Amylynn would respectfully request that Ava read Isabella’s column below.  If necessary, read it two or perhaps even three times.  Since you are so keen on reading aloud to look for inconsistencies and such, feel free to read it aloud.  Read it in a small voice, read it in a loud voice, read it with an English accent if you feel so inclined. 

Thank you for being my champion, Isabella.  You’re shining armor should be arriving via Fed Ex any day now.  Some assembly required.

XOXOXOXO to you both.

Dear Readers.  I’m slowly going insane.  If you’ve been following this blog for at least a few months, you know that I’ve submitted two different short stories to a very well known romance publisher (samples here & here).  I’m trying to be patient, but really, I’m not that good at it.  In fact, I’m not even the least bit patient.  I’m an instant gratification kind of person.  That’s why I don’t have hobbies.  I like to play pool, at least in theory, but when I play I find out that I’m not that good at it, so I get mad and want to hurt someone with one of those long stick things.  I don’t play video games – I haven’t since those stupid ghosts ate my Pacman.  I don’t play musical instruments because that takes practice and well, I’d rather be reading.  I learned to read when I was four, I don’t remember having to work at it.  My mother may have another story, but it seems to me that I’ve been a readaholic forever.  I started writing in 3rd grade. 

So these two stories are out….and I’m waiting.  Something we’ve already established that I’m not good at.  When I submitted them, I was told 3-4 months.  So based on that projection, I really shouldn’t expect to hear anything until the end of this month or sometime in October.  My email comes to my cell phone, so every time the blasted thing buzzes that I have an email, I stop breathing and I get a surge of adrenaline.  It’s kind of exhausting, really, because this happens about 25 times a day.  I’ll drop dead of a heart attack and never know if I sold the damn things.  Today I got an email from eHarlequin thanking me for a purchase (I’m doing recon don’t you know) but, when I saw eHarlequin in the sender line, I very nearly had an accident in my pants.

Isabella does a great job of keeping my spirits up, and Ava tells it like it is.  They are the yin & yang of nervous breakdowns.  So I do what every professional writer/agent/editor tells you to do while you’re waiting to sell your book: keep writing.  So I’m pecking away……and checking my email.  Harlequin editors – if you’re reading this, give a girl a break.

I have found an amazing new use for my misspent youth.  Who would have ever thought that those hours after school and all summer long in front of the TV would yield anything beyond a head full of useless trivia?  I’m still waiting for the call from Jeopardy, but until then I’ve put my head to good use.

One of The Bandit’s most frequently requested bed time songs is “Gilligan’s Island”.  How funny is that?  And, really, how sad is it that I know all three verses by heart?  Also, I can sing the songs from School House Rock.  That should come in handy when Sassy starts learning about bills in government and conjunctions in English class. 

I can also tell you the addresses of several local establishments by heart just because I can recite the darn commercials of my youth:   “Szechuan Omi Restaurant, 2601 “Esa”  Speedway. Just one block “Esa” Tucson Blvd.  Come in – Try it.  I know you try it, you will like it” (I tried to write the accent because that’s the way I hear it in my head)

Of course, none of this is important in the great scheme of things.  And most importantly, it’s not keeping Thomas & Francesca apart so they can get back together, and Dalton and Olivia are still messing around before the wedding.  I have a lot of plotting and writing to do.  Instead, that idiot Gilligan is running around in there and he has no business what so ever in Regency England.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that either Thomas or Dalton would kick his ass if he showed up.

I love the English language.  I especially love synonyms.  Not all languages allow for the nuances of feeling like English does.  I also find it fascinating the way the language has changed over the hundreds of years.  Slang becomes accepted and thus English continues to evolve.  We all know this happens, or we’d all be speaking the same way Shakespeare did.  According to my daily calendar:

In the 18th century an educated Englishman would have considered this word to be vulgar American slang: scientist.

I’ve been in a fairly heated battle with Ava over a choice of words for the last couple of days.  I’m heated – she’s busy spewing coffee out her nose.  My phrase is uttered by a gentleman of the noble class, although he is an officer in the Royal Navy and he has just returned from war, and he’s in a very impassioned argument.  He states, “I don’t give a rat’s ass….”  Ava doesn’t want me to use it.  She thinks that it’s hysterical, but not historical.  I counter that it’s a timeless sentiment.  I argue that people of the Edwardian/Regency/Victorian era were very creative cursers.  I suggest that I find the etymology of the phrase and if I can prove that it is older than 1812 I get to keep it and she shuts her trap.

Easier said than done.  I have been all over the internet looking.  The internet seemed like just the place to find out such nonsense.  I have not found out the etymology, but I have learned all kinds of stuff one never needed to know about rat’s asses.  That’s for sure.  Apparently, it’s a Chinese delicacy.  Really?  And I wanted to visit there pretty badly, and now I’m just terrified that I’d accidently order that on the menu. 

Ava & I speculated that perhaps it came around with the advent of the Bubonic Plague.  Seems logical.  Rat’s carried the fleas; the fleas gave you the plague, right?  If so, I win.  The Bubonic Plague was most notable during the 14th century.   For those of you keeping score at home, that’s considerably before 1812.

I did happen to find an especially good clearing house sort of site that links to a zillion others:  www.bawdylanguage.com for all you out there desperate for euphemisms of various body parts (Ava I’m talking to you).

Isabella, the most creative curser I’ve ever heard, is fully on my side.  When I say creative cursing, I’m not kidding.  That girl can string together a collection of swear words that have never, in the history of swearing, ever been linked together before, into a invective that will blister your ears.  Sincerely, I am often in awe and frequently in gales of laughter.

My Honey has now gotten into the discussion.  I can see him over on his side of the office, listening to his iPod, and looking up “rat’s ass” on Google.  And suddenly the skies part and angels are singing.  HE FOUND IT.

I WIN I WIN I WIN I WIN I WIN – victory lap around the office.  The Idiot Dog is baying up a storm. The windows are rattling.

Alright, I’ll freely admit that www.uncyclopedia.com is a comedic site with as much real information as The Onion.  However, tonight I’m considering it gospel.

In case you’re interested, according to Uncyclopedia’s etymology of rat’s ass:

Since ancient times, both Inner Mongolianites and Outer Mongolianites have cultivated the rat for its tender and succulent ass meat. Mongolian legend is rife with obscure references to rat’s ass, such as when Attila the Hun gave one to the Romans after they requested that he stop destroying their empire. In ancient Greek times people would sacrifice rat’s ass to the gods. If someone didn’t sacrifice any rat’s ass than it was said they didn’t care about the god’s. So when someone says “I don’t give a rat’s ass” that’s where it comes from. (sic)

I can now get back to the business of ruining Thomas and Francesca’s lives.  This has been a public service announcement.

Thursday will be the 4 month anniversary of this site and I can’t even relate to you how excited I am!!!!!  I’ll use excessive exclamation points to emphasis my glee.   Today our little blog went over the 5,000 visitors mark.  I squealed!!! I realize that this is an entirely arbitrary number, but it’s a good number.  A nice round number.  Imagine me twirling in my desk chair, fists raised in the air in triumph, doing an incredibly dorky white girl dance.  

WAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

The Bandit would say, “Yippeekayay” I have no idea how to spell that and I’m much to distracted and excited to Google it. 

Oooooh.  I’m all a Twitter.  Speaking of Twitter, it turns out my husband Tweets.  Doesn’t that seem like the sort of thing a wife should know?  I literally had no idea.  I wonder what other interesting things he’s babbling about over there when I’m not listening. 

However, since I’m babbling to you while on an adrenaline high, I’ll casually mention that I changed my hair color – I feel rather dramatically.  I did it in the middle of the night.  I think I might have a sleep disorder.  I’m not sure how I feel about the color right now – except that hair grows so whatever, I not too worked up about it.  Sassy noticed the instant she woke up in the morning.  She’s good for that: new shoes, new jewelery, new hair.  It’s been three days.  Do you think My Honey has said one single word? NOPE.  He either hates it or he has no idea what I’m doing over here either.

I was up really, really late writing last night.  I finally commanded myself to go to bed at 2:00 because, when I did the math, 6am comes really freakin’ early.  Anyway, when I drug my tired tookus home from work and collapsed on the couch, The Bandit sidled up to me and this was our conversation.

“Are you tired, Momma?”

“Yessirree.”

“Why don’t you take a nap at work like I do at school?”

“Because grown ups don’t get to do that.”

“Do you want me to talk to that mean man for you, Momma?”

As much as I’d love to eat some graham crackers and a bit of milk and roll out my nap mat around 1:00 or so, I don’t really see a lot of work getting done afterwards. 

Besides my boss is the sweetest lady ever and, lord knows, I don’t want to ruin her day by making her deal with The Bandit when he smells an opportunity for trouble making in the air.

Ava and I met with a fellow writer today.  Isabella was mired in family obligations, but she was there in spirit, and I reported everything back to her the minute I got back in the car.  The Sister’s are hoping to work with this gentleman on a collaboration that has far reaching and lofty goals.  The subject matter is a far cry from the romance we’re known for by you all, but not so far from us in reality.  At least the one of us that was a film major in college, and has read every true crime and mobster book she could put her hands on, and took forensics classes.  That Sister is a little twisted anyway.  Her mother would tell you all that she was concerned about her daughter’s morbid tendencies.  If you haven’t guessed, it’s me.  I have a very wide range of interests, to say the very least.   The Sisters are very excited and, with all the talent involved, we have no doubt it will succeed. 

As for poor Thomas and Francesca, the hero and heroine of Seeing Love Clearly, they are truely a mess.  Some may say that Francesca is heartless, but nothing could be further from the truth.  I feel for the poor guy, but really, he brought this all on himself.  I have a suspicion that everything will work out in the end, but not without some 19th century tabloid fodder.

Stay tuned……Information will be forthcoming as it develops.

Tonight, Sassy’s school held the annual Ice Cream Social.  This is a raucus affair that the kids really love.  There is always a limbo and a hula hoop contest.  Sassy started practicing the hula hoop back in July.  Her grandmother bought them all hoops and they would hula and hula and hula.

My Honey and I tried to practice with her, but the magic is gone.  It’s one of those things you thought you could do, in fact you used to be quite good at, but now find quite impossible.  It turns out my hoop doesn’t hula anymore.  This last year, I’ve discovered a few other things people our age shouldn’t be doing.   It seems we’re in this weird transitional age.  I seem to remember my father at about my age still thinking he could beat up all the young punks.  I see a little bit of that in My Honey, too.  My dear friend, Dona, god bless her, just had rotater cuff surgery because she was trying to do cartwheels with her granddaughters when she heard a snap.  Another friend broke both elbows roller skating.  I’m telling you, it’s alarming.  I often tease that I’m going to bubble wrap The Bandit but perhaps that would be better used on his father and I.

Anyway, all of her hard training paid off.  Ms. Sassy won the contest by a landslide this year – while hula hooping on one foot!

Waaaahooo, Sassy!

I wrote exactly one sentence last night and it wasn’t even especially inspired.  I have a daunting assignment ahead of me, and last night didn’t get me anywhere closer to the light at the end of the tunnel. 

My Honey and I each got a child to bed, snuggled in with their respective beds with their “backies” and cuddly animals, and he figured they were down for the count.  One of his friends was playing last night so he went to their show.  I settled into my comfy desk chair, cranked up the air conditioner, and prepared to play God and mess up some lives. 

8:35        The Bandit comes in because his neck hurts and he needs medicine.  I kiss him all over, spreading the Magical Mommy Medicine all over his neck.  I tuck him back in and leave the room.

8:40        I let Roscoe in because he’s baying outside the French Doors to the back yard. 

8:45        The Bandit is back.  This time he claims the dog is bothering him.  I know, little man, the dog is bothering me, too.  I tuck him back in his bed and remonstrate the Idiot Dog and tell him to leave the boy alone.

9:00        I let Roscoe back outside because he’s clawing the door.

9:02        I let Roscoe back inside – the baying has begun in earnest again.

9:15        The Bandit is back.  He needed to go potty.  He walked all the way through the house to the furthest opposite corner to tell me he was out of bed ONLY because he had to go potty.  I march his happy little butt in the cowboy jammies back to his room.

9:17        I let Roscoe back outside.

9:21        I let Roscoe back inside.

9:37        I let Roscoe back outside.  I slam the door this time.

9:45        I hear The Bandit singing in his room.  “Take Me Out to The Ballgame” is his song of choice.  I tell him to go to sleep.

9:47        I let Roscoe back inside.  I shake my finger at him and tell him to behave.  He gallops away, tongue lolling out of his goofy mouth without a care in the world.

10:00     The Bandit is back.  This time the dog is stealing his stuff.  I go to the living room where Roscoe is standing on top of the coffee table, stuffed monkey in his mouth, his eyes wild with the hopes of a game of chase.  Fortunately, I am smarter than the dog – just barely.  For as big as he is, he’s very good at dodging and weaving.  The Bandit laughs with glee.  Oh, he’s awake now.

10:15     Miraculously, both the dog and The Bandit have fallen asleep.  Look, aren’t they cute.

10:16     I give up on writing tonight.  After all that, it’s just not there tonight.  Besides, Project Runway is on.

11:30     I wander out to the living room and there is the desiccated remains of the Super Dooper Snuggle Bear.  OH NO! One leg is completely missing.  There’s stuffing everywhere.  OH THE HUMANITY!  The Super Dooper Snuggle Bear is The Bandit’s special bear.  He is very dear.  Unfortunately, he has been in Roscoe’s jaws before.  He no longer has ears or a tail – just pitiful little raggedy stubs where ears and tail should be.  The leg has been torn off two times prior.  I scoop up the remains and spend the next hour and a half sewing him back together.  The Bandit can’t see him like this.  It’s too dreadful.  I must protect the innocent.

1:15        I turn out the lights and go to bed, only for My Honey to come home filled with stories and gossip to share.

I wrote one whole sentence the entire night.  Deep sigh.

I know I’ve mentioned before that the Sister’s belong to a writer’s group. It’s a local chapter of Romance Writers of America and, quite frankly, I’ve never met a more supportive bunch of writers in my life. One of our friends there, Sherrill Quinn, has a new book out and another of the more tech savvy women made her a video for the book. Follow this link – Sherrill Quinn.  It’s a cool video and a great book.  Mine is autographed if that makes you more envious. 

I’m so jealous!  As soon as I finally sell something I’m totally getting a video!