The Bandit was playing with a Halloween wig today and his father noted a marked resemblance to someone famous.  What do you think?

The Warhol Bandit

Andy Warhol

Add a few years, a black turtle neck, and a bit more self-importance and you’ve got yourself Andy Warhol.

We haven’t discussed the idiot dog lately.  You can rest assured there is nothing wrong with him.  He’s still around.  He’s still an idiot.  At this very moment he is asleep, stretched out happy as he can be with his head on my pillow next to the man he loves more than life.  They snore happily together. 

The cat and I are totally disgusted.

The dog is such a clown.  I’ll give an example to prove my point.  As if the

Napping on the table

table-sitting antics didn’t do it already.

He stands outside,  frantic to come in.  He fiddles with the knob. He jumps against the door.  He bays incessantly.  There is whining.

When I finally let him in he erupts through the doorway.  Hitting the area rug at a dead run, it accordions up into the wall where he smashes into the closet door in the office.  He regains his feet and, with a burst of speed, he does what I call the Scooby-Doo move – all four feet are running but he’s not going anywhere.  His goal is the hallway that will take him past the laundry room where he can either go straight into the family room or make a hard left into the kitchen, but there’s a sharp right turn to the hallway that he has never made without first slamming head first into the wall.  Understandably, that slows him down quite a bit and he’s able to right himself and aim down the hallway.  Of course, he wants to turn left into the kitchen – after all that’s where all the good smelling stuff is, but in order to do that he’ll have to do a hip-check into the door jamb.

Keep in mind that all of this is done while baying at top volume.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! 

If you doubt me, ask Kelli or Ava.  They have heard all this on any number of occasions when they call the house.

I guess, if I was inclined to look on the bright side of all this, at least the dog, with all that racket, will never sneak up on me.

All of these are funny, but this is my current favorite.

“Frowned upon in this establishment!”

MY AGENT is on vacation.  The lucky gal is in Spain.  She warned me last week in her update that she would be out of town, and I knew I wouldn’t be hearing much from her this week. 

I was glowing with excitement when an email popped into my blackberry from her this morning.  She had received a very intriguing question from one of my dream publishers. 

Did you get the import of that?  An editor had a question! That’s a very good thing.  No one asks questions unless their actually interested.

The question: I was wondering if Amylynn has any plans for this being the first book in a series. Let me know when you have a chance

Cross your crossables, guys.  I’m so excited it’s damn near impossible to concentrate.

The NaNoWriMo starts at midnight tonight.  That stands for National Novel Writing Month and it occurs every November. 

The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in one month.  You’re not expected to write well or perfectly or maybe even with clear cognitive thought.  Just to force 50,000 words out.

December is National Novel Editing Month.  Haahaha.  Just to save you from doing the math, that’s 1,667 words per day, or using the industry standard of 250 words per page, it’s 6.7 pages per day.

For the last several years the Sisters have participated but never completed the task.  This year, I’m signed-up up and I have every intention of doing my best.  It will be hard since I will be spending 3 days in Disneyland during the middle of it, but I’m gonna try.

Dalton and Olivia are counting on me.

I’m considering putting a word count on the bar to the right under What We’re Reading Now.  Will it push me to write more because you’re all keeping an eye on me or will it just stress me out?  Who knows.  I think I’ll put it up – sometimes the pressure helps – I’m always more productive with a scary deadline.

My Jack-o-lantern wishes you a ghoulish holiday!

There haven’t been many times when I’ve come out on these pages encouraging a specific book.  I believe the last time was The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie by Jennifer Ashley and not a one of you who read it was sorry at my suggestion.

I have another one for you.  One Perfect Roseby MaryJo Putney. 

Typically, I came up with his story by deciding what was the worst, the very worst, thing I could do to the poor guy. A sober sort, Stephen had always subordinated his own desires to the heavy responsibilities he carried. Now on the brink of a new life, he comes face to face with his own mortality and bolts from the gilded, aristocratic cage in which he has spent his life. In the course of his anonymous journey across England, he falls in with lovely, compassionate Rosalind Jordan and her family of exuberant traveling players. Needless to say, happiness doesn’t come easily, but in the end Stephen and Rosalind find what they so richly deserve.

People, I was up until 3:28am on Friday night/Saturday morning reading this book.  Many of you know that I’m a crier – but usually that limits itself to damp eyes and a stuffy nose or, worse case scenario, a tear rolling down my cheek.  This book had me in the throes of shoulder shaking sobbing.  It is so well written, so emotionally powerful that I was riveted to my spot on the couch.

The above snippet from Ms. Putney’s site doesn’t allude to the event that sends our hero careening off into the world and neither will I.  However, I will say the troubles our lovers encounter are not your standard romance fare.

Follow my link – get yourself a copy and fall in love with MaryJo Putney.  Also know that she is one of the stupendous writers gracing the romance tent and the 2011 Tucson Festival of Books.

Ava and I work together in a job we both despise for a company we can’t stand.  I try to resign on a daily basis.  Since Ava is my boss again, she won’t accept my resignation. 

Instead, we complain, whine, piss and moan, bitch, kvetch, and wallow in self pity for more than 8 hours a day.  The only thing that keeps us sane is the fact that we work together.  Something that would make us really happy, besides winning the lottery and fulfilling our goal of owning Greece,  is if we could figure out how to get Kelli a job there.  We keep trying and she keeps resisting.  Smart girl since she’s never heard one nice thing about any part of it. 

Since it’s the end of the month, things have been extra stressful.  I managed to get away for lunch today, but Ava couldn’t peel herself away from her desk to join Kelli and I for On The Border.  Instead, Ava ate candy and cookies and other sugary nonsense all day until she finally had to go get a bagel to soak up all the crap in her stomach.

SOME ONE OUT THERE – contact MY AGENT and contract my book.  The Quills have plans and this job thing is not working out.

Today I had the privilegeof being one of the Moms to drive Sassy’s 2nd grade on a field trip.  To the Fire Department.  I know you’re just jealous.

Honestly, it was a cool field trip.  We went to the brand new Fire House #1.  It’s the headquarters and the biggest one in town.  It was gorgeous and very nice to see my tax dollars at work – especially since I voted yes on that last proposition.   The engines went out on two calls while we were there so that was exciting, the bagpipe and drum band was practicing while we were there which I personally thought was cool, and they had cookies for the kids afterwards which was a big hit as I’m sure you can imagine. 

It also didn’t hurt that the firemen were adorable.  And so ridiculously fit.  I think that’s what it is that draws women like moths to a flame.  “To a flame” and I’m talking about firemen.  Did you see what I did there?  That’s called humorous writing, people.

Anyway…

All the moms had makeup on and their hair done.  I wonder what that was all about, huh?  I was talking to one of the moms, a personal favorite of mine, and we were laughing about how well everyone was done up.  As you may remember from how I’ve described my morning routine, we should all just be happy my hair was combed.  She said her husband teased her about being  showered, fully dressed, made up and coiffed at 6:30 this morning.

Last night I asked My Honey what I should wear to the fire house the next day.

“What do they call that thing the Muslim women wear?”

I told him I was not wearing a burka. 

But really, you get a bunch of women together legitimately following around a fireman without getting dirty looks or threats of the police being summoned, and said women are going to get silly.  For goodness sake, it was like we all reverted to 16 again.

“Do you suppose he’s gonna need a CPR model?” It only took 35 seconds for

Fireman Josh when we sang him "Happy Birthday" - He's 34, a Scorpio and his likes include cake and roasting marshmallows

 that comment to be floated in a stage whisper around the giggling crowd. 

We all carefully noted there was a poster advertising a Halloween party one of the firemen is throwing.  I think several of us took pictures with the intent of crashing it.  And I’m not proud to relate the whole group denigrated into a twittering mass as soon as the kids asked questions about the length and capacity of their “hoses”.  We got several quizzical looks from the kids, and were roundly ignored by the entire fire department, during this incident.  But the kids had fun, it was a really good tour, and as far as I know, none of the mothers were arrested for groping a fireman.

AS FAR AS I KNOW.

It’s been a while since I shared something from my daily calendar, but I find this entry especially amusing.  I have a particular fondness for Southern writer, Carson McCullers.  In fact, there are many Southern writers I feel an affinity for.  I have no idea why.  I’ve never lived anywhere but the Southwestern desert and I imagine the way of life here to be as far from similar to growing up in the south as someone from New York City’s experience would be.  Nevertheless, Tennessee Williams, McCullers, Mark Twain, Katherine Ann Porter and, dear God let us not forget one of  the venerable Godmothers of Romance, Margaret Mitchell all rank among my favorites.

Anyway, I find this tidbit quite charming.

Carson McCullers had a special affinity for Russian writers, such as Anton Chekhov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, and Leo Tolstoy.  She also had a knack for bumping into their relatives on public transportation.  One day she and her mother were on a bus bound for New York City when they struck up a conversation with a regal-looking Russian woman.  Mama McCullers was going on and on about her daughter’s literary prowess when the woman remarked that her father had

Tolstoy with his granddaughter. How cute is this picture?

 also been a writer.  Her name? Countess Tolstoy.

That sounds exactly like something that would happen to me.  Open mouth and insert foot.  Not that Carson wasn’t an excellent writer, but I suspect way more people recognize Tolstoy than do McCullers.  It’s a shame really.  Tolstoy is great, but McCullers could wrap a lot of emotion into a novella.  If you doubt me, pick up a copy of The Ballad of the Sad Cafe.  You won’t be sorry.