Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous 05/18/2012
I'll be at the Foxboro Craft Fair this weekend, which is on the Common in Foxboro, MA. Here's the Web site if you want to check it out. People often ask me what these types of events are like. Let me give you a sampling of our agenda for the day. 9:00 AM: Arrive in the limo the organizers sent to my house to pick me up. On the ride up, in-limo chef Paula Deen prepares chocolate mousse muffins and mocha lattes for me to enjoy. Fellow authors Tracy Carbone, Scott Goudsward, Morven Westfield, K. Allen Wood, David Price, and Rob Watts's limos arrive at about the same time. 9:30 AM: Express my disgust to the event organizer because Paula Deen refuses to carry my on her back to our authors' tent. 9:31 AM: The event organizer gives me a piggyback ride. Whee! 9:45 AM: The crowds are starting to line up, waiting eagerly to buy our books and get us to sign them. I loudly complain to K. Allen Wood that the eager fans are standing too close, making my hair frizz. K. Allen rolls his eyes, because he is bald and therefore jealous of my golden locks. 10:00 AM: The gates open. I feel bad for the other vendors at the fair because our tent is getting a huge rush. I spot at least four people before the cheers of the crowd make me lose count. 10:30 AM: I'm hungry. I pout until Rob Watts calls me a mulligan. I'm not sure what it means, but it sounds rude. And now I'm hungry for stew. 11:15 AM: I have one groupie, Artie, who offers to drive in to the city to get me stew and freshly baked croissants. I bat my eyes at him seductively and he grins foolishly. I know I shouldn't use my celebrity to manipulate people, but it's so hard not to! 12:30 PM: Our fans must all be at lunch, because we've had a lull for about an hour now at the tent. Plus, one of us has gas. I'm glad it's an outdoor event. 1:10 PM: Where the hell is Artie with my croissants? I settle for fried dough and make a note to demote him as president of my fan club. I hadn't even told him he was president of my fan club yet. That should make him feel bad. 1:27 PM: Wait! That woman in the purple pants with the dark brown hair and glasses that looks just like my mom is looking at one of my books! Please, please, pleeeeeeaaseeee buy it! Is she--she is! She's buying it! Hooray! My first sale of the day! 1:28 PM: I break a nail signing my autograph. I can't work under these conditions. Time to go home! 4:20 PM: Artie calls from the now-vacant Foxboro Green, wondering where I am. He was late getting back because he stopped to go clamming in order to have Paula Deen prepare me a fresh bowl of real New England clam chowder. Jeez, what a mulligan! I'm sure I asked for stew, not chowder. I must lay down and de-stress from this hectic day. So there you have it. If you've ever wondered if the life of a writer is as glamorous as you've imagined it to be, the answer is yes, it sure is! Though, t, I am a creative writer. 1 Comment Mom Knows Best 05/12/2012
This Mother’s Day, I’d like to reflect on some of the valuable lessons my mother taught me. For instance, just the other day, I was stopped for speeding. Mind you, I generally drive about 5 miles below the speed limit, and I brake for dead squirrels (as my mother taught me to do.) However, I was polite enough not to argue with the officer of the law about how he was too stupid to operate a radar gun properly and clearly wouldn’t know a reckless driver if one drove up to him and bit him on the nose. See, my mother instilled that aversion to rudeness in me. I took my ticket, sweetly told the officer that we would meet again, in court, and went on my merry way. That same day, I finally made it in to work and poured myself a cup of coffee to calm my nerves. Within two minutes, while reaching for a post-it note, I managed to dump said coffee all over my sweater and pants. However, it was Mom who first told me what a flattering (and sensible) color mocha is on me, and lo and behold, the coffee blended right in. Although my bra was damp and uncomfortable for the rest of the day, nobody could even see the giant stain down the front of my shirt. A couple of people asked me what perfume I was wearing, but I just told them “Nantucket Blend” with a sly wink, like it was some fancy aroma that only Nantucketers and klutzes are allowed to wear. By 10 AM, there was a yellow jacket in our office, so I left work for the day, insisting that I was allergic to bee stings and that yellow jackets buzzing around the ceiling lights constituted a hostile work environment. Something else I learned from Mom—if you don’t like something, stop doing it. And I don’t like sharing my office space with stinging insects, which is what my argument will be when I get written up for abandoning my job. I drove over to the mall now that I had the day off, and found that Sears had wine glass sets in their clearance bin for only $1.50 a set. That came out to less than 38 cents a glass, so I bought them. Sure, much like Mom, I don’t ever drink wine, and I’m pretty sure they’re not crystal, but let me repeat: 38 cents a glass. If there is one thing my mother has taught me, it’s to never pass up a great bargain. So today, I would like to say Thank You, Mom. Your life lessons helped me turn what was essentially a rotten day into a fabulous one. I made a new friend that I get to see again when I’m fighting my ticket in court; I now own a custom-stained coffee-colored bra; and best of all, my Mother’s Day shopping is done. Hope you like your new wine glasses!  Me, my sister, and my mother. Mom is standing next to Kim and not me because her motherly intuition senses that I will get a speeding ticket ten months after this picture is taken, and she is expressing her disapproval. Band Geek 05/03/2012
Sometimes, when I can't think of an idea for a blog, I like to make lists. This week, I'm going to share with you my list of the top five bands of all time. Read on - my top choice just might surprise you!  #5 KISS I'm not going to lie. Every morning, when I wake up, the first thing I do is read the obituaries. When my ex-husband's name isn't listed, I think, "well, this day could have gone better." But the one good thing my ex did do was introduce me to this band. No, they're not poets. They don't make me cry like James Taylor does. But they are a lot of fun. Bonus: They made one of the most cringe-worthy movies ever, KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park. So worth watching. Once.  #4. The Grateful Dead It might surprise you to learn that I was voted Class Deadhead my senior year (unless you went to high school with me, in which case, you already knew.) You want poetry? These guys reek of poetry. They also reek of something else, which is really what they're known for. Put aside any negative connotations you might have of them and come hear Uncle John's band, playing to the tide. You'll be glad you did!  #3. The Violent Femmes Sure, you know their popular stuff, like "Add It Up" and "Blister in the Sun"—and had you told me when I was an angst-filled teenager that someday these guys would sell out for a HP commercial, I would have told you you were nuts. But I still like their lesser-known songs. Late at night, I often lie awake while the lyrics to "Country Death Song" replay over and over in my mind. I'm pretty sure my father never thought about pushing me into a bottomless pit...right?  #2. Pink Floyd. I swear to you, I DO NOT smoke pot (you might be wondering that right about now, what with my musical preferences.) Pink Floyd totally rules, and yes, sober people enjoy them, too. One of the best concerts I've ever been to. I'm also one of those people who loves them whether it's Roger Waters or David Gilmour at the helm. I will admit, though, that they're not particularly upbeat. That's why I listen to...  #1. Duran Duran I lied. My number one choice should not surprise you in the least. These are my favorite Wild Boys of all time, and a million Gen X women (and a whole lot of guys, too) can't be wrong. They're fun. They're easy to dance to. And John Taylor is perpetually sexy. Runners Up: The Eagles, Nirvana, The Beatles (okay, they should probably be number one, but everyone does that.) As I look back on this list, it is clear to me that apparently, I still listen to the same music that I did as a teenager. I just don't like these new bands—it's all just noise to me. Wait a minute. Did I just turn in to my parents? Passion Re-Kindle'd 04/27/2012
I love to read. I don't think there's anyone who has ever met me that isn't aware of this. If I had a choice between bathing in chocolate, getting a hot stone massage from Vin Diesel and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, or reading a really good book, I'd pick the massage with Vin and Rock, but it would be a really difficult decision. Maybe. How did I get off topic here? As an avid reader, I have been quite vocal about my love for the book itself. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the smell of a new book or an old musty classic, and the ability to take a book anywhere with me. I have the Kindle app on my iPad, but I never use it. I blame this on the irresistable temptation that my 'Plants vs. Zombies' app dangles in front of me on the iPad, plus my unwillingness to take a $500 tablet to the beach or the bathroom. My only teeny, tiny problem with books is that our house is rapidly running out of room to store them all. If I really like a book, I own a copy, and if I love it in an "if you love it so much, why don't you marry it?" kind of way that makes you answer "okay," like how I feel about Cider House Rules by John Irving, I buy it in hardcover. We have bookcases lining the walls of our office, and books in between the cases; towers of books precariously balanced in the spare room; novels crammed on the shelves and in the drawers of the hutch in our dining room. I can't help it. It's impossible for me to leave a library book sale without giving myself a hernia from my purchases. While gushing about the joy that is reading with some co-workers this week, one of them (who shall, from this point forward, be known as my BFFandever Damian,) offered me his extra Kindle. Could I really go against everything I've ever ranted about, the changing publishing industry and the dying breed known as the book store...all of which I blamed on the Kindle? You bet I could. I accepted Damian's offer before he even finished his sentence, because at my very core, I am a sell-out. To say I love my Kindle is an understatement. I downloaded a ton of books for free and some for a couple of bucks each, and I haven't let it out of my hands since. (Jason knows there's a Kindle in the house, but I haven't even let him breathe on it yet.) I take it everywhere I go, and use it when I'm brushing my teeth, cooking dinner, or even painting my toenails. The red polish and my lack of attention made my toes look like an autopsy, but I didn't care, because my Kindle was there with me. Now I know what's been missing all of my life—more books, without the storage problem. I don't bother conversing with people anymore, because I don't have to. My nose is buried in my Kindle. In fact, I'd love to tell you more about it, but writing this blog has already taken up too much precious reading time. The only place the Kindle can't go with me is the shower. But really, how important is good hygiene, anyway?  Writing Whimsy 04/20/2012
 People often ask me how I wound up being a writer. The truth is, I’ve always enjoyed writing, and have experimented with many genres. Let’s take a look at some of my writing samples over the years. The Adventures of Detective Kitty Genre: Mystery Age: 9 years old Inspired by my formative years on a dairy farm and my love of cats, this was my first serious foray into fiction. Excerpt: "Watson the Dachshund was sure that Clarabelle Cow was the culprit, but Detective Kitty was not convinced. Chewing on a rat tail, the Detective breathed deeply. ‘This manure is not cow poo, you dumb mutt,’ Detective Kitty purred, choking. ‘My eyes are watering and my whiskers just fell out. The only critter with poo that powerful…is none other than Carlsbad Chicken!’ Watson hung his head down in shame, his tail between his legs. Once again, the Detective had proven that cats are way smarter than dogs." Kim and Stacey Meet Duran Duran Genre: Romance Age: 13 years old What happens when a ‘tween falls in love with her first pop band? She writes one of the most nauseating and embarrassing stories of her life. Excerpt: "Nick Rhodes smiled at her, his mascara and spiky red hair shining in the moonlight. ‘You look so beautiful tonight,’ he sighed, and Stacey giggled in reply. ‘And I believe we’re wearing matching lipstick. Clearly, we are soul mates.’" The Truth Hurts Genre: Haiku Age: 16 As I matured, I began to experiment with other styles of writing. I’m still pretty proud of the following poetic attempt: "Beth is a slut bag As I wrote on bathroom wall I hate detention." The Oppression of Women in Disney Schematics Age: 22 Genre: College Essay I began finding my feminist voice, and asserted my position every chance I could get. Here, I attack that sexist tyrant Walt Disney. Excerpt: "Ariel doesn’t care if Prince Eric has a good sense of humor, or an upstanding reputation, or high-earning job potential. This twit is willing to give up her voice for this schmuck simply because he’s cute. Someone should tell this airhead that Ted Bundy was pretty good-looking, too." Don’t You Hate That? Age: 28 Genre: Humor Column My first paid writing job was as a humor columnist for the Block Island Times. Here, I would opine on such matters as cat vomit, hard water stains on my dishes, and tourists who didn’t know how to turn off the signal light on their mopeds. Excerpt: "Honestly! It’s the switch on the left, people! And don’t honk your stupid @!!$! moped horns when you’re driving by my house!" Terror in the Hills Age: 35 Genre: Horror I couldn’t have gotten where I am today if I didn’t experiment with all these other genres in the past. Clearly, each story’s influence has played a part in making me the writer I am today. Excerpt: "Nick Rhodes ran from the stage, the zombie hordes still groaning along to the final strains of "Save a Prayer." He needed to get home to his cat. He was sure the dog was already dead, too stupid to not to play fetch with decaying zombie limbs. Nick tripped over the corpse of Beth, one of the slut bag groupies who had been waiting for him offstage. He kicked her in the head for good measure – it’s not like she was interested in his mind, after all. He wished for a moment that she was still alive so he could remind her that Ted Bundy had been pretty good-looking, too. Nick jumped into his black Ford F-250 and floored it. He accidentally ran over a tourist on the way out. Beneath the tourist's crumpled body, the moped's left blinker still flashed, slowly signaling left. Nick backed up and ran over him again." Gearing Up for the MS Walk 04/14/2012
 I like to participate in the MS Walk every year. As you can see from this picture, the MS Walk isn't just about fundraising to find a cure for MS. It's also a major arena to showcase your athletic talents. That's my friend Carol sitting to my left in that picture. Think of her as the Burgess Meredith to my Rocky. This picture was taken at the Rhode Island Walk MS in 2010, and you can see that we were at the peak of our physical prowess. Besides being a major athletic competition, the MS Walk has benefited me in many, many other ways. I don't do it every year just because my friend Renee can no longer feel her hands and therefore has to wear elastic-waist pants. I do it so that when I go to the doctor for my annual physical and she asks me if I exercise regularly, I can honestly answer yes. Because thanks to the MS Walk, I now walk regularly, once a year, like clockwork. It also doesn't hurt that I can list the MS Walk on my resume. Of course, I prefer to list it as "volunteer work with the handicapped" which would make me feel bad except that I know Renee does the same thing. Every year when she asks me to participate, she puts it on her resume as "working with the mentally challenged to get them involved in everyday activities." So it goes both ways. I don't like to brag, but I can get pretty hard-core with my fundraising. See, the only way to get a free t-shirt proving that you were actually at the MS Walk is to raise at least $100.00. I like to start early, hitting up my family at Christmastime, when they can afford it the least. Then, when I see the girl scouts selling cookies outside the grocery store, I like to hop in to one of the store's electric scooters and putter up to them, pretending that I have MS (or some other severe handicap that causes me to drool and foam at the mouth. Like they know the difference. They're ten!) Usually their moms are pretty generous about paying me to go away. Finally, to make up the difference, I contact my friends and blackmail them with pictures of drunken, absinthe-fueled evenings at various horror conventions (I cannot tell you how important it is to stay sober at these events. The blackmail photos alone are worth tens of dollars.) That usually gets me to my fundraising goal, proving that I have no scruples when it comes to earning a free five dollar t-shirt. I think everyone should get involved in volunteer work. Honestly, it will make you feel better about yourself. I know I do! Confessions of a Former Bunny 04/06/2012
It's true, gentle reader. In my former life, I was a bunny. It's not something I like to brag about. I was young, and I needed the money. I was eighteen years old, all blonde and curvy, and if there was ever a time when I was fit to wear a bunny suit, that was it. Sure, my parents were a little embarrassed. They weren't telling anyone what I was doing for a living. But they also instilled in me a very strong work ethic, and they knew that no matter what I set my mind on to do, I would do it to the best of my ability. And that's what I did, during my month as a bunny. It wasn't easy. Most of my customers just wanted to look, so I never bothered to speak. Sometimes, I had to hop and shake my tail a little bit, and one time I pulled my hamstring and landed in some strange guy's lap. He just gave me a wink and a hug and offered me some candy. I can't tell you how many perverts I met in a day, practically undressing me with their eyes. It was uncomfortable, I'll admit. The ears and cuffs were itchy. Nobody cared about my dreams to go to college or be a writer. All they cared about was my big blue eyes and whether or not I was willing to give them a little lap dance. It was hot, and humiliating, but I won't lie—the money was sweet. And really, if I could make some lonely sailor smile, no matter how degrading it might be to me, I suppose it was worth it. My days as a bunny are long gone, but I still look back on that time with a wistful smile. I do miss the other girls that I made friends with as a bunny. But it was a job that couldn't last, and I had to move on to bigger and better things. There's only one picture in existence of me in my bunny suit. It's a blurry shot of my sister and me, goofing off during my down time:  Happy Easter! No Blog Post Today 03/30/2012
I have no new blog post this week. That's right. I'm tired, I have a New England Horror Writers event this weekend, and weekend. As a faithful reader, you must be outraged right about now. I’ve got a lot of nerve, I’m sure you’re thinking. Who do I think I am? In response to your outrage, I have compiled a fun list of things you can do instead of sending me death threats this weekend. Why not... 1. Visit a local dairy farm and find out how milk gets from cow to carton. Do NOT, however, visit a local slaughterhouse to find out how sausage is made, unless you've been seriously considering becoming a vegetarian. Just trust me on this one, okay? 2. Use your iPhone to film your own zombie apocalypse movie. This is a low budget, high payoff event that will bring the whole family together for the low, low price of one bucket of pigs' brains. 3. Teach yourself how to play electric guitar. You’ve always wanted to learn—now, with no pesky blog post to distract you this weekend, you can finally take the time to do it. Not enough cash on hand to buy that Stratocaster you've always wanted? You can satisfy your need to impress the chicks by getting serious about learning the air guitar. 4. Write the Great American Novel. Go ahead. Give it a shot and let me know how that goes for you. 5. Write to your local congressman to complain about the state of the economy. Do not, however, write to grouse about my lack of a blog post this week. If you use proper grammar, punctuation, and verb tenses, he or she might even invite you to the state capitol for a nice lunch. Now that you have some fun options for the weekend, I'm going to go take a nap. I'll see you next week. Oops—Joe Courtney's on the phone again, wanting to know why I promised everyone lunch. Ingrate. You think he'd be happy that I sent so many disgruntled voters his way!  This could be your next family reunion! Ticked 03/23/2012
I have never met a single person who enjoyed a good tick. Personally, I hate them. Everybody hates them. So why do they even exist? I can figure out a purpose for just about every other insect in the world. Burying beetles take care of pesky decaying matter. Mosquitoes give bats something to eat. Even fleas give baboons something to snack on while they’re grooming each other. But ticks? Totally useless in the animal kingdom, as far as I can tell. I won’t lie—I’m a fan of global warming, and I just sent Al Gore a nice thank you card last week for all the 80 degree weather we’ve been having in New England this balmy March. But the warm weather has given those @!$$!* ticks a new lease on life, and they now seem to be out year-round. Jason made the mistake last week, one sunny day, of clearing brush without bathing in Deep Woods Off. The result? He managed to remove two ticks before they bit him. It was the third one, the one I discovered the next day, all hunkered down and enjoying himself a Jason snack, that was the problem. I don’t remember the last time I had to remove a tick off of a human, and can’t even swear that I’ve ever had to do it. But I was ready and willing to go to battle for my hubby. Armed with peanut butter, rubbing alcohol, tweezers, and a filleting knife, I went in for the tick. I had once heard that if you smother a tick with peanut butter, it will back out of where it has bitten you. This is a bald-faced lie. All it does is leave you with an oily tick that smells like peanuts. I wiped away the peanut butter and tried my next trick: grabbing on to the rotten little parasite and pulling. This resulted, of course, in a partial tick still being clamped tight to Jason’s skin while its headless body squirmed in a kleenex leaking blood all over the place. It was positively revolting. I told Jason to hang tight while I made myself a sandwich with the peanut butter and thought about my next angle of attack. I wound up going in after the tick head using a pair of pliers to pinch up the skin while I sawed away at Jason’s stomach with the knife. Honestly, I don’t know how I managed it without getting sick. Jason was absolutely no help, as he was more concerned with staunching the bleeding than comforting me in my time of need. All in all, it was a pretty lousy way to spend the afternoon, and now Jason has to keep an eye on the gaping hole in his stomach to see if he develops a bulls-eye rash. I’ll tell you one thing, though. Neither one of us will ever go outside without tick repellant again.  Actual picture of Jason's tick. Sister Telepathy 03/17/2012
In honor of my sister's birthday this week, I was going to write this blog entry for her. But I think it's probably more for my two nephews, who often wonder why their mother and aunt are doubled over with laughter for no apparent reason in places like the grocery store or at church. My nephews chalk it up to "sister telepathy" (which, I'll admit, is what we told them it was), that strange sixth sense between siblings that causes them to giggle hysterically when one of them turns to the other, says "see—food!" and proudly displays a mouth full of half-chewed peas. (I never said our humor was particularly sophisticated.) The thing is, my sister and I have known each other our whole lives. Nobody else quite understands the habit we both have of checking our bagels to make sure those are really raisins and not ants before we eat it. Or why both of us will travel an hour to Whole Foods just to use the soap dispenser in the bathroom—but not on rainy days, when there might be suicidal frogs on the road. The truth is, nobody understands me like my sister. Which is probably why nobody can make me laugh quite like her. My sister was the one who did my makeup for me before my dance recitals, in such a memorable way that I have not worn makeup since for fear of replicating her work. She introduced me to the wonder that is Hamburger Helper, something we'd never had in our house growing up. (Right now, both of my parents are reading that line and saying "Hamburger Helper? Why did we even bother with the fresh veal and pork chops?") And she has let me be the crazy, sometimes irresponsible, but always entertaining aunt to her two precious boys. It just doesn't get better than that. So, to my two nephews, who still don't quite get why Mom and Auntie Stacey were laughing so hard they were crying when Mom gave Grandpa a pair of used socks, I can only tell you this: some day, many years from now, you two are going to be at a baseball game or out to dinner and one of you will turn to the other and say "what do you call a herd of caterpillars?" And you will both laugh so hard that milk will come out of your nose. Nobody else will get it. Onlookers might even think the milk thing is disgusting. But you two will get it. And you will think, brother telepathy. Happy Birthday, Kim!  Me and Kim. She is giving me rabbit ears, and I am trying to pick her nose. | AuthorPretty and perfect in every way. ArchivesMay 2012 CategoriesAll |
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