Holidays and Hammock Sex

I'm still Christmasing in Austin where the weather's chilly and rainy. I've enjoyed the family and meet-ups with old friends, as well as lazing around with a glass of Bailey's and a remote in my hands (my version of a yuletide two-fer). I've hardly even cracked open the laptop except to peek at my erotica novella, which has me all blocked up at Chapter Two. I peek, I sigh, I get distracted. What can I say, I'm a virgin at this genre.

But people, I have a chapter to deliver before January 1 and, well, I've got a headache. Please, no cock-block jokes. It hurts my feelings on the same scale as vacuuming up tinsel—an exercise in futility if ever there was one. I once uncovered tinsel in my carpet ten years after I last threw it on a tree. Instead of dragging out the vacuum for the thousandth time, I curled into fetal position.

So today I figured if I got out of the house, some inspiration might hit. I stole away to the local B&N, sipped on a house brew, and reread the first line of Chapter Two where my horny characters discover a secluded hammock in the woods.

"So here we are, just you and me and nature."

Yes, I know. Lame. But it was merely a jumping-off point for the next time I opened the doc. Plus I think ten words in 30 days is real progress, don't you? Actually, my protag wrote it. That bitch was leading me down the path to outdoor nookie. Erotica, remember? It's serious shit that's supposed to make you all hot and bothery. Thing is, after your character discovers a hammock in the woods, the scene devolves into comedy.

A story so often writes itself, you see, and while I've resisted this turn of events, my character is insisting on a roll in the hammock. Probably a roll that reminds her it's not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop. Peeps, I can't seem to stay away from the slap-schtick. Anybody who knows me will not question this. Is that bad? Perhaps humorous erotica is its own subgenre. Whatever. Hammock sex it is. Once I quit fighting it, I wrangled out another 500 words that renewed my faith in my compositional abilities, filled me with optimism about 2011, and gave me a good giggle (as erotica often does, even without a hammock).

I'm now back at my daughter's house, and here's my one and only Christmas pic, which is me actually keying in this blog post. Booyah! I really am a writer! I'd raise a glass of Bailey's to your happy, safe, and peaceful New Year, but they hid the bottle from me. Still, I send strong vibes that mean the same thing.

Don't forget your black-eyed peas, y'all!
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Christmas Vacation and Some Bull

So remember when I said this would be the first Christmas ever that I didn't spend with at least one of my kids? Well, the Merry Christmas gods have reconsidered and shined their ever-lovin' redeeming pity grace upon me. I will be like shiny tinsel for the next two weeks, hanging on the evergreen boughs of my Austin family. I'll be flying high on Sunday, so please all you crazy people stay out of the airport.

Woot-woot! Texas, here I come!


In other news:
I'm happy to introduce my bro-in-law, The Bull, over at Udder Hysteria. It's his first foray into Bloggyville, and he's infusing a little testosterone into the herd (in an oratorial kind of way). Please, y'all, check him out and welcome him with a little comment luv.

Back next week!



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Cappin' Off the Christmas Spirit

Wow. The spirit of the season is incredible, like sparkling snowflakes falling all over my head! Ho! Ho! Ho! See, yesterday morning I filled up with gas and went to work. Eight hours later . . .

I'm driving down 17th Street and pull into the left turn lane. I am six cars back from the red light, when what to my wondering eyes should appear? A blue minivan loaded with a mom and her passel of kids, my dear.

She stops beside me and points to my gas tank, mouthing: YOUR GAS CAP IS OFF!

I glance into my side mirror with Jingle Bells in my head. Sure enough, my gas cap is dangling and the tank door is wide open. See what I mean? The joyful holiday spirit even courses through the hustling, bustling air of traffic. It fills me like hot chocolate.

Good deed accomplished, the mama and her passel drive on up to the red light. Then another car drives up and stops beside me.

YOUR GAS TANK, the guy mouths, pointing frantically toward my rear quarter panel.

I wassail in the key of candy canes and mistletoe. "Yes, I kno-o-o-ow, I kno-o-o-ow."

The driver moves forward to get in line at the red light. And then comes Car #3. The gangsta inside mouths: BEEOTCH, ROLL DOWN YO WINDOW! With his eyebrows pinched, I'm thinking he's cranky. Or he thinks I'm a dumbass.

"Yeah, no," I say, my holiday cheer gleaming like a silver tree bulb that's just cracked.

YOUR GAS CAP IS OFF THE HOOK! The gangsta is like Kanye. His mouth is moving, but all I'm getting is a steaming pile of reindeer pooh.

"Thanks for telling me what I already know!" I give him two thumbs up as he drives off but think, Did somebody put out an APB? Now you're just making me look bad, people!

Once again, another car stops beside me. It's a guy and his wife, both about 110. The geezer jabs at the air with big-knuckled, crooked fingers. His unnatural fish lips seem to gulp air as he mouths: YOUR GAS CAP! CHRIST-A-MIGHTY, HOW DID YOU EVEN GET A LICENSE?!

"Joy to the world, old people! Okay?"

Finally the light changes to green, and I follow the six cars in front of me through the intersection. I speed past everybody for about two miles. One car tries to pass me, and I look straight ahead when he honks three times.

Jingle Bells, Santa smells, Rudolph ran away.

I stop at another red light to make a left turn into Wally World, and a ponytailed 20-elfin-something stops beside me, even though she has a bright Christmasy green light. She rolls down her window and shouts, "Your gas cap!"

I can't believe the world is paying this much attention to me, and I shake my head at the absurdity. It's like I'm driving naked.

"Yes it is!" Elfin yells. "It's off!" She curls her lip, a gift that indicates I truly am a classic dumbass.

Bah, humbug.

Elfin hits the gas, just as the light turns red.

And then, surprise. A Jeep pulls up beside me. The driver turns his head toward me, and I scream, "I KNOW my gas cap is off! I GET IT already! O holy-fucking-night!"

The guy looks aghast. I realize it's because he hasn't noticed my gas cap at all. He stares at me like I'm Scrooge's Grim Reaper. Which I am. That, and a dumbass. I have just killed Christmas.

Schwetty Balls
Schwetty Balls
It's Christmas ti-i-i-ime to get petty.
Ring-a-ling . . .

Yeah, the spirit is glopping all over my head, like cold turkey gravy. How's yours going?
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News You Can't Live Without

First up: There's a reason I've chosen younger men all these years. Rephrase: there are MANY reasons I prefer younger men. Though I'm trying to "go older", those guys aren't making it easy, and I'm about out of Cougar-Be-Gone.

Two: Fragrant Liar made Amazon's Kindle's Top-rated 100 Humor Blogs list. I think I'm #61. Lots of faves on this list with me. If you wanna get Fragrant Liar on your Kindle, click here. Leaving a review will help me move up the rankings too. I mean, if ya wanna.

Three: I got a new J.O.B. Yay. My full-time writing gig has been temporarily chopped to part-time. But whew! Just in time for Christmas, which I will spend, for the first time in history, without even one of my kids. Merry fucking holidays.

But I do get mini-rugrat updates, which I relish. See, youngest nanababy Shaboobka turned one. To celebrate, here she is doing a little extracurricular excavation work. How could anyone get mad at this face? Besides, that's a pitiful palm. You ask me, all Shaboobka's missing is a few Hot Wheels. That's my girl, tear it up.

Four: On December 4th, my parents celebrated 56 years of marital piss and vinegar. Nobody does it better than those two. I'm serious. Look who they raised. Me: Piss and Vinaigrette. And I'm a great catch. Depending on how old you are . . . obviously.

Five: I saw Leap Year on HBO. Twice. Despite what the critics said, I liked it a lot. Makes me want to hit Ireland and let a feisty Irish lad sweep me off my feet. Slainté. On that note, why do people who go to Ireland always stand on cliffs and look down at the cold, deep, violent waves a bazillion feet below? Don't they know they could fall off? I mean, you're just tempting the universe when you stand that close to an edge. I make it a policy never to go near something that could kill me. It's why I look at the Grand Canyon from as far away as photos.

Six: I WON! Debbie from Suburb Sanity held a contest for questions to ask tweens about texting, in conjunction with TextEd with Jane Lynch. Being the deeply critical thinker I am, I came up with real posers for the kiddos; and somebody, in his/her infinite wisdom, crowned me the winning recipient of a $25 gift card. Woo-hoo! Disposable income!

If you're not already a regular Suburb Sanity reader, go here and see what you're missing. Thanks, Debbie!

Happy December, y'all. Hope you're staying warm.
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