I would just like to post a brief comment on my lack of comments lately.  But before I comment, I would like to thank Amylynn for posting daily and Ava for posting regularly-ish.  A girl could really not have two better sisters. 

I have no genuine excuse for my lack of postability.  I have, however, learned something valuable about myself. 

I have the attention span of a gnat.  On a good day.  When there is a rotten banana nearby. 

This is not to say that i can’t multi-task.  I am an expert multi-tasker.  But I recently left a job that I had been doing for nearly 7 years and started a new, shiny, FUN job, that, as it happens, takes considerably less time and emotional capacity than the old ball and chain that I used to have.  So why am I not writing?

Oh…I am.  I have made considerable progress on a lingering short story that I can’t wait to share.  And also plugged in many new pages in my novel.  And started a new project with Amylynn that is extremely top secret.   But I have neglected the Quill Sisters Site.  And for that I am regrettably guilt laden. 

So once again, in case you missed it in my rambling comment about my lack of commenting, THANK YOU to my sisters for keeping this site fun and alive.  THANK YOU for bringing countless hits everyday to the real world of a writer.  And THANK YOU for always having my back and feeding me cupcakes.  You 2 are the best…

Never fear Amylynn.  Self recrimination due to extreme humiliation is not far away with me around.  Note to self (and any other potential would-be-moronic-masqueraders)….Do NOT, under any circumstances, no matter how badly you think you want to, take a 4 year old with a mild fever who is appropriately asleep in the jogging stroller she outgrew, the demonic poodle and a bottle of water out for a stroll on a seemingly mild, 80 degree day in the desert.  At 1pm.    Well, technically not the desert per se, but a trail overlooking the desert.  Oh, and did I mention I have a mild fever of my own?  It was just a sore throat this morning, but now I fear I have a full blown case of Ebola.  Apparently physical exertion while fighting Ebola is a bad thing. 

Did I also mention that my archaic jogging stroller (which, I will admit, has never reached jogging speed in it’s entire existence) has a pesky flat tire that requires more sweet talk and pumping than any man alive?  Getting the full picture here??  And of course I was wearing my Quill Sisters t-shirt just to round out the whole experience. 

I wasn’t actually alarmed until I made it about a mile away then curved around on a section of trail I had never been on before.   I had just been thinking that the walk wasn’t the best idea, but with the poodle trotting along and the sweet girl asleep, I had figured I could push through.

Apparently, I had been going downhill the whole way.  What’s even more amazing?  I didn’t even know there were hills where I live.  But from the bottom, looking up at a slope the entire direction towards home, I apparently had hiked down Kilimanjaro. 

And one more tasty tidbit as I began the climb home…it was also windy.  And I had just turned into it.  My poodle does not do well in the wind.  He seems to think every ruffle of his fur is an attack from an unseen boogey-man.  He jumps in the air and spins 360 degrees.  And barks at me.  He refuses to walk forward and pulls backward on the leash as if I am asking him to walk over flames.  If not for my daughter’s love of the brain-damaged fur ball, I may have released him into the desert and chalked it up to the fever.   

I really wish I could tell you the rest.  It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I need to get my sleep before HAZMAT shows up to evacuate my house.  Be assured that there was swearing, poodle hijinks, cursing, tire pumping, small rests in the frugal, selfish shade of barrel cacti, much water drinking and more swearing.  

I had never been so happy to see my house.  The poodle had gotten tossed into the basket under the stroller somewhere on the trail because he absolutely refused to budge.  And my little daughter snoozed the whole way, in the shade, with her favorite blankie as a pillow.

It was nice knowing everyone.  I bequeath my unfinished stories to my sisters, Ava and Amylynn.

That’s me.  Shameless.  But I am strongly compelled to illustrate the relevance of a rat’s ass to the importance of creative license.  Far be it for me to make a cake of myself, but with the havey-cavey business of getting published, wouldn’t it be better, indeed, to raise a breeze over the creative use of the hind quarters of a rodent? 

Sorry, I lost myself in 1814 London for a minute.  I have been researching Regency lexicon.  And even though “I don’t give a rat’s ass” isn’t on the list of those recorded for the links of history, I found some others that surely indicate a tendancy toward such expressions. 

For example.  There are more ways to describe drunkeness than I ever thought possible.  Was he just a bit drunk?  He was a trifle disguised.  Was the elbow-crooker moderately drunk?  He was foxed, or in his cups.  Maybe he’s been drinking all day.  That would make the slowtop ape-drunk.  

Let’s follow the drunkard as he wanders about London in 1814, shall we?

Now the bosky, jug-bitten, dicked-in the nob dudgeon was in the suds.  Although he was fair gutfounded and wishing for more ale to fill his pudding-house, he seemed all too ready to sport his canvas and ring a fine peal over someone.  If he wasn’t careful, he would land a facer and stumble into a mill. 

He found himself surrounded by Haymarket ware and decided to kick-up a lark with the light skirts.  Maybe some time with a bit o’ muslin was just was he needed to shake off his friday-face.  Society never would have known he was so shakingly loose in the haft as to be so tap-hackled and looking for trollops.  After all, he wasn’t a peep of day boy like his younger brother. 

 Just as he spotted a tempting armful, he started to feel like he had eaten a bit too much Hull cheese.  Feeling as queer as Dick’s fatband, he lunged for the gutter and cast up his accounts.  What a bacon-brained, properly shot in the neck rake he was.  More hair than wit, he gave up the gig and went looking for a hackney to take him home.  And he didn’t give a tinkers damn if his wife was waiting for him.

See what I mean?  A rat’s ass would have fit right in. 

Consider this a petition for creative license on behalf of writers everywhere.  Especially Amylynn.

So I finally bribed Oven Man to return to finish the repair he started a week and a half ago.  (If you haven’t read why, see here and here, I promise, it’s worth your time).   This time I was prepared for his arrival.  Bear was at work so there was no possibility of a tidy-whitey sighting. 

I had the front blinds open, so I happened to see him pull up out front.  Wow!  On time again!  The first time he pulled up in front of the house and walked briskly to the door…well, he got an eyeful.  So this time, he must have brushed up on his How to Prepare the Half-Naked Client Handbook, version 4.0.   As I waited for him to approach to door, my phone rang.  Figures, right?  That stuff always happens at once.  But when I answered it was Oven Man letting me know he was here.  I waved to him from the window where he could clearly see me talking on the phone to him.   

And I waited.  And stared at him.  He wasn’t on the phone or doing anything that made him look busy.  Just sitting and staring down the street.  For 5 minutes.  Whatever.

As I turned to walk into the kitchen, he started honking the horn.  Seriously?  Did a child venture in front of his parked truck?  Was a bird mercilessly beating his windshield with it’s head?  Maybe a car was careening down the road heading right for him.  I rushed back to the window with morbid curiosity.  And on the last honk, all he was doing was staring through the window at me.  

“YES!  I KNOW YOU ARE HERE!  ALL FRUIT OF THE LOOM APPAREL HAS BEEN STASHED!”   

With that, he finally got out of the truck and came to the door.  Ha freakin’ Ha. 

The oven is fixed.

For me, writing is a very visual process and when I have a vision of a story opening, I have to get it down right away… while the character is still staring at me in awe, like I just pulled a Captain Kirk and materialized in their tidy, little, conflict-driven world.  If I don’t do it just then, the moment passes and the characters disperse and are gone forever.  Getting them down ensures that they be will frozen in time, impatiently waiting in the scene where I left them.  And every once in a while, I re-open one of those stories and have a revelation of how to continue.  I did so just last week with a short historical that I started back when my attention span was that of a pollen seeking honey-bee lost in an English Garden. 

My hero, Steven, was thrilled to see me…at first.  And Lila was ever so prim and grateful that I had returned and decided to let her speak.  I will say, that this is the funnest story to write.  But Amylynn’s blog reminded me that etymology is ever-present in my every thought.  I am a bit rusty on the tedious details of Regency England.  My novel, whose details I had extensively researched, is Victorian, and though there is a mere 37 year difference between my short-story and novel, I am back on google looking up muffins.  Amylynn will know what I mean, I can hear her giggling already.  But for the rest of you, here is an illustration of what happens in my head.  Everyday.   My thoughts will appear in italics.  The words I actually manage to write will appear in bold.

Lila entered the library famished. Could one be famished in 1814?  Maybe she was just hungry…hmm.  There was definitely poverty back then.  I’m sure someone was super hungry, and famish would probably fit if it were a street urchin.  Come to think of it, I’m famished right now.  But how would the daughter of a Viscount know what famish felt like?  Oh forget it.  I’ll google it later.  She had chosen her favorite dress? gown? I think I remember Julia Quinn using the gown word.  Or is a gown in 1814 just for debutante balls.  I think it’s gown.  I’ll go with gown. gown for the festivities of the day.  It was pale blue, a color her mother had chosen for her because it brought out her eyes.  The neckline was what?  how were the necklines?  It’s picnic season, so probably lower cut.  What was Gwyneth Paltrow wearing in that Jane Austin movie?  I think low cut.  But not too low cut. She’s not a courtesan.  Or was it prostitute in 1814?  Nope.  I think prostitute was later.  Courtesan was earlier.  Or maybe there’s a difference in their services.  Are Courtesans just escorts?  And when did Whore appear?  For the love of god, how did I get onto whores?  Well not onto whores, haha, but…Poor Lila.  She is standing here in Starbucks staring at me aghast that I have only partially dressed her.  Ok, back to the keyboard. Nevermind the neckline.  The tiny pearl buttons surely that made pearl buttons…right?  Haven’t pearl buttons been around forever?  BAH!  Forget the buttons.  She had been the first to arrive at breakfast would she be by herself?  She should probably have a chaperone, even for breakfast.  With a lusty Duke around, surely no female was safe. Except for me. Did they call it breakfast?  Maybe it’s just tea.  But I’m looking at the table and there’s no tea.  Wouldn’t there be a butler in here?  Or is it a footman?  Cook would still be in the kitchens, but there would be somebody in here sanding against the wall staring into space waiting for the Duke to burp.  Hmm. Oh well.  and she went directly for the biscuits and jam Now would that be bisquits?  The English are always throwing in Q’s, aren’t they? Maybe there weren’t even bisquits/biscuits at all.  They were around in 1851, but what about 1814?  Maybe they were muffins.  Or scones.  Crumpettes?  Weren’t scones the same thing as crumpette’s?  Dammit!  I want a scone!  There is nobody in line.  I’m getting a scone.

As I walked to the counter, Lila looked at me and threw up her arms.  She’s frustrated that I am leaving her standing alone in the library two inches away from the biscuits/bisquits.  Simmer down, missy.  Simmer down.

Every time I let my demon poodle outside to pee, I feel the urgent need to post.  But usually, as soon I let him back in, with a verbal parade of disgust (mumbled under my breath, of course), I am already on to something else.  But it’s 10 pm.  My little sweet daughter is in bed.  My house is quiet.  And the blatant aggravation is fueling me to act in a way that will record my misery for all to share. 

So I will be sitting near the sliding glass door, tapping away on my computer, lost in the world of my hunky and messed up hero, and he (the poodle, not the hero) will incessantly paw at the door.  Clickity-click with his little poodle paws.  As if his bladder is about to burst.  As if feces are about to fly and splatter the walls.  And after ten solid minutes of swearing inside my head, I will indulge his little apricot fancy.  And then it begins. 

I know how it is when I have to go.  If it were me, after pawing recklessly at the glass, I would rush out, all distractions be damned, and relieve myself on the nearest  relieving-looking item and sigh with happiness.  But not the poodle.  Nope.

He does burst out the door, only to stop two feet away with a morbid curiosity of a random dead bug. 

“Max,” I order.  “Go potty”

(The rest of this story will be from the poodle street-perspective, as it is only aggravating from mine.)

Wow!  Look at this bug!  On his back, legs up in the air for me to sniff!  His scent is telling me…

“MAX.  BLABLABLA.”

She is so annoying with the constant yammering.  ANYWAY, like I was saying…Hey!  Look at that!  A leaf actually blew onto the porch!  It must be my lucky day!  I LOVE leaves…

“MAX, BLABLABLA!  SERIOUSLY, BLABLA!”

What a downer.  She must not like leaves!  What a freak.  Fine, I’ll trot over here…Oh no!! Somebody moved this bucket!  BARK!  Somebody moved the frickin’ bucket!  Get out here!!!  BARK BARK!!  I better stick my nose in it and see if the mud that was in the bucket before was stolen or if it is the same mud my girl put in it two weeks ago.  Here goes nothi…

“MAX”  (loud snaps and clapping noises).  “WTF? ( I abbreviated that for the sensitive readers.  The naughty ones will understand…and you know who you are).  WEREN’T YOU DESPERATE BLABLABLABLA”

She seroiusly needs some yoga.  Or a sedative.  I will stare at her for a few seconds, she will think her dramatics have had an impact, she will throw her arms up and go inside, then I will resume the Bucket investigation.  I will not be derailed in the serious business of…

“WHAT IN THE @&(% ARE YOU BLABLABLABLA?”

Oops, didn’t wait long enough.  Ok.  I will prance about looking serious.  I will look as if I have forgotten how bad I have to pee.  Did I have to pee?  What did I have for breakfast?  Is that a butterfly?  She will see I am all about business, and back off on the crazy commands.  That looks to be an anole.  My girl loves to catch those!  I usually pee over here.  I’ll just do a little sniffing and WHOA!  I just found the last place I peed.  Oh my goodness!  PEE!  And it’s my old pee!  Yep, definitely mine.  Maybe a little rear foot dance is in order!  I will just kick my little poodle feet out like this like I am trying to bury…

“OMG.  SERIOUSLY?  YES.  THAT”S YOUR PEE, EINSTEIN.  I CAN STILL SEE YOU!   BLABLABLA!!!!!!”

Wow.  Nevermind.  I don’t have to go anymore.  I guess I’ll just prance in all prissy-like past her and go find something of hers to chew.  Hey!  A bird just flew by! BARK!  Better yet, I’ll find something of the girls to chew.  That’ll really…

“FINE!  GET IN HERE! BLABLABLA”

Oops.  Distracted again.  Took a bit of the impact off my idea.  *Bleep*  But on to one of the girls plastic reptiles…

And I, a poodle owner, am blessed with hours of this every day.  I think I will turn him loose in Amylynn’s house.  Maybe her dog will tree him on the lamp and he’ll have a rock-bottom moment.  Kinda like rehab. 

Dear God, I just posted a whole entry on my poodle.  I might need a job.

So as a result of my oven fire last week (see my Superhero post if you are wondering what I’m talking about), I had a repairman scheduled for today.  And it is a good thing that I’m currently jobless, because he was to appear anytime between 9 and 5.  What is with that?  Is time management rocket science?  I digress.  Back to the point. 

Bear was home this morning on his “day off”.  The reason there are “air quotes ” around that phrase on paper, or in my head, or as I talk to friends is because he can’t manage to actually take a day off.  He spent hours on and off the phone, pacing about the house, in the driveway, down the block,  talking to past customers, new customers, would-be passers-by, co-workers, the neighbors, etc.   And because one of those conversations was compelling enough, he announced that he would be, of course, going in to work.  Which, although I am jobless, puts yet another kink in my plans for the repairman’s 8 hour window because I take and pick up my daughter from school.  And because they couldn’t manage to narrow the anticipated repairman’s time of unholy arrival, I had to call and cancel for today.  One more day without the oven and stove shouldn’t be that big of a problem.  Right?  After all, I have eaten every microwave meal ever made over the last 9 days, 18 hours and 14 minutes. 

At some point, Bear had hopped in the shower and set down the phone.  I had put in the mandatory 6 applications via computer for the day, so I settled in on the couch with a fantastic book by Julia Quinn.  I was very involved in the story, so artfully woven with a tapestry of words that pulled me in, that I barely noticed Bear was now pacing around the house somewhere, back on the phone.  And then the doorbell rang. 

I hopped off the couch, thinking it was UPS bringing me of crate of cash just for being me.  But it was the repairman.  Impressive!  Four hours before deadline and he showed up even though I cancelled!  I made a mental note to play the lottery.  He said this first visit would just take a few seconds, so of course, I let him in. 

I walked him into the kitchen while I looked for Bear, to let him know the guy was here.  But Bear was nowhere.  Hmm. Weird.  He was here, talking away and pacing about.  Oh well. 

Back to the kitchen to talk to the repair man.  I stood against the kitchen sink, with the window behind me, bantering with Oven Man.  The at-first-seemingly-normal repair guy suddenly started to look away from me while he was talking.  First down to his feet.  Then over his shoulder back at the pantry.  Then out towards the tv.  What the hell?? I mean, I knew I was looking a little rough, but was I that hideous?  Or maybe he was scoping out the house.  Looking about in an akward manner for valuables, just to come back and rob us blind.  

But then I heard Bear’s voice talkity-talking on the phone.  I guess he was pacing the back porch, which is fully visible through afore-mentioned window .  Not too big of a shock.  And as Oven Man dropped to his knees to stick his head in the oven in a final attempt to avoid my wrinkled, churning brow, I turned around to knock on the window to tell Bear Oven Man had made it.  

I turned around to see my husband standing outside on the porch, having an in-depth, business-like conversation, with hand-gestures and all, in full view of the window, sporting only his fruit of the looms.  Briefs, that is. 

And suddenly I panicked.  The repairman was done in the oven, but he wouldn’t come out.  My poodle, demon-boy, was coming unglued at the guy half-in the oven.  He must have figured people weren’t supposed to do that, so in his infinite dog- wisdom, he started barking like a exorcism bound hound of hell.  And this sprint to the laundry room wasn’t quite as exciting as the sprint to the fire extinguisher, but it did result in shorts for the near naked Bear pacing my back-porch in his bright, just-bleached lulu’s.  As I opened the sliding glass door and whipped the shorts at a stunned Bear, I managed a “Stove guy here!” in full audio radius of said Stove guy.  

“Uh…sorry about that.  I guess we weren’t expecting you.”  I said, trying my best attempt at humor with the 6’5 man who had all but crawled completely into my burnt-out oven.  “And, no, he usually doesn’t pace on the porch like that, well, in that.  Nevermind.  So how’s the oven?”

In mere minutes, Oven Man had left, claiming that he needed to order the parts.   He may have run to his truck.  At least he would fit inside that.

All I can say is thank God (not in the religious sense of an almighty, all-powerful God in the heavens God, but the expression God that emerges from ones lips in an utterance of relief, God) that Amylynn’s 400 page manuscript was not in my kitchen near the stove last night.  

I had some blatant confirmation last night that my ultra-paranoid, over-planning compulsive disorder might have some redeeming benefits after all. 

I was doing my best couch-potato impersonation, wrapped warmly in my Slanket (it’s a blanket with sleeves…pure genius!)  with a heating pad on my aching shoulder, a frosty glass of mildly fragrant chardonnay and a scary show to complete my little circle of life.   My hubby, who I will hereafter call Bear, was pre-heating the oven for a late night snack of leftover pizza.  

And then a disturbing, half-panicked objection emerged from his lips. 

“What is it?”  I asked while I stretched my blanketed arm towards the frost-laden wine (which is only possible with a Slanket).

He snapped back, more panicked now, “Something’s on fire!” 

I vaulted out my slanket (after gently setting down my wine, of course) and ran into the kitchen, where indeed, flames were filling the inside of the oven!  They were coming out of the heating element at the bottom of the oven. 

Without a second thought, I sprinted to the laundry room where I had mounted a fire extinguisher 6 years ago in a ridiculous fit of self-preservation.  I yanked it from the wall and sprinted back to the kitchen.  As my mild-mannered, Clark Kent-like exterior shattered, the super-hero emerged and I vaulted selflessly into the smoke.  I effortlessly and instinctively pulled the red pin out of the nozzle and aimed at the mutinous flames.  With two high powered blasts, the fire was out.    

“Damn!”  Bear exclaimed. 

Sure that he was exalting my quick response in saving our kitchen from the flames, my super-hero, adrenaline-laced ego replied “I know…wow, I was awesome!”

He looked at me with misplaced bewilderment.  “No!  I mean damn, my pizza is ruined!”

“Oh.”  My shoulders dropped and the gluttonous confidence fell away. 

I am still cleaning up white powder from the extinguisher.  I have found it in every corner of the house.  Even in the phone booth where I removed my exciting, red cape in favor of my boring, Clark Kent clothes.

I saw something crazy today.  I know, I know.  Amylynn is talking to her computer right now because she has always been the benefactor of my crazy sightings as I drive around town for work.   Every sighting usually results in a hasty cell phone call starting with, “So, you are NOT going to believe what I just saw…”  and she laughs, knowing that I have been blessed with yet more character fodder for any one of several things I have brewing at any moment in time. 

So what I saw today isn’t as important as why I am telling you, but for some reason, these sightings generally revolve around people I see walking along the side of the road.  Which reminded me of a guy I saw a couple years ago.  The visual impact that the man made on my imagination spurred an entire plot for a novel that I am still working on.  But visual inspiration is all around us.  Stare at someone or something just a little longer than normal.  Listen in on a conversation just for fun.  Let your imagination fill in the gaps.  Here is just the beginning of an adventurous, suspenseful novel inspired by a guy walking along I-10 just outside of town…

It was then, walking on the shoulder of a busy highway in urine-soaked jeans, wearing a dingy wife-beater and carrying a bloody shovel that he realized he was in trouble.  As if waking from a dream, things began to slowly trickle into his frame of consciousness.  His next foggy realization was that the strange boots he was wearing were not his own, and were causing increasingly sharp pains in his feet.  The sound of the raging traffic was startling when he heard it; the eighteen-wheelers paying him no notice.  He took a second glance at the shovel, half expecting that if it had been a dream, the wooden handle would have remained in whatever sick, twisted joke his mind was playing on him.  But there it still was.  After a quick self check, it appeared that the blood on the shovel was not actually his.  For some reason unknown to him, this realization almost made him laugh out loud.

 He also apparently could not stop walking.  With his gaze fixed on the quick-paced boots, he felt as though the shovel was physically moving him forward.  Not that he even remembered who he was…but he started to feel like he should get off the road and head for some shade.  This small hint of self-preservation made him uncomfortable, confusing him even further.  Any number of people could have already called 911, and he had no idea how long he had been so dramatically walking on the gravel shoulder.  Once he made the decision, he slowed his pace and looked up for the first time. 

Give it a try!  This was so fun, taking a visual experience and building a story around it.  This was one of those sightings that Amylynn got an instantaneous call on.   And then my imagination took over.  Be sure that I really did see this man on the side of the road.  Soiled clothing, purposeful stride and reddened shovel.   In the middle of nowhere.  A writer can’t let that go…

The universe is on a time delay.  I thought it best that you hear it from me now, so that you all aren’t wondering where in the world your requests have gone.  I have been a life-long fan of the School of Thought that says “you can have anything you want if you work hard enough”.  While still clinging to this ideology with bony and worn fingers, I admit that it may need some loose, editorial chutzpah.  I have wanted to be a writer for a long time…but…what the hell am I talking about, you ask?  Rightly so.  In an effort to explain, I will write for you a loosely editorialized version of a conversation that Ava, Amylynn and I had just a couple short weeks ago:

With Molly Ringwold-like angst on her face, she who is known as Isabella said, “I just don’t get it…I was taught that I could be anything I wanted to be.”

Ava rolled her eyes, and in a crushing blow said, “Please!  Does that ever work?”

With wide-eyed,  pouty sincerity, Isabella replied, “It used to work, a while back.  I mean, I tried for a long time, but I always got what I wanted in the end.  It must be Karma related.  I must have tipped the Karmic scales somehow and…”

“It’s not real!  The whole concept is just something people taught us to motivate us to a false, fearsome end!”  Amylynn interjected.  “Life is not fair!” 

Isabella knew that she might be right.  It was a difficult concept to let go.  She knew her sisters were just the dose of reality she needed.  After all, who really got everything they wanted?  Charlotte… in Sex and The City, of course, but who else?  Nobody came to mind. 

The sisters parted after lunch that day, each going their own way, yet with a unified overall purpose.  Isabella thought that just maybe, in a small pocket of the universe, life was fair.  Maybe it just didn’ grant every single wish.  Maybe at some point, the universe says, “WHOA now.  Just how many times are you gonna change you mind anyway?”

I know that when I was 4 I wanted to be a waitress.  As an adult, I guess I fulfilled a good six years of that so-called dream.  Not so dreamy…And much to my chagrin, the universe apparently had it’s own dream fulfillment schedule. 

When I was a bit older, I claimed a desire to grow up to be Charlie Brown.  As an occupation.  But only now do I have a treacherous poodle that acts a little too much like Snoopy for my own sanity.  Somehow, Max the poodle thinks he can belly up to the table for any random feast just like Snoopy.  And I would swear I found him fraternizing with someone just like Peppermint Patty at the dog park.  And he has this toy bird that looks eerily like Woodstock.  So the Universe has granted my fleeting childish wish to be Charlie Brown after all.  But with an impaired poodle that thinks he’s human.  At least Snoopy could dance.  And need I mention, only 30 years late??

I am desperately trying to think of what I wished to be after I let the Charlie Brown thing go.  It would be nice to have a heads-up on what the universe has planned for me next.  Unfortunately, with the 30 year delay, I think it might be a nun.  As in the celibate-bent-over-rosary-beads kind of nun.  (It’s a really long story. Really.)

So I guess I better get this writing thing in as a written request from the universe.  With a little universal nudge, you will all be getting my first publication much sooner that 30 years from now. 

But just in case, look for my other requests to the universe to materialize before then and find me at smutwritingnuns.com anytime now, lawyersthatcanoodle.com in about 7 years, and biologicalbooty.com in about 15 years.  In about 20 years, maybe the lotto request will come through and you will see my money grabbing grin at whatthehelltooksolong.com. 

Until next time…