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?

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.

Bizarre burglars, clueless housemates, and one blog contest winner

When I decided to rent out rooms in my home during my divorce, there are key reasons I chose to take in two twenty-something males. Surprisingly, none of the reasons involved cougar-themed fantasies.

The main thing I craved were housemates who'd leave me alone. I didn't want buddies who'd want to cook meals together and talk about our feelings. I wanted to come and go as I pleased, with housemates who'd do the same. The arrangement has worked well for the most part, though it became apparent the other night we could stand to improve our communication skills.

Saturday was a whirlwind of activity, with my ex dropping by to claim a hodge-podge of possessions decreed to him in the divorce agreement. I saw one of the housemates in passing and mentioned the situation to him before a friend dropped by to pick me up for a concert.

It wasn't until much later I realized the other housemate was in the dark. My first clue came in the form of a voicemail:

Um, where is everyone? All the cars are here, and the motorcycles, too. Something weird is going on. Call me.

I didn't get the message until nearly midnight when a friend brought me home from the concert. Everyone was sound asleep by then, and after a quick tour around the house to make sure it wasn't on fire or in danger of being overtaken by poltergeists, I turned in for the evening.

The next afternoon, I came home from shopping to find the housemate in the kitchen.

"Dude," he said. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I got home from work and no one was here – not even the dog. All the cars were here though."

Before I could point out that I'd gotten a ride to the concert and the other housemate had likely taken the dog for a walk, he interrupted.

"That wasn't the weirdest part though," he said. "I went to make dinner and all the silverware was gone. Then I looked in your office and your desk was gone, but there's a new desk in there. And that cowbell over the fireplace is missing."

I wasn't sure whether to praise his observation skills or ask whether he really believed someone had broken into the house and stolen the dog, the silverware, a cowbell, and my desk (which, as he noted, the thoughtful thief had replaced with a different desk). Then he noticed the big box of silverware in my hand.

"Oh, cool," he said, reaching for the box. "It comes with ten steak knives."

I never got to explain anything else, but at least he's pleased with the new silverware.

Later that evening, I found him on the sofa drinking beer and watching television. I handed him a bowl filled with tiny slips of paper bearing the names of readers entered in Friday's blog contest. "Can you pick one?"

He dug his hand in the bowl and grabbed a slip of paper. "Rick Lipman," he read. "What's it for?"

"A contest on my blog," I replied.

"Blog?"

"Right. I have this blog and – " I stopped myself, deciding it was probably best if he didn't know. "Enjoy your MacGyver marathon."

"Mmmph," he said, already tuning me out.

So congratulations to Rick. Send your snail mail address to tawnafenske at yahoo dot com and I'll hook you up with a signed copy of Making Waves. And super-huge thanks to the rest of you for all the wonderful suggestions and ideas on Friday's post. I owe you one!

Oh, and for the record, don't count on my housemates for ransom if you decide to kidnap me. We'll all be waiting awhile.

Household purging gone awry

Before my house went up for sale last month, the realtors gave explicit directions for staging the place to look its best.

Most instructions began, "get rid of–"

I took countless loads of stuff to Goodwill and the dump, resisting the urge to forage at either place for more things to bring home. Decluttering is the name of the game, and I'm proud to say I'm pretty good at it.

My two 27-year-old male housemates aren't adapting as well.

During the first walk-through, the realtors pointed out a wheeled office chair that didn't appear to be in use. The seat was slightly torn, and I'd stuffed it in the guest room in case I needed an extra chair for dinner parties.

"Can you get rid of that?" they asked.

"Sure," I agreed. "It's in decent shape, so I'll just wheel it to the sidewalk and stick a free sign on it."

I did exactly that before piling another load of household clutter into the trunk of my car and heading to Goodwill. When I returned an hour later, the chair was gone from the sidewalk.

I was delighted for the thirty seconds it took to drive from the bottom of my driveway to the top. That's when I discovered the chair sitting in the front yard with the free sign gone.

"What the hell?" I asked as I walked through the front door.

My housemates ignored me, probably because they're accustomed to that as my normal greeting.

"Why is the chair in the yard?" I asked.

"It was free," replied one of the housemates. "I thought it would look good in my room."

"It was free because I put it there," I informed him. "And also because I'm trying to get rid of things."

He grinned. "You just did."

I gave up the chair battle and continued filling boxes and bags with castoff clothing, rarely-used appliances, and the overabundance of office supplies I swear have been procreating in my desk drawers. I stuck one of the boxes in the entryway, thinking I might inspire the boys to do some decluttering of their own.

"I'm taking that box to Goodwill later today," I told them Saturday morning. "If there's anything you want to get rid of, go ahead and toss it in there."

They both looked up at me. "That box is going to Goodwill?"

Before I could open my mouth to reply, they were both pawing through the box like a pair of mongrel dogs doing a dumpster dive outside the butcher shop.

"Hey, this is a good mug!" one of them declared.

"This hula girl hasn't even been opened," the other shouted. "I can put it on the dashboard of my car."

The other housemate took it from him. "Let's see if her skirt comes off. That would be better."

They continued digging as I stood speechless in the living room, not daring to interrupt what appeared to be the most fun either of them had enjoyed all week.

"Tape?" one housemate yelled. "Who gets rid of tape?"

"I had twelve unopened boxes of it in my desk," I informed him. "I don't need that much tape."

"Probably stole it from work," he muttered to the other housemate. "Hey, what's this thing that says Pirate Playmates?"

He pulled out a plastic baggie of action figures someone gave me as a gag gift. They both frowned. "That's not what I was hoping for."

I sighed. "Is there anything else I can get you boys?"

"Got any bulbs for this lamp?"

So much for decluttering. On the bright side, the housemates seem pleased with their new acquisitions. In hindsight, I probably should have wrapped up all my castoff stuff and offered it to them as holiday gifts.

How are your decluttering skills? Do you tend to be a pack-rat or a ruthless organizer? Please share!

And let me know if you want to pilfer through the housemates' rooms for any household goods you might need. I promise not to tell.

The boys who live with me and pull my hair

One of the best things about having two 27-year-old male housemates is that they sometimes walk from the shower to their bedrooms wearing only a towel.

I’m lying. I’ve never seen either of them do that, and frankly, I’d be a little creeped out if I did.

Though I joke about my little male harem, our relationship is definitely more brother/sister than Charlie Sheen/porn star. In fact, one of the things I love best about “the boys” is how completely oblivious they are to me.

It keeps me humble.

Several weeks ago, one of the housemates stomped in after having dinner with his parents visiting from Chicago.

“My mom thinks you’re famous,” he muttered. “She wants your autograph, and now I have to go buy your book so she can send it to my grandma. What the hell is your book called?”

I glanced from the giant stack of Making Waves bookmarks on the kitchen counter to the assortment of Making Waves notecards on my desk. Then I toed aside the big, open box of Making Waves author copies in the foyer.

“Let me write that down for you,” I said.

So he headed off to Barnes and Noble and returned with my book and a very nice bottle of Pinot Noir from his mother. “How the hell did she know you like wine?” he asked.

“Everyone knows I like wine,” I admitted as I signed a book for his grandmother (who later sent me a delightful thank you note).

Another time I decided I wanted a photo of me being dragged by the hair to accompany my final Debutante Ball blog post. A friend offered to snap the picture and approached one of the housemates to assist.

“Would you mind grabbing Tawna by the hair and pretending to drag her out the door while I take a picture?” he asked.

The housemate shrugged. “Sure, as long as you hurry up,” he said. “I don’t want to miss the sunset.”

The phrase, “what for?” never crossed his lips.

Not that any explanation beginning, “there’s this blog…” would have been met with anything but a blank stare.

Both housemates have been called upon to draw blog contest winners at one time or another. Despite me informing them on multiple occasions that I mention them sometimes (like here or here or here or here or here), they always look a little mystified when I say anything about the blog

“Do people read it?” one of them asked in a rare moment of faked interest.

“Er, sometimes.”

“And I’m in it?”

“Well, that’s not all it’s about,” I started to explain.

“Bummer. People would probably like that.”

Indeed, they would. Maybe we should consider changing up the blog so it’s all housemates, all the time?

Or maybe I’ll just lurk in the hall until the opportunity presents itself to snap one of those towel photos.

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.

Being sneaky got the pokey thingy out of my hole

Prepping your house for sale isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.

Doing it while lodging two 27-year-old male housemates whose idea of home décor is a futon mattress on the floor can be a bit more challenging.

On Monday, the place was scoured spotless by a terrifyingly efficient housekeeping crew hired by the realtors. Within 24 hours, my housemates had thoughtfully redecorated the kitchen counters with an ornamental assortment of empty cans, coffee grounds, corn chips, and two deep fryers.

It’s not that they’re inconsiderate. It’s just that their version of tidy differs markedly from that of the average home buyer looking to hand over their life savings for a four bedroom, three bath dream home with breathtaking mountain views and a kick-ass writing office.

The boys are doing their best to help, but they aren’t quite sure how to accomplish that.

Tuesday morning found me teetering on a step-stool at the top of a staircase attempting to extricate twelve pounds of dead bugs from a glass light fixture 30 minutes before an open house event.

“Don’t fall,” one of the housemates called helpfully from his station on the sofa. “The cleaning crew will be mad if you mess up the clean floor with brains.”

I shot him a scowl before aiming one in the direction of the other housemate sipping coffee and lounging against the kitchen counter. “You guys aren’t being very supportive,” I snapped.

The coffee sipper set his mug down and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry about that.”

He grinned and clapped his hands together cheerleader style. “Go, Tawna! Nice job! Way to clean those lights! You’re doing great! Don’t swallow any dead bugs!”

Laughing with your hand on a light bulb is not a good idea.The next thing I knew, I’d snapped it off in the socket.

“Damn,” I said. “The pokey thingy broke off in the hole. Do either of you have a pair of those pinchy things?”

Now here’s the deal. I know damn well that the pokey thingy is called a bi-pin on a G8 lamp base, and I also know exactly where the pliers are in my garage.

But my feigned incompetence – coupled with my housemates' fear that my electrocution might preclude them from watching television – was all it took to spur them into action.

“Get down from there,” ordered the handiest of the two, springing off the couch. “I’ve got it.”

He took the stairs two at a time as he pulled a Leatherman tool out of his pocket. “Go flip the circuit breaker in the garage,” he ordered the other housemate.

I stood back and smiled sweetly as the two of them took charge, wielding tools and offering up the occasional manly grunt.

Do I feel guilty for taking advantage of their macho urge to rescue me with superior tool handling and home improvement knowledge? Hardly.

No more guilty than they feel about the corn flakes glued to the edge of the sink.

One way or another, we’re all making this work for us.

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?"

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!

The very wet life of a romance author

I stumbled out my front door yesterday morning with a mug of tea and a slight hangover from the previous night’s book launch party. I was already ten minutes late for the day job, so when I looked up to see a geyser in my front yard, it didn’t seem like a good sign.

I stared at it for awhile, wondering if it was a new decorative water feature one of the housemates had installed. After a few minutes of that, I set my mug and keys down and shuffled into the garage to find the control box for the sprinkler system.

Using my vast knowledge of lawn maintenance and irrigation, I attempted to troubleshoot the problem. By that, I mean I punched buttons at random and cursed loudly. When that had no noticeable effect, I walked back out to the wayward sprinkler-head and stomped on it.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Within seconds, I looked like the losing competitor in a wet t-shirt contest. The geyser continued to spray, now angled toward my car.

Discouraged, I walked inside where both of my twenty-something male housemates were eating breakfast.

“Anyone know anything about irrigation systems?” I asked.

They both turned and took in my bedraggled appearance and the puddle I was making on the dining room floor.

“I know they aren’t meant for showering,” one of them offered helpfully.

Once they’d finished laughing at me, they followed me outside and stared at the geyser. One of them walked into the garage and began punching buttons on the sprinkler system controls, while the other walked up to the spouting sprinkler and stomped on it.

Unsurprisingly, he stepped away drenched.

“I could have told you that wouldn’t work,” I offered.

“But you chose not to tell me?”

“I thought it was worth another shot.”

Meanwhile, the other housemate yelled to us from inside the garage. “Is it off yet?”

“No,” we chorused.

He punched a few more buttons, then ambled around the house where we were studying the geyser. He looked at it for a minute, then moved toward it. “Maybe we could just stomp it back into place—”

“Wait—”

But of course, we were too late. All three of us stood there dripping in the driveway as the sprinkler continued to jet toward the heavens.

“I guess I could call the landscaper who installed it,” I said.

So that’s what I did, and as luck would have it, he was working on another job just a couple miles away. Ten minutes later, he pulled up and got out of his truck.

“Sprinkler’s broken,” I called as he walked up the driveway.

He looked at the three of us standing there in a puddle beside the geyser. “So you decided to play in it?”

“We thought stomping on the sprinkler-head might help,” I offered.

“Replacing it might be a better idea,” he said. “And shutting off the water.”

So he proceeded to do those things while my housemates and I retreated into the house and changed clothes. My hair was still wet and my eye makeup smeared when I marched into the office a full hour late.

My boss looked at my appearance and grinned. “Good time at the book launch party?”

“Yes,” I  muttered. “The glamour never ends for romance authors.”

Please pet me, I'm writing

Note to self: the next time daylight savings time rolls around, consider the fact that your brain will begin waking at 2 a.m. with the urgent need to tap-dance around the bedroom. Given the resultant state of sleep deprivation, it is perhaps not the best time to plan things like the sale of your home, the final read-through for two contracted novels, or a blog post for the day job that requires you to sample mac-n-cheese at every local restaurant until you find yourself in a perpetual food coma.

I'll admit it, I'm fried. I've got no words left, so this seems like a good time for pictures. Pet pictures, to be precise. It's no secret I adore my pets, and that they're a constant presence in my life and my workspace. One look at my Facebook page or my Twitter stream confirms that.

So for today, I give you a handful of my favorite pet photos from recent months...

Bindi is a three-year-old Australian Kelpie, which is a fancy way of saying "small herding dog on crack." One of the best things about my two 27-year-old housemates is that they assist me in wearing her out with regular hikes and games of fetch. This is a shot one of the houemates took using an underwater camera.

The other housemate relies on a motorcycle for most of his transportation. This doesn't stop him from taking Bindi with him when he goes out for hikes. She seems to love it.

Bindi is surprisingly tolerant of the fact that she shares her home with three (yes, THREE) cats. One of the cats doesn't exactly count. Ivy is a crazy feral cat I trapped 13 years ago. She's spent most of her life hiding in closets and under beds. I recently bought Bindi a fluffy new dog bed, and Ivy decided she loves this bed with every fiber of her being. Suffice it to say, Bindi hasn't gotten to use it.

Ivy abhors being held. She also terrifies the hell out of my housemates, both of whom refer to her as "ninja kitty" and have spotted her only a handful of times.

You know how parents aren't allowed to have favorite children? The great thing about pets is that you can have favorites, and Matt the Cat is mine. He's a polydactyl cat, which means he has extra toes on his front paws. I like to think this has something to do with his kleptomaniac tendencies. Matt steals constantly from around the neighborhood. Gloves, stuffed animals, puppets, mouse pads, rolls of toilet paper, leaves, homework assignments, goggles, flip-flops, darts, socks...these are all things Matt has dragged through the cat door.

Oversized paws make an excellent sleep mask when you don't want to wake up in the morning.

Matt likes to assist while I'm writing. Here he is anchoring the printer so it doesn't fly away,

And here's Matt helping me write a blog post.

Then, there's Blue Cat.

When the cleaning crew showed up the other day to prep my house for sale, I eavesdropped as they made the rounds. I had to laugh when I heard one of them shriek (in Spanish), "That is the biggest cat I've ever seen in my life." I didn't have to look to know which cat they'd spotted.

Blue Cat has a shoe fetish. Anyone who leaves shoes lying around pretty much guarantees those shoes will be used as a feline pillow.

Though I'm not allowed to tell you much about the new secret project I've been hinting at in recent weeks, I can tell you that Blue Cat is a character in the story. He plays himself. Very crafty of him.

So there you have it....my brain dead post of the week. What do you think of my furry babies? Lie if you must and tell me you love them.

Otherwise, I'll sic ninja kitty on you.

A mouthful of something nasty

Though I've been living with a collection of male housemates for nearly a year now, there are still mornings I stumble downstairs and yelp at the sight of three grown men lounging at my eating bar.

One glance into our shared refrigerator is enough to remind me just how different my life has become. The freezer is packed with fish sticks and frozen french fries. The ratio of beer to milk is generally 10 to 1. The housemate who hails from Louisiana makes sure we have two metric tons of butter on hand at all times.

We share staple items like flour, milk, and eggs, but have a hands-off respect for special purchases like wine or meat or candy.

At least until someone gets hungry. Then all bets are off.

"What's in that Styrofoam box in the freezer?" one of the housemates asked the other night. "It tastes awful."

"Styrofoam box?" I asked.

"Yeah. It looks like candy but it doesn't taste good."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Tell me you didn't eat the bloodworms."

"Bloodworms?"

"The little frozen cubes in the foil packet?"

He nodded. "Yeah, that's it. What are bloodworms?"

"They're a form of mosquito larva."

He frowned, looking a little green. "Why do you have mosquito larva in the freezer?"

"They're for the fish! In the aquarium? Haven't you watched me feed them pretty much every night? Why on earth would you eat that?"

He shrugged. "I thought it was chocolate."

"Chocolate that looks like hunks of frozen blood?"

It's likely there was beer involved. Which reminds me, we're running low. What's the grossest thing you've ever eaten, either by accident or on purpose? Please share!

And I'll be happy to share my chocolate anytime.

3 tips for reclaiming "alone time"

Last Thursday, I came home to something eerily unfamiliar –silence.

It was the first time in over a month I’ve been alone in my own home. Though acquiring two twenty-something male housemates during the divorce has helped me pay the mortgage without selling animal porn online, “alone time” has become a distant memory. Even Thursday night’s reprieve was short-lived once a housemate came home with a six-pack of beer and a plan to play guitar on the deck all evening.

For introverts like me, “alone time” is a crucial part of recharging your batteries. Even extrovert writers require it to some degree, and that's challenging when you share your home with spouses, friends, children, or celebrities seeking asylum after faking their own death.

Though locking them in the basement can be tempting, the law tends to frown on this. Here are a few things I’ve found that help when “alone time” eludes me.

Disconnect

I’ll admit it, I’m a social media whore. It’s easy to justify Twitter and Facebook and blogging as vital elements of book promotion, but how much energy do I burn pausing in the middle of a manuscript edit to check just one email? How long does it take me to get back into writing a chapter after stopping to send a pithy tweet about chewing a sliver from my toe?

Jonathan Fields recently blogged about what a drain these things can be when it comes to creativity and productivity. I’m seriously considering having this post tattooed on my forearm. Read it, and then remind yourself that it’s OK to miss phone calls, ignore tweets, or not respond immediately to that important email about discounted nipple tassels.Limiting your human interaction – even the virtual kind – can go a long way toward giving you quiet time you’re craving.

Be assertive

The housemate arrangement is new to me, so I’ll admit that when the boys settle in on the sofa for a movie marathon and a meatloaf the size of a Chrysler, I’m reluctant to ruin their evening. Likewise, friends with small children tell me it’s tough to turn down a toddler’s plea for attention, even when it comes at the expense of carefully planned writing time.

But I’m learning it’s OK to close the office door from time to time. It’s even OK to let others know you’ve got a scheduled window of time for productivity, and that while you appreciate their urgent need to play Electroplankton on the Nintendo, you need a little peace and quiet for an hour after dinner. As long as no one’s bleeding and nothing is on fire, it’s OK to safeguard some “alone time” for the sake of your own sanity and productivity.

Escape

It's not always practical to muzzle housemates or tell your spouse to go sit on the porch all night so you can finish a chapter. That doesn’t mean you can’t reclaim your “alone time” elsewhere. How about a quick bubble bath or a trip to the closest coffeehouse with your laptop? For me, the quickest battery recharge comes from taking a nice hike with my dog. Picking up poop in a baggie is a small price to pay for a bit of exercise and an hour with someone who doesn’t talk to me about whose turn it is to buy dish soap.

Those are my tips for reclaiming “alone time.” What are yours?How do you recharge when the demands of human interaction get to be too much?Please share, I need all the tips I can get!

On comfort food and machine gun fire

When I set out to acquire housemates last spring, I decided up front that I’d prefer to live with men.

It wasn’t so much a desire to build a small harem of twenty-something males under my roof (though certainly that held some appeal). It was partly that I didn’t want pals. I wanted quiet residents content to nuke the occasional frozen pizza and then get the hell out of my kitchen without asking to bake scones together while braiding each other’s hair and dishing about boys.

I’ll admit it was a sexist notion. I’ll also admit I might have misjudged.

I knew up front that one of the housemates enjoyed cooking, but didn’t grasp the magnitude of it until the day he moved in. He spent several hours unloading an arsenal of kitchenware before whipping up a batch of brownies from scratch. Then he unpacked a giant television in the living room, a space I’d previously reserved for quiet reading and snuggling with the dog.

That was five months ago. I honestly can’t remember the last time my kitchen counter was visible beneath trays of baked goods, barbecue accessories, and three (yes, three) deep fryers. If I ever walk in and find my couch isn’t occupied by a barefoot southern boy watching war movies, I consider calling the police to report he’s been kidnapped.

There are times I mourn the loss of my clutter-free counters. There are times I miss my privacy. There are times I want to take a baseball bat to the constantly blaring television.

Monday night was such an occasion. I was tucked in my office trying hard to write, but having trouble concentrating over the blast of televised machine gun fire and the clatter of cookware.

I was on the brink of snapping when someone knocked on my office door.

“Yes?” I called through gritted teeth.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“What?”

“Dinner. I made chicken fried steak.”

I emerged from my cave, bleary-eyed and a little dumbfounded. The counter held approximately six tons of chicken fried steak, along with homemade gravy and mashed potatoes.

Comfort food I didn’t know I needed.

“I’ll make salad,” I offered, feeling bad that only three minutes earlier, I’d been plotting to grind his television remote in the garbage disposal.

I poured a glass of wine for myself. My tee totaling housemate filled his water glass. Then we sat down and watched an episode of Scrubs on Netflix. We didn’t braid each other’s hair, but we did laugh a lot.

We also licked our plates when we were done eating.

Was it how I planned to spend my evening? Not really. Is this how I envisioned my life a year ago? Definitely not. Are there moments I want to stomp into the living room and scream that if he drops another piece of fried chicken on the couch or downloads another noisy slasher movie, I’ll superglue him to the sofa and set fire to the living room?

I’d better not answer that.

But I will say this – there’s something satisfying about knowing I can adapt to almost any situation. There’s something rewarding about learning to adjust to personalities and habits I never imagined I’d be living with in such close proximity.

And there’s something enjoyable about sitting back with a plate of artery-clogging, southern fried goodness and saying, “damn, this made my night.”

When’s the last time you had to adjust to something you never expected in your life or your household routine? How did you cope?

If it’s a struggle, allow me to suggest that gravy and chicken fried steak have a remarkable way of making everything all better.

My dog the chick magnet

There are many things I like about having two single male housemates in their mid-twenties. Some of those things don’t even involve watching them repair their motorcycles shirtless in my driveway.

I’m fascinated by the inner-workings of the male mind, particularly when it comes to the most noble of male pursuits: meeting women. Since this theme factors prominently into the plot of most romance novels, I pay attention when the boys start talking.

The other night, Housemate 1 and Housemate 2 were gathered at my kitchen table eating mint Oreos and discussing the motorcycle rally Housemate 2 just attended. My dog Bindi lay adoringly at their feet, waiting for someone to either throw a ball or drop a cookie.

The conversation went something like this:

Housemate 2: Lotta guys at the rally had sidecars so their dogs could ride along.

Housemate 1: We should get one for Bindi. Can you imagine what a chick magnet she’d be riding in a sidecar wearing a pair of Doggles?

Housemate 2: Doggles?

Housemate 1: Goggles for dogs.

They both sat and pondered that for awhile, probably imagining a string of women lined up waiting to dive topless into the sidecar upon seeing my adorably attired canine.

Housemate 1: How hard do you think it would be to teach her to chase a ball in the park and then drop it at the feet of a good looking girl?

Housemate 2: Probably not too hard. She’s smart. There could be a special command so she knows which girls are hot.

Housemate 1: It’d be even better if we could convince girls she’s a puppy. Puppies are good chick magnets.

Housemate 2: She does look sort of like a German Shepherd puppy.

They both stared at my dog, still contemplating her chick magnet properties. Bindi whined and nudged her ball toward Housemate 2’s shoe.

Housemate 1: Or we could just throw the ball and accidentally hit the hot girl with it.

Housemate 2: Yeah, and then go apologize and let her pet the cute puppy.

Housemate 1: And offer to help wipe the dog slobber off where the ball hit her.

The conversation continued on like this for quite awhile, with the housemates contemplating several more strategies for using my dog to get girls.

Part of me wanted to ask if it had ever occurred to either of them to skip the gimmicks and just TALK to a girl.

Then again, what’s the fun in that? Isn’t there something flattering about being approached in a unique way? Not that getting smacked in the forehead with a slobbery tennis ball is a turn-on, but it’s certainly an attention-getter when someone makes a creative effort.

It’s true especially in romance novels, where you seldom have two characters get together without a meet cute. The hero and heroine in Making Waves meet in a Caribbean bar and end up posing as honeymooners to win money in a beachside Newlywed Game. The twosome in my second contracted novel meet when she mistakes him for an intruder in her mom’s psychic studio and threatens to brain him with a Budha statue.

Got any examples of a “meet cute” from your real life or your writing? What’s the most interesting way someone’s approached you or you’ve approached them? Please share.

I’ve got to get my dog ready for her debut as a chick magnet. Do you think she needs the pink Doggles or the red ones?

With lust covered, I've moved on to murder

I am a pacifist at heart. I can’t squish bugs. I cry when I see roadkill. Though I’m not a vegetarian, I’m only able to justify my meat consumption by making up stories about my hamburger’s history as a sadistic pedophile who deserved to die.

I’m telling you all this so you grasp what a big deal it is when I tell you I’ve been on a fly killing rampage.

We’ve had a warm autumn here in Central Oregon, and the result is a late fly hatch that apparently made a group decision to set up camp in my office.

As you might imagine, it’s tough to be a productive writer when you have to stop every 1.3 seconds to bat flies off your computer screen or your person.

It’s possible this is all a reflection on my personal hygiene,and also possible I could solve the problem by not leaving my front door wide open for the breeze.

No matter, the flies are pissing me off.

I began waging war with the closest weapon at hand – a copy of The Great Gatsby.

When one of my housemates came home to find me desecrating a great work of literature with fly guts, he went to the store and bought me a pair of flyswatters.

The flyswatters have made me a more effective hunter, though my lack of aim occasionally results in damage to household breakables or housemates’ faces.

So now my office is littered with fly corpses, and I have to come to terms with the fact that I’m a serial killer.

Does anyone have any good tips for keeping flies at bay without the need for mass murder? I’d love to hear about it.

I’d also love to kill that little bastard who’s crawling across my keyboard right about….NOW!

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.

My dog has two daddies

I'm fighting a cold right now, which means what little energy I have is being channeled into the final round of copy edits before Believe it or Not goes to print.

In case you're wondering, I've now read the manuscript 74,389 times.

Since many of you show up here expecting a laugh, I feel like I should at least share something that made me giggle recently.

I've told you before how my two 27-year-old housemates have plotted to use my dog as a chick magnet. Late last week, the two boys took my dog out for a hike in the snow. They returned home soggy and exhausted, but gushing excitedly about the newspaper photographer who snapped their picture.

"We're going to be famous," one of them deadpanned. "You'll be asking for our autograph on Saturday."

"Chicks love famous guys," the other agreed.

"Don't worry," the first housemate assured me. "We made sure to give the photographer the correct spelling of the dog's name."

Saturday morning, I heard them both up rustling around much earlier than usual. I came downstairs to find them frowning at the front page of the Local News section.

In case you can't read that, here's what it says:

A stroll through fresh snow
Bend residents [Tawna's housemate], 27, left, and [Tawna's housemate], 27, along with their dog Bindi, return to their car after a hike to Tumalo Falls west of Bend on Friday afternoon. Snow was about a half a foot deep along the trail. Look for the Well, shoot! field trip to Tumalo Falls on Page C1 in Tuesday's edition of The Bulletin.

The housemates watched me as I read it. "What do you think?"

"You mean besides the fact that it makes you sound like life partners?"

They both scowled. My gentleman friend picked up the paper and studied it. "What a nice young gay couple out for a walk with their dog," he said.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," I added. "So much for using the dog as a chick magnet."

So that was the highlight of my weekend (albeit, perhaps not theirs). How about you?

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.

Show Don’t Tell: Brought to you by another new housemate

On Saturday, a new twenty-something male housemate moved in.

Lest you think I’m building a sizeable harem of strapping young men, I should clarify that the 20-year-old moved out at the end of the college term, leaving me with only the 27-year-old who moved in right before my Pure Romance party.

The newest housemate is 26, and yes, I’ll admit it – adorable.

Notice I said “adorable” and not “hot.” It’s one reason I’m fond of living with boys in their twenties. They’re good at opening jars and staying out of my way, but way too young for me to think of them as anything other than puppy-dog cute.

The unique thing about the new guy is that we’d never met before he showed up and dragged his dresser into my house. We exchanged countless email messages after he responded to my craigslist ad, and a thorough background check assured me he wasn’t an escaped inmate intent on stealing my underwear and fornicating with my household pets.

But since he was moving from out of state, an in-person meeting wasn’t an option.

Based on what he’d told me about himself – and on what others told me in reference checks – I knew he’d be a good fit.

But email messages and conversations with someone’s references – well, those all involve “telling,” don’t they? It’s not the best method to reveal character in a novel, and it certainly doesn’t provide the whole picture when scoping out a new housemate.

So after he arrived, I was on the lookout for “showing.”

My first clue came as he unloaded boxes from his ’78 Landcruiser. He’d told me via email that he’d restored the vehicle himself, but until I saw it up close, I didn’t appreciate the significance.

It’s hardly a sportscar. Douchebag adjectives like “sweet ride” or “souped up” would never apply to this automobile. It’s functional and well-maintained, but it’s not a penis extension on wheels. During the week it took him to drive from his home state to Oregon, he camped out of the back of it.

All of that told me something about him. Handy. Down-to-earth. Refreshingly ego-free.

The other housemate meandered out while I was pretending not to inspect the Landcruiser. Apparently, he had the same idea I did.

We both spent a few minutes trying to look like we weren’t studying the bumper stickers on the Landcruiser as we studiously washed our own cars.

Feeling stealthy and covert, I sidled up to him with my soapy sponge still dripping.

“Did you notice the sticker that says—”

“Yeah.”

“So, um…socially and politically speaking—”

“On the same wavelength.”

Not that housemates are required to share politics, but just knowing our value systems are similar assured us we won’t feel compelled to duel in the driveway when the next election rolls around.

Further clues about his personality came a few hours later when he returned from grocery shopping and began unloading his purchases. I was making lunch at the time, so I watched in curiosity to see if he’d stock his cupboard with Oreos and Top Ramen.

He pulled out the ingredients to make brownies. From scratch.

While those baked, he got to work shaping giant, meaty hamburgers that he proceeded to cook on a grill that he built himself.

Then he washed his dishes and put everything neatly away.

Throughout the afternoon, I heard him upstairs unpacking his things and singing in a deep, cheerful Southern drawl. My dog went upstairs and adoringly parked herself on his floor. A few minutes later, I heard him carrying on a conversation with her about her preferred technique for belly scratching.

When I talked to my parents that evening, they were eager to hear about the new guy.

“Did he call his family to let them know he arrived safely?” my mom wanted to know.

“Within five minutes of getting here,” I assured her.

Apparently, that showed my mom what she needed to know about his level of thoughtfulness and courtesy. I suppose if you’re planning chop up your new housemates with an ax and eat their eyeballs, you don’t first phone your father to let him know how the roads were.

When it comes to meeting new people, do you watch for subtle clues about their personalities? When it comes to writing, how do you “show” someone’s character through small actions, mannerisms, and personality clues? Please share!

Speaking of which, I sincerely hope the new guy is planning to share those brownies. They smell delicious.