This is what we’re buying for Ava for Christmas.
This cheery confection is like a delicious-looking go-kart. Coast down the road in style at a top speed of 7 m.p.h. in a Cupcake Car that comes in different-colored “flavors,” as well as your choice of decorations like sprinkles and icing. And yes, it comes with a matching hat.
If you want to contribute you can. I’ll get a really big card and we can all sign it.
A quick note to you late on a Sunday. I’ve been campaigning for a puppy. Well, to be honest a girl puppy I can name Daisy, a pygmy goat I can name Nibbles, a teacup piglet(they’re real!), and a hedgehog named Winnie. Actually, Ava and I have a whole life planned for our hedgehog sisters, Winnie and Lulu. They’re going to marry brothers and live in a cute little English village.
But I digress. I only sort of want a puppy. I want a puppy in the way I want all cute and fuzzy things. I don’t however, want another dog that could bring anymore chaos to the Bright Compound. Believe me, it’s already hysterical enough over here. But, on the other hand, I do think in all seriousness that if Roscoe had a canine friend to expend some of his energy on, he wouldn’t use the cat and the children as chew toys as much as he does.
I have a few requirements for this other puppy (namely that it not really exist except maybe, I don’t know, I’m insane). I want it to be too short to climb on the kitchen table for one thing. I’d like it to have a normal bark that it doesn’t feel compelled to use constantly. I would also like it to be in the shape of an English bulldog.
I’ve been pleading/teasing My Honey halfheartedly for Daisy for years now. I do it mostly because it makes him crazy. I know I keep him just enough off balance that he thinks I might do something crazy like appear one day with another dog. It’s a hobby of mine – and to be perfectly frank, he’s not that far off the beam. I am crazy and impulsive. It’s a fact. However, as much as I tease, I’m also not keen on the idea of a divorce, so I try to restrain myself.
This evening I had an epiphany. I was looking down at a sleeping Rosco.
“Hey,” I said, “I think we could cobble together another dog just out of the extra Roscoe skin.” To prove my point I easily pulled four inches of skin loose just from his face.
“But he wouldn’t be as cute,” My Honey replied.
He has a point, and really that’s the only thing Rosco has going for him.
My Honey and I had a blissfully kid free dinner and a non-animated movie this evening. It was our wedding anniversary this week, and Grammy was drafted to keep Sassy and The Bandit over night. We were so excited, we were almost giddy. We went out to an expensive dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. The food was good, and the wait staff amusing, if a little slow. My Honey and I got a little silly at one point, remembering a funny Jim Gaffigan line about the fresh pepper restaurants are always so excited about offering.
“Fresh ground pepper, sir?”
“Fresh? This isn’t fresh. I grew up on a pepper farm and this is stale pepper!”
The bus boy heard us giggling and then he joined in. The waitress forgot the lake the fresh fish was from so, for the rest of the night, I teased her about that. After our main course, she asked if she could bring anything else, and I suggested a nice pair of sweat pants with the restaurant’s logo would be appreciated. Wouldn’t that be great? I’ll bet restaurants would sell more desserts if they did that.
For a while now, a month or so, the check engine light has been on in my car. The computer says that the gas cap has lost it’s seal and we need to replace it. We did, but apparently the computer can tell that we didn’t get a genuine Dodge gas cap, and the Auto Zone one is clearly inferior. We are in no giant rush to get to the Dodge dealer and spend a gazillion dollars on a stupid gas cap. The point of this diversion is that My Honey suggested when the valet returned with our car we demand to know what he did to have the check engine light come on. Of course, by the time the valet got there, I was wheezing from giggling so hard that he was sure to know something was up.
That’s a problem with me – giggling. Some of the best plans are ruined by my giggling.
I am nearly done with my short story to submit to eHarlequin. However, I have surprised myself yet again. (mom and any children under 18, please stop reading now…)
It appears that no matter how hard I try, I end up writing smut. People often ask me what I write. And though it’s technically romance, I respond ‘Smut, of course.’ Because the gutter is where I always end up.
I called Amylynn to let her know I needed to submit it to two different places. First and foremost, eHarlequin’s Historical Undone ebook line, because it is a historical set in England in the 1800′s. And because that is where I meant for it to go. But as usual, with me, it appears I need to look for a second, alternative ebook publisher as well. Just in case. So, I told Amylynn, I need to do a search for publishers wanting Whore-ish Historical Tarts.
My Lila (the heroine in the story) has a lot of good qualities. Unfortunately, nobody will know about them because almost every scene has her pouty lips somewhere on the duke in question. And he is no better…trust me.
I am ten pages shy of the end and I don’t think they have had a real conversation. But like all good romances, there will be happily ever after. Really.
But it will probably involve Lila’s gown up over her head.
I’m home sick. I finally caved in and admitted that I’m actually sick not just sort of sick. I’ve spent most of the day in bed. In between napping, which I desperately needed, I made quite a dent in the list of recorded items in my DVR. The kids came and went – home from school, then off to soccer practice. I rolled over at one point and found a random M&M in my bed. A red one. I have no idea where it came from or how long it had been there. I ate it of course. If I’m so sick I don’t eat an M&M, start measuring me for a coffin.
The nine year old girl who lives in my house (I wish her parents or guardian would come pick her up, she’s been here for a while . . . like . . . nine years . . .) offered me a compromise yesterday. We’ve been arguing over the “tent” she has constructed in her room out of blankets, sheets, twigs and human hair. It is now so large, it covers almost 25% of her floor space. She sleeps in it. It looks like a ghetto or District 9 and I have requested that it be taken down.
She refused, which prompted her “compromise”.
Girl – I have a compromise for you. I can make the tent a little smaller or leave it the way it is now.
Me – That’s not a compromise. A compromise is when both parties bring their wants and needs to the negotiating table, a discussion ensues during which each party gives a little and takes a little until an acceptable balance is reached. Your compromise is really more of an anti-compromise. I had no input and no accord has been found.
Girl – I have no idea what you’re talking about. You use too many words and too many big words. You really need to stop that. I can help you practice.
Me – Practice?
Girl – You need to limit yourself to a few short sentences. Try to stick to one or two syllable words, maybe one three syllable word. If you need to use a four syllable word, just don’t, or one per conversation.
Me – I don’t think I can follow those rules.
Girl – Everyone else does.
Me – Amylynn doesn’t.
Girl – Perfect! When you and Miss Amy are together use all the big words you want, use all the ones you both know so that you don’t use them on us.
The tent issue remains unresolved. Heavy sigh . . .
I know that a lot of you faithful, wonderful, outstanding readers come here for a funny story here and there. I’m very thankful for that. All of the Sisters are. Because I love you, Dear Readers, I’m going to share with you a site that is so funny, I routinely have tears streaming down my face when I read it. Trust me, I know funny. Here are the rules: You may only go to this new site AFTER you’ve visited ours. Understand? I don’t want you all traipsing over there in a big bunch like my son’s soccer team and never coming back here.
Remember that I love you and I’ll miss you while you’re gone.
Seriously. You’ll laugh yourself silly. She’s just recently returned from a trip to Japan. Oh dear Lord.
So as I said in this evening’s earlier post, we went out to dinner. We asked the children 9,756, 348 times to go put on their shoes. Finally, I went in to see what the hell The Bandit was doing in there and this is what I overheard him say to himself, “The cantaloupe has horns.” ??????? That sounds like something from a really bad spy movie doesn’t it? I have no idea what his fertile imagination was cooking up there. Possibly it had to do with hot lava. Hey, speaking of “hot lava”, we are getting ready to redo our front yard. My Honey was pricing gravel and river rock with my brother-in-law this weekend. I voted loudly for the lava rock. I just can’t wait to find out what the boy would think of that.
Anyway, this is what The Bandit planned to wear to the restaurant: Red shiny warm up pants, a green Incredible Hulk t-shirt, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, Batman socks and no underwear. I was OK with everything except the boots. Well, and the no underwear thing, but I found out about that later. I remember once upon a time, I dressed this boy in the most adorable and hip outfits. Now I’m just happy he’s mostly covered. It was much easier before he had opinions.
So, we had a noisy negotiation about the shoes and I finally convinced him of flip flops. He really wanted to keep the Batman socks so I gave him a pair of Adidas slide sandals. He father said, “No” on the new shoes and took away the hat.
I don’t know about you, but I think my husband is stifling him. Don’t you agree? Or is it that I’ve just given up? Either way, he’s a weird kid. Thank God he’s cute, too.
My daughter is very lovely. She got a fantastic gene cocktail with her father and I – she is much prettier than I ever was. That’s a really damn good thing, too because, as her father and I see it, that’s going to save us a fortune in the dowry.
She couldn’t have been more than 3 years old when we first realized that this was going to be a problem. He looked at me and said, “We better start saving for the dowry now.”
She’s a challenge, but she’s smart as a whip and funny, too. She’s also beginning to get sarcastic – I don’t know where she gets that. I’m always perfectly genial. I’m also beginning to think she’s got a little Rain Man in her or, maybe it’s that character Jack Nicholson played in As Good As It Gets – the obsessive/compulsive one. Let me explain: once she sets something in motion, there’s no stopping her until she’s finished. She absolutely CANNOT stop in the middle of the ABCs or Rudoph the Red Nosed Reindeer to name just a few. There is a book that they read in 1st grade this year, Tikki Tikki Tembo. It has a character in it named Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo. Apparently, the girls in her class have latched on to this phrase and they recite it over and over and over until their parent’s heads explode. They repeat it as fast as they can to the point that no one can understand a word they are saying. She does it at home all the time. ALL THE TIME! It has driven me so crazy that I want to commit violence. The next time I see her teacher I want to sock her. Unfortunately, her teacher is very tall and very fit so she could probably take me, but I have the element of surprise on my side. The other parents might be shocked at first, but when they find out it’s all because of “Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo”, I’m sure they will drift over to my side.
Back to the point. We went out to dinner tonight. She was very “Sassy” at dinner, by which I mean she was acting very much herself. At one point I started laughing because it was that or choke her. Her father looked at me with all seriousness and said, “I’m going to stab her with a fork.*** We’re going to have to explain to her husband why she has fork marks on her arm.”
I just don’t want to raise the bride price any higher than we can afford.
***Now My Honey is mad at me, and on our anniversary no less, for telling you the fork story. I would like to assure you that my husband would in no way stab, poke, impale, puncture or perforate our daughter with a fork or any other implement. I told this story because it’s funny, and I want you all to know just how funny My Honey is. He, however, doesn’t think I’m anywhere near as funny as I think I am. Deep sigh. I’m wrong. I admit it. He can list this incident in the divorce papers if he wants.
I’ve had to put the Big Secret Project on hold for a bit. That’s a bummer because I was really getting into it. I get the opportunity to pitch my completed novel to an agent at the RWA meeting in a couple of weeks. I say “completed” with a touch of hysteria in my voice. The Sisters and I have done such an overhaul on this book that I’m sort of in a panic. I’ve been up later than I should with a piece of poster board, 5 different colored sticky notes and the new synopsys. My head is spinning and I want to cry. I’m fully committed to the the changes that need to be made, but there are so many great lines and passages, whole freaking chapters that will land in the toilet.
I think I’m way too emotional to work on this now, but it must be done. I need cupcakes. With sprinkles. And a straight jacket.