Right at this very minute, I’m burning sandlewood incense, drinking hot vanilla and cherry tea out of my Keep Calm and Carry On mug, and eating gummy bears out of my great grandmothers Havilland Limoges bowl.  None of the rest of my day was this nice.

It all started the minute I woke up – at 7:20.  I ought to be used to it by now.  I never, never, never get up on time.  Ever. 

“Everybody up!” I holler.  Sassy, who was in my bed flies out from under the covers with me.  She claims she’s with me because she had a nightmare.  That’s a moot point.  She’s always in my bed when I wake up.

“It’s all my fault, I didn’t hear my alarm,” she moans. 

Guilt is a tasty breakfast, let me tell you.  

I assure her it’s not her fault and that she’s not responsible for waking up her mother.  The Bandit isn’t as easy.  He takes a lot of coaxing.  I do this from inside the shower.  It’s not the best plan but it works for us.  Sort of.

While I’m in the shower, something I would have forgone due to the late time except that I didn’t wash my hair yesterday and, seriously, one extra day is the limit, I come up with the outfit of the day.  I build the entire thing around the shoes.  The boots tie the whole thing together.

I get dressed.  Sassy gets dressed.  The Bandit whines and finally gets dressed.  I give my hair a rudimentary blow dry, shove a barrette in it, and toss all my makeup in a bag to put on when I get to work.  I send up thanks to the God of Snooze Bars that I had the foresight to pack the kid’s lunches at 1:00 the night before. 

I yank on socks as I head down the hall to make breakfast.  No Pop Tarts.  No Danishes.  I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and try to make it sound like a treat.  I listen to complaining while I pull up the boots – lovely knee-high,  black-leather with heels.  And the zipper breaks.  I have no time to mourn.  I also have no time to change outfits to go with new shoes.  I grab the first pair I can find and shove me feet into them.  My outfit is no longer cute – merely serviceable. 

I’m trying to push the children out the door, and Bandit whines, “I’m thirsty, Mommy.”  What can I say?  I’m the one who made him eat peanut butter for breakfast.  I trot over to the fridge, shove a plastic take-home cup into the water dispenser, and get doused with water.  Deep sigh.  Ugly shoes, wet sweater.

On the mad dash to school, “we’ve got eight minutes, guys!”, Sassy asks if I remembered to clean up the dog puke.  Did I forget to mention the dog puke.  And yes, I forgot to clean it up.  

I got the kids to school before the bell rang – miracle of miracles – they do go to an Episcopalian school after all (if only I believed!)  On the trek back to the car, I leave My Honey a very, VERY apologetic voice mail about the dog puke.

Ava refused to accept my resignation.  Again. 

I attended a 2 1/2 hour meeting during which I received an email on my phone from MY AGENT regarding a battle we are waging – it’s not going smoothly and now we’re ready to pull on the hip waders and slog into the shit.  I spent several hours this evening not writing but instead emailing my national and local representation and finding a local intellectual property attorney.  MY AGENT has valiantly duked it out and now we need a bigger gun.  Unbelievable.

All of that sounds like crap, right?  But wait.  There’s more!

After all that emailing was done, I went into the living room to tell My Honey what I’d found.  He was seated on the sofa using my lap top because his computer imploded two days ago.  I positioned myself near the arm of the sofa, not somewhere I have probably ever stood before, or at least not for any measurable amount of time.

I looked up and I noticed a huge, black circle on the curtain.  I pulled it away from the wall and noticed there’s black on the wall and on the back of the couch.  It appeared scorched.  It actually looked as if something was smoldering against the curtain, sofa and wall.  I started to freak out a little thinking of how horrifyingly close we could have come to losing everything.  I don’t want to even think about the danger for the children – but all our stuff.  Gone.

My Honey, with a slightly cooler head, was trying to figure out what electrical item could have been positioned there to cause such damage.  While he was trying to pull the furniture away from the wall, I began inspecting the drapery a bit closer.  It totally looked charred.  However, it didn’t have a smell, which I thought was odd.  I expected a burnt smell.  I rubbed the wall and the blackness seemed to give way a bit.  I smelled the couch and  the wall.  Nothing.  It sure does look burned though.  I scratched at the curtain but no part of the blackened material budged.  My Honey licked his finger and rubbed it on the black circle on the wall and a swipe of white showed through.

I cocked my eyebrow at him, and very tentatively, VERY TENTATIVELY, touched my tongue to the drapery.

Who wants to guess what it was?  Anyone?

Chocolate pudding.

I keep getting locked out.  I don’t know what’s happening in the universe, but it’s starting to give me a complex.

Several times over the Christmas break, I was locked out of the house. 

**Why aren’t Sassy and The Bandit in their showers yet?  Give me just a minute.

One weekday it happened when the children were sitting on the couch watching the Disney Channel next to the front door and their daddy was still asleep.  I knocked on the door.  And knocked again.  And then banged on the front door.  The whole while I can hear Mickey Mouse at a volume that will surely make my children deaf.

Sorry – I had to pause in my story again because a completely naked Bandit just ran through the living room with Idiot Dog in pursuit.  I notice the boy is distinctly NOT wet.  Now there’s a naked girl in here, too.  Oh for crying out loud.

I’m back.  Anyway, I started knocking on the window directly behind their heads.  Nothing.  Not even a curious nose from the dog. 

Hold on…I hear an awful lot of noise coming from the bathroom and none of it sounds like running water.

What were we talking about?  Oh yeah – so I bang on the window and yell with my mouth next to the window frame….

Oh, dammit.  I’ll be right back.  Now there’s crying coming from in there.  Deep sigh.

….and still no one answers.  I was out there in the freezing cold for ten minutes trying to attract some attention besides that of the neighbors…

LISTEN YOU TWO – IF I HAVE TO COME IN THERE ONE MORE TIME SOME LITTLE PEOPLE ARE GOING TO BE VERY SORRY.

Finally, I got their attention…

No, you have to use soap.  You know what soap is right?  Wait, the dog has something he shouldn’t.  I can tell because he’s slinking around crying.  He only does that when he’s stolen food.

I was locked out twice last week at work when I left to…..

For God’s sake Bandit, use a towel.  Wait a sec – I have to go get the mop.

Um… oh yeah…I left my desk to go to the bathroom.  It’s not a big deal….

Now Daddy is hollering down the hall and I hear sniveling.  I HOPE TO GOD I DON’T WALK IN THERE AND FIND TOWELS ON THE FLOOR.

What were we talking about?  Oh forget it.

This is one of my all time favorite quotes:

The reason for this whole trip down nostalgia road was because I also saw every single Marx Brothers movie at theTemple.  Every one.  I’ve never been a fan of The Three Stooges.  I don’t think I have the correct chromosomes to appreciate Larry, Moe, Curly and Shemp.  But I do appreciate the Marx Brothers.  The verbal gymnastics of Groucho, the blithe sarcasm of Chico and the charming clowning of Harpo guarantee a great time.

The next time you see one on AMC or Turner Classic Movies – do yourself a favor and take a seat on the sofa and enjoy it.  You’ll actually have to pay attention because Groucho is quick and if you blink you’ll miss something fantastic.

A New Years toast to love and laughter
and happily ever after

I finished a chapter yesterday.  I saved it.  I’m certain I did.  So where the f**k is it?  Gritting my teeth and fighting back tears, I searched and searched my files for it.  It was like it never existed.  All panicky, I went to beg My Honey for help.  He couldn’t find it either.

I cried myself to sleep.  That’s probably a pretty good sign that I need more.  Sleep that is.  Not tears.  I woke up this morning resigned, if a little puffy.

It’s gone.  Totally gone.  I’ll have to rewrite it.  Pages that are lost take on a mythic quality.  Nothing you write to replace them will ever seem as good.

Back in August I got my hair done and it was a horrible event.  I got brave enough to go back – well it was either go back or find someone else and that prospect was at least as terrifying.  I could have attempted to tackle it myself, but that didn’t sound like a great idea either. 

I went in trying to feel brave, told her specifically what I wanted.  I got it – more or less.  Actually less.  However, I didn’t leave crying.  It’s a little shorter than I like, but hair grows.  The biggest thing is, I desire to return to my natural color.  Honestly, it’s been so long, I don’t even know what that is.  I’d go back and look at pictures of me in high school but all of those have been destroyed.  I’ve been coloring my hair since I was 18.  I suspect my hair is medium brownish with maybe red highlights but I honestly don’t know.  What I do know is that I don’t wish to maintain color anymore.  Well with the exception of the gray.  F**king gray.

Well, apparently, my hair person wants me to have red hair since that is clearly what I left the salon with.  Red.  I got back to work and the girls all said, “Hey, I thought you weren’t going red?”  I rolled my eyes because I don’t even know what to say.

Hair makes me crazy.  It always has.  I do not come from good hair people.

I am doing interviews again for the Tucson Festival of Books.  I started out on the committee, then became the publicity team lead, and now hold that position plus the co-chairperson seat.  And January I become the VP of Membership for the local chapter of Romance Writers of America.  And I’m trying, trying, trying to get Book 2 finished to give to MY AGENT.  And that stupid day job that takes 40 hours a week of my life.  And family obligations and their desire that I be present.

I’m stretched so thin.  I have no one to blame but myself, but as I said to Ava today, I just desperately want to get out from under the yoke of being employed.  Besides, everything I mentioned above I absolutely LOVE doing, except, and that’s a huge EXCEPT, the day job.  I don’t want to give up anything but that.

However, sometimes the stress gets to me and I wig out.  I call it my quarterly nervous breakdown.  When I feel it coming on, I call Kelli and, God bless her (the God of unfailing loyalty and sisterhood), she will take up my banner and charge into the fray.  That’s one of my favorite things about Kelli – and there are a lot of things to choose from.  She is a great champion for your cause.  With Kelli, I can rail against the machine and spout ridiculous nonsense about what I’m going to do and she’s right there with me, watching my back and cheering me on.  It’s awesome.

Ava is often the word of sanity in the murk.  After I’ve calmed down, days or weeks later, Ava will calmly say something like, “I understand but you see why this is the better course, don’t you?”  And of course, in a sane head it often is.

Both of these points of view are priceless. But sometimes, a word from a disinterested third party will elevate me to a place my sisters can’t take me.

Like I said, I’m doing interviews again for the festival.  That means I get to talk to some really great writers and get insights and perspectives I’d never considered before.

Take for instance this private exchange with an up and coming author.  I think she’s going to prove a powerhouse on the paranormal scene.  Her first in a new series came out yesterday.  Her name is Caris Roane her book is Ascension.  Go buy it.

This is an email she sent me off the record and I hope she’ll forgive my sharing it with you.

Amy,
Love the sparkles on your website header!
I’m soooo proud of you!  There’s nothing easy about being a woman or life choices or anything!  In the early days, I was up at 4am to write, with two small children.  But even then I didn’t have a day-job.  Looking back I still don’t know if that was the right decision because it took such a toll on finances.  I’m envious that you can handle such a rigorous schedule but way to go!  Life is freaking hard and we have to earn our dreams…I really believe that.  Yes, I’m published with St. Martin’s now but it was years in the making and even now, everyday, I still ask myself…what more can I do, what else needs to be done!  Even as we speak I’m working on a Regency historical series, letting it sit on the back burner while I write my vampire series.  Publishing ain’t for sissies and neither is life…so keep at it no matter how tough the road.  For every day you stay with it, another writer drops off the grid because it’s soooo hard to get where you want to go!
 
Courage and then more courage,

Holy moly and good God (I’m referring to the God of supportive and generous mentors).

So I will keep plugging away.  And thank you out there, every one of you who supports me.  When I’m really, really tired I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate it.

I am very competitive.  I think I’ve mentioned that here before.  I’ve narrowed down the reason why to my father.  He played games with us when we were kids but he flat out refused to “let” us win.  His philosophy, as taught to him by his grandfathers, was that our victory would be sweeter when we finally did win on our own merits.  I am certain this is true.  When you map out your own strategy and claim a win solely by yourself with no quarter given by your opponent, it is a powerful moment.  Mine came with checkers.

Granted it takes a child longer to finally win a game that way, but it makes you a fighter.  It also makes you a good loser.  You get used it.  You realize that it’s not the end of the world when you do lose.  You are forced to try harder, to concentrate, and to really learn the fundamentals of a game.  Hopefully it also teaches you to win gracefully too, although honestly, I may have been absent for that particular lesson.

Of course, none of that can really explain why I took such glee in beating the pants off my five year old at tic-tac-toe at a Mexican restaurant tonight. 

He and his sister received the dreaded colorable placemats from the hostess when we went out to grab dinner tonight.  He sat next to me in the booth – that was probably his first mistake.  Towards the end of the meal he begged me to play the game with him.  Using the green Crayon, he marked off his first X.  I put my O in the bottom corner.  He played again and so did I, marking my O in the next box setting myself up for a win OR for him to block me.  He gripped his crayon tightly and set the blunted point in the wrong box.

“Is that really where you want to go?”

“Yep,” he replied with confidence.

“OK,” I replied with skepticism.  I took the crayon and marked my O and drew a victory line straight through my marks with a dark slash.  “I win!”

He puffed out a little grunt of frustration but moved right to the next pre-drawn board.  “Again.”  He put his X in the corner.

I put mine in the opposite one.  Next he chose a random box and filled in his mark.  After several more turns, I had set myself up for the sure win.  No matter where he tried to block me there was another “win” spot.  He stared at the board for a minute, perplexed.

“Where you gonna go?” I prodded.

“I don’t know.” He laughed nervously.  “Daddy, where should I go?”

His father looked at the board and then at me with a glance that told me I was mean.  Mean schmean – little dude’s gotta learn.

“Where you gonna go?” I asked again.  The boy kept hesitating.  He finally picked a spot and I won again with undisguised pleasure.

Deep sigh from the boy.  “Once more.”  And he marked the board.

Again, I was ready to win, but he had a chance this time to make the game a draw.  It all came down to this placement of his X.

“There?” I asked with dubious warning.  “Have you really looked at his options?”

He hesitated for a few extra seconds and finally chose a spot.

“Ooooooooh, dude,” I said with a sweeping movement from my Crayon.  “You chose unwisely!”

Fortunately the boy was too busy laughing at his insane mother to be too upset at my hat trick. 

My Honey just looked at me with flabbergasted disdain.  “Aren’t you proud of yourself.”

“Ye-e-e-e-e-e-e-es,” I agreed, cackling away like Renfield.

I don’t know if any of that will teach him to be a good fighter, competitor, or loser, but I’ll bet he doesn’t sit next to me at dinner next time.

Either way – I’m a WINNER!