Anyway, about the title of this post. November & December. That's what my dear, dear friend Shari calls my poor little turkeys. Granted, they WERE little. And super cute when they were tiny. Now they're not so little anymore. They're downright big. And they're not even grown yet. Oy.

So, we moved the chickens (chicken is all inclusive meaning the turkeys and rooster as well) to the back field and not in the backyard anymore. We took the old chicken coup that was in the field and revamped it. It's way bigger than the one we'd made, and since all of them are getting big now, they were really crowding it up. It's a bit of a PITA to go out to the field to put them up at night, but technically, they now put themselves up at night, so no biggie, right?

Uh huh.

And this is where the story really begins (Jennifer Crusie would hate all that above "prologue to the story" I put up there - my bad).

I waited a bit that night to go out, so it was already dark. I have Samson (the I'm-only-4-months-old-but-now-weigh-50-lbs-Newfoundland-puppy-who-comes-to-Brenda's-hips) with me on his retractable leash. I'm doing the chicken head count - should be 13 in there. I count. 12. Hmm. Hey wait - one of my BIG GIANT bright-white-can't-miss-him-in-the-dark turkeys (probably November, since according to Shari, he'd die first) is missing. I have my flashlight in one hand, the leash in the other, walking in a small circle, seeing if I could find him. Both turkeys used to attempt to sleep on the fence at night, and I'd have to grab their fat turkey asses to put them in the coup, so I'm looking over there. No turkey.

Then, in the pitch-black of the field with only a barely-there flashlight to aid me and a psycho, heavy dog wanting to play with chickens and I'm trying to constrain him and look for the stupid turkey, I hear RUNNING, fast, hard RUNNING come right my way in the dark.

Scary as hell, let me tell ya.

It was Titan, the thoroughbred, running at me full force in the dark. I almost crapped my pants. Samson, being the stupid puppy he is, starts jumping up and down like "OH GOODIE! SOMEONE TO PLAY WITH!" Yeah, well, Titan didn't think so and jumped all four freakin' feet at Samson at once, who circles me and wraps me in the leash. I thought how fitting it would be, dying on this damn farm with these damn animals I had to have, being stomped by a nervous horse who just scared me spitless.

Titan backs off, I untangle and I look up at the sky, I guess in an imploring look toward God, wondering about my life and almost dying, and there above my head, pirched on a limb in the tree, is a big white turkey butt.

My damn turkey was in the tree. Argh. He'd jumped up on the coup then jumped from there to the limb. What the HECK? I could touch him, but not reach him enough to lift him up and put him away. So I shove him from the tree, and this swooshing sound of big wings is something I can't even begin to describe, but at the time I thought, "This is what the coming of Christ and angels would sound like, and it's frightening."

He lands on the coup. Out of reach. I start finding little twigs to chunk at him. He finally jumps down to the ground, walks from the back of the coup to the front and into the shed.

I closed the damn door, none to happy.

Titan blows out air and shakes his head at me, and I swear the look he gave me was, "And she's a higher life form than I am?"

Then I called Shari and cried.

She merely giggled uncontrollably. What a pal.

Say It Isn't So!

Argh. I am not old enough to be dealing with things like... oh, I don't know: PROM! CLASS RINGS!!! What happened? Did I find a vortex and get sucked into a time-altering reality? Yes, that must be it. Has to be.

My oldest daughter is 15, in 10th grade. She was asked to prom by a senior.

Argh.

And, add small town life. Ready for this?? I go to the florist today to get the boutinerre for the dude. Me: I need a boutinerre.

Old lady: For who?

Me: ~BLINK~ Uhh... for my daughter's date to the prom. White.

Old lady: Rose okay?

Me: Sure.

Old lady: What's your daughter's name?

I tell her my daughter's name.

Old lady: OH! She's going with that tall boy... Andy something.

Me: ~BLINK~ (Insert about 10 seconds of silence here. To really appreciate that, count to 10 slowly and realize what kind of lapse in conversation that is!) Uhh, yes, Andy.

Old lady: He was in here this morning order her flowers! He got white roses with silver ribbon.

Me: Oh! Good! So they can match then.

She shows me out the back door (I had to park in the back - the parking up front is weird) and waves the ticket to a lady making arrangements. "We have Andy's boutinerre order so we can make them match now!"

Me: Still speechless. Small town, I'm a'tellin' ya.

THEN, my daughter comes home today and what does she have? The freakin' order forms to get her senior ring. I swear, it didn't seem that long ago when I was in prom dresses and getting MY senior ring. What the heck happened?!?!

~pout~

Things that make your jaw just drop

On this website are forums were I hang out with a lot of my online buddies. One of them posted this story. This is unbelievable. Seriously. Sitting there watching tv late at night and a HOLE opens in your living room and you die. What the heck? Apparently his home was built over an old mine. Wouldn't someone KNOW this? His pregnant wife was sleeping in another part of the house and okay. The officers say from the outside of the home, it looks totally normal then you walk in and there's this huge, gaping hole in the living room.

Now I'm not a sue-happy kind of person, but it seems to be someone should have known about this. It screams of negligence. And that poor woman.

Of course, I look at it from a writer's viewpoint, and I thought, "No way would an editor go for this for the unbelievability factor" and yet it's REAL. So, so sad.

Three for Three

Shari rocks. Several of you who read here know this already, but I had to reiterate, nonetheless. She was just here for 8 days and my life will not be complete until I convince her to be a Texan. Anyway, we had a crapload of fun, and one of the things we did was go to DFW to meet up with Tanna and Terry, two of our friends from the forum here on the website. We had a BLAST. But while in DFW, amongst the civilized, I got to go to Barnes & Noble and about had an orgasmic fit over being in a real bookstore for the first time in forever (slight exaggeration, but it's been a long, long time.) I was on a mission: DON'T LOOK DOWN by Crusie and Mayer, two of my favorite people, much less novelists. It's sitting on my lap as we speak and I'm digging into it tonight.

Why tonight? Because it's a Crusie. And I know it takes me five to six hours to read a Crusie book. I know this because when I start one, I can't stop til I'm at the end. Even if I've read it before. It's a disease, I think, but one I embrace. So, there ya go. In light of that information, although I picked this up on Wednesday, I have not started it before now because of one reason: Tonight is Saturday night. Therefore, I can stay up ALL NIGHT LONG reading (quiet at night when the heathens are sleeping) and not worry about getting up early in the morning (aside for when Rupert starts going off and demanding that he and his chick-whores be released at 5:30am - I can go right back to sleep afterward.)

While at B&N, though, I got me a little horde of books. They are, as follows:

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON, by Dean Koontz. This is my first ever of his to buy new. I'm excited by the mere thought.

THE GOODBYE SUMMER by Patricia Gaffney. I have a confession with this one. I've never read Gaffney before. But, because of the Cherry Forums, I felt compelled to do so and saw this one and snagged it up. And it's a first edition, which is always a plus.

BLOW FLY by Patricia Cornwell. I've read one by her, but I can't even remember the name. I remember it had a chick for a detective and some really, really passive dude, and that's about it. I don't like passive guys. I like MANLY MEN, Testosterone-Overdosed-Mega-Alpha-Dudes. Needless to say, I wasn't overly impressed, but I've been drawn to this particular title for awhile now, and decided to give into the feeling. I hope this one gives me more than the other one did. I'll report back to let ya know.

And lastly, but certainly not least, I grabbed up Lani Diane Rich's EX AND THE SINGLE GIRL. I have read both of Rich's other books (TIME OFF FOR GOOD BEHAVIOR and MAYBE BABY) and I loved them both. TIME OFF FOR GOOD BEHAVIOR hit me somewhere deep and personal and made me sob more than once. Add this book to that list. Three for three now, Rich has amazed me and moved me like no one else. In fact, this entire post is because I knew I had to blog about this book - so I started at the beginning of the little journey that put this book into my hand and moved forward to where you're reading now. Her insight into first Wanda and now Portia is ... unbelievable. You cringe with them, you laugh with them, you love with them and you most definitely cry with them. If you want a moving novel, grab it. And grab it fast. To top it all off, Rich is a rockin' cool chick too. That just adds to how great it all is.

Needless to say, I'm a happy girl. A week-long visit with my best friend and a horde of new books. It doesn't get much better than that, let me tell ya.

Uesless Ramblings of the Deranged Mind

I haven't posted in a couple of weeks. Things here have been chaotic, but moreso than usual (hard to imagine, eh?). Yeah, for me too, and I freakin' LIVE it.

Buy SURROGATE & WIFE, by Emily McKay. Although the title doesn't wow me, Emily and her writing do. It's through Desire. Buy it and be amazed.

While you're there, buy THE PREY, THE HUNT, and THE KILL, by Allison Brennan (Allison, if the order is wrong, forgive me in advance.) I have bought all three but only read the first one (refers you to the chaos comment above as to why) but it amazes me that these are her FIRST published books. She's amazing. Already up there with Linda Howard and Sandra Brown in my mind.

B just drove up - he's supposed to be on-shift. One moment please...

Ah, he came to put one of the a/c units in the living room. It's super muggy and hot now in Texas (for now, anyway) and when we looked at this house, it had six big honker window units (it has central heat, but no central air, which I think is retarded. The duct work is the hardest part of "centralizing" and since that's done for the heat, how hard would it be for the a/c, yanno?) ANYWAY, while they were putting in the paneling and stripping the carpet from the original hardwood floors, they took out the units to have them serviced and make sure they work, blah blah. Well, they haven't been returned yet. Wasn't a biggie at first because we were using the heater, but now we're all dying and no a/c to be had. We had our own unit from Maryland that B just came home to put in, but it's going now and it doesn't seem to be very COLD. It's cool, but not COLD. (sigh)

What else? OH YEAH! I realized why Janet Evanovich is Satan. I read VISIONS OF SUGARPLUM. I didn't like it. I hated the magical aspect. I mean, one of the reasons we think Stephanie and Ranger and Joe are so rockin' cool is because they're so rockin' REAL. Well, adding that magical part is so NOT real, although being attacked by a mob of cussing, screaming midgets has something to be said for it. Anyway, the reason Evanovich is Satan is because although I didn't love this particular book, Stephanie had another perfectly sexy, gorgeous, witty man after her (so what if he was magical and had weird never-really-explained-and-that-bugged-me-a-bit-as-a-writer powers?) He was MAN NUMBER THREE after Stephanie and yanno? That's just NOT RIGHT. Not to mention hugely unfair. Thus, Satan. Makes sense now that I've explained it, huh?

Now that I cleared that up, what else is going on?

For those loving Joe Joe, there is No Mo Joe. Joe just wasn't cutting it here as we feared, and he's found a new home in the 'burbs with no other animals and two kids that think he's a god - in other words, kids agreeing with him (he SO had a short-man-god-complex.) And so WHAT do I do? I get a puppy.

No, I'm not kidding.

Do I get a little cute tiny little thing? No. I got a Newfoundland puppy.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in...

Better now? Okay good. We'll continue: His name is Samson. He's black, Newfie, 12 weeks old and three times in height already to what Joe was. AND, in just twenty-four hours, I've trained him to sit and come AND totally relearn a new name. Right now, he and Cooper Man are playing with the bucketload of Samson toys. The last two nights he's slept through the night and I feel like a new mother, exceedingly and stupidly happy to not have to wake up at 3am.

OH! We're up to 15 different birds now. Rupert, of course, plus the three hens Dad got me: Cleta, Mildred and Bea. Then the babies we had: Ruby, Pearl and Opal. Then one baby of the two from my Dad, (Joe got one) Naomi. THEN I bought a baby turkey whom I named Ira but Sydney named Angel and two black and white specked baby hens, Pepper and Shaker (think I can make this stuff up?!) Well, the turkey looked super lonely and wasn't really meshin' with the baby chickens (they're SO cliquish!) so I got another one (Ira! HA! In your face, Syd!) and two more white baby hens because they're good layers, and named them Madge and Evie. AND, Dad got me two more babies, but he got like super-tiny-NO-FEATHER-kind of babies, so they're still up at his house. That'll be 17 by the time they get here. (blinks as she realizes and notes she HAS finally lost her damn mind). So, we gotta build a bigger coop. OH! And we get at least two eggs a day now!!! One from Cleta and one from Bea. Mildred is being left in the dust...

By the way, Cheddar Peppers from Sonic make THE perfect breakfast food, in case you were needing something to start your day off right.

What else? This week RWA PRO is having a bootcamp featuring Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer. Just reading the answers to questions from Jenny makes me feel retarded. She is my idol. Her wit and insight and pure brilliance leave me in awe. I'm both discouraged that I'll never obtain to the height that she is in this career, and at the same time, totally and completely encouraged that "someday that could be me".

And that leads us to: "Hey Bren, ya writing again yet?"

Gah - I knew you'd ask! You SADISTS!

No, not yet. But I did come up with two more storylines (sigh) with full characterization (bigger sigh) and titles (huge, gusty sigh). Now if I can just get this house to the point I want it, I'll write without guilt (is there such a thing?) I did get the laptop reloaded (I forgot my password and had removed the backdoor to get into it and had to totally wipe the harddrive and reload XP because I suck like that.) And I got a wireless router for it. And I got it loaded. But I can't seem to get it loaded RIGHT. BUT, it's ALMOST there for me to get to crankin'!!! I'm actually excited about it.

Shari and I are pondering Nationals this year. With me being dead on writing forums and loops, and without new product to pitch, it's almost a "what's the point" kind of thing. Although I come back totally jazzed to write and write and write, I'm just not there yet. This last year has been wicked bad and although I'm on the upswing NOW, we're questioning the expense and time of Nationals and instead, looking at cruises and pool-side drinks served by tight men in banana slings. Hmm.

Decisions... decisions...

Greet This, Weiner Dog!

You've been hearing about Joe, the hairy weiner, but I haven't told you about Rupert and Joe together. Joe talked a lot of smack when Rupert was stuck in the dog crate at the other house in the mudroom for a month. He'd snarl and snap and show his mean doggie teeth to the caged Rupert. Rupert stared at him with that one-eyed stare, and if Joe got too close to the cage, BITCH-PECK! Right on the nose. Joe would go ballistic trying to get into that cage.

And then, of course, we were at the farm.

Where Rupert was free to roam.

We introduced Joe.

~pausing for effect~

Well, Joe's a dog. So Joe did the usual doggy greeting. Surprisingly, Joe wasn't all that intent on chowing down on the rooster; he just wanted to shove his nose up Rupert's butt repeatedly. Rupert, being the Grumpy One that he is, didn't really go for this. After about 5 minutes of that long doxie nose up his rump, Rupert pecked.

And Joe had this MAJOR post-traumatic flashback of the mudroom/cage days and went crazy after Rupert.

Well, Rupert's a rooster - cock fight!!! Rupert WAILED on Joe. I was panicking (as usual) and we put Joe back inside and decided to try it again the next day.

Have I mentioned we're slow learners yet?

So here comes Joe outta the house, sniffing the yard, eyeing Choxie the mini-pony. Where's Rupert? Noooooooo idea.

From the corner of my eye comes this rush of feathers and squawking, and there was NO preparing for the absolute Blitz Attack Rupert unleashed on Joe. Talons latched into Joe's thick long hair, wings flailing like a tornado, feathers totally PREDATOR looking, all pushed out and huge as he repeatedly PECKED PECKED PECKED Joe on the head. Joe squealed like a little girl and hid behind me while B was doing what looked like the Pee-Pee Dance trying get ahold of Rupert while I was screaming, "NO RUPERT! NO!" and frantically circling as a human barrier between the two as Joe cowered behind me, once again suffering from puckered-doggy-ass syndrome.

If we set up webcams, I swear people would pay to secretly watch our lives.

The Horned Weiner

So I have this little long-haired dachshund named Joe-Joe. I call him the hairy weiner. (A short-haired doxie is a weiner dog, so a long-haired much be a hairy one, right? Of course.) The problem with Joe is he thinks he's a Pit Bull.

And, speaking of bulls.... Well, let me backtrack a moment. Joe likes to run off if given the chance. Problem is, the new house sits on a road in the country with a speed limit of 55 mph. Not good for a dog with exceedingly stumpy legs measuring about 3" total.

So Joe got loose and darted off like a bat outta Hell. I'm screaming for him to get back (yes, there's a lot of screaming to be had in the country) and all of the sudden, he darts right under the barbed-wire fencing to the Longhorn Bulls.

Did you know that if a dog goes running and barking at a young, smaller calf that the big GIANT HORNED bulls will rush to defend it? Me either. Now I know though.

Joe, being a smart dog, felt his ass pucker all the way up the length of his long, stretched out dachshund body. Now Longhorns are tall, lanky things, so imagine their legs running after Mr. Three Inch Legs (that sounds like a title for a song...Hmm.)

The bulls have their heads down, aiming those long, long horns right at Mr. Stumpy who is high-tailing it as fast as he can, but it's really no contest. B tells me to go inside and make sure the kids don't walk out in time to see a Joe Kabob. I panicked just a bit at the visual and scurried inside.

Joe's saving grace ended up being his height, or lack thereof. The bulls' noses were longer than Joe's height so they couldn't get the horns down low enough. By the time B got out into the field (Of COURSE it was a rainy day), Joe was hunkered down in the dead grass, praying and whimpering to the doggy-gods. The horns were sliding a mere inch over his body. It was a close call, to say the least.

The bulls shooed off as B walked up to Joe, and from the window, I swear I saw Joe french B in thanks. B denies it.

Ruling the Roost

As most of you know, I now have a rooster. I had him in my mudroom at the other house and he stayed all the time in a large dog crate. Now that he has an entire backyard to play in, he's dang near obnoxious. His name is Rupert.

And he thinks he's human.

Off of the master bedroom we have a patio room. It's like a sunroom - all windows all around. Of course, we're in the country now and it's PITCH black outside at night. With the patio light on, I can't see into the yard.

Whenever I would smoke, I'd go out into the backyard to light up and I'd walk around and talk to Rupert and Choxie (the mini-pony). They followed me around, loving my stories and thrilled to being spoiled by this whacko-chick as I fed them treats while out there. Well, apparently Rupert is to the point that if he hears my voice at ALL, I MUST be talking to HIM.

I was sitting out on the patio talking to Shari on the phone. It was night, I couldn't see out, and just yakkin' it up and blah blah blah. Out of the blue, this SLAMMING vibrates all the windows. I crapped my pants then went outside to look at what was thrown against the window. There sits Rupert, cocking his head to one side and staring at me. The crazy freakin' rooster had body slammed the window trying to get in!!! I muttered, went and sat back down and figured, well, it's glass. Maybe he thought he could get in, but now he knows better.

Ha.

Five minutes later, when my heart-rate had finally gone back to normal, SLAM!!! I go back outside to shoo him away and he's sitting under the window literally shaking his head. My crazy-ass rooster almost knocked himself stupid. Man. But he hasn't done it again since. He may be a slow learner, but he's a learner, nonetheless.

Well, the younger two kids have a room "downstairs". It's this great big giant room that we used to put all the boxes in at first when we got here. We call it "downstairs" because you have to go down like two-three whole steps. We're weird that way. I sent Carly down there to get me something, and she starts screaming.

I'm thinking, "Good grief, NOW what?" B was on shift, so I'm home in the dark country with kids by myself - no telling what I was going to have to deal with. I ran to the door, three other kids right up my butt following me, and stop dead in my tracks.

There's Rupert.

Inside.

Apparently the door had come open from the backyard. He'd used boxes like steps til he was perched up on the highest one, so I was basically face and face with this big, honkin' rooster staring at me, content there with the heater on and giving me this look like, "Whatcha think YOU'RE going to do about it, lady?"

Well, I didn't KNOW what I was going to do about it! I was a good 20 feet from the backdoor and the idea how to shoo him out! B had picked him up once. I'm standing there as Rupert stares at me with one eye (he always looks at me from the side... bugs me to no end) and trying to remember what all B had said. Thinner than he looks - all those feathers are really nothing. He put the wings between his index and middle fingers to keep him from flapping around. Okay, okay. Right. Finally, I just GRAB the damn bird.

He's squawking. I'm freaking. His wings are flapping a mile a minute, his little talons just a flinging in the air like he's running on the wind. I'm running for the back door so that if I drop him, at least I'll be close to it to shoo him out. Well, the kids were standing near there and here I come at them running with a squawking, flapping pissed off rooster at them, so THEY all start screaming and squealing and running in different directions.

I get to the backdoor and toss him out.

Then I called my mother and cried. She laughed and called me an idiot. I felt much, much better after that.

Small Update

Manohman, still in the middle of the move and I only have five seconds to borrow a computer and give a small update. Bad news: Still moving stuff from old house to new house. I think it's a never-ending thing. Bad news: two weeks without internet SUCKS so hard I should orgasm from the strength of it. Good news: Farm life is providing me all kinds of little stories to share with you all. Good news: I should be back online in a day or two - on DSL. Should be interesting to see the difference between that and cable that I'm already so used to.

Moving sucks

That's all I gotta say about that.

The Cock and the Ass

Green Acres is the place for me! Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarm livin'... blah blah blah. Now that we have THAT song stuck in your head, it's time for a little update to answer the "When ya gonna blog again?!?!" questions I've been gettin'.

In my mudroom is Rupert. Rupert is a rooster. He's a beautiful rooster too, not like the usual ugly white ones. No, no, MY rooster is black irridescent. Gotta have the pretty ones, yanno?

And we just recently got a miniature pony. He's cute. I'll have to post pics. And a thoroughbred who is monsterously tall - like 17 hands (that's tall.) Oh. And the donkey. Do I get a regular gray donkey? Noooooooooooo. I get this ugly white donkey that looks like he has some serious issues, but man does he have a ROCKIN' 'tude. After interracting with him, and telling him if he didn't show more personality, I wasn't going to spoil him at the farm with apples and carrots. He snorted at me, then sauntered away all sassy-n-stuff. I turned to B and said, "We're gettin' that donkey."

He said, "I figured."

So we have the rooster, in the mudroom (we're not at the farm yet, fyi), named Rupert. We have the miniature pony named Choxie (Hmm, wonder where I got THAT name from?), a thoroughbred named Titan (and for DANG good reason) and a white donkey named Mosey.

My life. Ugh.

Here's a little tidbit you may not have realized about roosters (cuz Lord knows I didn't know it!) Sure, they crow when the sun comes up.

And then every 30 seconds for the rest of the freakin' day. (siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh) He best be glad he's pretty.

So I think I'm going to make my white donkey a straw hat with daisies on it. Gotta be careful with him being white and the Texas sun, after all. Hmm, a cross-dressing donkey - that should work his 'tude up a little more, ya think?

What'd you THINK this post was going to be about? Man, you're just nasty.

OH! Yes, I am writing again. ~smiles~ And we should be settled at the farm around the first of the month, and hopefully life will give me a break and let me relax for a bit. Not likely, huh?

~smooches~