Sympathies to Evil Editor

Many of you here in the writing world know Evil Editor: the anonymous editor out there blogging - everyone aching to know his identity and yet more than satisfied in simply having him out here, even though we don't know his name or his face. He thrills us, teaches us, entertains us, and makes us have hope instead of angst at the two words: "query letter". He's our own real life hero. I happen to adore him and proudly claim myself as one of his minions.

His mother passed away on New Year's Day. As another minion said on EE's blog, what an amazing woman she must have been to raise such a strong and stunningly intelligent man. I whole-heartedly agree.

We mourn with you, EE. You're in our thoughts and prayers.

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.