Banoffee...oh how I love thee, you dangerous little bitch

My recipies preferences change with my level of hunger. Right now, I am feeling the need for something sweet. So instead of eating the pie I am going to tell you how to make it so YOU can eat it.

Legally, I don't believe I can endorse this method of cooking, as I'm pretty sure it is way against the law. Nothing that tastes this good could possibly be okay. But I'm going to tell you how I do it and let you be the judge of whether or not your attention span is strong enough to keep up with what I do.

1 - I fill a large stock pot with water and put two cans of Eagle Brand sweetend condensed milk in it. I put the lid on the pot and boil it for three hours. I check the water OFTEN to make sure that the cans are fully submerged. If even the barest part of the can hits the air it will explode in a scalding hot, sticky mess all over me, the ceiling and pretty much the entire kitchen. The can must stay FULLY SUBMERGED THE ENTIRE THREE HOURS. Now, if you are a baker you will know that Eagle has recently changed their can designs to all be pull tab/pop top cans. I have not had an issue using this style can. But if someone were, against my better judgement, to try this themselves and would prefer the fully sealed kind of can I am relatively certain that Carnation Sweetend Condensed Milk would be just as good. I'm just a brand whore and love my Eagle.

2 - I remove the cans from the water with tongs and let them cool, usually overnight, on a dishtowel. Occasionally I will put the towel over the can in case of explosion. DO NOT OPEN THE CAN WHILE THE INSIDES ARE HOT. Again, explody mess all over the place. If someone were to ever recommend a cooling time, which I do not because I cannot condone this method of cooking due to illegal dangers and all of that, a minimum of four hours would be requested for safety. But I leave them overnight for complete 'safety.'

2 - In the morning (why it is done in the morning will become clear in a few steps.) Take your graham cracker crust and slice bananas in the bottom. I make a thick layer of bananas, but this can be adjusted to the preference of the eater.

3 - Open the can in the of condensed milk and gaze, mesmorized by the thick, golden, delicious toffee that has formed in the can. Do not eat it out of the can with a spoon, you will need the toffee to finish the pie. Or, if you know that you cannot resist boil three cans at a time. Theoretically of course. I am not telling you what to do, just sharing what I do. Spoon the toffee over the bananas, filling the crust to the top with the sticky goodness. Top with whipped cream or cool whip and cover, place in the fridge to settle.

4 - You will notice that you have almost half of a can of toffee left after the pie has been filled with as much of the filling as you could possibly cram in around the bananas. Pre-heat your griddle while you mix pancake batter. Make a stack of pancakes, spread the toffee over them, slice some banana on top and add a dollop of cool whip. Then dig in and have an embarassingly satisfying food orgasm.

5 - After a few hours the pie will be set and you can dig in with a fork by yourself or you could be nice and slice into wedges and share with friends or family.

XoXoXo
Dakota

I Think I'll Call It...Beetroot Poop Surprise

I've got to post a recipe?? Seriously? I don't think I belong here. I don't even know how to cook. The most I can make is frozen pizza, and one time I did it and then Husband found what seemed to be a dark brown disc in the bin.

Yeah, you can guess what happened.

I burn water. I make sandwiches wrong. The most I can come up with for a holiday recipe is this:

1. Open the jar of beetroot.

2. Put some on a plate.

3. Open a pot of sour cream.

4. Put that on a plate, too.

5. Cut up some ham.

6. Put that on a plate, as well.

7. Eat all of it together while watching something Christmassy, like the festive episode of Miranda.

8. Freak out when your poop comes out purple because I swear to God that happened one time.

And there you have it. My favourite holiday recipe/food. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do, and don't get purple poop.

Don't Mess with a Pilgrim Before Black Friday....

"Magic 8 Ball....will this holiday season be better than in year's past?"  Celia shook the black ball as she muttered her question.  She caught sight of herself in the mirror and grimaced.  Why was she always chosen to play the part of Sarah Bradshaw, wife of the governor?  Because you've done it for so many years.  It's becoming a tradition. She stopped shaking the ball and turned it around to check the answer. The future is unclear....try again. Damn thing....She used to spend hours with her friends, asking the toy various questions and seeing which predictions came true.  The only reason she'd picked it up this time was because her brother had left it on her desk. "Some things never change."  Celia adjusted her apron and tied the sunbonnet strings under her chin.  "Let's just hope Kevin remembers his lines this year." She hurried to her car and slid behind the wheel.  The theater was next to the old police station,  and she gasped in surprise upon arrival.  Fire trucks and ambulances blocked her path.  Getting out of her car, she approached one of the officers.  "What's going on?" "We got a report of smoke in the basement.  I think the play is cancelled, Miss Pricilla." Celia caught sight of the Youth Center's director and hurried to him.  "Was there a backup plan?" "No. They're questioning Kevin.  He's the one who called it in, and apparently he'd posted on Facebook he wished the theater would burn down." "If he didn't want to be in the play, then why did he try out?" The director sighed.  "Who knows?  And Pat told me she overheard him saying they wanted to be in line at Walmart by nine o'clock, instead of making his Thanksgiving speech.  So just go on home and enjoy the rest of your holiday." Thank God....now I can go home and get some rest before talking my dad into buying me the forty-inch TV which goes on sale at midnight!  Celia pulled out her cell phone and pulled up tweetdeck. Mission accomplished.

Thanksgiving

I hope you had a great holiday!  Things in my neck of the woods were pretty good and now I'm trying my best not to freak the hell out about the cruise I'm about to go on in a few days and have not begun to pack for.   I did however manage to whip up a little sumthin sumthin for this week's challenge so... enjoy! :)

Untitled Turkey Day Short

Detective Julia Blackhawk didn't mind working on holidays. In fact, she often would offer to cover shifts for others so that they could be at home with their families. It wasn't that she was anti-holiday, and offering to work Thanksgiving had nothing to do with the fact that she was part Native American. In her opinion what Thanksgiving meant hundreds of years ago had nothing to do with Thanksgiving today, she just didn't have anyone to celebrate it with.

Sure, friends always asked her to join in with their family festivities. But she hated feeling like the Single Loser Friend who had to tag along on someone's family traditions. She made the mistake one time of attending Thanksgiving at a friend's house and spent the entire day feeling like an unwelcome freak while not understanding any of the family's private jokes. It was after that disaster that she decided that unless she was going home to Michigan to visit her own family, she'd just do holidays on her own.

Happy Thanksgiving!

In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I'd share this video with you. Yeah...you're welcome.

Thanksgiving

I would like to share with you the things that I am oh-so-thankful for.

I am thankful for my friends. There is an old quote that friends are the family you choose. I have always believed that. And I have the best friends a girl could ever wish for. Two of them in particular are so caring, so generous, and so sweet that I want to give them a special shout out. Brynn and Bron are probably two of the nicest women on the planet. I am honored to be your friend.

I am thankful for my family. My husband and my children are amazing. I don't know what my life would be like without them in it, and I don't really want to. Every day I know that I have been blessed to have them.

I am thankful for my gift. I may not always feel like a real writer, but I know that I am. There are too many published works with my name plastered across them for me to deny what I do. But in the times that I cannot write, when I sit and I stare at the screen and nothing comes, I make mental notes to be thankful when the muse comes back. To honor her with chocolate and beer as she likes for me to do. This is a gift, it's a talent that not everyone possesses. I hope to never take it for granted. And I hope it never leaves.

I am thankful that there are men on the planet who look like this:






And I am thankful for readers like you who take time out of your busy lives to stop by and read our ramblings, purchase our books, and support us through everything.

XoXoXo
Dakota Rebel

My Inner Demons

Forgive me; I saw the topic for this week and all of a sudden Fleetwood Mac's 'My Little Demon' is going through my brain!

Okay; focus, Kenzie....what demons follow me around?

Wait; maybe I need to introduce myself? I'm Kenzie Michaels; my stories are on the tame side of the Adult Contemporary Romance genre; and currently three books are published, with a fourth due out any day now and two more pending. I've known most of the other writers of this blog for several years, and have a confession: I've been writing my own essays each week and following their blog topics in hope that one day I might be invited to 'fill in' or even invited to join. And voila! Here I am, to brighten up your Sunday afternoon.

So with that out of the way, back to my demons:

a) Demon of insecurity. I've never been comfortable in social settings unless I had a friend along, but I've noticed that in the past several years I'm finally comfortable in my own skin. I'm not sure if maturity has suddenly caught up to me, or it's the influence of a good friend, but I've been singing karaoke now for a year. The first time I stood up, my knees shook and I held the microphone too far away from my mouth. But last week, I had no problems singing duets with people and not caring how I sounded. I'll even tell the karaoke goddess, "Don't applaud that! I was horrible!" and graciously accept the thanks of those who cheer my name!

Insecurity also rears his head when I receive edits or cover art. I'd rather have a second opinion if I'm not sure how to fix a scene, or disagree with my editor. And the same goes for cover art; I've only had two covers which I 'knew' were the right ones. And I'm grateful for friends who take time out of their busy schedules, since I still consider myself a 'newbie'.

b) Demon of head-hopping. Back in 2007, when I discovered the joys of networking with other authors, I also learned the rules had changed, considering how scenes were constructed. I wrote in the style of my favorite books: Danielle Steele, Judith McNaught, Kathleen Woodiwiss. Now all of a sudden it's a no-no to switch POV's in the middle of the scene. I still struggle with this, though I'm getting better.

c) Demon of not speaking up/confrontation/defending myself: This is a biggie. I'm a people-pleaser who dislikes confrontation. And I'm married to a man who likes to raise his voice. A lot. So I tend to let him have his say, and then fume about it, especially if I think he's wrong. And the times I do argue back, my problem is overcoming his objections. I saw this when I tried sales; I've never been good at persuading strangers to buy something they don't want. I've had some high-pressure salesmen talk me into buying things, but I didn't enjoy them afterward. When I buy something, it's because I WANT it, not because I want to shut someone up.

The demon I have conquered? The 'yes' demon. I'm more comfortable telling people 'No; I'm too busy.'

So what about you?

Demons

When I realized that this week’s topic was about the demons that haunt me, I immediately thought of my writing. I also realized that I’d actually already written a blog post that would fit this week’s topic perfectly. Although I kind of hate the idea of kicking off my first week on the blog with a pre-written post, it just fits this week’s topic too well not to share it. Plus it lets you get to know me a little better since I’m the new kid on the blog. Enjoy!

A Chick Who Writes
September 24, 2010

I love to write. I’ve been writing for a long, long time. I write blogs, fiction, the assorted poem, and I even wrote a song once. When I say I write fiction though, I’m not talking about short stories… I’m talking about full length drama-filled shots of life, or in a word, books.

Yes, I write books, and yet I have a very, very hard time saying that. I often say, “I write fiction,” or “I write stories.” I’ve even been known to say, “I write book-length fictional stories…” but to say that I write books for some reason freaks me out. I think when most people hear that statement they think of books stores and libraries, not online fiction. So if I were to say I’ve written five novels since 1999 (which I have), I sort of expect people to respond with, “So where are they?” If the book isn’t in a store or able to be bought, it’s not a “real” book… or at least that’s what my mind tells me when it comes to my own writing.

Writing fiction for online purposes is a lot like writing for a soap opera where the characters lives just sort of keep going on and on (and on) until finally the writer figures out a way to end the epic drama. Chapters for online fiction can sometimes be like a snapshot into the lives of the characters, not exactly needed for the plot, but still something that adds to the character development and gives the readers something new to explore. But when you’re writing for publishing, there are length guidelines and all of the extra fluff gets taken out sort of like condensing a soap opera into a feature film. Either way though, it’s still fiction, it’s still hand crafted, and it’s still a book no matter how long it is.

Take for example the book I’m currently reading on Bizkit, my handy dandy Nook, “Dead in the Family” by Charlaine Harris. This novel in the e-book format is 243 pages of vampire, fae and werewolf smutty drama. “No Rest for the Wicked” by Kresley Cole… 285 pages, “The Lovely Bones” by Alice Sebold… 214, and “The Godfather” by Mario Puzo is 448 pages. The longest story that I have written is 651 pages in e-book format. Another one of my finished works is over 500 pages as an e-book. So in looking at just pure volume, it’s pretty clear that I write books, not “stories.”

I literally have people all over the world who read what I write. Some who I’ve met and have become a part of my family, and the only reason we met each other was because they read something I wrote and took time out to send me feedback or strike up a conversation about a chapter. I adore the relationships I’ve made through writing, and yet there is a whole group of people in my life who have never read my fiction or my previous blogs. Most of those people happen to be those who I know IRL (that’s “In Real Life” for those of you not in the know).

People who I see on a regular basis and who know my real full name, not just what I’m known as online. In other words, people who could read what I write and not like it, then I’d still have to face them knowing that they think I’m full of crap. That isn’t to say however that everyone who reads me is someone who I’ve met online. Some of my very close well-trusted offline peeps have read my stuff and are some of my biggest supporters. They’re the ones who say, “You have to keep writing! You need to be published! Stop putting yourself down!” and honestly I love them for it.

Supportive peeps and online groupies aside though, I still struggle. It’s taken me years to be able to read some of my writing and actually think, “You know what? This actually is good…” I am my own worst critic and often the person who gets in the way of my desire to write. As much as I love writing and as often as I am creating a chapter, scene or conversation in my head, I don’t always think of myself as a writer… an author. “Author” seems official as if in order to say you’re one you have to be getting paycheck for it. Writer on the other hand is somewhere between a hobby and a true author, like a person who is just about to get a book deal but hasn’t quite penned the agreement yet. Which leaves me as “a chick who writes.”

I know it’s all in my head, just like most of my insecurities are. I know that if I believed in myself more it would be easier to pursue this dream of mine. I know all of the things I need to know, I just don’t follow my own advice. I tell my fellow writers who compare their writing to mine, “Stop comparing yourself to me, you’re your own person and you are great!” then I turn around and tell myself, “Man I suck compared to such and such, I’ll never be able to write like that…” I am the poster child for “Do as I Say Not as I Do” when it comes to advice on writing.

I know it’s hypocritical and silly, I know all of this, but I also know that the mind is a strong thing. I know that my inner critic is made up of a lot of different people, situations and life lessons. I hear the echo in my head of the conversation I had fifteen years ago during which I was told that journalism wouldn’t be a wise career choice, and I remember the four years that followed where my creativity died.

I do, however, also remember when my muse came back and I began to find my voice again. I remember being totally obsessed with writing and how amazing it was. Boring college classes, lunches, and coffee breaks were just another place for me to write in my notebook. My whole world felt like it revolved around my plots and characters and getting that next chapter written and put online. I lived for the feedback from my readers and gave Feedback of the Day Rewards to people who made me giggle the most or gave me goose bumps. I loved it. I miss it.

Who knows if I’ll ever be a published author? I hope so and dream about it. I know in my heart when I read some purchased novels that I am a better writer than some of these paid authors. I catch the typos and glaring mistakes in novels that crit groups, beta readers and editors somehow miss. I know that I have talent when it comes to writing, I just need to work on believing it all of the time instead of just part time.

So here’s my first baby step.

Hi, my name is Kel, and I’m not just a chick who writes, I’m a Writer.

Demons…I Have A Trio

Demons... This week, I sat back and thought about them. It's not something to dwell on, but something you need to know about as a writer. So here are the ones I identified:

1. I live with the constant fear of not being good enough -- at anything. Unfortunately, that impacts my writing as the demon stands over my shoulder and whispers “it’s not good enough. It will never be as good as your last book. It will never be as good as [insert title].” It’s an ugly little demon who’s paralyzed many a writing session.

2. The ADD demon also likes to attack me. I don’t know that I’ve got ADD; I’ve never been diagnosed with it, but it’s a very likely possibility. Both of my kids have it. My older son, like me, has learned how to control and manage it. I truly have trouble focusing on anything for more than ten minutes. And ten minutes is good. After that, I feel the pull of something else. Anything else. Even on my weekly TV date with Bronwyn to watch Supernatural, my focus is split. It’s unusual for me to stay in the room/stay seated/stay watching for more than ten minutes at a time.

3. The “Let’s Flounder For Awhile” demon. It doesn’t matter how much research I’ve done, how many character studies, how much I’ve plotted, there comes a point in every story where I’m sure I know nothing about what I’m writing. It’s utterly terrifying when it hits. Every time it hits. Even when I know it’s coming. And it always does. I start questioning the whole story and fighting the urge to rip everything apart.

So what do I do to counter these.

There’s only one thing to do. You have to sit down and keep on working. There’s a long quoted statement: the only difference between a published writer and an unpublished one is that the published one never gave up.

You can’t let your demons win. You have to identify them and by knowing them, you can understand when they attack. You may have heard “Knowing is half the battle”. It is. If you don’t know and identify your demons, you can’t fight them.

I can’t tell you how to fight your demons. What works for me, probably won’t work for you. But just know, it doesn’t matter where you are in the writing life; you will be attacked by them. You are not alone. We all are. And we can all beat them.

Is there a demon slayer in the house?

Now, I'd prefer that my demons look like Sam and Dean when they're possessed - or better yet, when they're not . But sadly, those aren't the kind of demons I have.


The ones I have aren't nearly as ripped as these two. Nope, the ones that plague me are messy and annoying and suck up nearly all my time.


There are, of course, the distractions - though I notice Pinterest isn't on here...

Then there's procrastination. Truer words have never been spoken.

I can't forget about guilt. I tend to waste a lot of time feeling guilty. Some of the stuff is legit. Others, I just need to get over and let go.
And I can't forget my deadline demon which dovetails perfectly with my damn time management demon.So, these are the demons that stalk me. They're jerks, but somehow I keep opening the door to them. I've realized that I need to take a new approach. I need to open the door with Mr. Pointy in my hand and stake the bastards before they have a chance to get in!

It's time to do some dusting.

That Pink Blob Is My Face

The only demon that's stalking me at the moment are deadlines. Crazy, crazy insane deadlines, that are making me sleep at odd times that don't exist, like sofa o'clock. Seriously, the other day I passed out on said item of furniture, and was so dead to the world that Husband covered me up with seventeen cardigans - though he didn't do so to be nice. He did it because he feared I'd turn over and moon all the Grammar School boys who regularly troop past my window, due to the ragged nature of the clothes I'm currently wearing.

This is an actual and true story, too. I'm really wearing rags. TBH, I'm not even sure what I'm wearing, half the time. I come downstairs with one sock on and a skirt worn like a dress - you know. Like, pulled up over my boobs so I don't flash the Grammr School boys those, too.

And my hair is like this:



See that angry, jagged bit on the side? That's true, too. It's probably the deadline demon, trying to escape my body. It's probably my immortal soul dying a tortured death, because I typed it into a computer.

All I do is type things into a computer. I'm probably starting to think the screen is a long lost parent. At night, I cuddle it and cry - and that's true, too. Though of course the cuddling in question is done with my feet, and I'm crying because in my dreams the world is made up of Armie Hammers, and all of them want to swim around inside my vagina.

Oh, Armie. Thank God I have your imaginary self to lean on, during this trying time.

If You Must Fail...

Then fail big! Here's a story I call "There Are No Secrets". It's a parenting story I once published in a very small magazine and that I've often shared and I hope you find it as funny as I do. Caution: please set all beverages to the side while reading.

THERE ARE NO SECRETS

The day of “the incident', I was sailing through the task of mothering two little boys and thinking things were going very well. They were happily occupied playing in their room and I was actually getting things done. I guess things were going too well. After almost four years, I should have known better.

I also should have gotten a lock box. But that comes later.

Parenting Tip #1: When they’re quiet, there’s trouble.

My husband and I were in the living room reading when my older son, Adam, entered. Being wise – not really – I had spaced my children close together. They are the best of friends. Because of this, my younger son, Drew, entered right behind his brother.

Now Adam has always been bright and mature, and sometimes his tone reminds me of a voice from my past. My mother, in my teen years.

I realized suddenly that he was glaring at me, with his hand hidden behind him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, setting aside my novel and segueing into concerned mother mode. His hand whipped from behind his back.

“Momma, what extactly is dis.”

“Yeah, ma,” his little brother echoed.

Oh. My. God! I think my eyes rolled back in my head. Actually, I’m surprised I didn’t faint. If ever there was a time, this was it. How on earth did I explain? I had never even admitted to anyone that I had one of those.

As my husband -- who had bought the “dis” by the way -- choked with laughter next to me, I realized that my son held my pink, anatomically correct vibrator in his chubby little hand. His other hand on his hip, he stared at me, waiting for an answer. His brother struck a similar pose. Where is it written that the children get to gang up on their mother?

What they received as an answer was a particularly un-motherly shriek, and a “Give that to me!” That’s when my brain finally clicked back into gear. This wasn’t exactly something I left laying around. The last time I’d seen it, it was tucked safely in the back of my drawer under a pile of underwear. Once I’d put it back there, I returned to the living room and cornered my sons.

“What were you doing in my dresser?” I demanded. I’d told them often to stay out of my bedroom, a directive they patently ignored. I never expected them to go through the dresser drawers.

Parenting Tip #2: Always expect the unexpected.

Adam blinked up at me, full of innocence. “I was lost.”

I think I developed a twitch right about then. It reappears frequently – usually in conjunction with my older son.

Adam received a time out while I wished for valium. Triple strength. His brother went back to his room to play after I’d ferreted out that he was an innocent bystander in the mommy humiliation project. As soon as Adam was released from time out, he asked, “Momma, can I play wid your handcuffs? Why you hab dem anyway?”

Did I mention the water I was drinking and the fountain that resulted? He giggled maniacally, thinking I was just being funny, and begged me to do it again. I shooed him off to play, with the admonition to stay out of my bedroom.

I sank into my chair, my head in my hand. Visions of Adam performing the same “What is this?” stunt in front of company haunted me. What if he brought it up at my mother’s? At least he didn’t know what "dis" was called. I added a lock box to my shopping list.

Nothing more was said about “the incident". I fell back into a state of mommy-bliss. It would take a few more occasions for me to learn mommy-bliss is a dangerous place. Thankfully, none of the subsequent occurrences involved the pink, anatomically correct vibrator or any similar device.

Except for one. Did I mention that it was anatomically correct? Perhaps not. So in case you missed it, it was anatomically correct.

Fast forward to a few days after the first “incident". By now, I was hoping maybe Adam wouldn’t remember his foray into my dresser, that maybe he wouldn’t drag out my personal items in front of guests, and that maybe he wouldn’t be scarred for life. Lord knows, I would be.

Was it too soon for the birds and the bees talk? It was definitely too soon for the sex toy talk. Is there a sex toy talk? I can tell you, at this point, it’s a discussion I hope to never have.

Anyway, as I was dusting, I could hear my dear sons downstairs in the family room. As background, they had on a mommy-screened, child-friendly video. Only they weren’t watching it. Adam had decided to take the sex talk thing into his own hands. While I began to see black spots before my eyes, he talked earnestly to his younger brother.

“It’s not right to cut off penises and keep them in your drawer. . .”

The twitch was back.

I don't wanna brag...but I think someone picked this topic especially for me.

For those of you who know me, my life tends to be one epic fail after another. However, for the most part, I (like most people around me) think they're pretty funny. Failing when you're utterly mortified is no fun for anyone. I'm really grateful to my mom. I learned that most things aren't worth getting bent over and if you have the ability to laugh at yourself, you'll be a lot happier. Trust me, this woman has done tons of things worth laughing at. As has her daughter.

I had a bit of a hard time narrowing down my best fail - mostly because there were so many to choose from. There's the time Jennifer Armintrout and I were singing songs from Buffy the Vampire Slayer in an elevator at a conference and were "caught" by an an acquiring editor we were both scheduled to pitch to. And the time at a different writers' conference where I had a bit of trouble with the New York Subway system. On the plus side, I did get a car full of New Yorkers to cheer for me once I made it on the train. That totally counts for something. Both of those tales of woe can be found here. And I can't forget (nor, I'm sure, can the Fed-Ex driver) forget the time I flashed the Fed-Ex driver...and my entire neighborhood. Nor can I forget any of my special encounters with the local police - found here, here, here and here.

My very latest epic fail is The Day I Ruined Bill's Life . Usually, my fails are all about me, but this time I took someone down with me. Poor bastard.

However, the story I'm going to share today is the tale of a pregnant Bron who needed to pee real, real bad, mostly because I don't think I've shared this little gem, yet.

Welcome to confessions of a seatbelt zealot.

I’d like to tell you that I had the kind of pregnancy of which soon-to-be new mothers dream. The one where you look as good as Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair. The one where you exude a soft radiant glow, and your Zen-like sense of calm never wavers. The one where you actually enjoy being pregnant. Yes, I’d like to tell you that I had that pregnancy, but I’d be lying more than my mother when she said; “You’ll forget about the pain as soon as you hold your baby.” Yeah, right.

By the time, I reached my ninth month I thought I’d had my quota of pregnancy mishaps, including falling asleep and snoring loudly while having blood work done. I thought perhaps I could just relax for the last couple of weeks. That may have been my biggest mistake.

My husband was out of town on business with our one and only car, so I had to borrow my little brother’s car in order to make it to my doctor’s appointment. Like the automobiles of many eighteen-year-olds, Martin’s car (a baby-blue, 80-something Ford Tempo)was crammed full of sticky soda bottles, rancid fast food wrappers and empty cigarette packages. A sour stench emanated from the upholstery. Trying not to vomit, I cleared a spot, shut the ashtray and gingerly wedged myself behind the wheel. Did I mention the missing driver’s side window? Instead of glass, the car sported a stunning combination of mostly-clear sheet plastic and duct tape. Sadly, it was February. In Michigan. During a blizzard.

I moved the seat forward, but in order to reach the pedals, I had rest my giant, nearly-ready-to-give-birth-belly in the steering wheel well. Ignominious, but necessary. Being the seatbelt zealot I am, I fastened the restraint as soon as I got situated.

The drive to the doctor’s office was fairly uneventful, despite having to peel back the plastic window to check for oncoming traffic. I even got the last spot in the frozen, ice-covered parking lot. And then my luck ran out.

I hit the release on the seatbelt clasp. It didn’t budge. I tried again. Nothing. With a sinking feeling, I realized I had to pee. I tried not to panic. It didn’t work. In a fit of misguided optimism, I thought perhaps I could wiggle out of the restraint.

Take the journey with me, people. Nine months pregnant with my second child. Giant belly shoved in the steering wheel well. Bound to a smelly, garbage filled excuse for a car, attempting to shimmy out of a securely latched seatbelt. Did I mention the part about being nine months pregnant and having to pee?

Spotting a screwdriver on the passenger side floor, I kicked off a shoe and sock. Somehow, I managed to pick it up with my toes. I tried to jimmy the latch open and succeeded only in breaking the screwdriver.

By this time, my baby happily bounced on my bladder like a demented circus clown. I knew unless something drastic happened soon, I’d add another unfortunate smell to my brother’s car. Five long, long minutes later, I was ready to cry. And then I saw her. An angel. The patron saint of nearly-hysterical pregnant women everywhere. The only sign of life in the parking lot since I’d pulled up.

Any dignity I might have possessed was long gone. I yelled for help. Okay, I admit, it was more of a shriek. A tall, lovely woman in a full-length fur coat opened the passenger side door. Perfectly coifed and dripping in diamonds, she scanned the interior. Her expensive perfume wafted in and clashed with the foul stench of the traveling landfill. Her delicate, and likely costly, nose wrinkled.

I tried to explain my dilemma. Only what popped out of my mouth was, “It’s not my car. Really.” She appeared understandably puzzled, so I launched into the sad story of my dismal condition. She smiled and assured me she’d be right back. Within moments, she returned with a pair of office scissors and cut me free. I squirmed from the car, barely noticing the steering wheel shaped ring of grime around my belly.

Then my savior turned on me. She asked me to return the shears. To the receptionist. At my doctor’s office. Once inside, I traded the scissors for a sample cup and ducked into the bathroom for the most gratifying urinating experience of my life.

When I exited the restroom, the office staff averted their eyes and stifled giggles. The nurse who took me to be weighed actually held the clipboard in front of her face. As I passed the lab area, the techs snickered and pointed. For once, I was glad to get to the exam room and strip. I hoped I didn’t smell like Martin’s car.

Figuring my ordeal was over, I tried to read. All they had in the room were those baby magazines with air brushed photos of new mothers in the throes of blissful maternity. The ones designed to make the average woman weep with the injustice of it all. I was interrupted by rapid whispers and muffled laughter outside the door. To her credit, my doctor attempted to keep a straight face when she entered the exam room. It lasted all of fifteen seconds. Having heard my saga, she asked permission to share the story with some of her other patients. She thought it would help cheer the depressed ones.

Little did I know my doctor would find it so amusing, she’d keep telling the story for years. Six years after the incident, my friend who was feeling overwhelmed by her pregnancy, called to tell me our doctor had just told her the tale at her latest appointment. Yup, that’s me. I’m the poster-girl for weak-bladdered women everywhere.

Funny Fail -- ???

Fails. Definitely. Epic. Probably. Funny -- doubtful. I don't have the funny, witty, clever thing going on that Bron and Mia have - well, it might be there, but I don't how to access it.

So, Instead I give you pictures ---

Arizona - I spent a fun filled week in Arizona with one of my sisters -

Grand Canyon - Trust me - pictures never do it justice

Oak Creek Canyon - Sedona

Authors After Dark - Spent a week in Philly, PA. These are from the trip home because I never took my camera out while we were there. I drove home with Bron and Brynn

Along the highway in Penssylvania

Pennsylvania - Best Highway Signs ever

GayRomLit - Held in New Orleans, way way too much fun. Sadly, I didn't get pictures of the dancers.

French Quarter

Signs at the Clover Grill, down the street from our hotel - there were 6 or 7 of these - they're great

Happy Manners Day

If I could make up a holiday, it would be Good Manners and Common Sense Day. Seriously, people around the world celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day, but when it comes to being polite, forget it. On this day, people would be nice to others and drop the over-celebrated snark. People wouldn't tailgate and drive like, let's face it, morons. People would be kind at the grocery store, wave to their neighbors and take care of their own garbage. People wouldn't behave as if the world owes them a living. They would realize, as I often remind my children, that they are not the center of the universe.

Does this sound as if I'm angry? Bitter? I'm not. But I must admit that I have recently begun a one-woman crusade for politeness, for living in a more genteel society, and for appreciating the finer things in life, such as a clean house, thoughtfully home-cooked meals and quiet, rejuvenating time spent with family.

So I really am hoping for this holiday to happen. And like people who wish that Christmas could last all year long, I am hoping for a better society to start emerging too.

Holidays Bron Style

I went to a Catholic high school and there I discovered Holy Days I'd had no clue existed. I'd get to school and find out it was an all school mass kinda day. The holy day would just sort of sneak up on me and BAM it's the Feast Day of Saint Someone or Other.

That's how I want my special holidays to work. I want them to sneak up on people and BAM! It's a holiday.

Like The Feast of the Porkception. To celebrate this holiday, you eat spectacular bacon dishes that other people prepare for you all day long. You're parking the parking garage? someone's waiting with a platter of super crispy bacon. At the first meeting of the day, you get a plate full of bundukies placed in front of you. At lunch, it's bacon quiche. And so on throughout the day.

Or how about The Sacred Day of Stories? No matter where you are or what you're doing, you should always have a book with you. During this holiday (which I feel should occur monthly) everyone stops what they're doing, sits down and reads. It should be a Holy Day of Obligation. Instant peace.

Now, the last holiday is the one I'm the most excited about - The Feast of Our Lady of Sleep. On this day, which should also occur monthly, your alarm automatically shuts itself off and BAM! You get to stay in bed - all day if you want. And your work waits for you while you catch up on all the sleep you've lost trying to fit everything else in.

All right...I'm waiting. When can celebrate the Feast Day of Our Lady of Sleep? And what holidays would you create?

Go ahead...eat all the donuts you want

If I could create a mythical holiday I would have to go with National Calories Don't Count Day.

Oh yes. For one day every year you could eat anything (and everything) you want with no repercussions. No weight gain. No food allergies. No punishment at all. Just good, wholesome binging with no need to purge.

Can you imagine? Wake up in the morning and drink a pot of coffee as you throw down a dozen donuts. Full of fat, gluten, wheat, covered in nuts and topped with frosting. What does it matter, nothing counts today. Your body loves all food on this one day a year.

For your mid-morning snack you can eat a pound of fudge and wash it down with a gallon of chocolate milk. Or vodka. Fuck it. It's a holiday. You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning, right?

For lunch you may as well eat a salad.

Right.


For lunch you can slam an entire pizza into your face. Stomach ache? Screw you it's National Calories Don't Count Day. You are doing this for AMERICA! So light a sparkler and wash that pizza down with some corn dogs.

For dessert you might want to crack open that pint of haagen daz you've been saving for a special occasion. After all, what's more special than this? NOTHING.

For an afternoon snack you can feast on a couple pounds of cinnamon roasted almonds. No pesky nut allergies today, no sir. In fact, someone should run and fetch me a hazelnut frappacino. I'm feeling a bit peckish.

For dinner...oh lord for dinner. Thanksgiving has nothing on National Calories Don't Count Day. I'll have turkey and ham and three kinds of potatos please. I'll have pumpkin, pecan AND sweet potato pie with cool whip, thanks. Pass the gravy. ALL the gravy.
Oh the eats I could eat if only I tried.

Some Month Day

If I were to invent a holiday, it would be a very proper sort of affair. You know, with everyone in fancy frilly collars, and lots of doilies on everything. The drink of choice would be something classy, like sherry, and once the elegant meal of pheasant had been digested, we would all adjourn to something nice sounding, like a parlour. Maybe to play something dignified, like Bridge or Backgammon. Even though I don't know how to play either of those two things, and always imagine that you need a shitload of maths knowledge to even get close to winning them.

But even so, that's definitely the holiday for me. Because I am dignified and also totally sane, and I do normal things all the time, like drink tea and make polite chit-chat. I almost never talk about naked men. Almost never. In fact, I don't even particular like coc-

LOL okay. By this point, most of you probably know that I'm talking out of my bumhole. And even if you don't, you're probably getting some clue just from the sheer weight of my insanity, pressing on the internet and forcing its way into you through osmosis.

Because let's be honest, here. We all understand that my invented holiday would be called something like "Cockfest 3000". Or maybe "Brandon Routh and Armie Hammer Day". Or if I'm really lucky, both of those things crossing in some sort of winter solstice stone henge aligning sort of event, so that all the Armie Hammers and the Brandon Rouths end up naked in a city square somewhere, festooned with ribbons and filled with beer.

Which is, of course, how I imagine Cockfest 3000 would look. And if said look is a little bit like how people imagine a gay German sex club might appear on a Saturday night, well, that's okay. I never said my holiday had to be original. Or even heterosexual.

I just said it had to have a lot of naked Armie Hammers and Brandon Rouths in it. And if I've no idea why there are plurals of both those two men, well, I don't care about that, either. It's my holiday, dammit! I can do what I like!

And what I'd like to do is Brandon Routh and Armie Hammer. Or at the very least, I'd like a big beer that doesn't taste like beer at all, and maybe one of them giant sausages covered in cabbage, and then I'd like to watch them doing each other.

Is that so much to ask? Why isn't this holiday real, for God's sake? I mean, just think of some of the holidays we do have: May Day, for instance.

Seriously? That's the best the committee for inventing holidays could come up with? A celebration of it being a different month to April? That sucks so hard it blows. It's like when the vacuum cleaner gives up and starts working backwards. No one wants a holiday called "Some Month Day", so for God's sake:

Give me my Hammering Routh day.

Is that really too much to ask?