Poor Beaker.  Nothing good ever happens to him.

One of my fun little surprises during my work day is popping over to Google.com to search something and finding that they have a theme logo for the day.

Today’s is especially awesome.  Double click to enlarge, turn on your sound, press play and enjoy.

Happy birthday, John, where ever you are.  Maybe hanging out on Penny Lane or the Strawberry Fields?

Sassy has watched The Wizard of Oz on DVD maybe 5 times in the last month and asked if I would buy her the book.  I had to wipe a tear from my eye. 

A) She loves the Wizard of Oz!

B) She wants (wants!!!!) to read the book

C) She is duly impressed that I know every word to every song in the movie.

D) AND I know the dance steps down the Yellow Brick Road

Its getting harder and harder to impress my daughter.  It seems that she’s

But we do agree on the funniest member of the Lollypop Guild

 launching early into the my-mother-is-an-idiot stage.  Had I known all I needed to do was sing and dance – well, hell.

So we sat down to watch it again the other night, she was rife with questions.  The thing is, I thought I knew everything about The Wizard of Oz.  I can answer obscure trivia questions in the middle of the night.  I can tell you behind the scenes tidbits long lost to antiquity.  What I can’t answer are Sassy’s questions.  Here are two of the doozies.

Where did Dorothy get the dog? I have no idea. Really.  I’ve never even considered it. 

What shoes is she wearing before she gets the ruby slippers?  Good

Everything is better with great shoes!

grief, is she even wearing shoes before?  She’s a farm girl after all.  I’m not even 100% sure she has feet before she crashes in Munchkinland.

So there you go.  It turns out all I know is useless when it comes to Sassy disecting a classic.

There is no way I’m letting her ruin Gone With the Wind or Casablanca.

One of the things that makes writing a romance novel hard to tell people, is, lets face it – the cover.  Romances have a tragic history of excruciatingly bad cover art.  For crying out loud, they kept me from reading one for decades.  They were too embarassing.  I’m the first to admit.  My ego couldn’t allow for me to be seen reading, much less enjoying, a book with those covers.

These days, the writing is often extraordinary.  The industry has jumped that hurdle.

And the cover art is better.  Sometimes. 

However, this site : The Wonderful World of Longmire has celebrated the age of god awful covers.  He’s taken actual covers and renamed them and added funny blurbs.

 Behold

 and this one

Aren’t these hysterical!  Enjoy some more…

You should pop over there and see them all.  Some readers have sent in some of their own as well.  Enjoy.

“I want Bandit to be my Butler and Henchman,” Sassy told me.  She said it off the cuff like her request wasn’t at all out of the ordinary.

The butler is odd, but not as odd as a henchman.  “Do you know what a henchman is?” I asked her.

“No.” She shook her head.  “But it sounds cool.”

“A henchman is someone that does another person’s evil bidding.  Sort of like a minion, but of higher rank.”  I could see she didn’t understand.  “Remember in Snow White, when the Evil Queen wants to kill Snow White she sends her into the forest with the Woodsman to kill her.  The Woodsman is her henchman.”

“But the Woodsman didn’t kill Snow White,” Sassy pointed out.

“Yeah, the Queen’s henchman sucks.  Remember when you get a henchman make sure he can follow instructions.”  This seems like excellent advice to me.

“Bandit’s not very good at following my instructions.”

The Bandit smiled and nodded.  Who would have thought that all along his short attention span was just a ploy to avoid being a henchman.

“What about a Butler?  What does he do?” she asked.  The Bandit also appeared interested. 

“He butles,” I said, cracking up and just delighted that I was able to steal a line from a funny movie at just the right time.

They waited patiently for me to get a hold of myself.  “A butler is in charge of a house and all the other servants.”

“Like Daddy,” Bandit pointed out.  “Daddy, you’re a butler.” 

I’m not exactly sure who The Bandit thinks the other servants are in this house, but he better not be looking in my direction. 

I think I need to get myself a henchman.

I bought a new tablecloth.  It’s really pretty and goes great in my house.  I put in on the table for breakfast on Sunday.  We all sat down to eat but before the children could get started I gave a very firm lecture about spilling.

These children spill constantly.  I know they are not unique in this aspect.  All children spill.  I understand this.  The thing that kills me though is that they’ll stand there, dumbfounded, staring at the overturned glass as it continues to pour liquid onto the table, off on to the chairs and draining to the floor. 

I gave them a lecture.  They were to make a concerted effort to keep their glasses in the upright position and away from the edge of the table. Sassy rolled her eyes at me, and I could tell that The Bandit was not threatened at all. 

I redoubled my efforts.  My Honey watched from the other side of the table.  I don’t know if he new better than me the whole exercise was futile or just a bit over indulgent on my part, but either way he kept quiet and remained vigilant.

Breakfast proceeded as usual.  My Honey and I tried in vain to hold an adult conversation and the children alternated between bickering and giggling hysterically.  The inevitable happened and I saw The Bandit throw some food on the floor.  I don’t know why.  Does it matter? 

I leaned over to grab his arm to stop the hurling of more food and, in slow motion, I could see my hand brush his Elmo glass of orange juice.  And over it went.

And it was all my fault.

Dammit.

My Honey was just grateful that it was me who spilled the first glass on the new table cloth.  This always happens to me.  No wonder no one takes me seriously.

I’ve been suffering from an unusual bout of insomnia.  Well, unusual for me.  I’m sure this is pretty much the same experience regular sufferers of insomnia go through.  I’m a really good sleeper usually.

I’ve had a LOT of stuff on my mind lately: my regular day job is sucking my soul dry and causing no small amount of stress. 

Also, MY AGENT has my book with eight editors – all at the big publishing houses.  I swear to God, every single time my head hits the pillow, I begin having fantasies that involve Avon Publishing.  A person just can’t go to sleep with that scenario running around in their head.

Ava’s husband is still working on my lap top to see how much of the missing middle of Dalton’s book he can recover.  I need to work on that, but understandably I should think, I don’t want to take off with it if any of the data is recoverable.  So I lay in bed and Dalton and Olivia harass me whenever they can get a word in between Avon and MY AGENT discussing the auction of my book.

And my husband’s snoring has ramped up to Richter scale proportions.

And I’m hungry because I’m dieting and bitter about it.

On Thursday night sleep was not forthcoming.  No matter what I did.  The following is a list of things I did while the rest of my house slumbered.

• I got in bed no less than three times.  My tossing and turning and loud, frustrated exhaling was annoying me and I was sure it would disturb My Honey so I kept getting back out of bed.

• I tried the couch twice.  No dice.

• I cruised the Internet.  Often.  There was nothing on.  I don’t understand why I continue to pay the cable bill.

• I called in a prescription renewal at midnight.

• I read.  I’m sure that’s shocking

• At 2:00 I found Sense & Sensibility on cable.  That was exciting.

• I let the dog in and out about 97 times.

• I oiled the bathroom door.  The squeaking had been driving me crazy so I finally got around to doing something about it.  

• At 3:30 I emailed a really cute jacket to Ava.

When 4:15 rolled around, I gave myself a very stern talking-to.  It was either now or never.  So I went to work on 2 hours of sleep.  My Honey and I had a nasty fight at Costco of all places.

I’m quite sure it was due to 6 hours of sleep in the last 67.  In fact, I feel quite sleepy now at 11:11 Sunday evening.  What do you suppose the odds are I’ll go right to sleep?

This may be the smartest thing I’ve read read as attributed to Ernest Hemingway.

“Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk.  That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”

This is excellent advice but, I can’t say when I look back on any of the asinine things I have done that they were promised under the influence.  I drank A LOT when I was younger.  By the time I was legal, I’d more or less given it up – or end up in rehab – the choice was clear even at 21. 

I doesn’t matter, though, because my personality is such that I love a challenge, don’t ever tell me no, and I’m always up for something fun.  In fact, I have no problem being the designated driver.  The risk lies with the drunk people in my car not because they are in danger of vehicular mayhem.  The mayhem I get them into is of an entirely different nature. 

I don’t need alcohol to come up with crazy ideas – ideas that make GREAT stories later, and I can be quite persuasive.

For example, stone cold sober I dared people to go bungee jumping.  Of course, I regretted that moment of rash stupidity standing on the edge of a building 17 stories from the safe Las Vegas street.  But I did it and I have video proof.

It was me, without one single drop of mind freeing alcohol, who prompted my girlfriends and me to hustle our butts down to the tattoo parlor and get our belly buttons pierced. 

Not even one of my tattoos (yes, Ken, there are multiple – it’s all part of that “black sheep” thing) involved alcohol.  One involved a dare of sorts – I don’t think Tim and Kurt believed I’d go through with it.  The fools.  They should have known their best friend better.  Two others involved men in my life telling me I couldn’t have a tattoo, and the other two are intensely personal.

I’ve raced cars – professional cars on professional race ways and hot rods on deserted roads in the middle of the night.

I’ve proven to be an excellent shot with a .45 Magnum, Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry weapon, even though I’m sure I’ll never own a gun.  All because some asshole doubted I could do it.  It wasn’t at gunpoint I made him eat crow, but he ate it nonetheless.

 I like the incongruity that these things bring to the table when you meet me.  I like to be unexpected.  I love to tell a good story.  I quite honestly have “start a bar brawl” on my list of items to do one day – keep that in mind if we go out.

But honestly, with all the things I’ve done that were either brave or stupid or, most of all, tested my mettle, there are two things that very clearly stand out in my life.  By far the bravest things I’ve ever done, and consequently the things I am most proud of, are being brave enough to get pregnant again after the loss of my first child at birth and writing a book.

The first thing is obvious.  Getting pregnant with Sassy was absolutely horrifying and by far the most concentratedly terrifying 7 1/2 months of my life.  I trod a very thin, thin line, held together with baling wire and spit, terrorized at the thought that it could happen again and being powerless to control the outcome.  Hysteria was always just a heartbeat away – literally.  The pregnancy with The Bandit was different.  Scary but, tempered with the knowledge that it had worked out once, emboldened with trust that I could do it again.

Writing a book isn’t the scary thing.  Letting people read it is.  It’s an intensely personal thing to dig this out of yourself and get it down on paper.  To allow people to read this thing you pulled from inside, is incredibly intimidating.  Opening yourself up to criticism for something you hold so close is not for the faint of heart.  People have opinions and I hate knowing those opinions matter to me.  Even now, having two novellas published and a book an agent loves – loves enough to stake her much respected reputation on representing, seems to barely give validation. 

Holy Cow! When did this silly post turn into a confessional?  Maybe I should just go have a drink, huh?

What the hell is with greeters in every single store?  It used to be just Walmart and they didn’t bother me much because I make it a rule not to shop in there.  I have my reasons – and you should too.  But this isn’t a political blog so, I’ll shut up about that.

Now there are greeters everywhere.  You can’t shop without being accosted.  When we go into Blockbusters the teenage staff hollars at you from the counter.  Subway actually yells at you the minute you walk in the door.  I’m in Target at least once a week – sometimes more – and you can’t walk down the aisles without the red-shirt brigade stopping you. 

“Can I help you find something?”  Really?  In Target?  I’ll bet I can tell them where a few things are in that store. 

I work for a very, very large bank – in the mortgage department.  I walked into my local banking branch today to make a deposit and wasn’t even five steps in the door before some little schmo jumped me. 

“How can I help you today?” 

First off, you can get the hell out of my face.  “I’m just making a deposit,” I told him as I veered around his skinny little road block.

“Let me escort you to the teller line.”  Seriously?  Little man had better get his hand off my arm.

“I’m fine.  I sincerely doubt I”ll get lost on the way across the room to that large area defined by the velvet ropes.”

The worst of it is Safeway.  I rarely shop there.  Wanna know why?  Those people are like cult members at the airport.  I’ll get asked 15 times if they can help me find something from the front door to the milk and back up front to the check out line.  By the 3rd or 4th time I’m not able to control the irritation in my voice.  7th and 8th or so and I’m rude and snarky.  11th – 15th and I’m not even forming words, just growling.

I don’t want to be bitchy.  Well sometimes I do, but a person can only take so much.  Customer service needs to back the hell up and give a shopper some room.

This is bound to make anyone feel better after a rough day.