On tangled lives and ornament hooks

We spent a glorious weekend palming balls to make sure they were hanging right and contemplating the best way to lift up the skirt and get the kitty off.

We had to lift up the skirt to get the kitty off.

In other words, it's Christmas tree time.

As we got out the boxes packed with ornaments and lights, it dawned on me this is the fourth Christmas we've spent together. The guy who started out as my gentleman friend is now my husband, and I still giggle sometimes when I use that word. It makes me feel like a second grader huddled in the school library looking up words like "intercourse" and "areola" in a battered dictionary. I'm pretty sure I'm getting away with something deliciously naughty, but I'm not certain what it is.

This funny feeling is evident when I look at the two large plastic totes that hold our ornaments. There's a purple one and a green one, and I remember exactly how we came to own them. It was a week after that first Christmas together, and our relationship was like a precious and fragile ornament we wanted to swaddle in a protective layer of bubble wrap.

Because exactly one year before that, I was in the midst of a devastating divorce that reached the pinnacle of awfulness around the holidays. Three years before that – in a completely separate, but startlingly similar set of circumstances – my gentleman friend went through the same experience. To say we both bore holiday battle scars would be an understatement akin to suggesting I'm mildly fond of having my stocking stuffed.

So there we were at the end of our first Christmas together, feeling deliriously in love, hopelessly optimistic, and understandably guarded. We shared an address and a Christmas tree and a plan to stay together for the long-haul, but we also shared a healthy dose of cynicism. When it came time to pack up our ornaments for the season, we bit our lips and stole nervous glances at each other.

"Do you think it's okay to store our ornaments separately?" I asked.

His relief was palpable. "I'm glad you said something. Yeah, let's not combine them. Not that I'm not all-in with this relationship, but–"

"I know," I said, resisting the urge to make an all-in joke. "Believe me, I know."

And I did. We both knew the heartbreak of divvying up Christmas ornaments and automobiles, pets and plates. We were fresh and hopeful and cautious and raw. We had the urge to guard our hearts the way you handle a hand-painted eggshell adored with glitter and dangling from gossamer ribbon.

That's a funny analogy, because guess what we made that first Christmas together? We blew the guts out of a dozen eggs as we sat clustered around the dining room table with his two children and the two 27-year-old housemates I'd taken in to help pay the mortgage after my ex left. Our odd little six-member family decorated those pristine white shells with cheap paint and sub-par art skills. We made poop jokes and pipe-cleaner snowflakes, and at the end of it all, we lost track of who created what. Our artwork and our lives got mixed up together in one lovely, tangled mess.

Which is pretty much what those boxes look like now. Sure, there's still some division between his keepsake ornaments and mine, but we do it less out of an abundance of caution and more to remind ourselves where we came from. The rag-tied camel I packed out of the Sahara Desert is tucked beside the ornament my new stepdaughter made from gold-painted macaroni back when someone besides me got to call her daddy "husband."

Is it messy? Absolutely. Is it scary? Sometimes. Is it wonderful? Without a doubt.

Isn't that what love is?

Making time for Windex and moldy grapes

I am a horrible slob.

I cringe a little as I put that in writing, because I'm not sure my gentleman friend has realized this about me yet. We've resided under the same roof for almost a year now, but nine months of that was with the housemates. It was easy to point fingers at them as the root of all slovenly behavior in the household (though admittedly I had a tough time convincing him they were responsible for the lipstick on the milk carton).

But we've lived in our own place a little over two months now, and I suspect my untidy nature has become apparent. He hasn't fled yet, though that's probably because there's a large stack of books and laundry blocking the door.

When I'm cranking hard on a book deadline, I give up on even the most basic desk tidying efforts. A week ago, I sat mindlessly munching from a bowl of grapes while I typed with one hand. By Friday, the bowl was buried under a layer of papers with a dozen grapes shriveling beneath them and I thought, "those can stay there 'til I meet my Thanksgiving deadline."

It was getting pretty bad.

So when I headed down to my office for some early morning writing on Sunday, I felt the usual pang of disappointment upon seeing the housekeeping fairies had not arrived in the night to clean and organize my workspace. Then I steeled my resolve to finish this book in six weeks and then clean my desk. I shoved aside the withered grapes, a leaky tube of hand cream, and enough paperwork to make the world's largest papier-mâché phallus, and I got to work.

At least, that's what I tried to do. Within five minutes, I discovered my laptop had other ideas. It refused to start, no matter how many tech-savvy strategies I employed. (Note: My tech-savvy strategies include turning the computer off and on, unplugging and replugging all the cords, picking it up and shaking it, smacking it with the palm of my hand, and cursing at it).

When none of my methods worked, I was forced to accept that my computer was taking a good long nap. A close friend is a skilled computer repair guy, but he's out of town until Thursday. My last backup of the manuscript was over a week ago, but I tried hard not to dwell on that. For me, trying not to dwell involves staying busy.

So I got to work cleaning my desk. I filed papers, organized pens, dumped out moldy grapes, and even took a bottle of Windex to my glass desktop (a surface I hadn't seen for two months). By the time I finished, I was so pleased with the results that I got busy organizing the top of my dresser. Then I vacuumed the bedroom. Then I laid down in the driveway and took a nap (what? The concrete was nice and warm).

My computer still isn't fixed, but I've managed not to panic. My gentleman friend offered me the use of his computer for now, and we're both fairly confident mine is repairable. In the meantime, having a clean desktop has me feeling downright happy to walk into my office right now.

Why do I always forget that aspect of tidying? I get mired in the belief that I can't possibly spare the hour it would take to organize my workspace, and I completely forget how wonderful it feels to have a sparkling clean desk. To spend my writing days knowing exactly where to find that pen or that notepad or those research notes on the mating habits of porcupines.

Are you a slob, a neat freak, or something in between? Do you ever catch yourself thinking you can't spare the time to perform a task you know damn well will make a huge difference in your overall well-being? Please share!

I'm going to go curse at my laptop again. This time, it might just work.

On struggles, sacrifice, and drinking wine while being groped

I love concerts more than drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped

I love concerts a lot.

For a pair of tickets to see a performer I really admire, I'd gladly give up drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped  my morning mug of tea.

Last Saturday I had the pleasure of seeing Brandi Carlile live for the first time. I've attended hundreds of concerts in my 38 years on the planet, so you know it's a big deal when I say this one made my top five list.

Brandi charmed me not only with her passion and musical talent, but with the stories she told between songs. Stories about struggling to make it as an artist. About the roller coaster of creative successes and failures. About what it's like to perform at outdoor venues in the summertime and finally, finally be the one standing onstage when the sun goes down.

I wish I'd written down the precise words she spoke about the things people are willing to give up to chase their dreams, but I was too busy drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped  enjoying the music.

But it struck a chord with me anyway. And it got me thinking about how many artists have that thread running through their words. Shawn Mullins is another one of my favorite performers, and though he's from the South, I've had the pleasure of seeing him several times in Oregon. He often opens with a song titled, "Twin Rocks, Oregon" about a chance meeting with a transient man offering a unique perspective on life.

 

The lyrics that always sock me in the gut are these ones:

I told him I, too, had been travelin' around 
Living out of my van from town to town 
Playing for tips and whatever records I could move
I said, "I don't reckon I'll be making it big 
It's hard to get rich off a tour of coffeehouse gigs."
He said, "yeah, but ain't it a blessin' to do what you wanna do?"

I've thought more than once about having those last few words tattooed on my arm, particularly during the post-divorce struggles of this past year.

I make it a policy not to share specifics of money when it comes to my life as an author, but I don't think it will surprise you to learn I don't travel around on book tour in a pink Leer jet with shirtless male flight attendants groping me while I drink wine offering me in-flight magazines. Until last week, I drove a 15-year-old car with a dented bumper and a cracked windshield. Nearly every stitch of clothing I own comes from thrift stores, and my annual expenditure for haircuts & styling is under $100.

In the years before I had a book deal, I worked full-time in marketing & communications earning surprisingly good money. I was laid off just weeks before my agent landed me my three-book romantic comedy deal with Sourcebooks, and when I went job-hunting after that, I opted to find a part-time job that allowed me more time for writing.

The pay cut stung, and it stung a lot harder when I suddenly found myself single with a mortgage to pay. Over and over, I asked myself if I'd be smart to swap those extra writing days for the paycheck of a full-time job.

That might have been the smart thing to do, but it wasn't what I chose. Even though I knew it meant a lot of life changes – taking in housemates to pay the mortgage, eventually selling the house – I was willing to make sacrifices to give myself the time I knew I needed to pursue this writing career as wholeheartedly as I could.

Will that choice pay off?

If you mean will I eventually acquire that pink Leer jet with shirtless male flight attendants groping me while I drink wine offering me in-flight magazines, I can assure you it probably won't.

But that was never the payoff I expected anyway.

The thing I want most from my writing career is to wake up every morning knowing I'm doing what I want to do. Maybe not every moment of the day, and Lord knows there have been moments I wanted to stuff my laptop in the neighbor's septic tank and set fire to it.

But certainly I spend the bulk of my waking hours thinking I'm damn lucky to have the opportunities I've been given as an author. The fact that I've made a few sacrifices to achieve that only serves as a reminder how much I truly want to spend my time doing what I've chosen to do.

What are your thoughts on the subject? What struggles and sacrifices are you willing to endure to reach your goals? Please share.

I'll be over here drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped  working on my next novel.

Just when you thought the housemates were gone...

Many of you have expressed concern that my recent household move will halt blog posts about the two twenty-something male housemates who've kept us entertained this past year.

Many of you have read my posts about bizarre happenings in my life and left comments along the lines of, "if it were anyone but you telling this story, I'd never believe it's true."

This post is for you.

A couple days after my gentleman friend and I moved into our new house, I was on the floor of my office cursing like a sailor with my skirt hiked up around my waist as I struggled to stuff the futon into its cover.

It would have been better if I'd just written, "I was in my office writing," huh?

So there I was on the floor with my hair and clothing all askew and my sliding door open to my fenced backyard when I heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Tawna. How's it going?"

I jumped up, straightened my skirt, and squinted into my backyard. There, peering over the fence with matching grins on their faces, were my two former housemates.

"Er, what's up?" I called, tugging at my skirt as I gave the futon a kick for good measure.

"Nothing," one of them yelled. "Just looking at some rooms."

You read that right. In a city of 82,000 souls and countless homes with rooms for rent, the two former housemates not only decided to go house-hunting together, but to rent space in the home directly behind us.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

To their credit, they came over before committing to rent and made sure we were OK with the arrangement. We agreed, as long as they both promised we will never come home to find them sacked out on out sofa watching war movies and feeding deep-fried pastrami to the dog.

They agreed.

A few days later, I bumped into one of the housemates in the driveway of our old home. We were both there packing a few last-minute things, and it was the first time we'd spoken alone for ages.

"So I've gotta tell you a funny story," he said. "The day we checked out that house and realized it was right behind you, we explained the whole situation to the woman renting the rooms."

Apparently, their new prospective housemate found the whole thing hysterical. "It's a really quiet neighborhood," she told them, "and a lot of the nearby houses are vacant. And everyone's sleeping with their windows open right now because it's so hot. And I don't want to spread gossip or anything, but a couple nights after those two moved in, I heard them really going at it."

The housemates laughed, and politely changed the subject (or so his story goes).

"After he and I left," the housemate continued as we stood there in our old driveway, "we started talking about whether we wanted to rent those rooms or not. And he says to me, 'it's too bad about Tawna. I guess they're not getting along."

Confused, he asked him to elaborate. The other housemate frowned. "You know. The neighbor said they were really going at it. Fighting and stuff."

It took every ounce of self-control the other housemate possessed for him not to fall to the ground laughing. (This is probably a lie – I'm sure he laughed his ass off).

"I don't think she meant they were fighting," he said slowly. "I think she meant going at it –like going at it?"

It took a few beats for the other housemate to get it.

And it took a few hours for me to stop laughing after I heard this story.

"For the record," I informed him. "We were probably just moving furniture up the stairs. Or playing with the dog. Or watching a movie. Or–"

"How about we just never speak of this again?" he said.

"Agreed."

And how about I give serious consideration to having my windows permanently sealed?

It's official: You guys are sick puppies

So I'm wondering how disturbed we should all be by the fact that my contest for a copy of  Believe it or Not that's been peed on by my cat turned out to be one of the most popular book giveaways I've ever done.

You guys are sick.

Which is generally a compliment around here, so congratulations.

There were a lot of fun reader comments suggesting alternate theories for who peed on the book, and making pleas to receive this fine treasure.

Among my favorites:

Bryan Thomas wrote:

Well Maestro looks not only guilty but freaking proud, so I'm going with him. Plus, you know, he's male, so maybe he just didn't go for the romance thing. As for why I deserve it, well, for one, a signed cat peed copy has to be worth something some day, right, and even though I already bought the book, my copy will not help my dogs with their nostalgic missing of our cat who is no longer with us. This way, when they miss the cat, they can smell the book. I won't smell it, but I'll read it and keep it in a place of honor with other pet critiqued books...

 

Karen Lawson wrote:

I entered every give away I could for this book when it first came out and never won it. So, I hesitate to enter, knowing this could be the one I win..... But, Maestro looks guilty, so I'm going with him. As to why I deserve to win - well, I always knew your book was never a piece of shit, so at least the peed version could be worse.... 

Melissa Landers wrote:

None of the above.

I think your Gentleman Friend is the culprit! Perhaps all your romance writing has brought out the alpha male in him, and he felt the uncontrollable urge to mark his territory.

::shifts a sideways glance at Tawna's gentleman friend:: 

Michele Shaw wrote

Matt the cat looks way guilty to me. It's the eyes. I need this copy because I'm sure some day there will be a museum of some kind for items like this, and then I can be one of those old ladies who is so foo-foo she goes around donating quirky, yet outrageoulsy valuable, items to museums! And, yeah, want the signed copy cuz, ya know, sounds too cool.

I adore all of those responses, and wish I had a peed-on book to offer every one of you. But the response I loved most for the sheer imagination required to construct it is this one:

Aurelia Blue wrote

Here's what happened. One (or both) housemates left a dirty sock lying about. Of course he's calling it, "hey, I just took them off to watch TV because that's a given when dudes watch TV. I was totally going to put it back on, but then I forgot, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway because it just disappeared."

Maestro took it because he is your gentleman friend's favorite and thus must reject all other male human presences in your home. He must also reject any object or being that interferes with his time with you, other than of course his special pal, your gentleman friend. But this would include things like books you spent months writing and other cats posing as your pet. I say posing, because he knows HE's your only real pet. So he put the stinky sock in the box and sat back and watched those other two poseur cat pets sniff about. Then he told them it's the new litter box and they laughed. So he took a massive pee on the book and sock not only to show them it was true, but also to count coup on your gentleman friend’s possible rival(s), the housemate(s), but also to give you a little “what for” about spending so much time in front of that blasted keyboard when you could have been petting him. Peeing also demonstrates alpha dominance, so of course Matt the Cat and Blue cat had to whip it out and show their manliness, hence the peed upon book which wasn’t peed on just one of them, therefore none of them, are to blame. The sock is probably buried in the litter box. I can almost guarantee it. A special little “f-you” for the housemate leaving his stench on Alpha Maestro's beautiful den floor. Really this is a house and not a bear pit! ;)

Now as to why I deserve the precious pee book. I have four kids. Three of them started at three different schools this week. Their baby brother is inconsolable. The only respite I get beside the occasional writing day that my fairy-in-law-mother occasionally grants but then expects hard copies of my work for her inspection on completion of the day, is when I sit in a hot bath of rusty water (because my boyLovey forgot to buy softener salt again) soaking in some exotic blend of my best perfume and baby wash (because my daughters decided to make their own bubble bath and wasted all mine, and the perfume, in the effort). I actually tried to download Believe It Or Not last night on my e-reader as my one little guilty pleasure behind the bastion of the bathroom door and found I didn’t have enough money linked to my account to purchase it. Did I mention my special little toy also broke? So yeah, I’ll gladly read your pee copy. Wont bother me a bit. It’ll be right at home in my little world, you don‘t even have to waste a new on me. Although it would be cool to have your autograph on the pee one all the same. Thanks.

Wow. I almost wish I had two peed-on copies of Believe it or Not to offer Aurelia. But one will have to suffice (along with a non-pee copy that I'll happily sign for you). Shoot your snail mail address to me at tawnafenske at yahoo dot com and I'll get that in the mail right away.

Thanks so much to everyone who played. Doesn't it kinda feel like we should all take a shower now?

Er, maybe not together.

Pretty much the worst book giveaway ever

Several months ago, I shared how my pets were obsessed with the giant box of Believe it or Not sent to me by my publisher.

Their obsession eventually waned, and I worked my way through the stockpile of books doing giveaways and promotions.

On the day we moved from our old house to the new one, I peered into the box and discovered one copy remaining.

Unfortunately, someone peed on it.

For the record, it's not saturated or anything. Just lightly drizzled.

The housemates vehemently deny using my book box as a urinal, and I checked all the book's Amazon reviews to make sure no one posted anything like, "this book sucks, so I took a whiz on it."

I don't mean to point fingers here, but I'm pretty sure it was one of the cats. My money is on Maestro, my gentleman friend's favorite among our five felines:

Maestro. Is he the guilty party?

But it's also possible Matt the Cat or Blue Cat committed the offense while jockeying for position in my writing space.

Or was it Blue Cat or Matt the Cat?

No matter, the damage is done. It got me thinking about those weird eBay auctions you see sometimes where someone's selling a piece of gum chewed by Britney Spears, or a Kleenex someone swears Tom Hanks blew his nose in.

So who'd like to own a copy of of Believe it or Not that's been peed on by my cat?

*crickets*

Don't all raise your hands at once.

OK, seriously. Tell me in the comments who you think peed on the book, and why you deserve this very special copy of Believe it or Not.

I'll choose a winner at noon PST on Sunday, August 18. That person will receive the copy of  Believe it or Not that's been ceremoniously anointed by someone in my house, plus one additional, signed copy of the book for your personal use. I'll package the pee copy in a baggie or something to keep it fresh for you, and I'll try not to let it touch the non-pee copy (because obviously we wouldn't want the non-pee copy to taint the pee copy – it might devalue it or something).

Questions? Comments? Suggestions on where I might go to find a qualified mental health professional?

I told you this was pretty much the worst book giveaway ever.

How much damage can two 27-year-old boys do when left alone in my house?

If I ever again suggest I'd like to pack up my entire household and move to a different home, you have my permission to slam my nipples in the kitchen cupboard repeatedly until I black out.

Now that we've got that out of the way, you'll be happy to know my move is complete. We're still living out of boxes, and my former home still contains many odds and ends that must be relocated.

The housemates, for example.

Many of you have followed my housemate stories from the beginning, but for those just joining the party, here's a recap: at the start of my divorce in the spring of 2011, the home I shared with my ex proved to be the most challenging asset to divide. Knowing the process might drag out a long time and that prostitution wasn't a desirable method of paying the mortgage, I rented out two rooms in the home to a couple of twenty-something boys.

Besides helping me to make my house payments, those housemates have provided all of us with significant entertainment value over the last sixteen months.

But all good things must come to an end, and by that I mean my gentleman friend and I were so desperate for privacy that we'd taken to necking in the coat closet.

So now we've moved. But since the sale of my former home won't actually close until late August, I offered the housemates an option.

"I'm taking all my furniture when we move August 1," I explained. "Couches, chairs, lamps, dining room table, all the cookware in the kitchen. Same with the refrigerator and the washer & dryer – everything's going with us."

The housemates considered that a moment. "Are you turning off the power?" one of them asked.

"I guess not," I said.

"Water? Sewer?"

I assured them I planned to keep all the utilities going, minus the internet. And I confirmed that the new owners won't take possession until late August.

"We're staying then," they decided.

So they set up their camp chairs in the living room, dragged their record collection out of my antique armoire, filled a cooler with beer and Oreos, and made themselves at home in front of their big-screen TV.

I walked through the living room the next day and squinted at the TV.

"You don't have cable and you can't stream Netflix through the internet anymore, so what on earth are you watching?" I asked.

"PBS," one of them replied.

"It's a special about sharks."

"Right," I said. "Good to see you're making yourselves comfortable."

"It could be better," one of them replied. "When are you taking the hammock?"

Before I had a chance to consider the question, they scurried outside and carried the hammock in from the second-story deck.

"Perfect," they declared, and sat down to watch the Spanish channel.

I have a sneaking suspicion my realtors will be forced to physically drag them from the house when closing day comes for the buyers. I'd kinda like to be there for that.

Mostly because I want my hammock back.

How to dress for your 20-year high school reunion

For the record, I ditched the mask before heading to the event. I will neither confirm nor deny whether I carried the light saber.

Based on the number of former classmates who referenced, "your gentleman friend," a surprising number of old acquaintances either read this blog, follow me on Facebook, or go through my mail.

The highlight of my evening? Stopping at the grocery store en route home from the reunion to buy a bottle of wine to thank my cousins for hosting us. The wine itself wasn't the highlight. The fact that the cashier carded me (yes, carded me) pretty much made my month.

And no, I wasn't wearing the mask.

Today we get the keys to our new place, and begin the arduous process of moving. My gentleman friend and I will be relocating to a home about half-a-mile from this one. The housemates show no signs of vacating the premises, despite the fact that I've sold the house and the new occupants take possession in a matter of days.

It's shaping up to be an exhausting week, but thrilling in a lot of ways that may or may not involve the light saber.

How's your week looking?

On serendipity and drunken, barefoot dancing

Two of my best pals celebrated their third wedding anniversary yesterday.

I remember their wedding vividly, which is surprising since I spent much of the blessed event attempting to drink my own body weight in chardonnay.

It's staggering to look back on that day and consider how different my life was then. I was married and figured I'd stay that way forever. I'd never met the boys who would eventually be my housemates. I didn't have a book deal, and if memory serves, had just been rejected by Sourcebooks for Making Waves (the book they eventually acquired as part of my three-book deal for romantic comedies).

But what's most interesting to me now is to realize my gentleman friend was also at the wedding. We were seated at the same reception table, and had a brief conversation about the divorce he'd been going through that year. I remember feeling sympathetic, but smug in the knowledge that would never happen to me.

It's funny to look back now and realize the significance of that seemingly-insignificant conversation with a guy I barely knew. I'm fascinated by these random, frozen moments in time when I imagine some lingerie-clad fairy godmother swooping in to interrupt the discussion. "Pardon me," she'd say. "Three years from now the two of you will live together and will be hopelessly, deliriously in love with one another."

I'm certain I would have smacked her with a fly-swatter and snorted, "Bitch, get real."

As a romance author, I'm particularly drawn to these odd little moments of serendipity.

Flipping through my pal's wedding photos last summer, I stumbled upon a picture that seemed like nothing significant at first:

That's me in the blue and white dress dancing very, very badly.

But take a closer look at the picture:

That's my gentleman friend, long before he was anything but a random acquaintance taking photographs of drunken dancers at a wedding.

The pictures he took that night floated around on Facebook for awhile afterward, with none of us thinking twice about there being anything remotely significant about the moment captured on camera:

One of the photos my gentleman friend snapped that evening.

It's funny to look at the photos now and think about who I was in those moments – who he was – and how truly bizarre it is that we've ended up where we are right now. I can sit back pretending to be an outside observer and wonder, "how did those two people end up together?"

That question is at the core of every single romance novel I've read or written. It's one of the most intriguing questions I can imagine, and one of the reasons I love writing the sort of stories I get to write.

Can you think of any serendipitous moments in your life? Any conversations or images frozen in your mind that turned out to be more meaningful than you realized at the time? Please share!

And please take a moment to offer a heartfelt HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to my wonderful pals. Now where's the rest of that chardonnay?

Phrases I never imagined I'd utter until I lived with two 27-year-old male housemates

Late Monday night, I came home from a friend's house and opened my freezer door. Inside, I spied a Tupperware container that hadn't been there when I left. Curious, I opened it up.

Naturally, the freezer is the perfect place to store dead bugs.

Words can't accurately describe the feeling of discovering a giant, dead moth that's being intentionally stored in your freezer at 11 p.m. on a Monday. Since neither of my two 27-year-old housemates was awake, I had to wait until the following evening to question them about it.

"Why is there a big dead bug in a Tupperware container in the freezer?"

It's a phrase I never thought I'd speak aloud until I lived with two twenty-something boys. While we're on the subject, here are a few more unexpected phrases I've caught myself uttering in the last few months:

• Please don't feed beans to the dog.
• No, you can't hook the lawn mower to your motorcycle and ride around the yard.
• Thank you for the offer, but I don't want you to batter & deep-fry the pineapple.
• I'm sure you're right that the 38 boxes of old National Geographic magazines are worth money, but can you please move them so I can get my car in the garage?
• Who's been eating the bloodworms in the freezer? 
• I do respect your goal to watch 16 straight hours of Miami Vice, but would you mind turning it down?

Oh, and to answer the moth-in-the-freezer question:

"Because it's really big. Did you see it?"

And that explains that.

The day I acted like a huge geek (otherwise known as "what's new?")

I almost hesitate to mention this here, because if you follow me on Twitter or we're friends on Facebook, this is obnoxiously old news.

I'm taking a vow of celibacy and entering a convent.

I'm kidding. Wait, why are you lying on the ground clutching your stomach and howling with maniacal laughter?

OK, the real news is that my active fiction title, Getting Dumped, was mentioned in The Wall Street Journal on Friday. You can see an online version of the article at this link. It's a long article, so I won't think less of you if you do what I did the first time and skim straight to the final few paragraphs where my quote and book description appear.

When the Friday edition of The Wall Street Journal hit newsstands, I called my local bookstore to ask if they had it.

"We only get one copy a day, and I can only hold it for you for one hour," the salesgirl informed me.

So I jumped in my car wearing a t-shirt with a smear of scrambled egg on the left boob and a cotton skirt covered with three pounds of cat fur. Then I jumped out of the car again because I realized I wasn't wearing shoes. I found a pair of flip-flops that didn't match and drove to the bookstore to claim my newspaper.

As the salesgirl rang up my $1.80 purchase (Barnes & Noble member discount, thank you very much!) I tore open the paper. Literally, as it happened – I ripped that thing right down the middle like a cheap condom. But I found the article and I found my name and I squealed so loudly that two people in line behind me took a big step back.

"That's me!" I shrieked. "That's my book."

The salesgirl gave me a funny half-smile suggesting she was uncertain whether to believe me or to summon authorities. "What do you write?" she asked.

"Funny smut," I informed her. "Also known as romantic comedy."

"That's–" she paused,  searching for the right word. "Nice."

Before I left the bookstore, I went searching for copies of Making Waves and Believe it or Not, since I always make it a point to sign them when I'm there. They had zero copies of either, which is either a good sign or a bad one.

I'm going to go ahead and pretend it's good.

Then I drove home and found one of the housemates in his bedroom. In the year they've been renting rooms from me, I've made it a point never to invade their personal space.

But I was giddy enough that I marched right down the hall and knocked on the housemate's door. The door was already open, but it made me feel polite to knock anyway.

"Can you take a picture of me?" I asked.

He looked up and blinked at me. "Am I dragging you by the hair again?"

"Not this time. I just need a photo of me holding The Wall Street Journal."

"Don't we all?"

"I'm actually in it," I said. "Not an arrest record or anything. And not a photo of me flashing my lady-bits as I get out of a limo."

"Thank you for clarifying."

"There's an article with a really nice description of one of my books and a quote that doesn't even make me sound like an idiot."

"Always a plus." He surveyed his room, taking note of the dirty socks and underwear and the lumpy mattress lying on the floor. "How about we take this photo someplace besides my room?"

"Good thinking."

So we marched to the end of the hall and he snapped a quick photo and if you don't look really closely, you won't even notice the page is ripped in half.

When we were done, my housemate nodded at the page. "If you leave that in the dining room, maybe I could read it."

"Sure," I agreed. "It's kind of a long article. I'd offer to leave it in your bathroom so you could read it the next time you take a dump, but it's my only copy."

He gave me an odd look and turned back toward his bedroom. "The dining room will be just fine."

Stuff I'll tell you if you buy me lunch

I've gotten a lot of email from strangers lately, and not just the ones encouraging me to enlarge my penis so I can meet a horny housewife and acquire a low-rate mortgage.

They're messages from newer writers asking how to get published, and inquiring whether I ever mentor other authors. The thought of me mentoring anyone at anything is frankly, a little disturbing. I respond to all such messages with a few links and tidbits, and I'm happy to blather for an hour for those who live close enough to take me out for lunch. But regrettably, I don't have time to craft detailed career plans for everyone who asks.

What I can offer is a pretty big backlog of blog posts dispensing tips and information on writing and publication. While some of you come here just to read stories about my housemates or my socially awkward tendencies, I've also shared quite a bit of advice in the two years and four months I've been blogging.

If you look in the sidebar on the lower right, you'll see an eloquently-phrased header that says, "Stuff I've blogged about." Most of the posts I've written in 24 months have been tagged with at least one keyword ranging from "blogging" to "query letters" to "rejections and setbacks." That's a good place to start if you're interested in a particular topic.

For general writing-related advice and info, here are few posts I often share with new writers asking how I got published, how to craft a query letter, or what I've learned in my time as a published author:

• On my rather bumpy path to publication
• My statistics from the agent querying stage
• My original query letter dissected by my agent
• You are a real author, dammit (one of my more popular cheerleading posts for new authors)
• My real advice for new authors

You'll find oodles more like those if you search old posts for specific topics, but that's a good sampling of what I have to offer. Well, besides tips on where to find cheap Viagra and Russian brides. For that, you'll need to spend an hour alone with my spam folder.

Life with male housemates is seldom dull

It's been a little over year since I took in two 27-year-old male housemates to help pay the mortgage in the wake of my divorce. Though I appreciate the entertainment value they've brought to my life and my blog, the time is drawing near for us all to move in separate directions.

Fortunately, the housemates are doing their best to offer humor and hijinx in our final months together as a happy, dysfunctional household.

A few weeks ago, I walked out to the garage to grab something from my car. Both housemates were deep in conversation beside the lawnmower, and I felt a flutter of gratitude for their chivalrous intentions.

"You dragged the lawnmower out," I said. "Wow, thanks so much. You're mowing the lawn?"

They stared at me blankly for a moment. Then one of them shook his head. "Nah, we wanted to see if we could hook it to the front of one of the motorcycles and ride around the yard."

The other housemate nodded in agreement. "We're going to film it and put the video on YouTube."

Noticing my expression of terror, the first housemate grinned. "With your permission, of course."

I sighed and retreated back into the house. "Just don't run over any pets. Or each other," I added as an afterthought.

As far as I know, they didn't achieve success with their lawnmower plan. Since I didn't see any bloody limbs in the yard, I assume they didn't achieve failure, either.

Even when they aren't plotting YouTube videos, the housemates are constantly striving to achieve maximum entertainment value from their motorcycles. One of them routinely straps a dog kennel to the back of his bike and takes my dog with him on long hikes. I monitored the operation closely in the beginning, making sure Bindi wasn't uncomfortable or being forced into the kennel against her will.

It didn't take me long to realize the mere sight of the motorcycle sends her into a joyful frenzy of tail waging and excited barking, and she's been known to leap unaided into the kennel before the housemate has finished strapping it in place.

Still, I wasn't prepared for the text I received at work earlier this week from one of the housemates.

Teaching the dog to ride a motorcycle.

I opened the attached image with a sense of dread.

I studied it for a few moments before texting back.

At least teach her to wear a helmet. Oh, and can I post this to Facebook?

So how are you being entertained by the people or pets who reside under the same roof you do? Please share?

I'd better go check YouTube for new videos, just in case.

Why I shouldn’t be allowed to eat in public

A couple weeks ago, I had a crazy afternoon at the day job. I opted to eat lunch at my desk, and in the interest of shielding my boobs from spaghetti stains, tucked a napkin in the front of my blouse.

Naturally, that’s when the CEO walked past. He stood in the doorway and stared at my sauce-stained, makeshift bib and the noodle hanging from the side of my mouth.

“I want a picture of that.”

Lucky for him, I embarrass myself with food often enough to make photographic evidence unnecessary. Hang around and you’re bound to witness something.

Just last month, one of the housemates walked into my writing office to discover me with my hand in my bra.

“I dropped a Cheerio,” I explained. “I’m trying to fish it out.”

He shook his head. “Whatever you say.”

The most recent example of my social ineptitude with food happened Monday night at a Little League game. While my gentleman friend’s offspring made the rounds on the ball field, he and I munched sandwiches from a nearby deli.

“Want a bite of my pickle?” he asked.

“Are you talking dirty again?”

He laughed and thrust his pickle – the green kind – in front of my face. I shook my head, not particularly interested, but my gentleman friend insisted.

“It’s really good,” he said, wagging the pickle.

As if to illustrate its juicy goodness, the pickle dribbled a healthy portion of brine down the front of my v-neck shirt.

I reacted like any normal woman would (assuming that normal woman has no sense of taste or decorum). I smashed my boobs together to halt the flow of fluid, curled my tongue into a straw, and slurped the pickle juice from my cleavage.

My gentleman friend blinked in disbelief. “You did not just do that.”

“I did,” I confirmed, glancing around to be sure the parents and players were fixated on the game instead of my pornographic display.

“You licked pickle juice off your boobs at a Little League game.”

“Isn’t that better than if you licked pickle juice off my boobs at a Little League game?”

“Good point,” he agreed, and turned back to the ball field.

So this is why I probably shouldn’t eat in public. Or why I should just start going topless so I never have to worry about lost food and stained shirts.

What's the opposite of cleaning?

As I've shared before, my house has been for sale since last November. The process is drawing to a conclusion, and my realtor called last week to alert me she'd be touring the property with an inspector from the bank.

"Sure," I agreed. "I can stay home and clean all evening, and we can have the place in pristine condition by tomorrow morning."

"Right, see this isn't like all the other showings you've been doing where the house has to look perfect," she explained. "In fact, it's OK in this instance if the place looks a little . . . "

"Distressed?" I suggested.

"Exactly," she agreed. "I know it goes against your nature since you have this urge to clean up for guests, but in this case, it's OK to let it all hang out."

I had a sudden mental picture of the housemates lounging on the sofa in their underwear watching soap operas. The realtor must have had the same mental picture, because she quickly clarified. "Go ahead and leave the breakfast dishes in the sink, the dog toys on the living room floor, and the beds unmade."

"This will be fun," I said, with more enthusiasm than she probably wanted to hear.

I got home and explained the situation to the housemates. One of them was in the process of preparing a dinner of hot dogs stuffed with cheese, wrapped in pastrami, battered and deep fried. He gestured to his fryer with reverence. "So I can leave this out on the counter when I'm done?" he asked.

"Absolutely," I agreed.  "Don't do the dishes, either."

The other housemate grinned and held up his empty beer can. "Want me to leave this on the counter instead of throwing it in the recycle bin?"

I considered that for a moment. "Throw it on the floor. That would be a nice touch."

Suddenly, both boys were overcome with inspiration.

"That dead bird that flew into the window last month is still in the backyard," one of them said. "Want me to go get it and put it on the floor?"

"Yeah!" agreed the other housemate. "Then when the inspector gets here, we can offer to deep fry it for her."

"I haven't done laundry all week, so I can toss my clothes all over the house."

"Oh! We can repair the motorcycle engine on the dining room table."

The other housemate whistled for my dog as he began rummaging through the fridge. "What can we feed you so you have really bad gas tomorrow morning?"

Mildly unnerved by their enthusiasm, I headed to the bathroom to change out of my work clothes.

"Don't flush!" someone called after me.

The next day, the realtor called to let me know the inspection had gone very well. "You did a nice job dirtying it up," she said.

I felt strangely proud. "That was the most fun we've had with any house showing in five months," I admitted.

"I could tell."

Sadly, undoing the mess wasn't nearly as fun as creating it. Convincing the housemates that we don't get to live like that on permanent basis was equally disheartening, though they're already plotting future inspections.

"I've got an idea," one of them told me this morning. "Have you ever seen that show Hoarders?"

Alarming things on my bookshelves

Thanks so much to everyone who weighed in on last week's question about the best schedule for my shift to twice-weekly blog posts! Based on your input, I'm going to test out a Monday/Thursday routine and see how that goes. I appreciate all your insights!

Now back to our regularly-scheduled blogging . . .

As an author and the owner of a English Lit degree, I'm required by law to have a minimum of 10 fully-stocked bookshelves in my home. (Sidenote: the Facebook users among you might be interested to see my recent bookshelf refinishing project here).

The problem with having so many books is that you sometimes forget what you own and how its presence might alarm others.

Shortly after we started dating, my gentleman friend began spending more time in my writing office. A photographer and copywriter himself, he's an easy person for me to share creative space with, and I happily made room for him to work nearby.

I was busy writing as he arranged some of his possessions on the bookshelf beside me. Suddenly, he got very quiet.

"Um, what's this?" he asked.

I turned to see him studying this popular title:
My one regret is that I didn't have a camera to capture the "is there something you forgot to mention?" look on his face.

"It's for naming characters in the books I write," I assured him. "Check the bookshelves of every fiction author in America, and I guarantee 90% of them will have one."

Fortunately, he accepted that explanation without question. Unfortunately, I didn't get any smarter about hiding the more delicate titles on my shelves.

My gentleman friend's ex-wife recently dropped off their offspring and needed a few minutes of private discussion with him about kid-related matters. I kept the young'uns occupied in the kitchen with fart jokes while quietly fretting that the office where the grownups conferred looked like a nuclear weapon had been discharged on my desk. Every surface was littered with tax forms, editorial letters, and chewed-up pens. My coaster held a tea mug, a cup of water, and an empty wineglass. I'm pretty sure there was cat puke on the windowsill.

The instant the ex-wife left, I scurried into my office to see whether the mess might warrant a call to the child welfare office. It was then I noticed which title would have been most visible from her vantage-point:
For the record, it's a pretty good book (and yes, it's exactly the sort of fiction you might expect from the title). No one ever said a word about it, which is probably for the best.

My latest round of questionable reading material appeared just a few days ago. A friend who manages a bookstore knows I'm noodling a new story, so she loaned me a title to help me research the heroine's profession.

We were out drinking beer the evening she gave it to me, and when I came home, I tossed it on the kitchen counter and promptly forgot about it.

The next morning, I came down to find the housemates giving me goofy looks. I ignored them and made a beeline for the refrigerator, secretly wondering how I'd drunkenly embarrassed myself the night before.

"So, uh . . . congratulations?" one of them said.

I turned with a well-masked look of alarm. "For what?"

"When's the wedding?"

I stared in horror, my mind doing a slow replay of the previous evening's events. To the best of my recollection, no one had gotten down on one knee in front of me (which is a damn shame, but I digress).

Finally, the other housemate pointed at the book:
Relief flooded my body. "Oh, that. It's research."

They grinned. "Uh-huh. Right."

I'm still not sure they believe me, but maybe that's best. Maybe I'll ask whether they'd prefer wearing fuchsia or lavender bridesmaids dresses.

Is there anything on your bookshelves that would be alarming to others? Please share!

I'll be looking for a copy of How to Dismember Bodies and Get Away With It. Might as well give the housemates something else to ponder.

Conversations from the household of perverts.

I walked out to the garage the other day and discovered both housemates in the process of repairing a motorcycle.

Housemate 1: That's not gonna be long enough.

Housemate 2: Want me to use my hand?

Housemate 1: Never mind, I got it in.

***

I was driving around with my gentleman friend when I remembered it's time to remove the snow tires.

"I need to get these studs off," I said.

He laughed. "I hear you're pretty good at that."

***

I walked out of office my last weekend and found the housemates sprawled in the living room watching a documentary about beavers. I stood there for a minute and listened, waiting for the dirty jokes or the eruptions of laughter. Nothing. I finally lost it when the announcer declared, "the beaver is stockpiling wood."

Both housemates turned and looked at me. "We had a bet how long that would take you," one said. "I won."

***

I appreciate that my tax software gives me the option to enter myself, but shouldn't that wait until after I've finished the taxes?
***

So what's making YOU laugh these days? Please share!

Real authors probably have a better system for this

A new romantic comedy idea sunk its teeth into my brain last week and began gnawing like a feral hamster on crack.

A smart author would probably devote time to charting a detailed plot and analyzing the characters' goals, motivations, and desires. At the very least, she'd put some solid thought into her hero and heroine's names.

I opted to leave that to the housemates. I found one sipping coffee in the kitchen, and though I wasn't certain he was awake, I decided to pick his brain.

"I'm starting a new book this morning," I informed him. "Name my hero and heroine."

He blinked at me. "Johnny Appleseed. Allie Alligator. Donald–"

"Allie, that's good. That'll work. I've never written an Allie before."

"Especially not with the last name Alligator."

"Right," I agreed. "I might have to change that. OK, now you have to name the hero."

He stared at me blankly for a minute, then looked down at his coffee.

"Hold that thought," I told him. "I have to refill the dog's kibble. You keep thinking."

"Kibble's a good name," he mused as he took a sip of something he probably wished was a lot stronger than Starbucks.

"I know!" I announced. "The hero comes from a big military family. How about a famous military name? Weren't you a history major? Here's a great chance to use that degree!"

He didn't look entirely enthusiastic about the opportunity, but began rattling off names anyway. "Custer. Patton."

"Too redneck. Too gay."

He frowned. "Ulysses?"

"As in Ulysses S. Grant?" I tried to remember eighth grade history class and whether Ulysses S. Grant had a history of beastiality. "Grant's good. I don't think I've written a Grant."

I thought about it for a second as I scooped kibble into the dog's dish. By the time I set the bowl back on the floor, my mind was made up. "Allie and Grant. I like it. Those are my characters' names. Thank you."

He nodded. "I still like Kibble better."

"I know you do."

So there you have it – the new characters I'll be getting to know shortly. I hope I didn't spoil anyone's notions about the hard work and creativity that goes into naming romantic comedy protagonists.

If you're a writer, how much thought do you give to your characters' names? For the readers among you, how much of a difference do names make in your perception of a story? Please share!

I'll be hard at work crafting the fate of Allie Kibble and Grant Patton.

Anything sounds filthy if you say it right

I was devouring a container of leftovers at lunch the other day when I was overcome by fondness for the guy who helped make the meal.

Naturally, I took my feelings to Facebook.

Happiness is dating a guy who makes amazing sauteed spinach.

The second I wrote the words, I decided they sounded filthy. I know I've done it to myself (snicker) with my habit of turning even the most innocent phrases into sexual euphemisms.

Not that I have any idea what sexual act that particular phrase might represent, but as one Facebook pal noted, "it sounds like it probably would (and maybe should) be banned in several states."

Implied naughtiness sometimes stems from the reputation of the person writing or typing a phrase like that. My grandmother, for example, could write it in her holiday letter and no one would think twice. 

When the phrase is spoken, however, it's all about tone. I came home the other night to find the housemates engrossed in a conversation about a wildlife tourist attraction in Alaska. One of them took a swig of his beer and gave a lopsided smile.

"They'll even let you comb the caribou," he slurred a little drunkenly.

The other housemate snorted. "Comb the caribou? Is that what the kids call it these days?" 

I haven't stopped laughing about it since then, nor have I stopped trying to imagine what that might be a euphemism for. Something tells me it's best left undefined.

Have you read or heard any phrases lately that weren't meant to be dirty but somehow ended up sounding that way? Please share!

Then practice saying, "leave a blog comment" in different tones until you convince yourself it's the raunchiest phrase ever uttered.

Why word choice matters

My dog, Bindi, is a three-year-old Australian Kelpie. In case you're unfamiliar with the breed, imagine a herding dog on crack.

Then dial it up six notches, add a genius level IQ, and remove the off-switch.

I originally acquired her two years ago to serve as an aid for a deaf elderly dog I owned. It took less than a day to teach her the commands to locate him when he wandered off in the woods and herd him back to me.

These days, her skills are utilized mostly by my housemates, who regard her as a sort of electric blanket to be grabbed while snoozing on the couch watching action flicks.

Feeling guilty about the wasted talent, I decided two weeks ago to teach Bindi a new trick.

"Bindi," I called, grabbing a fistful of dog biscuits. "Sit!"

She sat, of course, and waited for the next command. With my free hand, I made a finger-pistol and pretended to shoot her. "Bang! Bang!"

My plan was to roll her gently into a "play dead" position.

Her plan was to tuck her tail between her legs and flee the room.

"What the hell, Bindi?" I called. "Come back."

She slunk back into the room, looking like I'd just run over her tail with the lawn mower.

"It's not a real gun," I assured her, letting her sniff my hand. "See, it's just my fingers. We're only pretending it's a gun because it seems like kind of a cute way to teach you to play dead."

She listened carefully, cocking her head to the side and perking her ears up. I gave her a biscuit just to show there were no hard feelings. Then we were ready to try again.

"Bindi, sit!"

She sat. I cocked my finger and fired. "Bang! Bang!"

She tucked her tail, slunk across the room, and leaped onto my housemate's lap. From there, she eyed me with deep suspicion.

"I don't think she likes this trick," my housemate said.

Baffled, I retrieved my manual on dog behavior while dialing the number for a local dog trainer.

I'm kidding. That would be the logical move. What I really did was post a joke on Facebook about my dog failing to distinguish a gun from a finger.

After a few silly comments and "likes," a friend piped up as the voice of reason. "She probably thinks you're saying 'bad,' since she doesn't know the word 'bang.'"

Oh.

And duh.

I raced back to the living room and switched tactics. "Bindi sit!" I made the finger-pistol again. "Pow!"

I toppled her over with one hand and held her in the play-dead position. No whimpering. No tail-tucking. I let her back up and tried again.

"Pow!"

And just like that, my dog got the trick.

Considering what I do for a living, you'd think I might be smarter about choosing my words carefully. I'm a slow learner sometimes, I suppose. Thankfully, my dog isn't.

In case you want evidence, here's a ten-second video of Bindi executing her trick. Feel free to applaud and praise, or just share an instance when you realized the value of choosing your words carefully: