Coming Up For a Breather - New Soul Mate Book

I haven't posted for a few days because I have been heavily engrossed in a book I started about a year ago. The muse has decided to light upon my shoulders and I can't do anything else but write before it takes off and I'm sitting there staring at blank pages. So, it's no sleeping, eating (yeah, right) and not much else while the muse is with me....I'm on a roll and I better run with it.

The book is called "Are You My Soul Mate?" (the blog was named after it). I have unraveled the mysteries of the soul mate connection - why we have them and what purpose or roles they play in our lives. I'm up to page 72, and my goal is at least 250 pp.

It didn't dawn on me to finish the book until I was looking in my files and noticed that I had a pretty good start on a pretty good book. I talk about soul mates in my promo work for Romancing the Soul, but all these ideas of mine that are swimming around my head need to be written down.

I've read many books on soul mates and the closest author I can find that comes close to having the same views was the magnificent and brilliant (although he didn't think so) Edgar Cayce.

There have been many books written on the subject and most are too technical, too biblical, or too New Agey. Yes, soul mates are all that, but what I wanted was a book where the ordinary layman can understand. Plus, there's a few things the ordinary layman will never understand unless they read this book and follow my guidance. This stuff works.

I've helped many people understand the soul mate experience and I'd like to say I've helped them find their soul mates, but only they can do that. No psychics on this earth can do that for you.

People may be able to open up your mind to the ideas, the theories, but only until you follow the ideas in my book will you be able to understand what it takes to be able to find your soul mate.

So, that's where I'm at now.

After I finish this book, I'll start back into the prequel and sequel of my hen lit book that is packed up and ready to go to the agent this afternoon.

But, for some heavenly reason, I must keep my focus on this book. In two days, I have mapped out the chapters, begun to write, began on the proposal and it's like it has taken over my life. So, I have to finish this before I go on to other things. If I stop, in the immortal words of my grandmother, "That's all she wrote." And it will be hard to get back into it without the muse on my side. Oh, don't you just love your muse!

Boiling Water Ain't for Sissies

In the writing group I moderate, the writing prompt of the day was “What is your most memorable Halloween?”

The only Halloween that stood out as being “memorable” was the time I almost caught the house on fire. Would that count?

I was cooking hot dogs for the kids before we set out to go trick-or-treating. My son was dressed up like a ghost and my daughter was She-Ra (remember her?). I, of course, was a witch as I was every year I took my kids out.

The kids were getting impatient as it was approaching trick-or-treating time and hot dogs and French fries seemed to be the fastest thing I could cook.

I fed them their hot dogs and French fries and we were on our way.

The trip lasted about an hour. We were on foot and couldn’t visit other neighborhoods, which probably helped in my dilemma because when we returned, the kitchen cabinets were on fire.

I screamed, panicked and called 911.

The lady on the other end picked up and before she had a chance to utter a word, I screamed, “My house is on fire!”

“Lady,” she said, “you’ve dialed 411. You need to dial 911.”

Meanwhile, the house was filling up with smoke and I’d wasted enough time dialing the wrong number.

I hung up and grabbed a potful of water and doused the fire.

I’m just wondering how many houses would have been saved using this approach.

I know I’m no cook, but it seems I can’t even boil water without remembering what to do when you’re done. However, I did create a new image for my kitchen – charcoal black.

I remember the last time I tried boiling water with dire circumstances. We were living in an apartment in Newport News, Virginia. We had sliding glass doors that you could lock from the inside. I walked outside for a second to hang clothes on my makeshift clothesline and went to go back in, and the door was locked.

Meanwhile, there’s water boiling on the stove. I ran to my neighbor to help me. By the time we got back, the water had boiled out and smoke was filling up the apartment.

The neighbor took his cane and broke the window. He climbed inside and turned the stove off. I thanked him and called maintenance to repair the window.

I know I’m no Betty Crocker, but it seems I can’t even boil water.

I think I’ll leave the cooking to someone else.

I'm No Betty Crocker

My daughter has cooked for me for the last two nights. I’ve also had the last two nights off from work and have been terrorizing the spare bedroom and turning it into a den/office/exercise/suntanning room.

So, I guess my daughter felt sorry for me or she knew that if she wanted anything to eat while I was applying plastic and duct tape to the windows, sorting through my son’s old dresser (don’t even ask what things I found in there), finally bringing the stuff and boxes back into the room from the living room where there wasn’t even a place to sit down for two days except for my computer chair and you know who got dibs on that, brought my fifteen-year-old tree in from the utility room and sat it proudly in the corner, sorting through piles of papers that I had scribbled some kind of writing stuff on, wiping off each individual picture that was in a box in the utility room so that I could hang them in their new home, and things like that, that she’d better fix it herself.

And she did. Two nights straight.

I had fried chicken, rice and string beans last night and tonight it was Meatloaf (cleverly disguised as Salisbury Steak) with onions and mashed potatoes and gravy.

I never was much on cooking anyhow. If it can’t be microwaved, it wasn’t going to get eaten.

I can remember when I was first married and I cooked Hamburger Helper for the first time.

As a newlywed, I was EXPECTED to know how to cook my new husband his meals. After all, he was taught that the woman’s place was in the home, cooking and cleaning, and the man’s place was to earn the bread. Now I know why that marriage didn’t last.

I was determined, however, to learn the craft. I started out simple. I went to the local Piggly Wiggly and bought a box of Hamburger Helper.

I was so proud of myself. I was going to cook my new husband his first meal as a newlywed. Joan and Larry’s, the local fast food joint, was getting so use to seeing my face that they already knew what I wanted and had it waiting for me before I stepped in the door.

I eyed the box of Hamburger Helper. I can do this, I said to myself, humming to the tune of “Mission Impossible”.

I browned the hamburger, just as the directions told me. After that was done, I added the rest of the ingredients. Perfect. And smelled good, too.

I set the mood by lighting candles and putting on a little Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I lit some incense and let it permeate throughout our trailer. I jumped in the shower and used my best Victoria Secrets’ lotion to smooth all over me. I was ready.

My husband came home and was in a great mood. The house was clean and so was I. To have both clean at one time was a miracle.

“What’s for dinner?” he smiled romantically at me.

“Hamburger Helper, my love. I made it just for you.”

“YOU made this?” he asked, lifting the lid off the iron skillet.

“Oh, yes, my love,” I cooed, “would you like some?”

“Of course,” he said, pulling my chair out for me. Well, actually, he was moving it so he could have more room to sit down.

I piled a steaming hot portion of Hamburger Helper on his plate, then mine.

My new husband took one mouthful…and gagged.

“What is wrong, my love?” I asked him, holding the dish out for him to spit in.

“What’s in that???” he asked.

“Just hamburger, noodles…I followed the directions…” I whimpered.

I went over and took the box out of the trash and read the directions again. I forgot one minute detail.

Drain the hamburger grease before adding the rest of the ingredients.

I didn’t read that part.

I put the remainder of our dinner on the floor for our dog, Baron, to eat. Now, our dog was part Labrador Retriever and part German Shepherd and ate everything.

He sniffed it, looked at me like I was trying to trick him into eating something he didn’t like and sulked away.

I’m happy to say that after thirty years, I have learned to cook. Much has been through trial and error and no one has died yet.

However, it’s always nicer when someone does the cooking for you. At least, you’ll give the microwave a rest.

Is Your Book a TV Dinner or a Full Course Meal?

Yesterday, I finally printed out my whole manuscript to send to Dream Agent #1. She asked for the full a month ago and I just now finished it up, going through every single page for the hundredth time making sure that everything was in order and the best I could humanly make it.

I ran into so many problems you wouldn’t believe. My printer died and I had to buy another one and then my ink ran out of which I had to run out and get more. But, now it’s sitting in a humungous pile on top of my computer table. All ready to go. All three-hundred forty-five pages.

It sits up on top of my computer table because I want to admire my book in its naked state. No coverings of any kind, just pure, white nakedness. I want to see it as I’m answering email, writing columns and just gazing into space. I want it to catch my eye so I can say, “Damn. I wrote that. And it’s done. Finished.”

While I’m gazing at it, I want people to see it in its nakedness, before the coverings that will turn it into a published book. I want them to see something I had created and feel the moment with me. I want them to feel the peace of mind it creates and the joy that fills the room with its beauty. Okay, I'm going off the deep end, but you get my drift.

My daughter wasn't home and she couldn't share the moment with me, so BF was elected. Now, you gotta know BF. He reads nothing I write. If I start reading something to him that I have written, his mind wanders to the television and it's just like reading to Floyd, my parakeet, who at least will bob his head like he's listening. No, BF is not certainly my first choice, but he was my only choice. They say beggars can't be choosers, so I held my breath and called him into the living room.

“BF (well, I don’t call him BF, but I choose to have him known as this for anonymous reasons), come here. I want you to look at something.”

He got up from the game and plodded into the living room.

“Look up,” I said, pointing to my mountainous pile of written words about to be shipped off to a new home. “Isn’t that the most beautiful thing? That’s my book.”

You know what he said? The man who has shared my life with me for ten years? The same man who went out and bought me another Cocker Spaniel when my first one died? The same man who bought me a thousand dollar mattress because my water bed sprouted a leak?

“People don’t have time to read something like that. They want TV dinners, not twelve-course meals.”

Then, he walked back into the bedroom and continued with the game.

I sat there, going what in that hell is that supposed to mean, you know?

Granted, the pile is daunting. It’s humungous. Three-hundred and forty-five pages, plus the agency release, plus the cover letter, plus my four-page writer’s resume. It really does look intimidating. Like War in Peace or something. Heck, there's longer volumns of work out there anyway!

But how dare he after all the work I have put into the book tell me that people want TV dinners???

But then I got to thinking about this. TV dinners are not filling, are they? Not satisfying and surely not as good for you. Maybe someone who is on a diet might enjoy their lightness, but what about those out there who want something substantial? Something where after they read – errr – eat, they won’t want anything more – completely satiated?

I mean, it's not a pamphlet, for darn's sake. It's a full-length novel. My first novel. And all novels have about the same amount of word length. What did he expect? Did he think I've just spent the last year of my life pounding away on the keyboards on a pamphlet???

Oh, what does he know anyway.

I mean, would you prefer a quickie or a full night of romantic embrace? Cancel that. At my age, a quickie is long enough. *grin*

How NOT to Hook Your Soul Mate

Soul mates are born; they are not made. The spark is either there or it isn't. With that in mind, let me tell you of an experience I had in trying to bond with my now ex-husband twenty-five years ago.

Somebody asked me the other day about soul mates as I have compiled a whole book of soul mate stories. She asked me why wasn’t my ex-husband still my soul mate when all the signs pointed in that direction? I was totally in love with him, as he was with me. Why, I even gave him a leopard-skinned toilet seat cover on our first Christmas together. If that isn't true love, then I don't know what is.

However, some things are meant to be and some aren't as things went progressively downhill after that.

That next spring, when the weather had warmed and I was dying to get out into the fresh air and commune with my fellow nature buddies, I begged my new husband to teach me how to fish, as this was his passion and I knew to make a marriage work, you had to bond. He hesitated at first; but as all husbands do at one point or another, he gave in to my nagging - errrr - persistance.

We loaded the fishing rods and tackle into the car and headed down to Pleasure Pond. The sun was lingering over the horizon and the frogs were in full serenade as we pulled the boat off the top of the car and loaded our gear into the boat.

It was a perfect evening. Now was my chance to make it memorable.

Because I turned my nose up at putting those slithering ugly parasites, also called bait, on my hook, my husband did this for me. He knew if he didn’t, we’d still be sitting there until the cows came home.

Boones Farm was passed back and forth as the boat rocked us into paradise. We laughed, we sang, we felt good. All was well in Marriage Land. We definitely had the bonding thing going on.

My husband threw his line over and waited. As this was fresh-water fishing, he told me you do not reel it in, but leave it out with that little bobber thing floating at the top. He told me that when the bobber went under, we had hooked one. This was a piece of cake.

More Boones Farm was passed and I was feeling mighty good.

I told him to bait one for me and let me try.

He baited my hook and I prepared to throw it in. However, it wouldn’t budge. In my backwards throw to gain distance in my forwards throw, I had hooked something. I turned around and saw my catch.

I had hooked my husband in the head.

Now, because I also had the Boones Farm thing going on, I broke out in hysterics.

The boat rocked to and fro and nearly threw me out. As I swayed from one end of the boat to another, I could not contain myself to realize the importance of this situation.

My husband pulled on the hook, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried to hold back laughter and proceeded to pull the dang thing out myself. That bugger was there for life.

My husband did not see the humor in all this and called off our night of bonding and rowed back to shore with the hook dangling from his head.

We got back to the car and I tried as hard as I could to look out the window and remain serious. My curiosity got the best of me and I glanced at my husband who was trying to drive pass laughing motorists with this hook dangling from his head. He tried to pretend the thing wasn’t there; but you couldn’t help to notice. Tears were coming from my eyes (from laughter) as I tried to ignore the blood dripping onto his chest.

We got back to the house and his father assessed the situation. A hospital trip was not necessary as he pulled a pair of pliers out of his toolbox and yanked the hook out with one horrendous jerk. With my husband grimacing in pain, I felt bad as being the one who caused this mishap. I tried to make it up to him a week later by suggesting another fishing trip. He said a few words I can’t put in this article and hid his fishing gear.

I never once brought up fishing after that day. Our marriage slowly went downhill after that. Even the leopard-skin toilet seat cover couldn’t save things.

I wonder now when I tell people this story that they will not take me fishing. I mean, what better way to learn how to know if your soul mate is really your soul mate by hooking him in the head?

When Taking a Dump, Watch Out For Falling Objects

This story I'm about to tell you is true. It's not for the squeemish or the fleety. And it happened right in my own back yard. Before I even had a chance to have a cup of coffee.

Let me start at the humble beginning...

This morning, I was getting ready for work and was in the shower when I heard my daughter banging on the door. I told her to come on in, but she must not have heard me.

I hurriedly got out, knowing that she had to be to work, too, and that was the reason she was banging on my door - telling me to hurry up.

I left the bathroom, went in my bedroom and started drying my hair.

My daughter peeked in and said when I was finished, to come in her bedroom, that she had something important to tell me. The look on her face told me that it was mighty darn important, so I finished up and went in her room to see what the matter was.

"Mom, close the door," she said.

I closed the door and said, "What is it?"

"Well, you were in the bathroom and I needed to go real real bad, so I went outside."

Now, this is someone who is so particular about her hygiene that going to the bathroom outside was the unthinkable, but I figured she had to go pretty bad.

She said, "Well, while I was out there, doing it, I saw something white fall out of the sky."

"Something white?"

"Yeah, it scared the crap out of me and then when I went over to see what it was, I couldn't believe it."

"Well, what was it?"

"A chicken head."

"A chicken head?"

"Yeah, with a red thing on the top of its head like a rooster would have." She was shaking.

Well, as you know, Halloween is right around the corner and the first thing that came to me was that someone planted this in the tree and it fell at just about the right time. I knew there was a reason the dogs were barking last night!

I remember one Halloween one of my cats disappeared and came back with all of the fur gone from its tail, thinking that someone had used my cat for some kind of ungodly ritual. I had to take the poor thing to the vet to have the tailbone cut off. That's a Halloween I'll never forget.

So...I'm thinking...who in their right mind would plant a chicken head in my tree last night? Aren't there enough sick people out there without one more?

I'm shaking myself and go back in my room and wake BF up.

I said, "You won't believe what Melissa said fell out of the tree when she was taking a dump outside!"

"Melissa fell out of a tree?" he said, groggily.

"No, silly! A freaking chicken head fell out of a tree!"

After I explained what happened, you could of heard him laughing all the way to California.

"A seagull probably dropped it. Now let me go back to sleep."

O...kay, we do have a chicken rendering plant across the street and have seagulls everywhere, so I guess our Halloween mystery is solved.

The moral of the story is, my children, whenever you go outside to take a dump, make sure there's no low-flying chicken-head-carrying seagulls above. Or, better yet, don't live across the street from a chicken rendering plant or anywhere near seagulls. You just never know what may hit you while you're trying to do your business.

How to Tell When You've Really Lost It

This morning, I woke up at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m, why is beyond me. BF had to be at work at 6, so maybe in getting ready he woke me up. Who knows. I got up and grabbed a cheez whiz sandwich, glass of pepsi and even though I was really groggy, I turned on the computer and while I'm consuming my not-so-politically-correct snack, I answered email, whatnot.

About 6:30, I can't keep my eyes open any longer (keep in mind I take two pills at night and need a full night's sleep), so I go on back to bed. It's incredibly hot so I try to turn on the air conditioner and it starts making rackety noises, so I quickly turn it off. I turn over and make the best of it. Then, I hear Melissa get up to take a shower (she's got to be at nursing school at 8). I toss and turn. My stomach is doing something weird and I hope it's not because I left the Cheez Whiz out overnight.

I finally fall asleep.

I dream something weird. I can't remember details right now, but I was heavily into whatever was going on.

My eyes peep open. I look at the clock. It says 12:00 and I'm supposed to be at work at 11!!!!

I jumped out of bed and raced for the phone. The answering machine was blinking and I was sure it was work calling wondering where the hell I was and if I didn't pick up, I was fired (just a slight wishful premonition).

I wish I had work on speed dial, but I don't and I call some number which is wrong and I have to start over. I finally get them and it's the BOSS.

"Gill, I'm sorry, but I overslept! I'll be there in a half hour."

I hear laughter. Then, he says, "It's Thursday and you don't have to be here until 5, remember?"

I felt like cow manure and said, "Heh. That's right. I thought it was Friday."

I'm either losing it or need a loooooooooooooong vacation.

Taxi! Taxi!

I was over on FTS' blog and he was talking about dogs and it reminded me of a story about when I used to drive cabs and one particular furry client.

If someone were to tell me that once I got out of high school, I would become a taxi driver, I would have laughed at them. Little did I know, I would partake of the job and, because of the experience, give highest respects to taxi drivers everywhere.

A few years ago, I was walking along Broadway and 5th Avenue in New York, minding my own business, and I almost lost my life. No, I wasn't mugged. No, I didn't get clubbed on the head by the fake Rolex watch peddlers who were miffed because I wouldn't buy their wares. What did happen was I was almost run down by a taxi driver in broad daylight.

Now, in New York, taxis are very common. In fact, the ratio of taxis to cars is probably 597,924,999 to 1. No one with a full deck of cards would take their car onto the busy streets of New York and survive.

But in rural America, where cars outnumber taxis by a ratio of 1 to 2,000, just seeing a taxi would be a tourist attraction.

After I graduated in '72, my mother and step-father decided to change our one-horse town by setting up a taxi cab stand. Locals turned their noses up at our Mom-and-Pop stand, but Mom and Step-Pop decided it would be a big money maker, as there were plenty of folks who couldn't even afford transportation. We were the first taxicab business on the Eastern Shore of Virginia.

Mom asked me if I would help with the books when I got back from my stint in Ft. Lauderdale to become a model. She knew it was just one of my dreams and figured I'd come back home with my tail between my legs.

One month later, I was doing paperwork for R&K's Taxi Cab business. It paid 75 cents an hour, which, even for 1972, was pretty rotten wages. I couldn't stand to be behind the desk with nothing to do, and my Step-Pop and I were not getting along, either. I was all ready to quit when my Mom stepped in with an alternative.

"How would you like to drive the cab for a while?"

I thought about this. People give tips, right?

I donned my R&K Taxi Cab derby and waited for the first call to come in.

It seemed like hours. Well, it was hours. Four hours later, there was a call. An elderly lady had to take her dog to the vet for an emergency. As we were lucky to get any calls, we took her on. I jumped behind the wheel and headed to 748 Shady Lane. I waited and waited. I blew the horn. I saw the door open, and an elderly lady motioned for me to come there. I got out of my car and slowly made my way through the dilapidated shacks to her front door.

"Are you the taxi driver?" she asked, with a look of disbelief.

"Yes, I am," I told her. "Are you ready?"

"Precious is over there," she said, motioning under the table.

Precious looked at me and growled.

"Her appointment is in a half hour," she said, "Try not to make any needless bumps, or she might get sick."

She handed me a $50 bill.

I looked at the bill, looked at Precious, who was slobbering all down her face, and looked back at the woman.

"You are going, too, aren't you?" I asked.

"Oh, no honey," she said, "I have to do my hair. Just leave her at the vet, and we'll go get her tomorrow."

I looked again at the bill. I looked over at Precious, who by then was turned on her back with her tongue hanging out and her eyes glassed-over.

"Does Precious bite?" I asked her.

"Only twice," she informed me, "but she's too sick to do any of that now."

I went over to Precious whose growls had turned into a whimper.

Okay, I figured, to the vet a half-hour away, and I would rake in $50. I can do this.

I carefully put Precious in my arms and carried her fifty-pound body to the car. After rubbing dog dribble off my sleeve, I slowly crawled into the front seat, keeping my eye on the dog the whole time.

As we were heading down the road, wouldn't you know but a possum ran out in front of us. I slammed on the brakes, which sent Precious to an unknown section of the back of the car. I got out to see if I had put the dog out of its misery, only to find Precious had vomited unknown objects that were very foreign to me all over the backseat of the car. Not only was there a smell that would make a maggot gag, but the rotten and repulsive mess was all over me, too.

I tried to pull Precious up on the seat, and that's when all hell broke lose. She snapped at me, tearing a gap in my arm so big that blood seemed to come out of everywhere. I let out a scream that could be heard across the Atlantic, and which made Precious not so precious anymore.

I jumped back, with blood pouring down my arm, and started screaming bloody murder. I had lost it by this time. No way was I getting back in that car, $50 or no $50. Someone heard my screams and called the police. Fifteen minutes later, there were three cop cars, an ambulance, and a neighborhood of hoodlums surrounding my car.

"Please," I begged. "Just get me out of here."

The cops called Mom and Step-Pop who came to get the car, the ambulance took me off to the local hospital, and I never knew the demise of Precious. Needless to say, I lost my $50, my love for dogs, and the next time a possum runs out in front of me, he's road kill.

I'm happy to say my love for dogs was renewed, as I have 2 cockers and a sheltie that are the loves of my life.

My New Toy!

Okay, get your minds out of the gutter. I can now play music videos on my blog! Look to the far right and give it a few minutes to download. The music is beautiful!

Good-bye Summer

Fall is officially here by Virginia's standards. The leaves have turned colors, the air is cooler and it's time to put away those shorts and empty the pool. Tomorrow is the day I go through all the things that need to go back into the attic and find those electric blankets that were just thrown up there with the Christmas tree and the space heaters. I dread it.

I don't know if I dread winter coming or not, but I do know one thing. I'm a summer baby. Nothing makes me feel more alive than to have the hot summer sun baking my body while I'm lounging by the pool or toiling in my vegetable and herb gardens. Now, I must prepare to freeze my tabookas off and watch my tomatoe plants die with the first frost.

Some people really love this time of year, but I know what's looming. Cold. Ice. High utility bills.

I'd like to take a moment to remember summer before I put on my woollies (what the heck is woollies anyway?) and prepare for winter's stostice...don't think I spelled that right but you get my drift.

Anyway, what better way to remember summer than by taking you to one of my favorite hang-outs, the Boardwalk at Ocean City, Maryland.

Tourists flock to this place in droves. Especially on the 4th of July. You can't get a hotel room for miles.

I've always loved going to Boardwalk, no matter how many times I go. As soon as you pull in, you can see people standing along the shore fishing and then when you pass the gate, the beach is mobbed with sunbathers. You pull into the parking lot and the first thing you hit is Trumpet's Amusement Park which is on the south end of the Boardwalk. The Boardwalk goes for miles, past concession stands, tourist shops, concession stands and more tourist shops, but it's all part of the experience.

On the 4th of July, everyone heads for the beach where you sit in the sand and listen to the band play "America, the Beautiful" and other patriotic songs. At about nine, the fireworks are shot off and it's one of the largest firework displays on the east coast. Truly memorable.

Yeah, I'll miss it.

But, that's what makes me want to come back. And, I shall return.


Oh, here's a silly picture of me trying to look like a summer goddess.

Good-bye summer...until we meet again....

The Blind Date From Hell

Does anyone read horoscopes?

I usually don't, but I did today. It read,

"Your quick thinking and good memory will save the day. You're everyone's hero."

Pretty generic and that's why I don't read them.

I remember one time I should have paid more attention to my horoscope of the day. I was sitting in the lounge at a department store I worked in many years ago, not bothering anyone, just catching my breath, when a young co-worker came up to me and asked me if I'd like to date her father. O...kay.

Well, I hadn't had a date for awhile and it seems her father hadn't either, so I said what the heck.

Our "date" was to occur that next Saturday night. Keep in mind I've never seen the guy in my whole lifetime.

Friday afternoon, I was upstairs in the lounge and they were reading horoscopes so I asked them to read mine for me. Honest to God, it said, "You are going to go out to dinner soon. Do not sit by the window."

I laughed because that's exactly what I was going to do and scoffed at the "sitting by the window" part because, after all, it was just a horoscope, right?

That night, there was a knock on my door and I knew it was HIM. I opened it and you should have seen my face. It was a genuine kodak moment.

The guy had one leg.

Now, I'm not one-leg prejudiced or anything, but it was that little minute detail my co-worker left out. Nice.

But, this was only the beginning of my blind date from hell.

We planned on going to a seafood restaurant near the inlet (that's the real picture of it on the right) where we could get some fresh crab cakes and shoot the breeze, hoping that we'd find things to talk about, of course. On the way, he casually mentioned that he almost missed our "date" because he had been to the doctor that morning and was in pain. He went on to say that his kidney stones was giving him problems and might give him more pain so be on the watch out. I said, "What do I do? Call an ambulance?"

He said, very calmly, "Oh, no. I just go to the bathroom and pass them."

So this was our conversation on our way to the restaurant.

We get to the restaurant and lo and behold the hostess seats us by the window.

Now, by this time, I'm thinking about the horoscope, but as I don't pay much attention to them, I think I was challenging it. If I sit by the window and nothing happens, then I'll know what I've known all along - that horoscopes don't mean a thing and I was right about them.

We order our crabcakes and the conversation shifts to his ex-wife. I could tell he never got over the fact that they broke up and I was trying to give him sage advice on what to do about the situation.

I had no love interest or any other kind of interest in the guy, so I was holding my breath, thinking please accept this sage advice and go back to her.

It was somewhere in between nodding while he was talking when I heard a scream and all of a sudden, my lap was filled with some kind of strange soup with brocoli in it. Not only did it put a new meaning in the words "hot pants," I was totally mortified when he started dabbing my - er - private parts.

The waitress apologized profusely to us, then to the table whose food she had spilled in my lap and the night couldn't end any faster.

He dropped me off at my house and I didn't even give him a kiss good-night. I never wanted to see him, or that restaurant ever again and that was the last time I ever went back. There are many morals to this story, but two things I vowed to myself I'd do. One, never ever disbelieve horoscopes and never, ever go out on a blind date again.

I'm an Angel?

Yeppers. Took the test and have verified proof. Thanks to my friend, Kathy, who led me to the link. *smile*

You scored as Angel. Angel: Angels are the guardians of all things, from the smallest ant to the tallest tree. They give inspiration, love, hope, and positive emotion. They live among humans without being seen. They are the good in all things, and if you feel alone, don't fear. They are always watching. Often times they merely stand by, whispering into the ears of those who feel lost. They would love nothing more then to reveal themselves, but in today's society, this would bring havoc and many unneeded questions. Give thanks to all things beautiful, for you are an Angel. Angel 83% Faerie 75% Mermaid 67% WereWolf 25% Dragon 25% Demon 0% What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!) created with QuizFarm.com

Nothing macho about this lit

It’s poignant, hilarious and its all about us, the women of today. Bala Chauhan uncovers the secrets of Chick Lit. Read rest of article here.

Hen Lit - A Marketing Ploy?

Omg...does anyone get the Transita newsletter? If not, there was a quite interesting radio show discussing hen lit...Brits I guess call it matron lit or these people did. The show is called "On Women's Hour." You can listen by going to the link below:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/womanshour/2005_41_thu_03.shtml

The guest who is on is calling what we call "hen lit" a marketing ploy which didn't sit right with me. In her words, "women simply don't want to read books like this."

Also, there is a poll you might want to participate in at http://www.transita.co.uk/tsworld_poll.htm.

The women over at Transita were quite disappointed with this interview. But, we're feeling it in the states, too. People just don't understand what we are trying to do! Suddenly, I feel very discriminated...hmph.

You know, I read scads of newspaper articles about chick lit and hen lit and I read reviews from people who just don't get it. And you know, it seems like it bothers me, but it really doesn't. This is actually good publicity which is going to come around and bite them on their arses. *grin*

What are Dorothy's Needs?

Okay, so I'm done with revisions and am printing out the mss to send to these agents, so I get to play. I found this on someone else's blog. Go into Google and put your name and the word "needs" in their search thingee. This is what I found for me:

1) Dorothy needs men for the club.

2) Dorothy needs new shoes.

3) Dorothy needs to go home.

4) Dorothy needs to be online.

5) Dorothy needs help in finding a candy recipe.

Can you tell I'm bored? ;o)

Fighting Your Fear of Success, One Step at a Time

I was over on Kathy's blog this morning and it really did make me think. She basically said that people are afraid to follow their dream because of their fear of success. And I could see where I could relate to this 100%.

I think it's human nature to get into a zone where everything is comfortable, even if it's not where they want to be. Take my situation. I've lived in this house for ten years. I could go on and on about what's wrong with it, but it's a rental and my landlord is pretty good about my staying here with three dogs, so I really don't want to rock the boat.

But, wouldn't it be nice to be able to have it rain without it coming into your utility room and having to spend hours baling yourself out? Not to mention the appliances it's ruining. How about that sink in the bathroom that won't work or the tiles falling off the wall? How about it being so small, you have to walk sideways to walk through certain parts of the house or you'll run into an appliance, some other odd furniture or one of the three dogs?

Yeah, I'd love to live in my own house and smell "freshness" instead of mold and mildew. As my friend, Michael, used to tell me, figure out what you want and then do what you have to do to get it.

Well, in order to have a nice house of my own, to get it involves selling books, selling LOTS of books and then that might not even do it.

However, that comes with success. I know what I want (new house) and what I have to do to get it, but sometimes it scares the bejeebies out of me.

Those that get million dollar contracts, do you realize what they have to go through for it? Interviews, appearances, author talks? Why does this scare me more than having the devil himself in front of me?

Maybe in time, I'll be able to get to the point where it doesn't bother me. I have already done radio shows, something I thought I'd never find the guts to do, so maybe I need to take it one step at a time.

Sometimes I have to be thrown into a situation and forced to do something, but one day I'd love to be able to get up and say hey I'm going to be a success today and do whatever it takes to get it.

And, just maybe, someone will hand me a million dollar check and I can buy that house I've always wanted. Bet your tabookas I'll do whatever it takes to keep that house, too.

Yeah, I guess success has its perks.

TSGOTIG's Revisions Are Finished!

I did it! I did it! Tonight, I raise a glass of pepsi (no alcohol, dammit!) in honor of the day I have finally finished revisions on TSGOTIG!!! Here's where I stand right now:

85 / 80 (106.0%)

Woo-hoo! Now I need a box to send it off to these agents! I am so happy!

I ran in the bedroom and screamed to BF that it was done and then I ran in my daughter's bedroom and screamed it was done...neighbors must have heard me!

Having a Legally Blonde Moment

After yesterday, I thought tonight, when I got off work, I was going to do something a little different.

After I got home, I took a look around the kitchen and noticed that my daughter had started the dishes, so I put off household chores and jumped right on the computer to let my writing group know I hadn't jumped off the nearest bridge.

After that, I got up to turn the air off and made the bed. No sooner had I done that, all three furry companions ran in the bedroom thinking I'd gone mad because there was actual movement in the house. I took off my scrunchie and started playing with my miniature collie, Skylar, and before you knew it, Cassie (my girl cocker) jumped on the bed and did her roll over thing where she wants you to scratch her. Max (my boy cocker), not to be outdone by his sisters, decided to jump on the bed and come in between them and me and before you knew it, I was rolling on the bed with laughter.

Then...the remote caught my eye! BF is off somewhere, and usually he has control of the remote AND the TV and I'm forced to stay on the computer because sports ain't my thing, but tonight IT WAS MINE.

I clicked around and landed on LEGALLY BLONDE - a movie I'd never watched before although my daughter has owned the DVD for some time.


Well, before you knew it, I was laughing even louder than I had before. At a stupid chick movie!

Only, it wasn't stupid, it was downright cute!

Reese Witherspoon plays Elle, who is dumped by her boyfriend who is on his way to become a senator because he feels that she isn't aristocratic enough. In his words, "I want a Jackie, not a Marilyn!" Totally kills her, she sulks forever, until she realizes the one way she can get back her man is to go to Harvard Law School and become the woman he should have by his side. Once she gets to Harvard, she learns she has more legal savvy than she ever imagined and wins a top case, gaining super stardom in the legal world.



Ex Boyfriend, who just so happens to be attending the same law school, approaches Elle at the end when she's in her Super Stardom Law Moment and has the balls to tell her he loves her even after dumping her at the beginning of the movie! TALK ABOUT A JERK. And, she turns him down!!! I started screaming and yelling, "Yes! Yes!"

Okay, doesn't take much to make me excited, but there were so many things in the movie that I could relate to! Being blonde myself, I felt the discrimatory remarks, heard the blonde jokes and the snide remarks about being "out there." This movie gets my thumbs up for blondes everywhere! WE ARE SMART ONCE GIVEN THE CHANCE TO SHOW IT!

Totally, totally loved the movie!

Go Elle!

About damn time someone stood up for blondes everywhere .... that it didn't matter what was on the outside, it's what's on the insides that counts and even blondes have brains much to everyone's surprise!

Age is Only Relative

I'm a sucker for quizzes, but this one really made my night. I think. Here it is first:

You Are 17 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Now, I can look at this like it's a good thing, but I just don't understand it. I'm a teenager at heart, huh. Could be I work around them 24/7 and some of their naivity has rubbed off. Who knows. But the clincher was: You are still trying to find your place in the world.

THAT'S IT!

I was just telling my writing group the other day that I feel like I'm searching for something and yet I don't know what it is.

It might even be that precious commodity I lost years ago - my sanity? Could be I'm still looking for that *see post*.

Anyway, it was a fun diversion...now back to revisions...the Sisterhood Girls are at the Indian Reservation about to be abducted...oops, enough, don't want to spoil it.

Can Someone Tell Me Where I Put My Sanity?

Sometimes I think I'm really losing it.

No, really.

Last night beat my other night from hell. I go into work and just when I think I've got the new computers mastered and the doctor calls and says the bloodwork came out fine and nothing's wrong with me (then why am I so freaking tired all the time?), I do something so stupid, so lamebrain, that it makes me realize maybe I'm so far gone even the doctors can't diagnose me.

For starters, I pulled a double. I've tried in vain to get the boss to hire someone to help me, but he insists I'll make more money this way. I don't care about the money. I just want my sanity back.

So, it's Friday night and I've already worked the day shift, but thank the gods, goddesses, whoever, I do have someone to work with me for the night shift. I've gotten to the point where the computers are starting to make half sense and I'm thinking tonight is going to be better, tonight is going to be better.

WRONG.

I don't know whose brain I want to kill when they came up with the idea that we must keep all our guests' checks and money on our persons. What happens if someone gives you a hundred dollar bill? Oh, they say ask the manager to break it for you. That's fine, but what if the manager is so busy himself and he completely ignores you and you're tired and you're frustrated and you say to hell with it and take out money you've brought to work and change it with that and stuff the hundred in your pocket?

And then what happens when you get busy and even more tired than you could possibly imagine and all you do is rant and rave about you're going to quit and work somewhere else?

They ignore you. They think you're just stressing and you'll be better in the morning.

Well, he - llo....it's morning and I've not been able to sleep and so I'm on here thinking it will be some kind of therapeutic miracle and afterwards I can go back to sleep so that I can get up and do it all over again.

But the real reason I can't sleep and the real reason I'm up at this ungodly hour when I've got to be to work in a few hours and need all the sleep I can get it is because something so terrible happened, even worse than being tired but was a direct cause of it, I lost that hundred dollar bill.

I went to cash out and the hundred dollar bill was gone. I searched my pockets and came up with nothing. I wanted to cry.

I did cry later...all the way home from work.

I had no other alternative but to pay for that hundred dollar bill out of my own pocket or I wouldn't get the privilege of going back to that hell hole tomorrow.

I don't know where that hundred dollar bill went, but my hunch is I thought it was a one dollar bill when giving someone back change.

There is one lucky person out there that is a hundred dollar richer and I hope that person does some good with it. It's not the money. It's the fact that it only goes to prove how much I'm losing it.

One day, I wish, that I can live off my writing because working majorly sucks right now.

I Have a Shoutbox!

I just discovered a real cool little chatbox thingee that I found on FTS's blog called a Shout Box. If you look waaaaay down to the right hand side, you'll see it. Click at the top and it'll take you where you can get one. They're fun!

Bitch Ph. D.

I found the funniest blog today that I'd like to share with you. It's called Bitch Ph.D. Catch the cute girlie girl in the masthead....I wouldn't want to run into her that's for sure. I definitely must link to this blog.

The 'Chick-lit' Label: Demeaning or Empowering

The 'chick-lit' label: Demeaning or empowering
By LESLIE GRAY STREETER

Palm Beach Post Staff Writer

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

For a genre whose name recalls something as harmless as candy-coated gum, the term "chick-lit" sure has become divisive. While the term was coined by writer and University of Illinois at Chicago Professor Cris Mazza in a series of mid-1990s anthologies of alternative women's fiction, it's now commonly used to describe solidly commercial novels in the Bridget Jones's Diary vein. Read rest of article here.

How You Are In Love

I really should get back to my revisions, but I'm not through playing yet. Came across a test that tells me how I am in love. Now's not the time to ask *see blog post*, as everyone in this house is on my Shit List. But, anyway, for fun and entertainment, I played the game.

How You Are In Love

You take a while to fall in love with someone. Trust takes time. You tend to take more than give in relationships. You tend to get very attached when you're with someone. You want to see your love all the time. You're secretly hoping your partner will change for you. You are fickle and tend to fall out of love easily. You bounce from romance to romance.

How Are You In Love?

Ouch. Bounce from romance to romance, huh. Story of my life. Just when things are almost kosher, I'll be finding new love. I don't think I have the energy.

As for the first sentence, I don't think that describes me at all. I must have hit the wrong answer for that one. If anybody, I'm always the one who falls in love too easily. Give me a few kind words and I'm wagging my tail at your feet.

But, come to think of it, that WAS me about ten years ago. That was about the time I said to hell with men and I'm going to learn how to take care of myself. And that's when potential soul mates started banging my door down. Go figure. Guess they like the chase?

"You tend to give more in relationships." Well, that's oh-so-true. At least it was years ago, now it's you better do it yourself or it ain't gonna get done. But, I do tend to be the one to try to make things work. I have a thing about comfort. Once I'm in that comfort zone, I don't want to get out of it. Even if it's the wrong zone in the first place. As long as I'm happy, that's what counts but I want my partner to be happy, too. Both sides have to give equal time, though.

"You tend to be very attached when you're with someone." Me, years ago, again. But, do you see what I am saying here? I'm saying I've changed, but the test tells me I haven't!

"You're secretly hoping your partner will change." Well, glory be, if that isn't calling the kettle black. Secretly hoping, that's the key phrase. I know he'll never change and I don't make him change..that's the secret of a successful relationship. However, there's lots of things I "secretly hope" will change:

1) not pissing on the toilet seat
2) not leaving his toy Shelby Cobra Remote Car sitting on top of the entertainment center in the living room
3) stop harassing Max so that he growls to the top of his lungs (he thinks this is quite amusing while meanwhile I'm in the living room trying to write and biting my tongue)
4) stop spending all his money at the slots and save for that house he has to buy me
5) stop going into a pesticide frenzy and spraying every living thing in my back yard including my vegetable plants (I did have to yell at that one)
6) stop complaining about his back everytime I mention wanting to go somewhere but incredible there's no pain when he just HAS to go to the slots
7) stop parking his jazzed-up black pickup with the chrome wheels and custom paint job in the middle of the front yard for everyone to gloat upon (yeah, this one pisses me off more than anything)
8) stop letting Max get on the bed when you know damn well he's going to piss on it
9) stop throwing things in the bedroom wastebasket when the damn thing is full
10) and my most prized complaint of all...stop acting like an 8-year-old and mature into the 42-year-old you're supposed to be.

Okay, well, he does have a few bad points. But, that's what I get for getting hooked up with a boy toy, huh? *grin*

"You are fickle and tend to fall out of love easily"

You think?

My Career Type: Artistic

Well, well, well. I think I'm coming out of my Part Diva hole *see yesterday's post*. This one they nailed. The only thing they left out was my professional career- A WRITER. Geez. But, I'll take it.

Your Career Type: Artistic

You are expressive, original, and independent. Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art. You would make an excellent: Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

What's Your Ideal Career?

Never Met a Texan I Couldn't Love

After the terrible yesterday I had *see blog*, I decided I'd get up and ignore the family and go blogging. Never mind the fact that the family has gone off to school/work, their energies are still within this house so I choose to put up my invisible family hating shield and wallow in my part-Diva *see blog* self-pity and go blogging.



I came upon a wonderful blog called Follow that Star. For once, no one was bashing chick lit or women in general *see dickhead blog if you dare*. And it was quite refreshing. Meander over there when you get the time...he has quite a few people who check in daily.

But, you know what impressed me the most? HE'S FROM TEXAS.

Coming from the east coast and living here most of my oh-so-boring days, and having been around a few blocks or so in the dating game, I just don't get what East Coast men are all about. Where are their manners? Why aren't they putting women up on pedestols *bad spelling I know and I'm a writer* like Texans do?

I have a friend named Michael who was born in Texas and lived there during his childhood. He is the kindest, sweetest person you'd ever want to meet. And very very southern gentlemanly. I met him in person on a booksigning in Arkansas and once he opened his mouth and let loose that Texas accent, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. That accent is to die for.

Of course, I have an accent fetish anyway. Put a Texan in front of me and I'm all goo-goo and turning all hot inside!

But what's up with these East Coast men??? I just don't get it. Why does a certain geography have anything to do with who you are?

Here's a scenario so you can understand better what I'm talking about:

Me: "I'm not feeling well. Do you think you can fix dinner for
yourself tonight?"
East Coast Man: "That's okay, I'll just sit here on the sofa and
watch the game until you feel better. But don't take too long."
Texas Man: "I'm sorry, dah-ling. You just lie there and I'll go
in the kitchen and whip something up that will make you feel better."

Or...

Me: "I sure would love to get married one day."
East Coast Man: "See ya later!"
Texas Man: "Here's the ring, honey-pie. I've got a 56 acre
spread out there in Dallas that you and I can spend the rest of our lives
in. Hope you don't mind spending time sitting on that front porch and
listening to the crickets while you finish that novel thing of yours."

Maybe I need to move to Texas, you think?

Whaaa? I'm only PART Diva???

After a terrible day and night of becoming postal on my family *see blog post here*, I decided to put up my invisible shield to them and go blogging. It's my only thrill at the moment, believe me.
I came upon this little quiz of sorts that will tell me if I am a diva. Ahh...I thought...someone out there might think I'm worthy even though my family doesn't!

Well, after answering the five or so questions, this is my results:

You're Part Diva

You know that a girl's gotta work it to get her way in the world. And while you aren't about to throw a tantrum at every turn... You do amp up the drama when you know you need it. You mix charm, honesty, and kindness to get ahead.

Are You a Diva?

Okay, so what's with the dog head? If I were a full diva, would I be promoted to human?

And did you see the word "drama" there??? *see blog post again* Well, did you go back and see it??? THERE'S THE DRAMA QUEEN THING AGAIN.

I cannot escape from it!!!!

ARRGGGGG!!!

CAN I VENT?

I should have named this blog post "Adventures of a Drama Queen." I want to pout, scream and cry. And when you hear why you'll either understand or cast it off as another example of a menopausal drama queen who hasn't gotten her way.

For beginners, I live with my daughter and my boyfriend who for anonymous reasons I call him simply BF. Well, actually daughter and BF live with me as this is MY house.

You would think that Daughter and BF would kiss the ground I walked on since I provide them with a roof over their head, but I'm not that way. I love them (at this point, I'm reconsidering that idiotic proclamation) and I would do anything in the world for them (which I have).

Well, it all started with an upcoming book signing I was SUPPOSED to go to. I'm talking this is a BIG ONE. About a hundred authors and I would be sitting in the same room, hobnobbing and exchanging wonderful authorly stories and gushing at each other's books. Not only that, it was going to be held in my FAVORITE spots, The Blue Ridge Mountains. Not only would it be my day to shine, but I'd be spending it in paradise.

However, I had one little problem.

The book fair is five hours away and I'd be spending two nights in a hotel. I thought, well, that's fine as I've got two potential people who will jump at the chance to see their mother/girlfriend in the limelight instead of behind a computer screen in her "skid row" apparel. Of course both are going to want to go to see that, but I knew one of them had to stay home to take care of the cockers, Cassie and Max.

I had to think hard which one would be better suited to go with me and which one would be better suited to stay home with the dogs which translated to who I'd have more fun with.

If I took Daughter, she could sit there looking totally bored and crying "I'm hungry" every five minutes and if I took BF, he could sit there complaining about his back and cracking stupid jokes to everyone who laugh only to be polite. Jeez, what a decision.

I didn't want to break either one's little old hearts, so I just posed the question to each of them to see who would win the coveted spot of being seen with A PUBLISHED AUTHOR.

I started with my daughter.

"Melissa, how would you like to go with me to the book fair in two weeks?"

"Oh gosh, mom, I'd really love to but I have all this studying. And I really can't take time off from work because as you know I go to school during the week, the only time I'd have to work is the week-ends. You wouldn't want me to lose my jeep, would you?"

To hell with the jeep, I thought to myself. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see your mother in action as a published author and you can only think about your jeep? Did you forget the fact I spent nineteen hours in labor with you only for you to put your precious jeep over your own mother???

No, I didn't say that, but I wanted to. I really didn't get too mad at that point because I knew I could rely on BF who kissed the ground I walked on. Or so I thought.

"BF, I need to ask you something."

"Can it wait? It's halftime."

"Forget the fricking TV and listen to me for a minute. I need to go to a book fair and I need you to go with me."

"Where is it?"

"Five hours away."

"Five hours??? I can't last five hours in a car, you know that! You know my back would hurt like hell for that amount of time. Besides, I have to work."

"Since when did you start working on the week-end?"

"Oh, it's the week-end?"

"Yes, you're off on the week-end."

"Well, I think I have to work anyway. We've got the big guys coming and we have to do a lot of cleaning up."

So, there you have it. A jeep and a yard job stands in the way of seeing someone you love do something they love to do.

I don't ask for much in life. Just give me a pat on the head and I'm good to go. I'm very easy to get along with, but maybe that's my problem.

Maybe I should DEMAND. Doesn't matter at this point. I'm not going. But, I'll tell you this much. They will pay bigtime.

They hate it when I sulk. Negativity. I'll spread it all over the place like dog shit in the middle of the backyard. Every square inch a pile of doggie doo so thick, they'll wallow in it.

Whew...I feel better now.