Party Party Party

See me? I'm the one sitting on the couch (next to lady in red)
checking out the book. Yeah, that's my head!

Besides laundering a hundred bath towels for people who wipe, wad, and wield them like toilet paper, I had a busy weekend. First I had lunch with good friends at Chez Zee, and then I went to my friend Bee Pedersen's book launch party at the W Hotel in downtown Austin. All proceeds went to CASA. Check Bee's site for a new murder-mystery.

After Bee's party, I hightailed it north to another party. A creativity party.

What the hell is a creativity party, right? Everybody, even your cranky/skanky Aunt Brunhilda, has something they're passionate about doing, like blogging, juice harping, naked-body painting, cherry stem tongue-tying, bearded-dragon juggling, and, of course, helium balloon sucking/rapping. The possibilities are endless. Hell, I know people who've elevated peeing and cursive writing (simultaneously) into art forms. Ditto for those who can burp haiku. Wait, did I say, I know them? No, no, no, I don't know them. Ga-ah.

So at a creativity party, people bring their passion and present or perform it. It's an "everybody fails/nobody fails" kind of deal, and it's super fun. If you like being the center of attention—and even if you don't—it's a real kick. I performed my blog post, "Yap-Yippity-Doo-Da," because it was clean and we didn't have to send the children out, as we have in years past when I read my Playgirl article "Queefer Madness."

After the show-and-tell, I made a dreamcatcher. Showing you the actual photo of it takes real guts on my part. Let me just bow and say, "I failed!" But it was fun—mostly because I met the most lovely women around the table who were doing a far better job of weaving the twine than I. They were from the UK, and since my new novel takes place on the Isle of Wight, they'll be terrific beta readers for me. Oh yes, I totally conned them into it!

Ever heard of a Theremin? Think of the eerie soundtracks from the old—and I mean old—scary movies, like Spellbound (1945), The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), and The Thing (1951). A Theremin was even used in The Ten Commandments (1956). I guess trudging down a mountain with a bunch of I-am-that-I-am-engraved stone tablets or turning a staff into a snake that devours other snakes could warrant some eerie background music. I dunno. Anyway, we had a Theremin at the creativity party. Apparently you can buy a kit and make yourself one. One of the party-goers brought his, and I got a chance to experiment. It was fascinating, and I wanted to take it home. However, 20 amateurs hovering over it, one after the other, can make you want to stab your ear drums. 

Speaking of creativity, my friend Carolyn, co-host of the creativity party, is a life and writing coach. She was recently interviewed about her very cool "book whispering" services:

"I coach people who have the desire to write… yet they are not writing. Some people have a novel, memoir, non-fiction book or even blog that’s been percolating in them for years, but they either haven’t started writing… or they start and stop and can’t get any traction. It becomes very frustrating because they really want to write, yet they’re stopped. I coach with them to discover what gets in their way and clear the path towards joyful, more effortless writing."

Carolyn offers her services by phone or email, so if you need to get that writing project off the ground, I highly recommend her! From personal experience, I can tell you she helps you sort through the brain clutter so you can make real progress with your book. Go check her out here, at Backyard Pearls.

Okay, off to fold and put away some more towels. Otherwise some peeps are going to have to drip dry and prance around naked after their showers tonight. I have seen naked butts running through the house more than once . . .
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Reality Check

I apologize for being MIA for so long. I have been utterly absorbed with my move, the day J.O.B., freelance clients/work, and The Bachelor. As a general rule, I refuse to watch so-called reality shows, but I admit, as soon as I got a glimpse of that bitch Michelle and her skanky, back-stabbing ways, I was hooked.

For you virgins, The Bachelor is the bloody gangland shoot-'em-up you can't veer your eyes from. I work my schedule around each week's broadcast with the zeal of Charlie Sheen toward his weekend two-fer: a coke dispenser and a porn star.

Not even ravenous kids could prevent me from plopping my ass in front of the boob tube with a cocktail. "Drink a glass of milk," I say, waving a dismissive hand over my head. "That'll hold you for two hours."

Then comes Brad, he with the bionic wedge of a torso, and his harem of potential wives. I didn't see him the first time he tried to find a wife. That year, he was internationally regarded as the Jesse James of Assholes after saying "I got your back -- NOT!" to his final two bride wannabes. But this year, to my mind, the guy's all right. Hell, he kicked Skanky Michelle off the show last Monday -- FINALLY -- and I couldn't help gyrating deliriously around the room with a bearded dragon on my chest (long story, and he already has a girlfriend who was "sunning" herself in the aquarium).

So Mr. I-Wanna-Say-I-Do has redeemed himself. Plus, he's in therapy, and I have the utmost respect for people willing to open a vein for the sake of becoming a better person. Plus plus, he's an Austinite. And this year, Brad might actually have found true love.

Swoon.

Okay, gotta go. Wipeout is on, and I need a good dose of reality.
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Alone and Naked with Yanni. Stop it.

I'm beginning to think that not only am I predisposed to wanderlust, but my brain likes to loiter in the places I've been and so takes its sweet time catching up. What I mean is, my feet are on the ground here in Austin, but my head is still flighty. And I have to figure out what's next, which I would totally do if I could just land the plane.

Fortunately, I'm in a good place. Which brings me to the meat of my post. I'm no longer Alone and Naked with Yanni.

There, I said it. You pervy people who keep coming here looking for that? That ship has sailed. You normal people who keep up with me, you know that my running-around-the-house-naked love affair with Yanni happened last summer; and quite sadly I've now entered into territory where Yanni is the equivalent of Lord Voldemort, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And really, what self-respecting rabid fan would subject her musical sex-symbol-of-yesteryear to the anathema of Generations X and Next? No, not me. The young'uns can have their beat boys and that Fitty Cent guy.

The aforementioned post was one in which I lamented that living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. Now that I'm living temporarily with my daughter and two nanaboys, I'm reminded of the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for," cuz these days I'm never EVER alone. That is, unless I go into the bathroom and lock the door, and even then the family Boxer feels the need to accompany me. And may I point out that the walls are so thin in apartments, I'm not sure I'm ever really alone. You hear what I'm saying? I can't croon in the shower for fear my vocals will end up on WikiLeaks. Damn you, Julian Assange!

Plus, and this is the most egregious news of all, my pastime of running around gloriously naked has been severely, um, destroyed. I know. The tragedy that befalls my life is never-ending. I'm now subject to wearing clothes ALL THE TIME, not to mention humming "The Flower Duet" in private to myself. Yeesh, one's children can be so cruel.

But back to last summer's most-highly-sought-after post, Alone and Naked with Yanni. I've gotten thousands of hits from this one post and only 57 measly comments. Pervy people, if you stop in to see me (or me naked with Yanni), please leave a nice note. That just shows you have manners.

The next closest post, I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex, has less than a quarter of the hits. That tells my scientifically analytical mind that Naked trumps Sex. Or that Yanni trumps Sex. No, no, Yanni IS Sex—figuratively speaking. But never Alone and Naked trumps Yanni, which is obviously blaspheme and cause for a trip to Confession.

Anyway, I've moved on, you obsessed lovers of Alone and Naked with Yanni. So stop it.

UPDATE: Twice as many hits today on "Alone and Naked with Yanni" as this post here with essentially same title. C.R.A.Z.Y.
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Transitions -- AGAIN?!?

Man, the last 2+ weeks have whizzed by. Between traveling, illness, freelance, illness, packing and preparing to relocate (again)—and ILLNESS, I've hardly had time to do the things I like best, one of which is blog for my favorite people. That's you all. You complete me, and you know it, don't you?

This chest cold or flu, or whatever the hell it is, makes me cranky. It's slashed my life-is-worth-living determination with a thousand little daggers of misery. Anyway . . .

Life transitions are so funny. Not ha-ha funny, cuz if that were the case, I'd be laughing a lot more. My serotonin levels would be through the roof, and floating across the room instead of dragging ass would be the norm. No, I mean funny as in odd or even fickle. Life transitions (like packing up and moving all by yourself) are easy to make when the conditions are ripe and juicy, but so much harder to swallow when your alternatives are limited. With the latter, your attitude makes all the difference. I've been all over the map with attitude the last month. The Florida and Texas maps. Only making a decision on whether to stay or go can set me free.

I love Central Florida, but it has such a depressed economy, I don't know how people make ends meet. Not only are jobs few and far between, the available ones offer pittance for pay. No wonder people struggle more here than most places in the country. Plus, as a Bible belt, it's dominated by ultra conservatives, and unless I'm willing to convert on both counts, I'll continue to feel frowned upon. Oh, the life of an Independent heathen in a Faux News stronghold! My eyes have never rolled more often.

Though the precarious job situation has been tough on me, from a writer's perspective, I've accomplished a lot of what I came to Florida to do. It's just not sustainable right now. Maybe one day . . . So, it's back to Austin for me, y'all. And now that I've decided, I'm optimistic about the future again!

But I could use some antibiotics.
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Buzzed for 2011

Happy New Year! I brought in 2011 in Austin with my daughter Coco and her family and some very special friends.

Early in the eve, Ruby arrived.

Coco had the honor of shearing Ruby's hair.

Note:  Cancer can suck it!

And chemo is rude.

Post-buzz, Ruby's fiancé Chris got a solidarity buzz.

Sweetest couple around.

Coco and me at midnight.

She is so gorgeous and full of life.

Note her beautiful locks.

Me and the nanaboys.

They like to cut up.
Where do they get it?

(No idea who the drunken reveler is in the background, but he is admirably passionate.)

Uh-oh.

It's 1 a.m.
Do you know where your hair is?

Yikes! That's a lotta locks on the floor.

And they belong to . . .

. . . Coco who gets the solidarity buzz.

Showing support for her best bud Ruby.

Aren't they both beautiful?

It's a family affair.

The boys show their support of their mom's best friend and get buzzed too.

Today, many of Ruby's friends and family buzzed their heads to show her their support.

Good friends enrich our lives so much. I'm so proud of my daughter for being there for Ruby in this special way.

That's the way to kick off 2011, isn't it?

And, oh yeah, I got buzzed in a totally different way . . .
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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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