Hectic

Last night was really rough. I had to go in early with some other folks to learn more dance steps, and then perform it just half an hour later with vocals. Not so good! But hey, we tried. Tonight the whole band comes in and the goal is to run the entire show by 10pm. So, more stress. It's so hard to remember those words when all the other stuff is swimming around up there!

But it's all good. Once I have all the dance steps and crazy words locked in my brain, it will be autopilot. Come on brain!

And add to that all the running around I had to do yesterday with registering the kids for school. I took them to the Dr's office on Monday to drop off their physical forms that needed to be filled out, then we went yesterday to pick them back up, then to Julia's school, then to Liam's. Then to the store. Then to practice. Oy.

Dancing my life away (but it's good . . . I'm good . . .)

Rehearsals are getting hectic with tons of dance thrown at us in short periods of time. I mean, I knew there was going to be a little bit of choreography, but just not all over the place with every song. I'm okay with the arm things and hip sways, but the whole blown out dance numbers are really messing with my crazy, dyslexic brain. Anyway we're all still memorizing lyrics, harmonies, etc. Bangs head against desk. It's okay. I'll be okay.

All of us girls are starting to bond. Perhaps it's the torture we're being put through, but there is definitely some good bonding going on. That's pretty cool.

As for writing, I still get up early to do some edits/revisions. I think I lost too much of Emma's voice in the first three chapters, so this last week I worked really hard to put that back in. That's the problem with listening to too many sources: one person says take out all backstory, another says to show and not tell, another says to keep it fast paced. But I went through all the YA shelves at the library the other week and looked for all those old 70's books that would have a voice similar to Emma's, and guess what, they were all backstory and voice and sometimes they were telling and not showing. But the main thing was definitely the voice. Have you ever read The Pigman by Paul Zindel? Great, great book. The voice that comes out that book is amazing, I really loved it. Then I read Forever by Judy Blume (Whew! Very sexual book!) and that one had a very talkative voice as well. Although her constant use of ellipses . . . drove me nuts. I use 'em too, just not in every single sentence. Anyway, so when I came back to revise, I knew that I had nothing to lose, and what I wanted was Emma to reach out more and not just be re-teller of events. Very happy with the changes!

Take care today! Summer is still here, so enjoy it while it lasts.

Poem

John, Saint John.
The beautiful.
The tall.
The dignified.
Can make a baseball soar far past the eastern fence posts,
too far for me to run and catch in time.

Early in the morning he’ll hop aboard that plane
and go away.
Fly out to the west, past dragonfly mists called Kansas Dawn;
sunflowers and grasshoppers and sweeping hawk.

John, Saint John.
When I wake up, you will be gone.

There was the time we sat all day
plucking crawdads out of the creek,
and he was gonna sell them down on the corner-
a quarter a piece.
We sat in the heat,
back then it felt like forever.

I said I wanted to be tall like him.
But he said girls needn't be tall, just freckled.
I grew tall anyway, John, Saint John.
The engine fires; I dream a song.
When I wake up, you will be gone.

Another time at the lake, the same one we risked all winter,
water swallowed me up in my ratty pink suit
and John jumped in.
I watched, arms flailing, breath holding,
I watched and he flew like a golden eagle over me
and splash, was next to me,
arms around me, pulled me to the shore.
Only a week later his daddy would die,
so you can’t save everyone.
When he kissed me I knew, could smell the whiskey,
pretended so that we were still on the corner in the sun.
Never said why, just goodbye.
Sometimes a man gotta get up and fly.

John, Saint John.
When I wake up, you will be gone.

Threadbare Soles

Last night was a loooong night with group work, harmonies and all that. Rehearsals are three floors up in an empty library, and there's only a window unit air conditioner in that one room. Go out into the hall and it's like walking into hell. Water is essential. It will be on Sunday, that's for sure, because that's when we go through choreography. I still have my soft, jazz shoes although they have a few paint stains from the last show I was in. I've seen worse though. Real, hard-core dancers have holes and stains and threadbare soles. It's kind of cool to see.

They were taking head shots last night in between group work, and while not actively working we were supposed to go over to the corner and get our picture taken. Well, I was in three medley's back to back and when I finally was able to go over there, the lady had split. Great. Let's see if anyone notices. I hate having my picture taken anyway.

I still want to see Inception, and would love to read and work on more stories. And so I ask: what are your plans for the weekend, dear friends?

Talkin' bout last night

Last night was one-on-one solo time, so each of us showed up at different slots to receive direction, music direction and all that. Unless something changes, I am still Joni Mitchell and playing guitar up on stage just as Joni would (yay!). And then, get this . . . I get to be Deborah Harry from Blondie. I'm freaking singing "Call me". Isn't that just amazing and cool?! Okay, well I think it is. When they first told me that I was going to sing it, I was like, "No way. That's just . . . way too cool for me. I love Blondie. Like LOVE." And they were like, "No. You ARE singing it." Yes . . . . . . . . . This rocks. I just have to figure how to do the outfits and make-up do for those two. Looks like:

Messy hair, blue eye shadow, and red lips for Debbie.

Demure, shiny, organic for Joni. I love this dress by the way.

Okay, well anyway *sigh*. I'm kind of too happy to be sane right now. Have a good day peoples.

Moms don't read naughty vampire books

Here we are and it's Wednesday again. I have a show rehearsal to go to this evening, but it's kids and cleaning for the day. Just wanted to tell you about the latest book that I've been reading, Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men, by Molly Harper. It's the second book in a trio about a children's librarian turned vampire. I have to say, Molly has the best comedic voice and I find myself laughing every few lines! Plus it's really hot. So, if you are looking for a fun book to read—go check this one out!

Okay, gotta go do stuff. Have a great day!

Jamie, reach in that pocket one more time

One of the biggest joys in a kid's day was when the ice cream man would come around. The sound of his bell, like a mobile church, would ring from blocks away, then come closer, house by house until at last it was in front of ours. It was enough to cause heart attacks in three-year-olds—the happiness and excitement was just too much.

When you heard that sound coming the first thought was to round up some money, fast. There'd be a split second where we would all stop whatever we were doing in the yard and look at each other. Then someone would send out the call, "Ice Cream Man!" and we'd all make a beeline to the house to find Mom. Can we have some ice-cream money? Well I'm not sure, we just went to the store and . . . Hurry mother! A couple of quarters were laid in each hand, then it was back out to the front yard. Damn that screen door that always fumbled in my hand!

Marshall was already at the head of the line, Cathy and I standing behind. On one particular day I turned to watch as a group of neighborhood kids came to the que, jumping over fences and tree stumps. One kid, Jamie, hadn't a stitch of clothing. All of us snickered as he ran into the yard, seemingly oblivious to anything being strange or drafty. The ice cream truck pulled up to a stop, its bell dead mid-ring, and a man leaned out of the window.

"Who's first?"

All of us made some sort of silent decision that Jamie should have that honor, and so parted the que to allow him to step up. He made no hesitation, just walked right through and up to the van.

"What do you want, kid?" The man held back his own snicker, head swinging from side to side, tanned arm dangling out the window.

Jamie looked at the brightly painted images of ice cream in all its unmelted, food-dyed, stars and exploding rainbows glory and said, "I'd like a Bomb Pop, Jr. Please."

"That'll be a quarter."

This was the moment we had all waited for. It was well known that kids, at least on this particular planet, did not ever possess any actual money. Naked kids had less.

But kids did have good imaginations, and foolish hope. Jamie reached right down into an invisible pocket and pulled out an invisible quarter. Then he handed it to the man.

Would it work? It would change the world if it did. If invisible currency began to be accepted among all vendors of candy or sweets or ice cream, all of our lives would take a happy turn that very day. Children would rule.

The man waved Jamie's hand away in agitation. "Sorry kid, can't do it. Next."

Jamie turned back to us, head down low. My quarter itched in my hand unpleasantly. I didn't need any ice cream, not really. I could give him my quarter and enjoy his happiness instead of my own. But I didn't. I was selfish and kept my quarter and ordered my ice cream. I ate it, but didn't really taste it. And Jamie slumped his way back home, naked; hope deflated by the ice cream man.

But there would be other times, and Jamie would have his day. I'm sure of it, just as sure as I am that somewhere, maybe closer than you think, a bell is ringing. Just open your window for a moment and see if you can hear.

It's too darn hot, tssssssssss

One summer it was so hot that Mom grabbed her purse and told us kids we were going to go out and buy an air conditioner. It was a Saturday, so perhaps she'd thought about it all week while working at the library, ironically kept cool by the city. We had been dependent on a large window fan at home; big, metal, blue. It was so large it had to be strapped in, and the thing rattled and whirred like a big engine. But it did manage to slightly cool off one of the rooms upstairs. That's where we all slept, including a few stray cats we'd collected, and buffy the flea-bitten chihuahua.

It must have been one too many hot nights and fleas, because there we were hopping into the orange Pinto and heading off to Sears. Mom was (and still is) a master at avoiding salesmen. They come up to start their dialogue, and she just walks away in deliberate oblivion. "Good afternoon mam, how are you doing to . . . day? Oh." She knows what she wants and doesn't need any distractions: cheap, works good, lasts long, cheap. She also usually had some sort of ad clipped out that showed a current special. "Oh, but that model ran out half and hour ago, can I interest you in something else?" No, check the back. Yes, she'll wait while you go look. We spent a lot of time waiting on storeroom floors in those days. Sometimes a display tv would be on and we could watch re-runs of Buck Rodgers or Gilligan's Island.

An hour later and there was a box shoved in between Cathy and I in the backseat of the car. Then, after another few more hours of cursing and twine, we had a window air conditioner. The sides were pleated plastic that pulled in and out like an accordion. The front was fake wood grain, with a grill blasting chemical air. It was hot at first, then slowly it changed, like summer into fall; frost churned out of the slats and spat into my face in cool happiness. I sat there all day just feeling that wonderful, cold air.

The summer continued to be a record-breaking scorcher and we all took to sleeping down in the living room, now the coolest room of the house. We rotated who got to sleep on the pull-out sofa with Mom, or on the floor (fleas), or on the love-seat (cramped and scratchy, but better than the floor).

We always feel asleep with the tv on. Monty Python or Benny Hill for some reason. Yes, I was a grade school Benny Hill addict, explains a lot probably. I'll always remember that summer, and how strange it felt to lie there in the dark and hear the sound of electric air churning all through the night while the tv buzzed and my family snored.

Busy, Happy

So I have two agents who've asked for partials right now, and I am going to say a million prayers every day for the next however-long-it-takes. I did some slight revisions, and sent them off. Sparkle, partial, sparkle!

In the meantime I am busy learning a load of songs for the show I auditioned for a few weeks ago. The rehearsal schedule is very fast, so there's no time to fiddle around. The song list was sent out the other day and we must be prepared for the first meeting this Sunday afternoon. My main song is Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi. Isn't that cool??!! Now, it could be taken away by some horrible stroke of showbiz fate, but for now I am reveling in the coolness. There are tons of others I have to sing partial leads in and also backup, so it's been rather stressful learning all these damn lyrics in just a few days. Hey, I asked for it! No complaining, Amy!

I'm also a blog contributor to a friend's TV website for the show Big Brother which just started here a week ago. I get paid a little, but mostly it's fun and a good diversion for the summer. And since I'm anonymous, I can say pretty much whatever I like and not have to personally take the heat. I love that.

What's your weekend going to look like? Any plans starting to shape up? Inception looks like a great movie to go see, if you just so happen to be heading out to the movie theaters. Take care and happy writing today!

New Project

The first chapter of a new book I've started to write, Woodsocket ’79.

Gerald and Izzy

Her contractions were coming every two minutes. He knew this because, despite the broken reading on the car’s dashboard, the distance between her last moan and the current one could be measured been between Dairy Sue’s on the south side of town and the First National Bank of Woodsocket over on the north, just a few blocks before county road 115. That’s where Woodsocket ended, and the rest of the world for all anyone cared.

As soon as he passed the bank another moan started, long and low. He’d never heard her moan like that, not even while having sex. Making a sharp right, he secretly became jealous of life and infancy and all of creation for making such intimate responses in her, in ways he never could.

“I’m driving as fast as I can, honey. Please try to stay calm.” He was hot. The air-conditioner had stopped working as well. In fact, just about the only thing that worked in his damn volvo was the engine, and even that was on the fritz. But he didn’t know how to fix such things, and he didn’t have the money to take it in. Not with a baby coming.

There was pink wall paper, pink bedding, pink carpet, and pink curtains. It was like one big strawberry milkshake explosion and it gave him a huge headache. She shopped at the local Gibson’s, and had darn near almost cleaned out their entire baby section.

“I gotta push!”

“No. Don’t push. Don’t you dare push!”

“But I gotta. I can feel the head coming out.”

Oh God. It was all too soon. Nine months just wasn’t enough time for a man to accept the arrival of another man’s child.

Hitting the gas, he sped through another intersection and turned onto the small business road that he knew would lead them to the hospital parking lot. A white van was parked just so it neither aligned with its intended spot by the front entrance, nor allowed anyone else through the narrow lane with arrows indicating a one-way passage.

“For Chrissake! Move your Goddamned car you stupid son of a—”

“Gerald, don’t cuss.”

Of all things she could be worried about, she was going to point out his speech. He rolled his head against the seatback in agitation.

“Yes, when the baby gets here, I want none of your vulgar language, no beer bottles on the table, no sports on the television and no men coming over with their cards and stories. Ooooooooh.”

That just about covered everything in his life that brought him any real joy. Or made him a man. He’d long ago suspected that she hated men, but couldn't figure out why she slept with so many all the time. It didn’t make sense, but then, none of the other husbands around him seemed to have wives that made sense either, so he figured it was useless to complain.

The white van finally moved forward and he curved around its fender to get a spot in the emergency lane. With a jerk, the car was in its place, and he was hopping out and rushing around to the back passenger side door.

“I can get out just fine,” she complained, pushing away his hands when he reached in. But he persisted. Dammit, this was what men did in the movies, they grabbed their laboring wives and carried them into the lobby and announced for all to hear, “Hark, my beloved is in labor. Lead the way.”

Oh, but she was heavy.

Someone opened the front door for him and stepped aside. He made it through the door, he made it into the lobby, and he was just about to announce their arrival when he felt something strange happen. She went limp and warm liquid began to spill out of her body.

It ran down his arms and seeped all through his pants and dripped down onto the clean laminate floor. Red, and sticky.

“Izzy? Izzy!” he yelled, shaking her just a bit. Then he looked up at the nurses who sat at the front station. His eyes were wide and scared.

One nurse shot a look at the other sitting next to her and yelled, “Call Doctor Kent! Now!” then jumped out of her seat and came around the desk to stand next to them.

“How long has she been out?”

“It just happened.”

“How long has she been bleeding?”

“I . . . I don’t know. She’s in labour, the baby is coming. We called first . . .”

A stretcher was wheeled in and they took her out of his arms. Dr. Kent came in the room just in time to see them disappear into the hall, protected by the swinging doors. But he didn’t follow. Not for a minute. Not the way Gerald would have expected him to.

He just stood there for a while and looked at the bloody man. Then, holding the clipboard closer to his chest, he walked through the swinging doors and left Gerald alone.

It was late evening when they told him she was dead. That they were dead. He signed the papers, and viewed the delicate little human laid out on a soft pink blanket, and his wife, gray and covered with a long sheet, and he went home.

Hangin' in there, Monday Style

I'm still getting over a monster migraine. It hit me like a brick yesterday, pardon the cliche'. One minute I was fine, the next I was stumbling around with spots in my eyes and a horrible, paralyzing ache all through my head and neck. I remember going to the store to buy some medicine, but not much else after that. Good thing the kids were happy to just sit and play all afternoon and evening.

It's getting better, but yuck, I hate feeling like this.

I didn't reach that 100 page goal for the week, but it really pushed me forward and I wrote a few chapters so that's really good, don't you think? Remember I said I don't jump or rush into anything? Well, pushing myself as a writer seems to be necessary, or I ponder too much and end up getting very little done (or as much as I'd like to). So from now on, I am going to set my writing goals high and try to reach them, but only as a sort of guideline.

When faced with a difficult scene, I tend to hang back and think about it too much. I'm really just afraid I won't write it well. But what I learned this week is just to dive in, then go back make corrections. Step back and think, and make more corrections, etc, until the scene feels complete and layered enough to my taste. I really like this method. Now I had one scene, a lovey scene, that was sooooo much fun to write, it almost wrote itself. I seriously could write scenes between two lovers talking, forever. I had to finally stop and move on to the rest of the story, haha.

Take care everyone and keep writing, keep querying, keep editing, keep laughing, keep dancing, singing, smiling, loving . . . Peace.

The Story of Me, the Bully, and Effective Fibbing

Fred Smith used to come up to me every day at lunch and say, "I'm going to follow you after school, Amy. And then I'm going to hurt you. Don't tell anyone." And then he'd walk away. Total appetite killer, let me tell ya.

Sure enough he'd be waiting for me after school, sometimes the second I got out, sometimes a few minutes later after I'd already walked a few blocks heading for the library down on the eastern edge of town. That's where Mom worked, and I guess the need to be near her was strong enough to risk my life on most afternoons, because I could have just gone west to our house, down the hill, and been safe. Alone and safe.

So, I'd be stepping on the cobbled bricks along East Nichols and he'd slither up behind and start the torment, "I hate you Amy. You're ugly, stupid, nobody likes you." He'd go on and on, stepping on the back of my feet the whole way. And I let him. Over and over I let him do this to me because I—perhaps from all the yelling and fighting in my home—had lost the ability to defend myself, I still have trouble today. When someone yells at me, or cuts into me, I become quiet and wait for them to stop. I can't speak; I can only go into survival, secret-protection mode. You can make me cry, but you can't make me speak. And if you make me cry it's over, done, I'll probably never speak to you again.

So anyway, I'd finally had enough. There had been the usual approach in the cafeteria, the wait after school, the horrible whispers in my ear, and now he was flicking at my arms, stepping on my feet. Suddenly I spun around to face him—that slit-eyed, spike-haired monster devil child—and he stepped back a little in surprise.

"My father," I said slow and even, "is so tall his head hits the hanging light in our kitchen . . . and he's big, really big and he's gonna rip your eyes out and scratch you up and down when I tell him what you're doing to me! So you'd better stop, Fred Smith! Do you hear me? You leave me alone from now on!" Ironic enough, my father was a real bully himself and wasn't even around anymore. He'd lied in court that we weren't his children and then gotten re-married and had his own new child. I think I must have been speaking of my dream father, the one I'd created to replace reality.

Fred stumbled away, falling down into the street, and I turned and continued to walk forward. My whole body shook, but I was glad, so glad, to finally have stood up to him. After that encounter, he left me alone and all I had to worry about for the rest of eternity was my own bully tormentor inside my head, the one he'd started and which fed itself through doubt and insecurity. "You're ugly, stupid, nobody loves you . . ." I'm getting better at standing up to that internal bully, but it's still there.

A teacher once told me that there's a bully in every class. And if he or she leaves, another one steps up to take their place. Sad. Human nature is still a big ole' primal event, isn't it? Perhaps we should all just hang out and listen to this song.

My Delights

Why do I love the 70's so much? I love it because people were so honest back then. Not brutally honest like they are today; vulnerable with a sweetness, almost childlike. There was a huge drug scene, but I don't really give much attention to that in my thoughts or in my writing because it was just part of the times. A lot of that drug use was a leftover from youth: people had grown up with it from the sixties and, like a child, were having to learn how to wean. I don't discount them for it, I just leave it in the background as part of the times. Anyway, in small town Kansas, it was pretty much invisible and just a hint of society.

I was just a little girl, but I do remember people sitting on their front porches enjoying life. Girls wore bell bottoms and had long hair, guys had long hair too, and sideburns. No one really went around saying things like "Groovy" all the time. The Beatles were still being played on the radio. Pop came in cans with peel tabs (which you could find all over the gravel roads of town) or in big glass bottles. One of my favorite things was to go to Old Man Khun's grocery store across from the library Mom worked at to get a bottle of soda out of the machine. Just a quarter for that treat! Then we'd go a few more storefronts down to the drugstore where there was a huge glass display of candy, and all sorts of curiosities to look at. The old wooden floors creaked when you walked through the store; pockets empty, wish list high.

I love the 70's because if I went back in time as I am now, I'd really be able to live it as an adult. I'd take up long conversations with every hippie around, and really dig into what they have going in on their mind. I'd want to see their houses and know what their love life was like. Not cell phone on the bed-stand, cable blasting in the corner love. Real, you and me, let's get it on love.

God, maybe I am just a freak. But oh well, these are my delights. I'd also want to go back to the fifties and also the pioneer times. I could really dig hanging out with a frontiersman, with handlebar mustache and oiled leather boots. He'd build the house with his own two hands, hunt for food, and I'd cook up some supper and wait for him to come home . . .

Why are you guys reading this stuff?! Hahahahahaha. Go on, go eat breakfast or something.

Moving Along

I'm almost at 200 pages . . . overall. Haven't reached my goal of writing 100 just for this week alone, but again, it's a goal to strive for and really is helping me to push forward. I wish I could share all of it with you right now, but that would get old after awhile.

What are everyone's plans for the weekend? I plan on seeing Eclipse again, taking the kids to the park and the mall. Exercise, weed the garden, make apple pie. I'm reading a fun vampire romance which I never really do, but it was one of three different genres I grabbed at the library the other day. Kind of smutty really, I think I've lost where the plot is! But whatever, it's a good summer read.

I love this movie so much!! Can't remember if I've posted this before. Just humor me.



Okay, so have a good Friday! Remember, it's five o'clock somewhere!

Not So Early Blog

I do most of my writing early in the morning, as that is the only time I really have to myself. I remember reading that Mary Higgins Clark used to do that when her kids were little, 5-7 every morning, she says. Then it's time to be Mom all day with little stolen moments to rush in and write. I'm up a little bit late today, but that's okay, I'll deal.

I actually wrote for about an hour last night after supper and put down some amazing things. You know the kind, you're beaming while you write, almost giddy with excitement and happiness? I wish I hadn't of had to step away, but Julia needed me to do some things and then there was laundry and dishes. I would have said screw it to the housework, but since Julia had me out of the office chair anyway, I went ahead and dove into all that miserable stuff. Actually, I like doing laundry and dishes because they give me time to think. But yeah, thinking and actually typing words into a document are two different things.

Enough about writing. How is everyone enjoying their summer so far? We're past the solstice and so that means we should enjoy every day we get from here on out, because they're all slowly sliding into Autumn. In just a few weeks I'll be registering the kids in school! The thought makes me excited and sick. I hate it when the house is empty, and Liam has never left me, not for more than a few hours. What will I do without my little buddy every morning? Okay, I'm not going to think about it. Here comes my usual fall melancholy. I'll just fight it off with some Tina Tuner and a walk in the park.

Take care and Peace!

Me reckless? Ahhhhhhhh!

Okay, so I'm not even close to that one-hundred page goal, but I did get a whole chapter written. The thing is, having a goal, any goal, is a good producer of content, so that makes it worth it in my opinion. The way I see it, if I'm pushing myself to write more and more, then that gets the ball rolling. Inertia will kick in and the muse will come around. If not, I'll still be writing no matter what.

I'm one of those people who dips my toe into the water before jumping in the pool. Okay, I don't jump into pools—ever. I don't jump out of bed, or race out the front door. I have to slowly work my way into every situation. But perhaps, since this is wild and crazy week (whoooo!) I will jump into the pool and rush out the door. It would be good for me! Unless I break a leg or arm or something, then I won't be doing anything much less writing, what with a cast around my hand and all. Darn recklessness!

Maybe I'll just write about being wild and crazy. Yeah. And I'll listen to this great song.

Have a great day!

1970's Treat

Here are some classic 1970's ads, some very cheesy. Okay, really, really cheesy. But I love that about the '70's. You had the dreamers and nobody was trying to be cool because you can't be cool in polyester.

You all know this one, but watch it again. And yes, all the kids in the neighborhood went around singing this tune. Everyone did.

Can't forget the Crying Indian. Aw, the days when a little trash was our worst evil.


We used to drink Kool-aid. It was pure fake flavor and food dye. Just add a crapload of sugar and some water. Oh YEAH!!! That Kool-aid guy was always busting down somebody's fence or wall—kind of scary now that I think of it. Oh well. It's red and refreshing!


This is bad, but Liam has this commercial memorized. It's like a skit we do, and it's so cute to hear him sing, "The fwavor wasts so wongwongwong in Bubble Yum bumbum POP!" Of course, I have to be scary puppet dude in the sketch.


Can't forget the Purina Chuck Wagon commercial. The dog kind of reminds me of Benji, who was the hottest dog actor around in those days. Dad ran the projector at a local movie theater and so us kids got to watch many, many episodes of Benjj running around solving capers. "Red juicy chunks . . ."


Oh the work that went into this. And look, the tires didn't even melt. "This is the SS 350, with rally sport equipment, wicked black grill and a fuselage that bulges around a 350 cubic inch V8 engine. . .wide, big car stance for road-hugging stability . . . back seat up, back seat down . . . shaped for action, all the way back to its sporty rear deck." Sweet! I'll take the coupe please.


Okay this ad is HOT. I love it. I have to admit, I kind of dig Old Spice and think it's one of those classic roughish, manly scents. MMMMM.


I won't be here for a few days, so take care and enjoy the retromercials. Have a safe and happy Fourth of July everyone!!

Stay Positive

A few months ago I mentioned the book The Secret, and how it seemed like a bunch of flimsy ideals, which is ironic as I'm basically an idealist. But I have to say, I have gone through the book again and I kind of like the whole 'manifest your dreams' theory. It involves being positive and staying positive, not an easy thing to do sometimes. There is a film reel of negativity that has played in my head since birth, and the button gets pushed every once in a while, "You're an idiot, a horrible writer, you'll never succeed." I could go on, but no need for the rest of the world to see my hell. It's a little bit OCD and a lot SAD. So . . . from now on (actually from last week) I will allow no more negative thoughts to enter my brain. As soon as I hear the tape being played, I am going to shut it off and replace it with something positive.

From now on, I will be manifesting the good stuff. Watch out world . . .

Really Sleepy Post

It's a no coffee morning. Need to go to the store. Yawn!

I read something the other day that reminded me to stop and feel JOY every day. Sometimes we get so caught up in our daily schedules that we forget to do these simple things—they make a huge difference. Another thing was from Thich Nhat Hahn: stop and breathe. Breathe in calm, and breathe out smile. Afterwards look around and see what you are grateful for, because there is always something to be grateful for.

I forgot to tell you, I've been cast in the Women of Rock show. Yay! It's a really fast, three-week schedule, and I'll probably be singing a couple solos along with backup/group as well. Rehearsals start July 18th. Hopefully I'll have a little coffee around by then.

Some Questions: Do you write at scheduled times, or just whenever the mood hits? What is your favorite time of day to write? Do you write longhand or on the computer? Coffee or tea?

Have a great Friday!