Nostalgic Despite Myself

This weekend, Slayer had to work, so I took the kids to our local parade. We're living in a pretty small town these days, and we've got the typical small town parade thing going. I wonder what aliens would think of parades:

"Garblesnack here. The Earthpeople have captured some prisoners and garbed them in strange ribbons, probably to denote their prisoner status. Now they're parading them through the streets in a strange ceremony, probably as a precursor to roasting them alive. Oh no! There are hordes of hungry children waiting to tear them limb from limb! What did the female Earthpeople do to deserve such a tragic end?! The female Earthpeople are pelting the young children with small sugary projectiles in the hopes of staving them off! Throw, female Earthperson! Throw like the wind!"

Yeah, we had a lot of beauty queens this year, and some of them had some pretty amazing aim. My poor forehead.

My favorite part is always the marching band, because I spent four years on our high school drum line. This may explain why my books almost always have a female drummer in them, because girl drummers rock the casbah. Now, I was watching our marching band this weekend and feeling a little nostalgic. High School Me would think this is absolutely pitiful. High School Me didn't think that marching band was anything to get all nostalgic about. Then again, High School Me also liked to make fun of people who were lame enough to get married in the gazebo in our town square.

Modern Day Me is that lame.

And really, when I think about it, there isn't much to get nostalgic over. High school marching band was full of embarrassments. Our school colors were yellow and green, and our hats had these big yellow plumes that stood straight up over our heads like unicorn horns. But being in high school, of course we didn't compare them to unicorn horns. We decided that they looked like Big Bird's privates, or what we would imagine Big Bird's privates to look like.

I wonder what Garblesnack would think if he overheard all of us bandies getting dressed before a game:

"Hey! Who took my Big Bird penis? Give it back!"

And we also had these little do-hickeys called "dickies" to wear under our jackets. If you're unfamiliar with the dickie, the concept is simple. It's a faux shirtfront that velcros on around the neck and waist. In our case, the shirtfront was a narrow strip of white ruffles edged with green that you could see peeking out from inside the jacket. And let me tell you, those things were stylin'. You've never seen anything until you've seen the entire tuba line standing around in shorts, long black socks pulled up as high as they'll go, and dickies. No shirts underneath, so it's a good thing they were all guys. Because those dickies were narrow enough that there was definitely some nipple action going on there.

Gotta love the tuba line. They used to stand behind the drum line and make comments about my butt, only they were so hilarious that I could never get offended.

Man, I could go on for days. And while I was in the middle of it, I never realized how great it was. Seems like there's a profound statement about life in there somewhere, but I'm too distracted by dickies and Big Bird's bait and tackle to get there.

Scruff or No Scruff, That Is the Question

So it seems to me that we have a Werewolf Contingent around here. You know who you are; you're the people who were ballsy enough to disagree with my assertion of vampiric sexiness. (Snarf.) The ones who don't mind a little werewolf slobber or sleeping next to a hairy Cuisinart. (At least in theory.) At first, I have to admit that I was thinking you had issues, only the issues couldn't be that bad because hey, you read my blog and everyone knows that my blog is magic.

Have the hiccups? Read my blog, and they will magically go away. Zit on your nose? My blog will take care of it. Werewolf fetish? Simply read my blog and... well, actually, there's no hope there.

Just kidding.

Anyway, I was really starting to wonder about you wolfy people and then it hit me: the scruff question. The question is simple: Aragorn or Legolas?

And I have to admit that I'm a fence rider here. Normally, I think fence riders are wusses with a capital WUSS, but this is an important decision and not something that you can take lightly. On one hand, you have Aragorn. His hair may be scraggly and his fingernails dirty; he may be terminally unshaven, so much so that he really ought to try out for another remake of Miami Vice, but the man is just plain sexy. And then, on the other hand, there's Legolas. Yes, I do have a strong aversion to men with hair longer than mine, but he just looks so freaking good that I might have to make an exception. And he's all agile; he makes shooting a bow look kinda ooh-la-la if you know what I mean.

So I don't have a strong stance here, and that's a good thing. Because it's allowed me to see the point of view of the Werewolf Contingent, and I am no longer worried about your sanity. Because really, if Aragorn was a werewolf; well, I'd still find him attractive although I have to admit that I'd also seriously wonder what kind of happy place Tolkien was in and what he smoked to get there.

So... what's your stance? Are you in Club Aragorn, Club Legolas, or Please Club Them Both Because I Can't Stand It Any More?

The Tom Robbins Story

So first off, let me start off this story by saying that I'm talking Tom Robbins the author here, not Tim Robbins the actor, although I'd love to meet Tim-the-actor some day and tell him something wacky enough to make him take off his sunglasses too. No, this story is about Tom Robbins, otherwise known as He Who Wrote the Book That Made Me Want to Become a Writer.

That book, if you care, is Skinny Legs and All. Please note that this book is kind of adulty. That's right: it has some of that ess-eee-ex stuff in it. That book did things to me, like make me stay up all night and skip class the next day in order to finish it. It was NOT my fault. Anyway, what's not to like about a book that addresses the big issues like religion, politics, and an Airstream Trailer decorated to look like a huge roast turkey?

Anyway, one of hubby's old family friends goes way back with Tom Robbins. And after months and months of (not so) subtle begging and pleading, I got invited to a dinner party to meet Tom. Woot woot!

Unfortunately, a lot of other people were invited too. And they did not understand the importance of me, and they kept getting in the way of the Conversation That Was Meant To Be. You know, the one between me and Tom in which I stun him with my witty repartee and knowledge of Airstream Trailer art. So I'm getting a little frustrated, because the guy is my idol and I haven't even gotten to say hello to him. And that's when hubby steps in.

He starts holding forth on every controversial topic he can possibly come up with, and that's a lot of them. He's ranting on health insurance for children, the status of the parole system, child abuse, and whether or not bellbottoms should be outlawed. (I am firmly pro-bellbottom prohibition.) And would you believe that people are slowly pulled away from the famous author and sucked in to the vortex of conversation surrounding my hubby?

Finally, there I am, sitting at the table with the family friend and Tom Robbins. I could reach out and touch him. His hand is right next to me on the table. I could have licked it if I wanted to, but I restrained myself because something told me that this wouldn't be the wisest plan of action. I did maybe nudge him a little with my elbow one time. Of course that was completely accidental.

Now, Tom Robbins is a wear sunglasses inside the house kind of guy. I understand this is a medical kind of thing and not a Jack Nicholson kind of thing. Anyway, I turned to him, and I said, "Listen, there's something that I really wanted to say to you. I had to thank you for ruining my life."

He pulled off his glasses so he could see me better and said, "What?!"

Snarf.

So I told him about reading Skinny Legs and All. About how I had my life all planned out, quite satisfactorially I might add, before I read it. And how that book took all those plans and squished them into werewolf kibble, because I decided that day to become a writer. Everyone kept trying to discourage me, to tell me not to quit my day job, to not throw away my livelihood on a career that is so difficult to break into. Screw 'em. I was taking a big chance for the first time ever and going off into the unknown without a plan. (gasp!) And it was freaking GREAT.

If I hadn't read that book, I might never have taken the chance.

I don't think he really knew what to say to that, but he smiled a little. I think he was pleased. And I kept writing.

Now, after all these years, I think (I hope) I'm on the verge of getting to say those three little words that I've been waiting to say to those Poopheads who discouraged me all those years ago:

Neiner neiner neiner.

I'm so mature that it just kills me sometimes.

The Mouse House

If you've read the description of my book, or if you're unfortunate enough to know me in real life, you're probably familiar with one of my favorite phrases: rat-in-a-coffee-can insane. I will freely admit that I stole this saying from an old friend of mine, and then I turned around and added insult to injury by nicknaming him The Gangsta Jawa. See, he had this coat, and I honestly think it looked like something that P.Diddy would wear if he'd been raised by the Jawas from Star Wars. I just couldn't help myself.

Can I interrupt myself briefly to tell you that if I were a hip hop star, I'd be C-Ha? Look out, J-Lo; C-Ha's in da house!

Anyway, if I could stay on topic for more than five seconds at a time, I'd tell you that I love the whole rat-slash-coffee-can imagery. The scrabble of little paws on the metal. The shaking of the can as the rat runs in endless circles. It's the absolute picture of desperate insanity. So obviously, I use that phrase a lot.

And sometimes life imitates art, only I used to know someone named Art and don't really imitate him very much because that would be weird and borderline obsessive to boot. And I, as we all know, am completely normal. Ish.

So a couple of days ago, I was checking my email in the basement, because that's where the computer is and it helps to have a computer for the purposes of checking said email. And I keep hearing this scrabbling noise. At first, I just thought something fell off the computer desk, because I am the Queen of Clutter, but after the fourth time something "fell off the desk," I figured I ought to look into it.

And there it was. An empty 2-liter bottle of Vernors, which was NOT mine, because I think Vernors tastes like werewolf spit. And technically, the bottle wasn't empty either. There was a mouse stuck in it. Somehow, that little bugger managed to crawl inside the bottle without knocking it over, and then he couldn't get out.

I would have taken a picture, except that we STILL haven't replaced our camera after my son gave it a bath.

So we cut the bottle open and let little Mickey out of the bottle. Or Minnie. Whatever. I didn't check the mouse's gender for god's sake, because I figure that after being stuck in a bottle for a day, he/she/it probably wouldn't appreciate the invasion of privacy. It would be adding insult to injury yet again, and I'm trying to curb those instincts.

So instead, I'm using this as inspiration for a new phrase. Unfortunately, mouse-in-a-pop-bottle insane doesn't quite have the same ring to it, but I'm still evaluating some other options. Like gerbil-in-a-sippy-cup insane. That one's actually not half bad, now that I think of it...

Holy Bleep!

For a baby blogger who talks a lot about balls, supernatural sexiness, and kartafflesalat, I have been incredibly lucky. My fab agent picked up on my dinner party blog entry, and she posted about it on her equally fab blog, Ask Daphne. I'm assuming that Trashionista picked up on it from there and then put up a post about it on their site. This evening, the wonder that is Google Alerts has notified me that the whole dinner party thing has now been picked up by Litopia.

Holy bleep! I'm going to have to start wearing sunglasses inside the house, because I'm f-ing famous-ish.

Which reminds me, don't let me forget to tell you about the time I said something so wacky that it made Tom Robbins take off his sunglasses. Because it is indubitably one of my shining moments.

Anyway, I'm mentioned by name around minute seven of tonight's Litopia Writer's Podcast, but please don't skip ahead to that particular minute because I've just realized two things about Litopia: the podcasts are pleasingly informative, and they are delivered by people with yummy accents. They are quite worth listening to, even the ones that don't talk about me.

So anyway, I'm just excited to have people reading and linking and all that sort of thing. And feeling all grateful. And all sniffly and Sally Field-esque, because you like me! You really like me!

Don't sell that Kleenex stock just yet, because I'm getting all verklempt here. Thanks, peeps. Seriously.

The Sexy Creature Awards

I have a confession to make. Every time I read a vampire book, there's this little soundtrack running continuously in the back of my head, and it sounds something like this:



When I say I've got issues, I really mean it.

But honestly, I think the whole lure of the vampire thing is that, like Right Said Fred and their glistening baldness, they are sexy. You will not see a vampire guy shuffling around in a plaid button down with a pocket protector. You will never catch a vampire chick in a sack skirt and a sailor blouse. These things are not permitted by the Vampiric Laws of Clothing, which can be easily summarized as: Vampiric clothing must put the EEEEEE! in sex-EEEEEE!

It's also a little known fact that vampires will spontaneously combust if you dress them in last year's fashions. Because really, that whole stake and mallet thing is just so passe. Garlic does nothing, but a well-placed pair of bellbottoms will stop a vampire dead in their tracks.

Get it? DEAD? Mwahahaha!

But if you think about it, vampires really take the Sexy Creature Award hands down. Because their competition is pretty weak:

1. Anyone who finds zombies sexy (lurch-lurch-uuungh!) needs some serious therapy.
2. Werewolves are out unless you happen to be attracted by the concept of a hairy Cuisinart with a licking fetish.
3. Fairies aren't too bad; I dated one once but he was prettier than me. Not so much sexy, just pretty.
4. Sasquatch are right out for one reason: hairy toes.
5. Ghosts are disembodied, which pretty much takes them out of the sexy competition, unless they sound like Sean Connery in which case they're frontrunners.

So unless you've got a better idea or can produce a ghost that sounds like Mr. Connery, this month's Sexy Creature Award is going to go to the vamps.

Things That Make Me Snarf

Today is going to be a short day blog-wise. It's my son's first day of big boy school. So he is bouncing-off-the-walls excited; I'm buying stock in Kleenex. Seriously, people, contact your stockbrokers and get some, because you'll make millions today. It seems like yesterday that I was pregnant with him and he was using my ribs for chinups.

But before I head off to my mommy-ish duties, I have two things. The first is a birthday shout out to my critique partner, Ami. Good critique partners are one in a million and great ones are one in a trillion. And in a former life (like a few years ago), I was a statistician, so I can assure you that I arrived at these numbers using a very complex mathematical theory: I guessed. Anyway, Ami falls into that later category, and so she deserves a very happy birthday and a publishing contract. I can't offer her the later, but I can definitely do the former. So happy birthday, sunshine!

And, last but not least, I leave you with a video that makes me snarf. My favorite part is the sound that the pieces of whale make when they hit the ground. I mean, really, are people THAT dumb?

Don't answer that.