Vinobaby's Voice

Wild Locations: Trifecta and Write On Edge Prompts

2012-05-23T12:43:00.000-04:00

I haven't linked up with any writing prompts lately, but this week's suggestions worked perfectly with my WIP. While I had an infinite amount of passages relating to location and wild, finding one only 250 words long was a killer. I settled for this one. The following excerpt is from The Last Resort. Be kind. 

We started down a rockier path. Our pace slowed, our hands traced along the mossy ravine wall for balance. The air  cooled and grew saturated with water, the pregnant molecules bursting upon impact with my sweaty skin. The patter of rain falling, heavy and fast, echoed through the valley. 

“Sounds like we're going to get wet,” I said.

 “I fully plan on it,” Rye answered.

 The roar of water grew louder, as if the clouds had ripped open, allowing all the rain to pour out in one great deluge. Forget wet; we were going to get drenched. I stopped to zip my camera inside a plastic bag.

 “If I were you, I'd keep the camera out.” Rye grinned like a pirate, his eyes wild and daring. “Come on. The picnic area is just around that bend.” 

 My legs brushed against damp, drooping fronds. Scarlet blossoms stood erect with perfect drops of water dangling from their petal's supple tongues. The rainforest's dense canopy opened up, allowing the sun to stream down and illuminate the foliage, turning the leaves near fluorescent shades of green. The air smelled alive and slightly electric, as if charged ions still lingered after a wicked thunderstorm. 

 We turned the corner. A cascade of white water crashed down a mossy cliff into a resplendent blue lagoon. The water shimmered in the sunlight, a pool of undulating aquamarine gemstones, with waves gently lapping along the rocky banks.

 Rye's warm hands grasped my bare shoulders. “I told you it would be worth the wait."

Trifecta's one-word prompt. This week, they gave us:

WILD (adj)

1 a : living in a state of nature and not ordinarily tame or domesticated
b (1) : growing or produced without human aid or care
(2) : related to or resembling a corresponding cultivated or domesticated organism

2 a : not inhabited or cultivated
b : not amenable to human habitation or cultivation

3: a (1): not subject to restraint or regulation : uncontrolled; also : unruly
(2) : emotionally overcome ; also : passionately eager or enthusiastic

The Write on Edge prompt for this week is to use setting to deepen the development of your story. You can use it to give insight into a character or a conflict or simply to evoke an emotional mood from your reader. 250 words or less.

A paycheck can't buy time

2012-05-22T08:19:00.000-04:00

I'm ready to be finished with this whole "out of the home working" gig. I have no idea how mothers do this every day, forever. I don't know if it's because it's an evening/night job, or because it eats my time while I'm still expected to do everything else, or because I miss my family, or maybe it's just the lack of sleep...

Each weekday is a whirlwind as I cram in all of my normal activities (getting everyone ready for school/work, gym, write, edit, blog, laundry, clean, errands, groceries, bus stop, homework, spend a tiny bit of time with family, eat) before I run out the door by 5:15, fight rush hour traffic, stare at a computer until my eyes glaze over and I give up all hope for the educational system in this country, drive home, and finally collapse into bed. And even though I'm exhausted, I usually need the help of melatonin to actually fall sleep because I'm so jacked up on all the iced coffee and candy I've practically mainlined to stay awake.

And while I do love the satisfaction of actually earning money again and seeing my name on a paycheck (as little as it may be) I am relieved it is only a temporary position.

I miss my boys.

While this schedule works better for juggling writing and family management responsibilities, I'm missing the best time of day, the important times of day, with my husband and son.

I'm missing wine-thirty, the couple time Hubby and I spend together in the kitchen each evening. While I cook dinner, he makes the next days lunches. We talk about our hectic/productive/good/bad days, catch up with each other, and yes, enjoy a glass of wine. It's our quiet time, a chance for us to push aside our busy days and reconnect. It's our therapy, and I can feel how both of us have more stress buzzing like an electric current through our nerves without this daily release.

I'm missing family dinners. Yes, we normally eat dinner together every night at home. When the weather is lovely (as it has been lately) we dine on our porch, our own little alfresco restaurant. The pool sounds like a tranquil fountain, some Jack Johnson, Coldplay, or John Mayer trickles out of the ipod, and we talk. It's the time of day when Kiddo may finally volunteer some random information about his day, (because you know when I ask how his day went earlier, all I got was a "fine"), when he allows an "Oh, and I'm in the county art show," or "And when I was sent to the vice principal's office today..." Time we need to connect.

so little

so big

I'm missing Kiddo's bedtime. Getting him down hasn't been an issue for many years, so bedtime isn't dreaded around here. We snuggle up and read for a half-hour or so. It used to be all me reading to him, but now he reads to me. Sometimes we trade off, depending on the difficulty of the book. Lately, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets just sits forgotten on his nightstand. Last night I picked one of our old favorites, Stellaluna. The waves of nostalgia fluttered over me soft as baby bat wings as he curled up beside me. I tried to read it all to him, though I still know most of the words by heart, but he insisted on reading half of it to me.

my shoe vs. 8-yr-old's shoe

So big, so fast. Hot pricks of tears sting my eyes when I realize how little time like this I have left. He'll be nine in the fall. Nine. Boys don't want to snuggle with their moms much older than that, do they? Yesterday I passed along a pair of my water shoes to him. I haven't been able to find any in his size. They were a men's size small and big big on him, but not by much, a finger width, a pinky toe length.

I hate missing one night with him, one second that he still wants to spend with me. I see the sand in our hourglass funneling down at a breathtaking speed.

And, of course I miss quite time with my Hubby after Kiddo is in bed. Being the quiet old farts that we are, we just read (and good God, I miss reading), while the TV mostly provides some subtle background noise. But we are together, beside each other, there for each other. Connected.

I'll admit, I've been taking my Hubby for granted, giving what little time and attention I have to Kiddo. I shouldn't, I know, but I'm greedy for any moments I can get with my son. I watch him drawing closer to his own independent world, a world without me, and I'm afraid of missing any special moment I can get. I know my Hubby will always be there for me, right? I've got another 50 years with him, but my son...damn, it makes me weepy just thinking about it, and I'm not a weepy kind of girl...

And then there's the guilt factor. Kiddo hugs me a dozen times before I leave, chases me out to the car with kisses, asks why I have to leave them and go off to a silly old job anyway. Stay home with us, he pleads, his eyes all puppy dog, his lower lip out pouting, begging. Please don't leave me. Just yank on those heart strings a little more, Kiddo. I can't tell him the only reason I took this job is because of him. Well, his very expensive mouth, that is. Days before this position opened up we were informed that he'd need round two of braces and oral surgery this summer, another round NOT covered by our dental insurance. {sigh} I'm being proactive, taking care of my family, right? I will not lay that guilt at his rapidly growing feet. Instead, each day I must placate him with more of the many white lies we parents must tell.

Less than three weeks left. I can do it. We can do it.

Echelon Chardonnay & Pinot Grigio: A Relaxing Review

2012-05-17T07:34:00.000-04:00

photo by EchelonVineyards.com

Above is the perfect example of what I've WANTED to do lately...relax in my garden with a delightful bottle of wine, watch the butterflies dance on the breeze, the squirrels play tag, and my family play in the pool. Add in some food, friends, and a good book and I'd be in nirvana. (Some Nirvana playing in the background would work too...nah, not mellow enough...let's change that to some Jack Johnson & DMB.)

But with my temporary work schedule (more about that on another post) that's just a wistful daydream.

I can't even enjoy a glass of wine during the week — Quelle horreur! The promising pop of a cork sliding from a bottle, the gentle glug of wine lapping against a crystal glass, the complex aroma swirling through the heavy air, that first sip of nectar...

Can you tell I'm in withdrawal?

Luckily, the wonderful people at Echelon Vineyards were kind enough to send me samples of their Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, and Red Blend wines. And a handy-dandy corkscrew, much to my Hubby's infinite delight. Heaven in a box.

First up was the 2010 Pinot Grigio. This crisp, almost fruity wine was absolutely perfect after a long, hot Florida Saturday.

The citrus tones complimented the hints of almost... sweetness...an ideal wine for some alfresco poolside dining. (How I wished I had the time to pop on a pool float with a book and a cool glass of the wine!) I paired it with one of my favorite dinners of chicken in wine sauce with risotto, and the Hubby and I enjoyed a lovely evening in our own little backyard oasis. Cool, refreshing, and delicious.

After a pedicure, lunch, and shopping with my mom on Mother's Day, I came home to find my Hubby cleaning the house and prepping dinner. {ahhh...}

He handed me my book and a glass of the Echelon Collection Chardonnay — bliss! This Napa Valley Chardonnay seemed to gently roll out of the glass, richer and more lush than the Pinot Grigio, yet still lovely on a summer evening. It's flavor hinted of vanilla and made me crave an apple pie. The wine was not overly oaky or buttery, as some Chardonnays tend to be. Lovely, mellow, and balanced.

It paired perfectly with my Mother's Day dinner of grilled balsamic chicken topped with prosciutto. If only there had been enough left to pair with dessert...

Both wines are excellent values for their price point of about $10 and would be a welcome addition to any get-together with friends or quiet evening in.

I do have to add, I loved this little bit of marketing prose by the Echelon Vineyards team:

We think you're entitled to some recognition too. We believe wine is a simple reward and makes every day a celebration. Whether you've completed a 5K run, successfully put the kids to bed for the night, survived a challenging work day, or finished making a killer roast chicken, pour yourself a glass of Echelon and celebrate life's small blessings!

I couldn't agree more. Cheers!

*This product was sent to me for review purposes. I did not receive any monetary compensation. The opinions expressed are my own. I cannot guarantee a positive review for any product or services, but I can promise a review written with honesty and integrity.

Mother's Day Hallucinations

2012-05-11T07:18:00.000-04:00

This Mother's Day I'd like...

Source: hollywood-celebrity-pictures.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

To sit dripping in luxury as George Clooney paints my toes.

A Porsche Cayanne with a big red bow.

Source: sundayinbed.tumblr.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

A deserted beach where I could just relax and write.

Source: weheartit.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

An evening to cocoon in a hammock with a book under fairy light.

Source: lovelylisting.icanhascheezburger.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

A tranquil bath under a lush canopy of trees.

Source: everythingfab.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

A food and wine tour of Tuscany?

Source: superbsloths.blogspot.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

An ocelot kitten, a baby sloth, a yoga retreat on a Costa Rican beach?

At the moment, these things are just too far out of reach.

While all these things, these experiences would be a dream,

I'd be elated if my "boys" would just surprise me and clean.

I promise I'll stop with this horrid excuse for a poem

if I can just enjoy a pedicure with my Mom and return to a sparkling home.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you amazing women out there!

P.S. Today is the last day to enter to win your very own signed copy

of Confessions of a Scary Mommy!

The giveaway will close on Friday, May 11th at 9pm ET.

Click HERE for details!

Win Confessions of a Scary Mommy for Mother's Day!

2012-05-07T14:12:00.000-04:00

Unless you live under a cyber rock (or you have yet to endure the pleasure of childbirth, adoption, or raising a child in any way), you know that Jill Smokler (a.k.a. Scary Mommy) wrote a book — a snort-coffee-out-your-nose funny book Confessions of a Scary Mommy.

Jill buzzed through MY town last weekend (okay, she took some time out from schmoozing at the Social Media Moms Conference and blitzing through Disney) and held a book signing at my local Barnes and Noble. Of course, I was there.

And I must tell you, she was as witty, candid, and utterly delightful in person as she is on her blog and in her book...and much thinner. (No, I'm not saying that to kiss ass, but because she writes about her body image issues, but she could totally qualify as MILF material. Just saying.)

Yes, that's the copy YOU can win right there in my hand.

Jill read from her book (the chapter on family vacations — how apropos), dished the dirt on a few topics she can't write about online, and discussed the ever-changing worlds of blogging and publishing. It was enlightening and depressing and through-provoking all at the same time. And laced with some trademark language that would make a sailor blush, as well.

I met few bloggers I knew online, and it's always a wonderful experience to have a moment to talk with someone who "gets" you (because you know all those non-bloggers just think we're weird).

I had to buy a book while I was there, support blog-to-book writers and all that jazz, but since I already owned a signed advance review copy, I decided to buy a copy for you. Someone out there can win a signed copy of Confessions of a Scary Mommy just in time for Mother's Day. How's that for a rocking present?

So...do you want to win?

My fabulous book review is over at Bookshelf Bombshells today.

To enter, you MUST head over there first AND:

Choose one or more of the entry methods: Must leave a separate commentfor each thing that you do!
Mandatory entry:
* Leave a comment (including your email address) on the Bombshells website telling us why you or someone you love is a Scary Mommy.
Optional Entries:
*Follow @BookShelfBmshlson twitter and leave your twitter name on your comment.
*Follow Bookshelf Bombshells on Facebook and leave a comment that you are a follower.

On this site:
You can get some additional entries by:
* Liking me on Facebook and/or
*Twitter and leaving separate comments here also.
And if you tweet about the contest, maybe we'll give you another entry, too.

The giveaway will close on Friday, May 11th at 9pm ET. Winner will be chosen from the comments at random by Random.org and will be contacted via email.

(click here to visit BookshelfBombshells.com)

Too Busy to Blog so instead I'll have a Giveaway

2012-05-04T09:32:00.000-04:00

No posts in a week, I know, I'm a bad, bad blogger. But with the radio silence everyone seems to be experiencing, I'm not going to feel TOO guilty — I've been busy. Really.

Let's see... First, I FINALLY broke down and bought a smart phone. I've had a cell phone for...16 years, and this is only my fourth phone. Yes, I know I have a problem. Since my crappy contract was finally up (I will NEVER sign up for a 2-year contract ever again) I spent a few days hunting online and around town for a new plan and a smarter phone. When it finally arrived in the mail I felt like an 80-year-old at a gaming conference — I had no idea how to make the freaking thing work, nor the power held within that little device. So I've been spending far too much time teaching myself about the world of android and apps and actually having my SM on hand at all times. I couldn't tweet on the go before (oh the horror!). And...I've never sent a text. (Scoop your chin up from your keyboard now, please.) I have A LOT to learn...like Instagram and bar code scanning and Angry Birds...

I bought new dining room chairs. Considering I bought some of the old chairs when I settled into my COLLEGE apartment (and I'm not telling you how long ago that was) it was time. I happened upon some wrought iron chairs at Costco, and they were interesting and a great deal, so I surprised my husband with an afternoon of manual labor working as a delivery man. Then it took days to decide if I liked them. Turns out, I do like the eclectic mix (according to all the design mags and Pinterest, it's in).

{Look! Instagram & new chairs combo!}

Last Sunday we had a family date night at The Lion King. Yes, I know I'm once again about a decade behind, but Broadway is a bit far from the Sunshine State. It. Was. Amazing. If the traveling show ever comes through your area — GO. Take your kids (if they are mature enough to sit through a movie without jumping around and talking, they should be fine). Kiddo may have complained about having to "get dressed up," but he loved, loved, loved the show. So did we.

My microwave died. Yes, this is a big deal. Since I'm working (leaving the house 5:15 and not getting home until 10:45ish) dinners have been on the fly. That means microwave. So now that means pain-in-the-butt trying to heat a can of soup on the stove. And MORE shopping. All our appliances are going to die within the next year or so, so I've been wrangling over staying with white (all my cabinets are white and it's a small kitchen) or switching to stainless steel. What do you think?

There have been a few other things as well — writing query letters (more painful than labor), school carnivals, soccer games, and working way past my bed time...I know, I'll quit my bitching...

Oh, yeah, and on Sunday I FINALLY met Jill Smokler (a.k.a. Scary Mommy). That is deserving a post onto itself, so look for it Monday, along with my FIRST GIVEAWAY. Check back next week to see how you can win a signed copy of Confessions of a Scary Mommy.

Whew. I'm done now.

Do you have any android apps to recommend? Opinions on white vs. stainless steel appliances?

I'm A Working Girl Now

2012-04-24T07:45:00.000-04:00

Once again, my adaptation and juggling skills are being put to the test. For the first time in eight years, I am officially a working girl. (Because, as you all know, I spent those last eight years on the couch watching talk shows and eating Oreo truffles. Blogger, SAHM, and {unpublished} novelist don't really count as "real" jobs, right?)

I'm forbidden to reveal anything about my job, pure torture for a blogger. I've signed a strict confidentiality agreement; if I tell you, I'd have to kill you...or just get fired. It may or may not have something to do with poles, pistols, or the Pythagorean theorem.

Honestly, I'm just thrilled to be able to spend a few hours with other adults wearing something besides yoga pants. If I planned it our properly, I'd wager a hefty sum (in other words, more than I'm making) that I could wear a different outfit each day. And I'm talking no repeats on tops, bottoms, or dresses. The clothes horse in me is biting at the bit to finally dust off some of my thrift store fashion finds.

I CAN tell you it's an evening job. Considering my shift lasts a solid hour past my usual 9:30ish bedtime, I'd almost consider it a night job. It's a stretch for our family; we normally eat dinner together every night, and I'm always the one who cooks (I like cooking). Now I'm eating dinner at five, alone. I'm missing reading and snuggling time with my kiddo, the most cherished parts of my day. No evenings spent reading beside my hubby. And no wine during the week. Unbelievable, I know. I'm considering setting up a caffeine I.V. drip instead. Not nearly as much fun, but necessary.

Since I'm writing about jobs, I thought I'd link up with the lovely Nicole @Moments That Define for Listable Life.

5 Jobs I've had

1. Pirate Yes, I was the fresh-eyed, all-American girl in the polyester pirate costume standing outside Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World. Never. Again. Enough said. (Or to read why I Hung Mickey Mouse click here)

2. Ear Piercer Back in high school, I wielded the ear piercing gun at our mega-Claire's Boutique. Back then, earrings were "in" for guys, so I had a wonderful time making tough football players cry. Priceless. But the babies — oh, the babies — they'd be fine, just a little squirmy, as I did my best to draw even target dots on their tiny ears. They'd smile as I lined the gun up, then POP...they'd pause for a second, then stare at me as if I was evil incarnate just before they screwed their face up and howled. That second hole was always tough. I hated the babies, but I loved the boys.

Photo courtesy of ABC News

3. Bridal Boutique Manager I could tell you it was a magical job, filled with touching moments of teary-eyed and blissfully grateful brides-to-be embracing me after we found "the dress." It would be a boldfaced lie. I don't need to watch Bridezillas. I've lived it. On the bright side, I did get to try on all the sample gowns after hours. That was fun.

4. Japanese Hair product tester I can't reveal much, except that my DNA is on file in some Japanese laboratory. This makes me more than a bit nervous. At least I've never come across any weird pictures of my bad hair days on the internet. Yet.

5. Bra Fitter Technically, I was the Men's Collections and Ladies Lingerie department manager at a major department store, but I measured women for bras as often as my sales girls did. I've seen as many boobs as Hugh Heffner, except most were most certainly not Playboy worthy. I learned far too much about what happens when well-endowed women age (considering I was in my mid-20s and still small and perky, it was quite an eye-opener). Guys' eyes always lit up when I mentioned that aspect of my job — until I described how cleavage can hang well-past a waistline.

Have you had any unique jobs?

When School Shootings Hit Too Close To Home

2012-04-17T11:59:00.002-04:00

Today was supposed to be a day like any crazy/normal day: too much to do in far too little time, a new schedule, a new job, and I longed to sneak in some quality time without too much stress or drama. Our early morning flowed smoothly, and Kiddo and I held hands as we walked down our sleepy street.

Once the school bus pulled away, once we saw all those little hands wave good-bye at us through the tinted windows, a few us exchanged our usual morning chatter. Except today was a little different.

I'm so glad I saw people here at the bus stop. I wasn't sure any of the kids were going to school today.

But it wasn't a teacher work day? Spring break had long passed. Why wouldn't they be going to school?

Well, the shooting...some kid threatened to do a Columbine at the school...

I was suddenly wide awake.

That mom saw something on Facebook last night, just another news thread or rumor flying through cyberspace faster than a speeding bullet. I hadn't seen anything yet. I'd been focusing on fixing breakfast and packing lunchboxes, tying shoes and sneaking in some snuggle time.

I hurried home, more curious than concerned. There was nothing on our local newspaper website. Ditto on a quick skim of the television news sites. My TV screen just replayed footage of the space shuttle flying piggy-back on its final journey and local traffic snafus. What shooting?

I finally found a snippet, a short one minute video, on some third-rate news site.

Last fall, a student at our high school threatened to walk into the lunchroom and start randomly shooting. A fellow student told his parents about the threats, the parents called the cops, and the potential shooter was arrested. He said he'd been bullied as a freshman. He'd been inspired by Columbine. The attack was planned for three days before the Columbine anniversary. Today.

"4/17/12 is gonna be a day to remember dat day will bring joy to me and saddness to otherz"

The 18-year-old was charged with attempted felony murder as well as written threats to kill or do bodily harm; he was booked at the county jail months before his diabolical plan could come true. Perhaps that's why I just glossed over the story — I didn't hear about it until after he'd been arrested, after he'd been taken out of the picture, and the police swore our children would be safe and protected.

He was subsequently expelled.

However, this morning's harried research unveiled that prosecutors decided not to charge him with a crime. They decided he never took steps to actually commit murder and they found no weapons or ammunition in his home. They also said that since his threats were not directed at anyone in particular, they did not rise to the level of a written threat. His neighbor swore he was just an average boy-next-door, just another normal kid living in our quaint little suburbia.

That boy-next-door was arrested again in March for trespassing. He just walked into one of his old classrooms and took a seat. Such a simple act, yet the ease at which he could do it sends shivers down my spine.

He's free now, today, the day of his proposed massacre.

I'm scared. No, whether rational or not, I'm terrified.

You see, my son's elementary school is just across the street.

These things aren't supposed to happen around here. We bought our home a decade ago partially due to the prime school district, a vital consideration long before we ever started trying for a child. The highly rated high school looks like a small community college campus, with sprawling brick buildings sheltered below mature oak trees. It's nestled between a little white church and a shuttered sub shop. Even with the recession, most of the cars in the student parking lot are far more luxurious than my own. It was supposed to be a good, safe school.

And today, my baby, my only child, will go about his day on his relatively open elementary school campus within spitting distance of this threat. I'm tempted to go and eat lunch with him, so I can sit with my eyes glued to the cafeteria door, the unmanned door, that squeaky old metal door anyone could walk right through. Anyone. I mapped out the exits in my mind — would it be better to dash for the restrooms or try and hide in the kitchen, cowering behind industrial cabinets, a la Jurassic Park? Would I shout to save all the children, put myself in harms way to shepherd them to safety, or would I just snatch my own child and scurry away? I'm not a hero; I'm just a mother desperately in love with her son. I don't want these thoughts, they don't belong in my protected little world, but I don't know how to smother them.

After I hit the gym this morning, I just couldn't stop myself: I cruised by the schools. Both campuses looked quiet and serene on this sunny morning. Though another article I read said local police would be providing extra security today, I saw no hint of anything amiss. The high school parking lot wasn't full; how many parents kept their kids home today? Stopped at the light between the two schools, I fought the urge to march into the front office and whisk my baby home to safety. How could I leave him there just yards from the scene of a potential massacre? How easy would it be for the devil to march across the narrow street?

How much can we really protect our children?

Not five minutes ago I stepped out of the shower and heard sirens in the distance. It's lunchtime. Panic welled within; I swallowed it back, bitter as bile. On the TV, smiling news anchors discussed gym memberships and doggie day cares. Nothing devastating could be going on two miles away, just feet from my baby, right?

No one warns you about this kind of thing before you become a parent. The unthinkable. The unimaginable. When I finally see my baby dash off the bus this afternoon, relief will wash over me like a cool shower on a sweltering August day. I'll be counting the hours.

Joshilyn Jackson made me change my book

2012-04-16T09:15:00.002-04:00

While I sucked up every little hint of writing advice offered at the UCF Book Festival a few weeks ago, one session threw a wrench in my WIP.

I've already blogged about sitting utterly enamored in the audience, scribbling away in my old spiral notebook during Writing Place: New Fiction form the South: with Nicole Louise Reid, Joshilyn Jackson, and Karen White.

Joshilyn Jackson described writing her most ominous novel, Backseat Saints, as a journey into the depths of hell and back. After she rose from that dark place, she pleaded with her agent and publisher to let her write a nice, funny book. Since she is such an amazing writer who they didn't want to go completely off the deep end, they said of course dear, whatever you want.

So she wrote a light, funny book. And the readers she trusted with her newborn words said it was good, but it just wasn't her.

Don't be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.

She had to go deeper, let her characters crawl into a dank, tight grave reeking in desperation and heartbreak. And she rewrote the whole damn book. And that book, A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, ended up being the perfect blend of laughter and drama, at times leaving you gasping, at others snorting sweet tea out your nose. It worked. Well.

Her words seemed to glow across the room like firefly had spelled them out in a country dark night sky. (Didn't you ever read Sam and the Firefly?)

My most "popular" writing piece of late came not just from my heart, but from a time when that fickle organ had shriveled into a dull husk cowering on the bathroom floor. It was a dark piece, but it was transformative as well: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. (That should be my new writer's mantra.)

I thought about a piece Joshilyn posted on her blog back in February, an utterly devastating, fearsome, and transparent piece. I could see her heartbreak scrawling across the screen with each word. Though the damn post made me cry, it was a thing of beauty just dripping with an overwhelmingly distinctive voice. I actually made my Hubby read it, as ingesting the words seemed to be the only way to explain just how powerful a voice in writing can be — he cried too. (Okay, I didn't get wife of the year that night, and we spent our pre-dinner wine time reminiscing about our lost furry babies, but I needed to prove a point.) Go read it, you'll understand: Faster Than Kudzu: No Pictures.

We all have our own dark places, pieces of our lives we've buried deep within — areas riddled with cobwebs, weighed down with concrete blocks of guilt, and permeated with the lingering coppery stench of blood. Our characters should as well.

Don't be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.

You see, at the time I'd heard those words, I'd been about chest deep in my second draft, working in plot changes and character developments. I'd been plagued with this niggling feeling that something was still missing, my main character need just a bit more motivation for her actions.

Evie needed to go to her dark place.

Don't get me wrong. There's plenty of death, deception, and all that other nasty stuff already in there. (And believe it or not, it still kind of funny. At least I hope it is.) My Evie's life had basically turned into a twangy country song: she'd lost her husband, lost her house, lost her money, lost her sanity, and she's pretty sure that if she had a dog, it would've been hit by the garbage truck, too. But she had to lose something else, something not superficial, to keep propelling her through the plot.

So, I've spent the last two weeks trying to work that extra element in, weaving it into my story like raven's wing black streaks into a braid.

And I think it's working.

Thanks Joshilyn.

lady luck

2012-04-11T09:07:00.000-04:00

“When I was a little girl, I used to run around in the fields all day,

trying unsuccessfully to catch ladybugs. I’d get tired and lay down for a nap.

When I awoke, I’d find the ladybugs walking all over me.”

~Under the Tuscan Sun

Some days you just need to take a break from the never-ending chase,

relax, smell the salt air, read a book by the shore.

Take a moment to clear your head, savor a moment of pure kismet,

forget to keep score.

Our Easter Bunny should be fired

2012-04-09T10:27:00.001-04:00

First a confession: I have apparently turned into my mother. I used to tease her about the chocolate Easter bunny who lived in our freezer, only to be resurrected each year for a one-day appearance in my basket. Well, it seems I have outdone her, because I have THREE bunnies in my freezer. Someone, come and eat them, please. I'm afraid if I leave them together much longer they will multiply (you know how those bunnies can be).

And the sad thing is, Kiddo had no idea these bunnies were making a repeat performance.
Bad Easter Bunny.

Saturday morning I woke up at 6:45 in a total panic. Oh Crap! The Easter bunny forgot to stop by our house! I woke my husband, flew to the bunny's secret lair and snatched the loot, and was about to grab all the empty eggs for stuffing when my Hubby woke up enough to think. Someone had to. "Uh, honey," he said. "It's Saturday. Easter is Sunday. Today's our anniversary."

Oops. I knew there was something special about the day. Not sure which is worse: forgetting Easter or forgetting it was my twelfth anniversary. Bad Mommy. Bad Wife.

I considered resigning as Easter Bunny. If only I could fire myself.

The REAL Easter morning went well, at least. That tricky bunny decided to make Kiddo hunt for some of his presents this year, and stuffed a few eggs with clues. I was absolutely thrilled when he dug into his new Titanic books and legos and left the wii toy to sit alone by the television.

He's my kid after all.

For the last...six years (geesh, time flies) we've spent Easter afternoon at our friends' parents farm. They throw a big old fashioned potluck and egg hunt, and we look forward to it each year.

Half a dozen folding tables hold mugs filled with dye, stickers, and crayons for drawing. A few years ago, someone decided that garbage bags saved the kids from dying themselves, and they all get decked out in this trashy fashion statement. Outfits saved.

While the eggs dry, it's time to feast. The buffet fills the farmhouse's wrap-around porch, and folks line up on both sides to load their plates with everything from home-grown beans to turkey and ham.

You have to clean your plate before you are allowed to hit the dessert buffet. Yes, dessert buffet. I crammed down two slices of cake (luckily there was no banana pudding this year or I would have popped). My friend totally stole my idea and made this adorable Peeps sunflower cake. (Okay, she had no idea I saw the pin on Pinterest and I was too lazy to make it myself.)

The kids run wild for a little bit while the adults digest.

Then the kids are corralled inside while most of the adults hide the eggs. Hundreds of eggs: each child dyed a dozen, then there are huge storage bins filled with stuffed plastic eggs. We spread them over a couple of acres, in citrus trees, on tractor wheels, in plant pots, and tucked in Spanish moss gracefully drooping from oak trees. Big kids go to one side of the house, little ones on the other. It's still hard to believe my Kiddo is one of the bigger children now. He was just 2 1/2 the year of his first hunt.

My baby's grown a little bit.

Funny how he has dirty knees in both pictures. Some things never change.

Funny how other things can change in the blink of an eye.

On the way home, we passed by another group of Trayvon Martin supporters marching through downtown Sanford. Back to life, back to reality.

Because Stormtroopers Read Too

2012-04-04T07:23:00.000-04:00

While wandering the main floor of the UCF Book Festival last Saturday,

I caught this Stormtrooper in the act.

No, not in the act of defending Darth Vader, or blasting away at the good guys,

but casually perusing the author booths.

Reading book jackets.

Because Stormtroopers read, too. Remember that kids. . .

Release the Scary Mommy in You

2012-04-03T07:26:00.000-04:00

Today is the big day! Confessions of a Scary Mommy hits the book shelves everywhere. I shall start by assuming you all know about Scary Mommy. If you have somehow lived under a cyber rock for the last few years, here's the rundown:

The blog: Scary Mommy: an honest and irreverent look at motherhood — the good, the bad, and the scary. Thousands of moms flock to her site religiously for a daily dose of wit with a side of mom-bonding.

The woman behind it: Jill Smokler, a Maryland mom of three, and the reigning queen of dishing out motherhood's dirty little secrets. "Erma Bombeck-style insights...about the underbelly of marriage and parenting...to a new generation of women." ...yeah, yeah, yeah... She's funny, she's real, you'll wish she lived next door so you could vent together over margaritas.

Now that we've cleared that up, Jill Smokler wrote a book. A pee-in-your-pants, snort-coffee-out-your-nose, funny kind of book. Confessions of a Scary Mommy, hitting stores April 3rd, is not a highbrow work of literature. It's a book about stretch marks, snot, and shitting on the delivery table. It's also about cutting yourself some slack, having compassion for fellow moms in the trenches, and maintaining a sense of humor as necessary skill for survival. It lifts the sacred veil off the face of motherhood, revealing that none of us really have any clue what we are doing. It's about REAL life.

The book's twenty-seven chapters cover everything from delivery room dramas to competitive birthday party planning. Each is only a short snippet — kind of like a Reader's Digest or Men's Health article — perfect for a quick read while hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Oreos and a shot of tequila.

Each chapter starts with a round-up of "Mommy Confessions," anonymous admissions taken from Smokler's highly poplar blog boards where moms air their dirtiest laundry. Many will make you laugh, some will make you gasp, and most will make any mom nod her head in agreement while shouting, "Hell, yeah!" because, well, we've all been there. (And yes, there's even an App for that.)

As to be expected, Confessions of a Scary Mommy doesn't sugarcoat any aspect of modern motherhood. If you are not a mom yet, you may be outrageously offended by some of the off-color confessions and candid reality checks. How dare some mothers think these things, let alone say them! These women are EVIL and don't deserve to raise a child! Ditto that on the brand-spanking-new first time moms still jacked up on the delicious new-baby-smell high. They'll fall from their pedestals soon enough, and they will come crawling to this book and to the blog to get them through the day.

If you are a mother and you cannot find something to relate to in the first chapter alone (even if you are afraid to admit it) you LIE. Or you are a cyborg, Stepford Wife, or on some really, really good grown-up drugs. From the dreaded mommy guilt to aching ovaries and swearing at our children when they act like little shits (in our heads, of course) — we've all been there. And it is an utter relief to realize we are all a part of this vast sisterhood of Scary Mommies.

This book will scare some people — absolutely— there's foul language and feces and brutal honesty. Confessions of a Scary Mommy may terrify my expecting cousin, but I'll buy it for her because she deserves to know what she's getting into. And for my mom, so she realizes I now understand all the crap I put her through. And for my Mother-In-Law for — nope, never mind — she'd drop this book like a flaming shit bomb at the first "fuck." She's of the generation who believes some things just aren't said. I think these things should be screamed from the rooftops, so this generation of moms can be saved from a lifetime of self-flagellation and vodka tonics at 10 a.m. They need to know it's okay to not like your children every second of every day, even though you love them fiercely. They are okay. Scary Mommy said so.

The only thing missing from this book was a few more pages. I would have loved for the chapters to be longer, explored in more depth, but then no busy mom would be able to sneak in enough time to read it. Call me selfish, but I just didn't want Confessions of a Scary Mommy to end.

So buy it. Yourself. It would make a fabulous Mother's Day gift, but you know your husband won't remember, so just put a nice bow on it and call it even. Consider it a belated Push Present. Because you fucking deserve it.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy
by Jill Smokler
Gallery Books, 208 pages
$10.20 [hardcover] $9.99 [Kindle]

Authors & Aspirations at the UCF Book Fest

2012-04-02T08:17:00.000-04:00

I slogged through cross-town traffic, a torrential thunderstorm, and skipped my Kiddo's soccer game to attend the University of Central Florida Book Festival. It was totally worth it. I hadn't set foot on the college campus since a Tori Amos concert a lifetime ago. I put on my big girl panties and a trendy outfit (so I wouldn't look like one of the college kids' mothers, which technically, I could be) and marched into the arena...alone.

Vendors, authors, and makeshift bookstores filled the arena floor. There were twenty-one author panels spread across four meeting rooms to choose from, and a few times it was a tough call deciding which session to attend. In the end, I sat in on:

The Liberal Arts Life: From Jazz to Journalism to Novel to Script: keynote author James McBride

Writing Place: New Fiction form the South: Nicole Louise Reid, Joshilyn Jackson, and Karen White

Stories From the Ladies of the South: Rachel Hauck, River Jordan, Marybeth Whalen, Lisa Wingate

Killing People in Exotic Places: Nancy J. Cohen, Bob Morris, Neil S. Plakcy

Embracing Imperfections through Young Adult Lit: Ellen Hopkins, Jessica Martinez, Ty Roth

Some of the authors I've known and loved for years, some tickled my interest, and some I simply must go out and read their books immediately. Or as soon as I eke out some time.

As a lifetime lit fan, occasional book reviewer, and aspiring author, I hung on every word spewing from these successful writers' mouths. I thought I'd be generous and pass along my favorite tidbits gleamed from the wonderful panel discussions.

James McBride (The Color of Water, Miracle at St. Anna, musician, journalist, and screenplay writer): Learn to fail, and fail better — every successful person has learned to accept his failures and move on. Since I'm prepping myself for the excruciating process of finding an agent and landing a publisher, I MUST remember this. If The Help was rejected 100 times, I can't imagine how thick my stack of rejection letters will grow.

Nicole Louise Reid (So There!): A successful writer is someone who is good at lying, not in person, but on paper. I'd never read any works by her before, but her reading was lovely, her words were lush, lyrical, and from the heart...or at least that's what she'd like you to believe.

Joshilyn Jackson (A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, Backseat Saints): People should buy your book not because it's good, but because your whole heart is in it. And don't be afraid to let your characters go to dark places. I'll admit, Joshilyn was my main draw. I've loved her work since I read the first page of Gods in Alabama years ago, and I totally have a writer crush on her now. I've been reading her blog Faster Than Kudzu, for a while, and now that I've met her, I understand. Shes whimsical, slightly manic, and funny as hell.

And, as you can see, my new BFF. Or writing partner. In my DREAMS. I can only hope that by standing so close to her I sucked up a few drops of her writing talent by some type of author osmosis. (Hey, I could write a story about that...) (And I look totally horrible in this picture, I blame it totally on the kind old guy behind me who snapped the shot without any time for me to stand up straight or position my arm properly. It's not that fat, I swear.)

Rachel Hauck (The Wedding Dress) Fiction is hyperbole, life on steroids, so yes, writers always take from real life. Character inspirations, settings, and scenes are all around you — suck them up.

Marybeth Whalen (The Guest Book, She Makes It Look Easy) If it's a priority, you can make it happen. Marybeth has six kids, and still can balance the writing life and family life. I have no excuse. We live in a very visual society now; write it like you'd see it.

Neil S. Plakcy (the Mahu mystery series) I don't get mad at people anymore. I just kill them. (In his books, of course.)

Bob Morris (Baja Florida, Bahamarama) I like to put real peoples' names in books, just too see if they actually read them.

Ellen Hopkins (Crank, Perfect) Another reason no one should ban books, or consider certain books inappropriate for a certain age: it's better to let people, especially teens, learn about the bad things in life, the rough patches, through a book. It gives them a frame of reference, a way of coping with a difficult situation. And every time (I) am told one of my books has been flagged as inappropriate, I send a stack of letters to that person, letters from fans stating how that book saved their life. I fight for it.

I caught author Karen White (who was charming, witty, and wonderful, but I neglected to take notes of any of her sage advice) signing an e-reader cover instead of an actual book. The wave of the paperless future?

I had a wonderful, enlightening day. I also managed to get scared out of my mind by my most-likely masochistic career choice. I can only dream I'll be invited to attend one year as a published author myself.

And if not, I just discovered I SHOULD have applied to attend as a blogger. I totally missed an awesome Friday night meet and greet with the authors. Lesson learned, failure noted and accepted. I am taking notes.

Central Florida Bloggers, Food, & Fun

2012-03-30T11:55:00.001-04:00

I finally made it to another monthly night out with a group of fun & fabulous Central Florida Lady Bloggers. Mexican food, an icy Imperial (a Costa Rican beer), and blogging buddies — ingredients for a perfect evening!

It felt so good trade out my writing wardrobe (a.k.a. yoga pants) for a bright new dress, ditch the slippers for some espadrilles, and head downtown. This suburban girl doesn't get out much. Though I'm only about ten miles from the hip downtown area, I felt like I was heading into a different world — one that involves the choice of valet parking or driving in circles for hours to snatch a tiny parallel parking spot. But I found a spot where I wouldn't get towed, then enjoyed some delicious food, cold drinks, and amazing company.

Carolina, from Peas in a Blog, was smart enough to bring her camera along (because no blogger should EVER leave home without one) and had our young waiter snap this photo. Thanks for letting us all totally steal it!

These ladies are amazing. Not only do they write for a diverse range of blogs, but they run marathons, compete for national fashion blogging awards, host panel discussions at BlogHer Food, produce nationally syndicated television and radio shows, and so much more. I can't help but to feel out of my league. Take a minute to discover some of their unique blogs — you won't be disappointed.

Food
Christine – Cook the Story
Kristina – Love & Zest

Food & Fitness
Carolina — Peas in a Blog
Jessica – Sushi & Sit Ups

Fashion
J – J’s Everyday Fashion

Children's Health & Wellness
Carly & Courtney - Illuminate Blog

Sports
Colleen – Lady Ballers

A bit of everything
Heather – Housewife Glamour
Jackie – Mom Jovi

Social Media/Fitness
Katy – Katy Widrick

Running & Fun
Paula – Eat Watch Run
Victoria – Running Peanut

*Thanks again to Carolina for compiling this list. And if I miss you, let me know, & I'll gladly add you.

Since I've been trying to eat healthier (swimsuit season is already in full swing around here), I ordered the Lettuce Wrap Fajitas. Probably not the best choice when wearing a new dress. They proved so messy, I dumped all the ingredients on one plate and improvised a taco salad. Not bad. And it gave me inspiration for dinner the next night.

I'd bought some of the new Kraft Fresh Takes (coating, seasoning, & cheese mix) when they were free with coupons. I baked some chicken breasts coated in the Chili Lime and Panko coating and tossed it on top of a salad of mixed baby greens, red and orange bell peppers, black beans, and green onions.

Pretty good, if I do say so myself. And another example of why I don't eat out much. It's hard to justify spending $10+ bucks on a dinner salad when I can make it at home.

Oh, and while I was making this dinner, Hubby suddenly remembered that he had a potluck at work...tomorrow. I wasn't making him anything at such the last minute, so I tossed him a box of brownie mix and let him figure it out.

Better luck next time? They still tasted great though (is it possible for brownies to taste bad?) and I'm sure all the ladies at his work will be tickled he made them himself.

Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon...

2012-03-27T08:42:00.003-04:00

A hot air balloon ride is on everyone's bucket list. When I saw the ad for the New Smyrna Beach Balloon Festival, I knew we had to go.

I'd been looking forward to it for weeks, examining the schedule, charging my camera battery, and dreaming. The weather looked iffy though — the balloons could only inflate if the winds stayed below 8 mph. The fest was being held close to the beach where winds gusted stronger than that daily. AND a storm front was scheduled to move through over the weekend. Iffy.

We decided to go up for two nights, because I knew if I went up for only Friday OR Saturday, the show would not go on.

Friday night we ate a delish surf-Mexican dinner at the Taco Shack, a totally casual open-air place where cats strolled below the wooden benches, the food was quick and hot, while the beer was cheap and cold. Perfect. We felt as if we were back in Costa Rica. We'll be going back.

We met up with some friends and family at the Balloon Fest. The place was crazy. Normally, New Smyrna is a sleepy little beach town — I think the city by-laws state you must be retired or surf to live there. Half of Central Florida must have filled the muddy airport parking lot that day.

Vintage planes sat parked along the runways, displays for the airshows taking over the skies all weekend. Nearly a hundred vendor booths took up far too much space, and of course Kiddo talked his Grandma into buying him a souvenir. The obligatory greasy food court was jammed with people eating anything imaginable that could be fried or stuck on a stick {or both}. But they had REALLY cheap beer — win! A giant Ferris wheel and a bustling, overpriced carnival lit up the evening sky.

But I didn't care about any of that. I bee-lined it straight for Balloon Island.

A few withered nylon bags were strewn across a field, their colors and shapes not clear in the twilight. People tugged wicker baskets from the backs of vans and trailers. They were so much smaller than I had imagined, only 4 x 5 or so, just big enough for four people to squeeze into, and small enough to easily fit into the back of a pick-up truck.

The winds gusted far higher than the allowed speed, but a few brave crews tried to get their balloons up. The basket and balloon started down on its side, while the mouth was held open to capture the wind. Once enough air filled the nylon balloon, the flames turned on, sporadic bursts lighting up the sky.

But the balloons never left the ground that night. It was just too windy. We watched jets flare like sparklers, parachutes fall with flaming trails, and a jet-engine rigged school bus roar past at 200+ mph.

We missed the full airshow Saturday, but as we sat on the beach we caught glimpses of the jets and biplanes practicing along the coast, cruising by in tight formation above the sand and sea.

A front threatened to cancel all the night's activities, and rain chances went up as the day grew long. The afternoon brought a few brief showers, but a few of us decided to brave it anyway.

I could see the outlines of balloons as soon as we neared the entrance. We raced through the crowds, eager to get in line for a ride. My wonderful Hubby joined the queue while a friend and I took our boys to explore — but not before we enjoyed a smuggled-in champagne toast {shhh}.

Now, this was a tethered balloon ride. While we would LOVE to go for the hour-long ride gliding high above the Florida countryside, we didn't have the $200 bucks a person to shell out. I'll save that luxury for a ride over wine country or some foreign destination, thanks. Heavy ropes connected the balloons to trucks and vans. I would have loved to have ours break free, escaping above the crowds, but that wasn't going to happen.

Tickets in hand, we let Kiddo pick our balloon. We were third in line. He was impatient, dying to get into the sky — so was I. It was actually tough to climb into the basket, find the foothold low on the wicker, and I was barely able to swing my leg over the top. Inside, there wasn't any room to maneuver, and I thanked the stars that I vetoed my skirt at the last minute.

The three of us just barely fit in there with the captain.

The flames burned hot against my slight sunburn, they were close, bright, and blinding as the sun.

The inside of the nylon dome was huge,

a brilliant hollow Easter egg holding us suspended in the air.

Storm clouds closed in on us, and lightening flickered in the distance. Our time up in the air was far too brief, but the lines snaked across the field, others waiting {some rather impatiently} for their time in the sky. Kiddo scored a second ride with our friends, and not minutes after they descended the rains came.

We grabbed a cheap beer and stood in the rain watching the balloons deflate. There were going to be many disappointed people that night, but we would not be amongst them. We had a blast.

Fifty Shades of Hype

2012-03-23T08:20:00.003-04:00

Source: shine.yahoo.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

From: Vinobaby, an avid book lover and budding novelist
Subject: Fifty Shades of ~~Hype~~ Grey
Date: March 22, 2012
To: Mature Readers Everywhere (that means Mom & Grandma, this is NOT for you)

I fell for the hype. From the Today Show's segment on the new mommy porn and the countless articles about the sultry Twilight for grown-ups overtaking the suburbs, Fifty Shades of Grey was everywhere, a publishers wet dream. I had to see what it was about.

I wanted to be floored. I wasn't impressed.

Fifty Shades of Gray is the story of Anastasia Steele, a naive young virgin, and her romance with Christian Grey, a beautiful billionaire. Days before her college graduation, young, immature Ana fills in for her sick best friend/roommate and interviews the powerful CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. for her college magazine. He is devastatingly handsome. He is rather young himself, especially for a self-made billionaire. He is an utter control freak. Plain, normal Ana falls for him, and even though she is just an "every-girl," the filthy-rich hunk falls for her, too.

Right.

We discover quite quickly that Christian is not one for a normal relationship. No touching. No staying the night. Just lots of kinky sex. He opens Ana up to the world of chain-filled playrooms, spankings, and calling her boyfriend "Sir." He is a dominant and she is supposed to be his submissive. . .she just has a few other ideas in mind.

"I'm no longer angry with him, I suddenly feel unbearably shy. I don't want him to go. For the first time I wish he was — normal — wanting a normal relationship that doesn't need a ten-page agreement, a flogger, and carabiners in his playroom ceiling."

It's not literature. Not because of the sex scenes, but because it's just not written that well. Anais Nin and Henry Miller spun controversial and steamy stories, but their works still can be found on the literature shelves of bookstores and libraries. Fifty Shades has the distinct feel of a YA novel, just a NC-17 version. The characters are flat, immature, and Ana's inner dialogue made me want to scream. Her budding inner goddess thinks, "Holy $hit" every other page. It got old. She was supposed to be a lit student who easily scored a job with a publishing house. Yet she never owned a laptop. Or, judging by her 13-year-old vocabulary, a thesaurus.

Then there's the whole brouhaha about possible copyright infringement. The novel supposedly developed from the author E L James's Master of the Universe fan fiction piece, a Twilight takeoff. While I don't read fan fiction and the idea of making money on another author's back is odious, honestly, I don't see how it's an issue here. There are some similarities, yes. Both of the heroines are naive, unremarkable every-girls who blossom under the watchful eyes of their constant beaus. Only their necessary side of spunk makes them tolerable and different from wet dishrags. And I get it — girls like bad boys with a hidden sensitive side and a sob-story past. Both Edward and Christian are otherworldly handsome, filthy rich, and scarily jealous and controlling. That whole possessive deal is one of the key issues that scared me with the Twilight saga — millions of young girls and older Twilight Cougars in love with such a controlling freak. {That's why I was Team Jacob.}

Speaking of Jacob: his would-be parallel character, Jose, is barely mentioned, not developed at all, and seemingly thrown in just to illustrate Christian's overwhelming anger and jealousy. But that is nothing new to fiction, and even a well-developed love triangle is not copyrightable.

There are also none of Twilight's subplots (or much plot at all, really). I kept waiting for a rival pack of rich and carnally hungry dominants to raid the town, leaving a trail of deflowered young girls — some element of mystery or danger. Instead it is 372 pages of I know I shouldn't like this guy or this crazy sex, but I think I kinda do anyway..holy crap...

Honestly, a young woman falling for a sparkling, sexless (at least for a while) vampire seems more realistic to me than a college-educated virgin jumping panties-first into a BDSM relationship, complete with contract and all. I couldn't bother to root for any of the characters.

I don't think this book would have received any of the publicity, sales, or a massive book deal if it hadn't hitched its steamy wagon to the nonstop Twilight train. It's just not that good. I wanted to attack the manuscript with a red pen in hand, because apparently it was thrown into print without a copy editor. Others have said it's an emotional roller coaster, heartbreaking, and thrilling — I found it to be utterly flat, and as exciting as Disney's Hall of Presidents. But hype is everything now, and this book is rivaling Blue Ivy and the slut controversy.

If you are looking to read some smut, excuse me "erotica," but you are to nervous to go to your local bookstore to pick some up, I guess this may be worth your time. {But, just so you know, you can order online and no one will ever know.} I'm certainly not recommending this book though. I would have put it down after the first ten pages (long before it got to any of the good stuff) if I wasn't so curious about all the hype. I'm rather disappointed it didn't live up to any of it.

Have you read Fifty Shades? What did you think? Five star or one (or a shade of grey somewhere between)?

The Booze Canoes {or it must be St. Paddy's Day}

2012-03-21T09:08:00.001-04:00

If you want to test a relationship, go canoeing.

I'm serious. I see it happen (and live it) every year. That fine line between this is the most lovely, relaxing day with my significant other and I'm going to kill him.

We have a lovely, near pristine piece of old Florida not far from our home. Far enough that I can't hear the traffic, the constant hum of air conditioners, and the whirl of sirens. Close enough that we still get emergency cell phone service (in case we are eaten by an alligator or bear) and only have a twenty minute drive home.

Source: myscienceproject.org via Vinobaby on Pinterest

Each St. Patrick's Day we gather with a large group of friends from Hubby's soccer team and our local English pub for the St. Paddy's Day Paddle.

The jello shots start at 9 a.m.

Yes, I know. But in pre-kid days, it used to start earlier — as in everyone meet at 8 a.m. for a few beers, but most of us are too old for that now. And it really does help with whole relationship thing. A little liquor tends to tune down the urge to throw your spouse or significant other overboard.

A pack of 12 to 20 canoes gather annually for this 8 mile river run. From families to single swearing Scotsmen still drunk from the night before, it's a diverse bunch. Some paddlers have experience. Some don't know which end of the paddle goes in the water. Those are the guys who drink the most. And tip the most. And are the most entertaining to watch.

Steering a flimsy fiberglass boat through alligator-infested waters is enough to make some people nervous. Add in hairpin twists and turns, dark water riddled with underwater obstructions which can snag and dunk you, and swampy shoals where you can easily run aground, and the REAL fun begins.

Someone has to steer. Someone has to navigate and listen. And when do couples ever work in such harmony?

Shouts echo down the river.

Why didn't you tell me we were going to hit a log?

Steer right, right, no your OTHER right! {crash}

Ackh! Spiderweb, you steered me into a giant spiderweb!

Watch the damn water, and stop trying to catch jello shots!

You DO NOT jump and lean in the boat when we see a gator.

What do you mean you forgot the toilet paper? Am I supposed to use a leaf?

If you tip us, so help me God, you will be sleeping on the couch until NEXT YEAR'S paddle.

Paddle faster. Paddle faster! I hear banjos... {Not really, but I did find a teen serenading three girls with an acoustic guitar.}

Usually, if a couple survives the comedy of errors, their relationship is bound to last. Canoeing should be a part of mandatory premarital counseling, a mini-Survivor, where only the strong-willed and strongest relationships will make it off the island and down the isle. Everyone bickers, from couples just dating to those who have persevered through decades of marriage.

During those moments when things are under control, it's an absolutely lovely day. No noise but bird calls, frog croaks, and the breeze blowing through towering cypress trees. Over the years we've spotted otters, snakes, alligators, zillions of water birds, wild turkeys, and resting turtles along the Wekiva River. Deer and black bears frequent the area also, but we've yet to spot one along the river (I'm guessing the banging boats and wild Englishmen's swears scare them away).

Our St. Paddy's Day tradition — booze, canoes, and wilderness. What could possibly go wrong?

You & Me: Wordless Wednesday

2012-03-14T07:24:00.003-04:00

Setting: Manual Antonio, Costa Rica

Words: Dave Matthews Band, You and Me

Dream: To be there, right now.
(and, once again, it ties in with my novel. . .)

Yet Another Reason Pinterest Makes Me Feel Inferior

2012-03-12T08:44:00.001-04:00

As a child, I created my own fashion catalogs and everyday cookbooks, the glossy photos and text snipped from my mom's magazines and department store flyers. In college I papered my walls with my favorite advertisements and cutting edge photography, images that helped shape my blossoming persona.

I still subscribe to far too many magazines, though now my folders and boxes burst with home decor and beauty ideas. I've saved thousands of recipes over the years, first by cutting from magazines and taping into burgeoning three-ring binders, and for the last decade or so, saving into my computerized cookbook.

So naturally, I'm a sucker for Pinterest.

Millions of images, ideas, recipes, forever rotating, begging to be selected, "pinned," and in some cases, recreated? Heaven.

It's no secret I cannot bake. I am an inspired cook, but if the recipe involves an oven, I'm screwed. But I'm also persistent. There are just so damn many temptations — cookies and cakes other bloggers said were just so easy to bake — if they could do it, so could I.

Failure #1: Mini Chocolate Pies for an Oscar party. The pie: Demetrie's Chocolate Pie (minus the 'secret' ingredient) from The Help via The Book Club Cookbook. The crusts: from an adorable blog I found via Pinterest. I won't share disgustingly perfect little sugar cookie crusts they photographed, filled with delicate cream cheese and fruit, sitting atop a perfectly set table, as if waiting for a royal tea party. It all seemed so simple.

Place break & bake cookie dough in mini muffin pan.

Once baked, gently press down with your handy dandy Pampered Chef mini-tart press to form a little shell. And voila—

I ended up with lopsided crusts, which sat in the pan for two days, adhered to the non-stick surface with some type of buttery cement, until I was tempted to throw the entire mess away.

Project FAIL. The blogger said it was easy, the crusts should just drop from the pan like petals from a spent rose. I was a failure, with no gourmet treats for my party. I bought some yogurt covered pretzels and hid my shame.

Failure #2: Yesterday I gave in to a craving for cake. I'd pinned this lovely Red Velvet Snowball cake recently and, really, how hard could it be?

From Country Living Magazine via Pinterest

I didn't bother making the cake from scratch. Betty-In-a-Box, a fresh bag of coconut, and voila —

It looked like a mauled albino hamster or something. It totally brought to mind the armadillo groom's cake from Steel Magnolias.

It tasted good (only a slight aftertaste of a bottle's worth of red dye), but it was certainly not pin-worthy. No one else would ever ohh or ahhh over it, follow the stunning photo's link to my blog, and become a faithful follower.

And that's okay.

We are all not pastry chefs. Or set decorators, food photographers, fashion divas, or craft gurus. But I'll bet there's something we each can do just a little bit better than the next person. The trick is finding that special talent, cultivating it, and rocking it to the best of our abilities...and then some.

Write on. . .

P.S. Click here to check out my occasionally delusional and often cool Pinterest boards.

Foolproof French Onion Soup — Flippant Foodie Friday

2012-03-09T11:03:00.000-05:00

Spring has almost sprung down here in the South, so I'm sneaking in my last warm and hearty dinners before it gets to warm. I eat a steaming bowl of soup for lunch whenever the temperature dips below 70 degrees. And if I can make a savory pot of homemade deliciousness for dinner, even better.

Foolproof French Onion Soup

Cook Time: about an hour
Serves : 4 main course bowls

3 tablespoons butter
4 medium onions (I prefer Vidalia, but any sweet or yellow variety will do)
1 48 oz. container beef broth/stock (or vegetable if you are meat-free)
1 14 oz. can chicken stock (or vegetable)
1/2 teaspoons Herbs de Provence
2-3 cloves garlic, crushed or finely chopped
4 slices hearty bread (cibatta or artisan) OR croutons
4 slices cheese (fonitna, smoked gouda, gruyere, or muenster are all good)
1 generous tablespoon brandy
salt and pepper to taste

Slice the onions — the thinner the better. In a large saucepan, melt butter. Add the onions and cook with the lid on, stirring every few minutes, for at least 10 minutes (just tender) to 30 minutes (caramelized). Your call, but the longer, the sweeter and more tender they will be. Add in the garlic and Herbs de Provence about the last 2 minutes and stir.

Deglaze the pan with the brandy (scrape up all the good little burnt bits from the pan). Add the broth. Simmer soup for at least 20 minutes, or until onions are melt-in-your-mouth tender.

Meanwhile, if you are using bread, lightly butter and season with garlic, if you so desire. Toast lightly. Cut into cubes.

Preheat broiler. Ladle soup evenly between 4 ovenproof bowls. Spread bread or croutons over the top. Cover with cheese. Broil for 3-5 minutes, or until the cheese is slightly browned and bubbling.

Garnish with fresh chives or green onions, if you have any on hand.

Serve with fresh bread or sandwiches for a savory meal.

There's a Frog in My Toilet

2012-03-05T08:14:00.001-05:00

It was 6:48 a.m. on a lazy Sunday morning. I stumbled out of bed and walked to...well, where most people head when they first wake up...the loo. My bladder full, my eyes still half closed and crusted with sleep, I raised the lid.

A giant turd sat at the bottom of the bowl. I ran through my litany of swear words in my head. I thought I had trained my boys better. They didn't even leave the seat up anymore. How dare they leave me a present!

Then the turd moved.

And I screamed.

Say hello to rana sphenocephala (a.k.a. the Southern leopard frog). While I am quite fond of frogs, I do not care for humongous ones hanging out in my toilet. That thing nearly scared the crap out of me. (Which would have been problematic, considering the toilet was obviously otherwise occupied.)

Apparently, I had the same effect on that slippery critter, because it swam into one of the holes to hide.

I fetched the hubby and my camera.

We banged on the bowl a bit and scared him back out. He jumped out of the bowl and hopped around the bathroom until we caught him with the net.

Yes, we actually have a critter net handy at all times. You'd be amazed how many lizards dare to venture onto our porch, even though the cat is waiting to turn them into a gory toy.

Mr. Leopard Frog did not want to go easily. Before I could twist the top of the net shut (I've seen snake catchers do that on Nat Geo and Animal Planet) he leaped across the bedroom and tried to get under our bed.

Now this was just getting nasty. Frog and toilet germs did not belong in my bedroom.

After some antics that would have made the Three Stooges proud, I trapped him in the net and dumped him in the backyard.

I have no idea how he got in to my toilet, and I don't want to know.

Meanwhile, we had to keep all this on the down low so Kiddo wouldn't be afraid to flush the potty ever again.

And all this before I even smelled my coffee. I deserved a freaking a mimosa that morning.

Mouth Misery. Again.

2012-02-28T07:32:00.000-05:00

My baby has to have surgery. Again.

Oral surgery, and my baby is eight, but it stinks all the same.

Source: mymilktoof.blogspot.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

Last Wednesday he bounced from the school bus in a pretty good mood, as Wednesday is early release day followed by a park playdate. While walking home, he mentioned that he had a bump in his mouth. We paused and I peeked. Sure enough, the area where he had oral surgery in September was swelling up again. Again. Freaking Peachy.

(To read why he had surgery to remove his Supernuemray Teeth and the Hell we went through, read here.)

I didn't write about how Kiddo's mouth became horribly infected in December. The gums under his incision scar first looked like it formed a blister. Then it swelled up, formed a head like an erupting tooth, and exploded, all in about two days. I took pictures, but I will not gross you out with them. I was scared to death. The oral surgeon put him on some nasty and hard to find antibiotics, and supposedly he would be fine.

That was a week before Christmas. The infection has returned. Apparently, he is NOT fine.

As soon as I raced through the door Wednesday afternoon, I called the oral surgeon. We had just been there the week before. We had been at the orthodontist the day before. I fell into a near panic when the surgeon's office gave me a run-around, trying to say I needed a new referral and they had to make phone calls and. . . I called the orthodontist, they were right around the corner. Someone had to see my baby, someone had to give us that antibiotic prescription. After some more confusion, we had an appointment for the oral surgeon the next day.

So, Thursday afternoon, after an x-ray and inspection, the surgeon determined that Kiddo's mouth was indeed infected. Again. And it shouldn't be.

"You need to give me another sleepy shot and go in and fix it," Kiddo told him.

I laughed.

"You know, I think that's exactly what we're going to have to do," the doctor said.

I stopped laughing.

Friday morning, we get to go through it all again. They are going to cut his gums open and try to clean out whatever funk crept into the wound last time. Thank God Kiddo doesn't remember the last time. He took Atavan the night before and the morning of the surgery to make him groggy and cause the day fade into a haze. We'll have to put the numbing cream on for areas for the I.V. — the numbing cream that didn't do a damn thing last time, because he screamed and cried when they stuck the needle in. I cried as I held him down. I can only hope I won't have to carry him out the door after he wakes from the anesthesia, hysterical, unable to understand why he feels that way again. I won't have to sit with him in the backseat of the car as he pleads for water, though I can't quench his thirst, for his mouth is numb and swollen. I know I'll lay with him in his bed all day, help him through his frustrations as he tries to fight his way out from under the veil of anesthesia, nausea, hunger, and pain.

He is an amazing patient, brave, uncomplaining, and far tougher than I would be.

And I totally don't want to put him through this again.

On the surface, he is thrilled he gets to miss school next Friday. He missed school last Friday because I was afraid his gums would rupture, and the school wouldn't know how to deal with it/drain it before I could get there. It didn't pop. We waited all day Saturday. No pop. Sunday. Still nothing. Picked him up early from school Monday. Waited. Watched. Finally got some action (at bedtime, of course). We'll see how it goes.

Can you tell he didn't want to go to school?

Oh, and did I mention that sometime in the not so distant future he is going to have to have surgery AGAIN? And braces? Not for teeth straightening — that set is still a few years away. I can't think about that yet, we just have to get though this week. Again.

Wordless Wednesday: Pura Vida

2012-02-22T07:10:00.000-05:00

Pura vida

Pura = pure and vida = life

Technically, "Pure Life" in Spanish would read "Vida Pura."

Instead, one meaning of the phrase is closer to plenty of life,
or

full of life,

this is living,

going great,

real living,

awesome,

cool. . .

It can be a greeting, a good-bye, how are you doing, see you later...

The phrase decorates t-shirts and bumper stickers, covers sarongs and skin tattoos.

Pura Vida IS Costa Rica.

Jaco Beach, Costa Rica

I want to be there.

Instead I will live vicariously through my characters,

through daily writing and editing, and through my memories.

Pura Vida

Gone Baby Gone

2012-02-21T11:00:00.002-05:00

My Kiddo was known for his long hair.

He attended preschool at the local high school's early education program. While causing all the little teen girls to swoon over him, he noticed how all the "cool" older boys wore long, shaggy locks. He asked to grow his out. Okay, fine with me. I came of age in the grunge generation, and have no problem with guys with longer hair. So, Kiddo grew his hair out at age four.

Now, I'm not talking Celene Dion's boy's long hair:

(Yes, that is a boy. To each their own.

And I wish my hair could look like that.)

But just brushing his shoulders, growing blonder each summer, highlighted by salt and sun.

age 5

We received no end of flack for his long hair over the years. Some friends and family of the older generation gently teased him. One relative flat out called him a girl and added an "a" to the end of his name (making it sound like a weird, yet feminine name). But he learned to stand up for himself, and the hair stayed.

Until yesterday.

And it was an accident.

He and I both needed a hair trim. Being frugal and not wanting to go far, I patronize a local chain hair salon (okay, "salon" is rather too generous) once every few months when I get a coupon. Since Kiddo's hair was long, he could go months without a cut no problem, and I'd just trim his bangs and maybe the back every two months or so — basically when he couldn't see anymore. Easy-peasy.

Back in December before I gave him a quick home trim.

No, he didn't actually wear it like this.

Yesterday, while enjoying a long day off from school, we went for trims.

I went first. I just had an inch trimmed off an a little layering. No problem. We both chatted with the stylist. Kiddo popped up into the chair. I explained where his bangs needed to go and showed her about an inch, inch-and-a-half that needed to come off the back.

"Layered?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. Layering is why I actually took him to get his hair cut. I trimmed it myself for years, but I couldn't get those dang long layers just right.

She cut the bangs and trimmed up the back first. All seemed fine. I flipped through my magazine. When I looked up just a minute later, she was cutting layers. Up at the crown of his head. And inches of hair dropped to the floor. I bit back a gasp. (Never startle a woman holding scissors.)

It was too late anyway.

His long locks were gone, strewn across the salon floor.

Kiddo now has — a short shag? I'm not sure what you'd call it. It's not a buzz cut. But it's NOT LONG.

He looked slightly shell-shocked when he studied himself in the mirror at home. I was too. But I assured him he looked great, very handsome, and it was good to shake things up every now and then.

"You look like one of the guys on those Nick and Disney shows you watch," I said.

"Which one?" His eyes narrowed, his suspicions rose off of each two-inch hair.

"You know, the cool-looking one. . ." They all look the same to me.

At the playground, I could barely pick him out of the mass of boys tearing around. His hair had been so distinctive, now it just blended in with the crowd.

I went so far as to call the Hubby and warn him. He had long hair until his late 20's and now totally lived vicariously through his son. I reminded him to be supportive.

This morning, Kiddo climbed into bed and told me how he really didn't like his hair. I reassured him again, but I can't blame him. Our hair is a vital part of our self-image, our character, what makes us US. And it's rather startling to loose it in one fell swoop.

I miss it too.

It'll grow back, right?