Wacky Wednesday!

Surprise! I'm not dead. Now while that may come as a disappointment to some, hopefully I'll give you something fun for hump day (which conjures up visions of anything but camels).

I've considered myself somewhat of a fashion diva...on a low budget. I also have the illusion when I look in a mirror that I'm still a size 4.  Those who know me just peed themself. Bitches. I really was a size 4 when I married Forever Guy. Then I gave birth to twins, turned 50, hit menopause, and became a writer. I can't even push my arm through the leg of a size 4 pant now. But "magic mirror" lets me live the fantasy.

The fashion crave [or disaster] of 2013 has been leggings, or as my generation calls them "tights." Long tubes of opaque nylon material in various colors you wear under skirts and dresses (or ski pants - made great thermals back in the day) - not with a belly shirt.

The first "legging" sighting I experienced was at the mall in the early fall. A lady, older than moi, walked by sporting gray and black striped "tights" with a short, waist-rimming leather jacket and black ankle boots. I picked my jaw off the floor and thought about running after her to tell her she needed to cover up. Everything was visible from her panty line to the mole on her left derriere cheek, yet she strutted like a proud peacock. And no one reacted.

Here I'm thinking the poor old doll has wandered away from a nearby lockdown facility, her mind half gone along with her wardrobe. She waltzed into Dillards, the swankiest department store in my little town, conversing with the sales clerk at the jewelry counter and heading straightway to the expensive makeup counter. It was beneath the Lancome sign that I was introduced to the latest fashion statement. Three sales girls gushed over how chic "Dolly" looked and questioned where she found such darling "leggings." Leggings? As in acceptable leg coverings? Alone and not under something?

In unison, the three near-starved-to-death-dressed-to-kill clerks let their false, spidery lashes brush down their noses when they took in what I wore, glaring as if I was radioactive. Dress pants. What was I thinking?! I almost stripped down to my panty hose to feel more stylish (they were "tan") until I remembered they were reinforced with steel girders from the knee up. More like a vision of industrial strength bermuda shorts instead of a uniform thickness from top to bottom, fitting a "legging" appearance.

Now had my nylons been "sheer-to-the-waist" and I wore some silky "Secret" beneath instead of practical 100% cotton covered in tiny daisies and washed like a thousand times," I might have passed the judgment trio and maybe even given Dolly some stiff competition. Granted, I would have had to dump the prison-issued loafers and strapped some Jessica Simpson death traps on my swollen feet, not to mention "lift" a leather blazer and try to move gracefully with a two-ton metal detector ring dangling from the wrist, but there's a chance [like snow in Hell] that I could have pulled it off.

[No matter how much alcohol you pour in your eyes, you will never be able to erase the mental picture I've just seared into your brain.]

All the way home, and clear through the month of October until bravery allowed me to buy a pair, I swore I'd never be caught dead in public wearing something so vulgar. Then I tried a pair on.

Comfort - soft butter and angora type comfort. Black and white with a stark pattern to disguise the "lumps." They caressed my legs as I pulled [okay tugged] them upward, flipping the lycra over my backside like a large, tight elastic band, and settling them in an area on my torso where my waist used to exist. I turned this way and that in front of Magic Mirror, listening to the phantom"oohs and awes" whispering in my head. I didn't look half bad! [Or half good, but I didn't give a damn].

I slipped a black tunic that barely covered my cushiony backside curves, then topped it off with a long sweater that nearly hit mid thigh. I added bulky leg warmers over my boots, leaving only about six inches of my lycra-wrapped leg exposed. To distract from any exposed jiggling that might occur, I wrapped my neck in a sparkly scarf and sponged my lips ruby red. All "look here - not there" tactics. I'd transformed into a fashion diva -- a larger than lifesize version, but one nonetheless!

What surprised me more than the fact the leggings actually fit, was the new found sense of confidence I sported. I dared to break the rules and have some fun. And just like Dolly, I strutted the mall, the grocery store, restaurants, and even dared to wear them to work on casual Friday. I also bought a second pair and put them in my Christmas stocking.

Do I hope it's a fashion fad that will disappear in 2014? Oh hell yes. While they may be the latest and greatest, they look ridiculous on anyone older than six, regardless of body shape. But right now, I like looking fabulous at ridiculous. And I'll keep them until they're thread bare. The beggars really are comfortable and warm. After the craze wears off, they'll make great jammies!

How about you? What's the craziest fashion fad you've dared to wear?

   Sometimes I wake with a story in my head. Tomorrow our nation celebrates another birthday and the traditions of all the ways the Fourth of July is celebrated, sparked this one. Enjoy, and have a wonderful, safe holiday. Happy Birthday America!


I parked my car in the gravel turnout and crossed the road to my favorite stakeout point; a large boulder nestled in the pines that kept me hidden, but gave me the perfect vantage point. Below me stood the two-story house, gray clapboard siding wrapping the exterior and crisp white shutters framing the windows. A large porch curled around the front corner, edged in a white spindle railing. The front door used to be a barn red color, adorned with a homemade flag wreath for the month of July, but now the door glared in shiny ebony black, a formal brass doorknocker stealing the last warmth.

Someone in a straw hat rode a fancy lawnmower, cutting long wide stripes across the expanse of green carpet that stretched from where the road intersected the private lane, to the manicured rose bushes accenting the wrap-around porch.

Wished Gramps had one of those when we were growing up. It took two of us an hour to mow with his old lawnmowers, one of us starting at the house and the other at the road, meeting in the middle to finish. The large maple tree on the property line marked the official dividing line, and whoever reached it first, got to choose between mowing the smaller back lawn or sweeping the drive and walkways with the big push broom to clear away the stray grass clippings. Both dreaded chores under the hot sun, but that's how the Harper grandchildren made a living starting at age eight, until they were old enough to work regular jobs.

Six of us were hauled down Harper Lane every Saturday morning in time to hear the roosters crow out back by the barns. Grandma had breakfast waiting, which we were allotted a total of thirty minutes to swallow before our name was retrieved from the mason jar for our chosen "job." Sweeping the porches and helping Grandma feed the chickens and harvest the eggs were the coveted chores, but saved for the younger cousins. Once you turned eleven, your name was thrown in the mason jar.

Grandpa would gather us into the formal dining room, place the job chart on the table, and the infamous jar. The early rays of sun streaming through the dining room windows made the bumpy lettering sparkle, our names written on scraps of paper looking like the fortunes you found in the cookies at Chinese restaurants. He'd announce each job, mimicking a game show host, reach into the jar and leave us holding our breath. Edging and mowing the vast grass that seemed to grow in size every week, weeding the vegetable garden and flower gardens, were the listed choices, and when done, we each received five dollars and lunch. The "babies" as we called them, only got two dollars.

The riding mower clanged loudly when the operator rode it down the driveway to the garage, pulling me from my memories. I shifted on the rock and leaned my elbows on my knees, squinting through my sunglasses at the porch. White wicker furniture with bright floral cushions arranged in formal groupings replaced the colorful wooden rockers that used to occupy the space. On the back porch, facing the cornfields and barnyard, hung a porch swing. I wondered if it was still there, or if modern iron patio furniture had replaced that memory as well.

Six rocking chairs, each painted a different, bright color would sway in ghostly movement with the afternoon breeze. They were for the "adults" to sit in and watch us as we played ball on the lawn, fought over the tire swing hanging from the old maple tree, or climbed precariously through the thick branches. The tire swing had disappeared and the lower branches we could reach as children had been trimmed away. The tree stood formidable, unfriendly, and lonely among the other sculpted bushes sharing the property edge.

A flag ruffled in the breeze atop a new tall mast on the other side of the driveway. Today was the Fourth of July. My gaze shifted back to the front of the house, the porch, where instead of a large flag boldly marking the day, half-arched banners in stars and stripes used to drape the railing, and little flags from the "five-and-dime" store waved proudly between the rose bushes and petunias.

Next to Christmas, the Fourth of July held my fondest childhood memories. Clad in new summer tops and shorts, mine always pink (I was considered Grams "girly-girl" among my older boy cousins), hair pulled into pigtails or braids to keep cool in the summer heat, we would be nestled in the backseat of the cars at the crack of dawn with our favorite quilts. The trunks would be packed with games, swimsuits, beach towels, coolers of food, and boxes of fireworks. Coming from different directions, our family caravan would descend one-by-one down Harper Lane for the annual Harper Family Fourth of July Celebration.

The half hour drive would lull us back to sleep, until the familiar crunch of gravel beneath the car tires when we turned off the highway and headed down the lane, brought us back to life. Spilling from cars in a noisy ruckus, we'd race to be the first through the front door. The smell of bacon and coffee greeted us on the porch, wafting through the open windows. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, piles of crisp bacon and carafes of orange, apple and grape juice waited our attack. From that moment on, the food never ceased.

After we tired of checking out the barns, playing hide-and-seek in the cornstalks, or croquet on the back lawn, Grandpa would haul out the large bright yellow strips of plastic and stretch them down the front lawn, then turn on the sprinklers, the arcs of water crisscrossing each other and making for cool afternoon in our very own water park. When our lips turned blue, we'd redress and the little ones usually napped on the floor in the living room, along with Gramps, while we were placed at the dining table with board games and threatened with cleaning animal stalls if we woke anyone.

Our mothers and Grandma chattered about everyone in town over potato salad and brownie preparation, while we played Sorry and Life. When the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers being grilled started our tummy juices churning, we were ushered out from under foot to set the picnic tables out back. Pitchers of lemonade captured the golden rays of sunset and kept the tablecloths secure. Soon, platters of steaming corn-on-the cob, plates of deviled eggs, bowls holding salads and baked beans joined the baskets of buns and various condiments dotting the tables. Gramps offered a prayer, much longer than necessary in our childhood opinions, and only when we started making faces at each other and giggling did he pronounce "amen," allowing us to eat.

The fathers and Gramps were in charge of evening entertainment once the sun dipped behind the hillside, to allow time for the "women folk" as Gramps called them, to do dishes. The boxes of fireworks were retrieved and each of us grabbed out favorite blanket and spread out on the front lawn. The "adult" rockers were carried off the porch and lined up for the firework display the town put on, once the sky officially blackened.

Meanwhile, we danced with sparklers raining dangerously over our heads and sparks burning out bare feet. The dads took turns lighting cones of spraying sparks that whistled ear piercing screeches, or lit buzzing plumes that hopped along the cement. The Harper Grand Finale consisted of the spinning "fire of death" Gramps would dramatically announce as he mounted the fiberboard wheel on the nail below the steel mailbox. A hose would be stretched out on the driveway in preparation, as many times, Gramps fire wheel caught the wood post on fire. Grandma repainted the mailbox every summer after sparks peeled her handiwork back to bare metal.

After all the burned remnants were cleaned up and hosed down, mothers and Grandma would shut the house lights off and join us on the lawn with pans of warm brownies and a platter of watermelon wedges. Gramps would set up a card table and bring the ice cream freezer out of the garage and place it in the galvanized bucket of ice. We'd settle in our little family groups, kids nestled close to moms and dads to await the sometimes scary fireworks while our faces became caked with chocolate crumbs and vanilla ice cream dripped over our knuckles from our cones.

The first bang always brought our hearts in our throats, followed by the standard "oohs" and "ahhs" for those colorful bursts of colors that followed, lighting the world in brilliance for a few seconds. After the last blinding flashes fall earthward and the sky returned to midnight velvet, we hugged and kissed goodbye, lumbering back into cars and snuggling into the blankets slightly damp and smelling of the sulfur air, drifting to sleep as the highway whined beneath the tires.

I close the memory and stand, stiff and sore from sitting so long. The sky has morphed to a burnished bronze, washing the house below in a blaze of orange from nature's daily finale. I lean against the tree beside me. Did the ice cream freezer ever get taken out of the attic? Did the new owners even know what the nail on the side of the mail post was used for? Maybe they watched the fireworks from inside, behind the plate glass living room window instead of laying on the cool grass, transformed in the blooms of color overhead or the smell the singed air.

As I turned toward my car, a familiar squeak echoed across the small valley. A woman carrying an armful of quilts emerged from the house, followed by the man in the straw hat carrying several folding chairs. I smiled as they lined up the chairs facing the hillside, spreading the quilts across the freshly cut grass. A van rolled down the hill, passing me in my hideaway, and turned down the lane. Mesmerized, I watched as doors opened and kids poured out of the vehicle, squealing excitedly. Another car emerged from the other direction, the same scene playing out. I counted four copper headed children in various sizes, hug three fair haired counterparts, before laying claim to a chair or blanket.

A melancholy sigh pushed my heart against my ribs. I'd almost made it halfway across the road when I heard the pound, pound, pound. I turned and watched as someone nailed a "wheel of fire" to the mail post.

MOVING DAY

  Sometimes I feel like the cartoon character comedienne Carol Burnett always started and ended her weekly television show with. I get up around 5:30 every morning, snuggle into a pink fuzzy robe and head for the coffeemaker. If I'm totally honest, I probably scratch my butt on the way to my office, too.

This morning when I walk through the door, still blurry-eyed and relishing the first swirl of hot java coating my throat, I find Jesse twirling in my chair and Jordan perched on the arm of the small sofa in the corner, with Marli seated to his side and tucked protectively under his arm. I rub my eyes, about to ask what's going on, when Riley barrels into the room, towing Taylor, and Jaxson following behind in a lazy swagger—dressed in his new camouflage fatigues.

Jordan rises to his feet, taking a precautionary stance in front of Marli. Always her protector. Always jealous when another male steps in her airspace.

"Why are you here?" he demands.

"What's it to you, pretty boy?" Jaxson answers.

Riley knocks his brother's arm. "Dial down the 'macho-machine' would ya? And honestly, do you wear anything else? I mean if you're permanently GI Joe, I'm raiding your closet."

"Touch my stuff and you're dead."

"Whoa, boys. No bloodshed before I've had my second cup of coffee, got that?" I motion to Jesse, "The 'throne' is mine. Plant your sweet butt in the chair."

"So you have been checking me out."

I thump my head on the desk, twice. It's way too early to exchange quips.

"I created, you," I choke out after a large gulp of my liquid morning vitamin. "But aside from your shameless peacocking, can I ask why you're all here?"

"I thought you asked us to come?" Marli answers plaintively.

I did? Maybe subconsciously, but I don't remember. Before I can retrieve a thought in my scrambled brain, a light breeze blows through the French doors. Leaning against the frame is Alex, looking completely out of place in his dark jeans, black T-shirt…and brilliant white wings. The gold centers actually glow when the first brave rays of dawn bend through the slats and stretch across the room.

"What's with the Bird Man," Jaxson asks, his eyes checking off my guarded angel. Jesse, however, stands and brushes his T-shirt tight, flexing a couple of defined muscles when two girls flank Alex's sides.

"Hel—lo ladies," Jesse croons. 

Maddie tucks behind behind a wing when she spies the crowded room, and I notice all my male characters lean slightly to watch her, curiosity mixed with a tinge of lust and their forever raging hormones stirring beneath the surface. Alex's arm stretches out, offering a reinforced shield, but he says nothing. He doesn't have to. We all feel the steely glare of protection. He's her guardian angel.

"Guys, meet Alex, Jude, and Madeline." Alex clears his throat. "Forgive me, Princess Madeline." Maddie takes a small curtsy, pillowing her brocade skirt. My boys, all gentlemen under their various facades, bow in respect. My girls? Cross arms over chests and take a no-nonsense stance. Neither Marli nor Taylor handle female competition entering their territory well.

Wait. My territory! Why do I let these kids take over? Before feathers fly and the language starts, I raise a hand. "Sit, stand, whatever. Just be quiet. I remember why I called you here." I let them settle on couches, chairs, or on the floor. I forget how long teenagers' legs are, and I maneuver through the tennis shoe covered feet with my second cup of coffee.

"We're moving." My hair blows every direction as they all draw a deep breath. "We need a larger space, and well, I've created a special one just for you. Also, 'Boss Lady' will now be 'Ms. Brooks' to all of you. I'm officially a 'dot.commer' and we have a new home.  www.harleybrooks.com  I think you'll all like it there and you can flex your muscles…or wings, a bit with your fans. You'll each have your own room, so to speak, where I can share stuff about your stories, without it all being crammed onto this small space."

They murmur among themselves as if deciding what to do. "Hey. You don't have a choice, so deal. I promise once we're settled in, you'll like the new place."

Taylor pulls her legs close and rests her chin on her knees. Her big eyes hold a childlike innocence and I sense her uneasiness. She's been through a lot, and trust isn't something she's good with. "What about this place?"

"It's not going anywhere. I'll just work between the two sites. Besides, I've got some new occupants possibly moving in."

"Sorry, we're late. Still having some issues here, I hope you work out soon. I'm running thin on patience." Nate, my would-be suave detective if he didn't have cream cheese smeared on his suit, fills the doorway.

"Whatever," snarls Sydney as she fidgets with the handcuffs. "Unlock these, moron."

"And chance you running off on me again? No way."

Sydney reaches for the teal satin bra wrapped in his free hand. "Give me back my bra!"

The room stills. I can smell the pheromones and testosterone it's so strong.

Riley nudges Taylor's shoulder. "Can you get one like that?"

Jordan snickers and Marli slaps his chest. "What? I didn't say anything!"

"But you were thinking it."

"Well if he wasn't, I was," Jesse smirks.

"Great 'Detective Degenerate'. You've poisoned the minds of innocent children," Sydney scolds.

Nate scoffs. "I doubt it, but before I lose it and show them how to murder an ex-girlfriend, I'm taking you back to the cruiser. Like I said, Boss Lady. Hurry it up, or your writing a murder mystery, not a romance."

I stare into the bottom of my empty cup, wishing for something stronger. I straighten. "Okay, all of you head over to the new place. Go in through the back because the front still has wet paint, and try to not destroy the place before I get there." Alex's wings wrap Maddie and Jude. "You too. We've got work to do."

One by one my characters fade out, except for Riley. "Boss Lady, er I mean Ms. Brooks, you okay? This is what you wanted isn't it?"

I smile, wishing I could erase the crease between his brows. "Yes, I'm fine. Just scared. Now that you're out there, I can't protect you. You're no longer just mine."

"We're tough."

"Let's hope so. Riley, your story is officially out. Smashwords.com; Barnes and Noble (bn.com); Amazon.com, and in print version on Createspace.com. You ready for what comes next?"

"Can't wait! Party at the new 'frat house'," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears.

"It's not a frat house!" I yell out to the empty room "It's Drama Queens and Jock Kings…which you all are!" The faint sound of giggles echo back. I head for the coffeemaker. It's a "3 cup day."

Check out Riley's Pond, now available for $2.99 in ebook format or paperback. Also, buzz over to www.harleybrooks.com and take a walk through the new place, then hop onto "Drama Queens and Jock Kings" and show your support. I know she'd feel a lot better if some of her old friends stopped by. If you feel inclined to share a link or two to let the world know Riley's Pond is officially for sale and to check out the new digs, please do so!

For now, I'll juggle both places, but here, I'm just boring Joelene until another personality kicks me in the butt – one who has got to fix the mess Nate created. "Dirty Laundry," a working title, is the playful adult romantic comedy I'm playing with when the "kids" are asleep. Stay tuned.

The Secret is Out

          Pssst. Riley Martin here. Boss Lady doesn't know I've commandeered her blog and she'd be pissed if she found out, so you have to swear you won't tell. She's trying to be all "hush-hush" about what's going down, but I decided to let you in on the secret. She gets all anal about things having to be "perfect" before the world sees her stuff. She keeps holding "staff meetings" going over and over and over scenes, trying out different scenarios. All I want to do is get to the parts where I'm making out with Taylor. Finally, though, she got brave and made a decision.

At our usual Monday 5 AM staff meeting she made the announcement. Of course Taylor, Jax, and I, try to arrive early to get the best seats. She's got one of those desk chairs that spin and Taylor loves to tuck her legs under her chin and let me twirl her in circles until she's dizzy. I love when she stands up and has to lean into me for support. I try to keep her in my arms as much as possible. I'm seventeen. My hormones are on overload, and Taylor's gorgeous. What can I say? I'm a teenage boy. I'm the epitome of the cliche.

But this particular Monday, the cast from Designer Genes beat us to the office. The Jordan dude really bugs me. All suave, and tall with thick wavy hair and these eyes even Taylor gets lost in, which ticks the Marli girl off. I'd like to see a chick fight between them to see who kicks ass. Marli's from the future so Boss Lady probably gave her laser fingernails or something. Personally speaking though, Taylor beats out the Marli girl in the looks department. Especially on the "upper floor" where a couple of favorite body parts drive me insane. I'm sure Jordan would disagree, but I could care less about the silver-spoon-trust-fund baby's opinion.

When we were first introduced to the competition - Jordan, his cocky twin brother Jesse, and yes, his hot heroine, Marli, I'll admit to being jealous. I mean come on, Boss Lady gave the Jordan guy a Porsche for crying out loud! I got a used Toyota truck. What's up with that? His twin got a red Ferrari! Even my older brother Jax, got a cooler set of wheels than me. A Mustang Boss 302. Candy-apple red, a souped up engine, and chrome mags that blind you. My truck doesn't even have leather seats, and according to my dad, tires so bald they shine. When Taylor arrived on the scene in a blue and white Mini-Cooper, I developed some serious ego issues. Did Boss Lady have it in for me? Granted, she does allow me and Taylor some really hot scenes, which the "other team" can't have because the government owns them or something. Guess driving an old truck isn't so bad after all. Backseat works great.

Anyway, I'm already wanting to get in this Jordan's face because his brother is ribbing Jax about his fatigues. Hey, Jax is going into the Army. I figure Ferrari Boy has his tighty-whities in a wad because he wants his brother's girl. I don't even know their story, but the guy's crushin' so bad, it's pathetic.

Uh-oh! I hear Boss Lady. Quick, come close. I've got to whisper. You see, even though Designer Genes has all the fancy cars and lifestyles of the "rich and famous" they're going to have to take second position behind Riley's Pond. Yep! Boss Lady announced she's printing my story first! My. Story! (Okay, maybe Taylor and Jax say a couple of things, too.) Dude the look on the precious "first born" was priceless! "Country hick" with the used pick-up truck is going to lead the pack! Take that and stuff it in your designer jeans.

Just caught a peek of the cover.  I'll sneak it at the bottom, but don't say anything. I remember that night with Taylor - gets my heart racing just thinking about it.  Oops! Crap, gotta go!

Riley Martin! Did you tell? He looks sheepish and darling twisting in my desk chair. He's one of my favorite characters, although I do admit to blushing when he started telling me his story. He holds nothing back. That's what makes him adorable, frustrating, and vulnerable, with his heart plastered on his sleeve all the time. He gives me a wink and mimes a zipper closing his mouth just before he disappears. Such a tease...and a horrible liar.

Yes, I've made the decision to jump into the fast-paced, frightening, but exhilarating world of self-publishing. Not an easy decision, and made after a lot of sleepless nights and endless research. Our world keeps changing, and the publishing world is no exception. I predict soon the "big six" publishers of New York will be replaced by the "three powerhouses"... Amazon, Apple, and Microsoft (in case you haven't heard, there's been a digital marriage between Barnes and Noble and Microsoft). Anyone remember the little film depositories outside all the grocery stores, years back? Kodak is struggling to stay alive now that cell phones take pictures and videos without film. The stigma of self-publishing is almost extinct and I want to be on ground floor of this movement that is growing larger by the second, instead of scrambling to catch up late in the game. I've already seen enough changes in the four short years I've been an author to know the trends are shifting rapidly.

Riley's Pond is going out the chute first. Sent the manuscript to my formatting genius in New York this morning. Sexy, funny, and heartbreaking, but in the end, a tale of compassion, forgiveness, and unconditional love. A romance told through the eyes of the boy who survives it and the girl who makes him fight to keep it alive.

You can stop worrying. I already saw that Riley attached the cover below. I should add "sneaky" to his list of talents. The cover is official, and yes, I too remember that scene.....

…is it love?

—Riley

Lust is easy, painless, but empty. Love is frustrating, scary as hell, yet totally awesome. Finding a girl who believes you can do…be anything is beyond amazing. It rocks your world. Of course, this from a guy who told Taylor Wilson "I love you" over the phone—inside a closet filled with dirty socks and underwear.

…or lust?

—Taylor

Love or lust? Two very different things and nothing like the movies. Every guy can pull off "lust," but it takes someone willing to risk everything for another, to make it "love." A superhero—one strong enough to remove his cape…and wrap it around you. Riley Martin.

…or a dangerous combination of both?

Riley's Pond

A place where worlds collide, sparks fly, and a kiss "goodbye" means anything but.

[Repost] Twas Valentine's Eve...

Twas Valentine's Eve and I slumped in my chair,

No chocolates or roses, or man in my lair.

Cupid lay dead on the Persian rug in the hall

His bow to his side, an arrow stuck in my wall.

They'll think I did it, killed "Love" out of spite,

Single people everywhere will rally to fight.

The truth will stay hidden, I won't have my say,

They'll jump to conclusions and lock me away.

The pink cherub had it coming, arriving so late,

I waited all week for him to change my fate.

When he never showed, I surrendered my plight

All I wanted was a bath and to call it a night.

Surrounded in bubbles and candles aglow,

I resigned to my destiny at Cupid's no-show,

But when something downstairs made a thump and crash,

I jumped from the tub with nothing covering my ass.

I fumbled in darkness not wanting to be seen

For a gun, a bat, a weapon of means.

Soapy footprints marked my descent downstairs,

Without knowing I stood naked, in the crosshairs.

I screamed when the pain shot through my behind

And swung my bat fast, dazed out of my mind.

He squealed like a pig but my aim was too good,

His wings beat hard, but he still smacked the wood.

With arrow still dangling from one precious cheek,

I painfully scurried to save Love's little "geek."

No time for the lights when I saw my mistake,

But the comment he made determined his fate.

"Seriously, lady you should join a gym,

"I'm having a hard time finding just the right 'him'.

"They all want a model with boobs that don't hang,

"A washboard stomach and a long golden mane.

"You're funny and sweet, but slightly plump

"I had to use 'turbo' to penetrate your rump.

"Are you saying I'm fat, you insensitive pest?

"Which coming from you meets an ironic best.

"You're nothing but blubber, chubby and round,

"Those wings barely keep you off of the ground.

He raised his bow, a fiery red in his eye,

I'd pushed too far, hurt his pride.

But he flew in a circle, one wing badly bent,

I ducked out of the way when an arrow he sent.

It hit the light socket, shooting sparks in his hair,

Startled, the cherub flew into the stairs.

He bounced off the railing, hit the banister post,

Ending prone of the rug, smelling a lot like burnt toast.

With the arrow from my butt I gingerly poked,

But he didn't move, just laid there and smoked.

I called 911 to report the break-in and assault,

Quickly dressed and rehearsed why this wasn't my fault.

Red and blue clashed against my sage green walls,

And dozens of officers filled my entry hall.

One noticed the arrow now glowing red hot,

And the Fire Department arrived on the spot.

I recalled my terrifying brush with death,

Noting most of them snickered under their breath.

The "murder of Love" was declared self defense,

No charges were filed, because nothing made sense.

Cupid suddenly vanished leaving no trace,

No bow, no arrow, nothing left in his place.

We all swore an oath we weren't losing out minds,

And the officers left, but one stayed behind.

"I hope you don't mind my asking so late,

"But would you consider being my Valentine date?

Cupid's arrow did more than just inflict strife,

It brought "him" to my doorstep and into my life.

I rubbed my backside, while nodding my head,

I had a date for Valentines and proof "Love" wasn't dead.

Happy Valentines Day

WACKY WEDNESDAY . . . Easy Rider - or writer?

 Anyone who knows me, knows I love motorcycles. My preferred brand is Harley Davidson. Between hubby and I, we've owned seventeen. Current sweet ride is a burgundy flake (sparkling beauty) Road King with a big old fat seat for my ... well, to cushion the ride. I've been to Sturgis, the biggest people show on earth and oh-so entertaining. The American flag can be worn so many different ways. This is also the place my virgin eyes saw, how shall I say it, body paint artistically applied to the most obvious places. One such endowed beauty had a gorgeous lion's head painted on her chest, with "eyes" that jiggled. Also, I cannot eat Bing cherries without recalling another vivid memory. Ah yes. Needless to say, I watched, but did not partake. My favorite trek is a toss up between Yellowstone Park and Durango, Colorado. My least favorite is the dry, windy ride to Laughlin, Nevada.

I was taught to ride a Honda 100 dirt bike by my high school boyfriend, whom I thought the sun bowed to when it set in the West. I wanted to be the coolest girlfriend ever, so when he asked me if I wanted to learn how to ride his, I jumped at the chance. I did okay. Biffed it a couple of times, but soon rode like a pro. Then we broke up and I lost my motorcycle.

When I got married, hubby thought it would be wonderful if we each had our own. He bought me a Honda 200 street/dirt bike. Things got complicated. I had to take and pass a motorcycle driving test. Aced the written exam, but the actual test would be taken solo, without my husband around. An officer mounted a large horse and stood guard as I did my Figure 8's, stopped and started my cycle without issue, did some balancing thing for 30 seconds (which I think was more for his entertainment as I have never needed that technique), then proceeded to the "brake test." Again, I'm thinking he was bored. He pointed down a long strip in the parking lot between parked cars. Straight, narrow, and running the risk of someone backing out into me. I was to reach a certain speed, then slam on the brakes and not skid to a stop.

I scanned the parking lot, which was at the courthouse, looking for old people who wouldn't hear me, teenagers pissed off with traffic tickets who wouldn't see me, and the idiot running late for his court hearing who would pull into the parking lot as I peaked top speed. The officer waited. The horse took a dump.

I revved my engine, eased out the throttle and shifted effortlessly through each gear, mentally screaming a mantra of obscenities mixed with fervent prayer. I passed! I took a vow that I would never let my motorcycle endorsement expire whenever I renewed my license because I never, ever, wanted to take that test again. I will be a hundred years old with a motorcycle license.

Hubby beamed, proud of his tiny (no children had been born and I was barely 20) bad-ass wife in her color-coordinated purple motorcycle gear and helmet. The ride home was relaxing, all the tension gone. In fact, my legs felt rubbery. We arrived at our suburbia paradise where our newlywed love nest was located (sounds much more romantic than mobile home). Hubby was a couple of minutes ahead of me, because I had to wait for traffic before turning into the subdivision. He'd already dismounted, had his helmet off and was watering the flower pots out front.

I've just given you a "camera clue." Ever watch for those in movies? The most obvious is the car driving down the road with driver and passenger arguing, the camera giving you quick flashes of each one with a view out their side window. You're engaged in their conversation, paying no mind to the background, and then it happens. The crash! The sound of glass exploding, metal grating on metal, screams, and for the grand finale on your heart attack, blood spattering everywhere. An eerie quiet follows, usually a low cello strumming in the back ground, covered slightly by the hissing sound of steam rising. A moan. An appendage twitches, then in the distance, the wailing of sirens resonating louder as they approach.

Okay, so my next  "scene" isn't as dramatic, but traumatizing nonetheless. I pull into the driveway, grinning proudly at my betrothed heartthrob, paying no attention to the little stream of water trickling down the driveway, or the hose stretched across my path. I roll the throttle slightly to give the motorcycle enough gas to ease up the short incline to the carport. Suddenly, the bike slips sideways when the front tire and the hose fight for control. Panicked, I think I'm grabbing the brake when in reality, I grab the throttle with all my strength -- launching me into a wheelie Travis Pastrada would be proud of. My body, now operating without a brain, falls forward, pushing the front tire back onto the wet pavement, propelling me like a small rocket into the carport, narrowly missing my new Camaro, through a decorative fence once protecting floundering tomato plants, over a throw-rug size patch of grass and into the back of our neighbor's mobile home.

The bike is wedged between the skirting and the metal frame, the throttle stuck on high, and the back tire spinning on their patio. Blue smoke curls, the stench of burning rubber overpowering the smell of burgers cooking on a nearby grill. I've miraculously catapulted off the machine and am jumping up and down, possessed by poltergeists and screaming for my husband. As he passes the mentally disturbed woman he's sworn his dying breath to, he spews words void of any of the pride he gushed earlier. He shut the bike off, carefully pulled it out of the skirting and limped it across the grass back to our place on its now bald tires. The adrenaline rush finally reached my brain and I passed out.

Yes, that's how I started my "biking career." My machine stuck in sheet metal and me sprawled on wet grass. But color-coordinated. I've had a couple of other "Keystone Cops" moments, and recently, I sold my white angel bike (pictured above), deciding I make a better passenger. I'm getting too old. If something breaks now, it has to be "replaced."

I still love riding. Now, however, I get to read my Kindle and let my husband worry about the driving. I doubt we'll ever give it up. We met a couple in Cooke City, Montana on a rally one year. They were in their mid seventies. They'd "triked" their Harley, modifying the back with two wheels instead of one. We decided that would be us, only I threatened to kill my husband if he wore a leather vest and no shirt like this dude had. Gray chest hair with saggy "man-boobs" has a high gag factor.

So how does this relate to my writing career? It doesn't, other than riding my Harley is probably my best muse. The adrenalin rush I get from a motorcycle, driver or passenger, is the same as when a new story sparks in my imagination and I can't get the words out fast enough. Sometimes I get "stuck in sheet metal" but not for long. I write a superhero, not unlike the one I've been with for thirty odd years, to rescue the heroine, me...the story. Usually one with attitude, or a mouth my grandmother would shove soap into, and in the end, most likely he gets caught in his cape and needs a kick-ass heroine with sharp scissors to save him and steal his heart.

So there you have it. Another embarrassing page from my wacky life. Thanks for stopping by.

MAKING "MAKE BELIEVE" BELIEVABLE

Current listen:  "Grenade" courtesy of Bruno Mars

The refrain says "I'll catch a grenade for ya..." Really? A grenade...a bomb. Some guy is just going to reach up and grab a flying grenade aimed at his true love. Maybe? Depends on the situation . . . the story. In reality, physically catching a grenade in all probability isn't going to happen. Especially in my reality. Hubby, the hopeless "un-romantic" that he is, would see the grenade heading my way and yell "duck," thinking he'd covered his obligatory spousal duty and leave me to my own devices to get out of the way.

   

But in a "make believe" or fictional world, the one we create for our readers, great care needs to be given so that our readers believe our heroine will be saved when the hero jumps a super-human height and catches the grenade, flinging it into the universe where it detonates and harms no one...in particular the characters they've emotionally invested in. It doesn't matter if it's believable in our world, but it must be in the world we've created...one where superhuman strength exists and grenades aimed at our heroes and heroines is considered "natural."

Computer geek Jimmy Nerd would not suddenly bolt from his desk, open his window and find a grenade spiraling across the park toward the head cheerleader he's dating because hunky football quarterbacks are suddenly dweebs, as she rescues a kitten from a tree, fully clad in her sexy little outfit and holding pom-poms. This causes him to jump from his third story window and land, unharmed, in his polished leather loafers and run through traffic at warp speed (considering he's such an athlete - sitting in front of his computer monitor for hours on end), leaping over the hoods of taxi cabs, sliding under a school bus full of children, only to launch into thin air (and I'm going to put a round guesstimate of approximately 8 feet) and clutch the small missile in his fist without (1) it exploding and sending his spindly body parts into another hemisphere; (2) flinching from the pain a projectile traveling that speed would cause when it hit his grandma soft (ewwe) flesh; (3) or dropping it because his hands would be so large (okay, I know where your mind just went...shame on you) and muscular from moving his computer mouse mere inches all day, and (4) slowing his pace whatsoever, because he would drop back to earth without so much as an "ugh" pushing through his razor thin lips and resume his high velocity sprint to the tree where his beloved sits, unaware. I guess anything's possible...

I'm a rabid Janet Evanovich fan, although I'll confess I didn't start the Stephanie Plum series until book five. She sold me on the opening paragraph (paraphrased):

When I was a little girl I used to dress up Barbie without underpants. On the outside, she'd look like the perfect lady. Tasteful plastic heels, tailored suit. But underneath, she was naked. I'm a .... bounty hunter .... and being a bail enforcement officer is like being a bare-bottomed Barbie. It's about wearing a lot of bravado on the outside when you're really operating without underpants.

I find some part of me in Stephanie Plum. Maybe it's our mutual attraction to Ranger. I pulled this series as an example of making the questionable, believable. Every book shows Stephanie in an absurd and life threatening situation trying to track down her bail skips. Each scenario and lowlife skip walks the boundary of far-fetched in our reality, but in Stephanie Plum's world...the one Janet Evanovich has scripted to perfection, all the crazy shenanigans and consequences are believable. They are natural to the personality of Stephanie's character.

When we create our characters and the world they'll reside in from chapter one through to the end, we have to make sure their personalities are true to the things we have them do, and that they remain consistent. If our bad-ass antagonist suddenly becomes an opera star, or goes from a mean killing machine to rescuing puppies, we better have shown some strong clues and a subtle shift evolving in the personality change, along with a damn good reason why and how it relates to the story, or our readers will blow us off as authors, never trusting in another one of our stories.

We'll become literary liars, promising one thing, but delivering something completely different. As authors, we can't beg forgiveness after the fact. We're already sunk, our careers taking on water faster than we can bail. No one will throw us a life preserver either. There's too many good authors out there and the publishing world isn't going to wait while we patch our dinghies. We'll be left as a snack for the sharks.

Maybe Jimmy Nerd lives in a super-enhanced electronic fantasy world where all the things he does to catch the grenade are possible and something he would do naturally. Like I said, anything is possible when you make the "make-believe" ...believable.

WACKY WEDNESDAY - Looking for a last minute gift idea? Well...

 

I'm peeved. Someone stole my Christmas spirit and I can't find it anywhere! December 1st started out great...Christmas music, a little shopping, decorating the house--all things that usually put some bounce in my step and a flutter of excitement in my tummy. I felt a little slip away when the washer died, a bit more when the large garage door decided not to go up anymore (thank heavens Mini Coopers can basically turn inside out and after some creative turns, I was able to escape out the smaller garage), and don't get me started on family drama!  I could write a whole saga on this past weekend alone titled:  "As The Stomach Turns..."

An inkling of "cheer" returned when I perused the Ralph Lauren site for boxer briefs my son requested (yes...he asked for designer underwear) and the page opened to several images, now locked in my brain to be relished later. Far cry from the old JC Penny catalog ads from years back. Ladies, if you ever need a visual to describe a hunky hero, might I suggest starting with "cotton basics." Very impressive...abs. I'm like "for real?" blotting the drop of drool from the corner of my mouth.

But the ultimate "kill joy" came in the form of an email message, "Christmas is coming." Big newsflash. I've been on an antacid diet for weeks anticipating the joyous occasion. Of course the simple message could by no means be offensive, right? Wrong.

I opened the festive looking email thinking I'd received a "e-gram" of sorts and low and behold, an urgent message alerting me to this "uh-hum" event, told me that I needed to rush to a certain website and stock up for the holidays with...Viagra or Cialis. Oh yes. That's exactly what my pantry shelf is missing. I stood there just the other day, scratching my chin, notepad in hand thinking...hey, what do I need to stock up on? What items need replenishing. 

I'm a mess in my office (which by the way, is the sign of a creative mind), but my pantry is fairly well organized. I have my canned fruit in one spot, vegetables in the other, baking staples, paper products, cereal, meals-in-a-box for those "write-in" days, and oh, that's right...my "enhancement" drugs --a spot reserved  right between the jars of spaghetti sauce and cans of tuna fish.

What concerns me is I didn't notice the spot was "bare" (no pun intended...honest). Hmm. Now my memory short-circuits frequently, especially this time of year, but I think I'd remember if my significant other was popping little blue pills. Yep, quite sure after 36 years of marriage, I'd notice. Of course in the midst of hanging holly, decorating the tree, standing in long lines to purchase gifts, oh...and trying to write an award winning novel, I might have missed something or unknowingly hung a bell in a precarious spot. However, nothing has "chimed" lately.

And yet, some stranger out in the great cyber beyond, seems to be concerned that my holiday will not be complete without purchasing this item. Granted I'm always looking for last minute gift ideas...you know, "stocking stuffers" (I'm just getting started), but this? Never came close to making the wish list.

Of all the things I've expressed a desire (really, no pun) to have wrapped under the tree...a new iPod, tickets to a favorite concert, a new washer so I can decorate the curb with the piece of crap I have now, or even a new toothbrush in my Christmas stocking--one with bristles that will hold a bead of toothpaste, I don't remember sitting on Santa's lap (seriously, absolutely no pun) and asking for these little "pills of joy." I'm pretty sure such a request would cause a reaction (no, no...think screaming...no wait...not screaming).

In other words (and yes, this is a test of how many cliches I can squeeze in here), I do believe the little elf who was kind enough to inform me I should jump (okay, intentional choice of words) on the chance to acquire some of  "Santa's helpers" for a seasonably good rate (I'm having fun now...) apparently, has been mistaken.

I only wish there was some way to let those at "the Pole" (stay with me) know how annoying it is when they clog my inbox (......) with such messages. Therefore, I'm forced to send a message of my own.

In the hustle and bustle of this joyous season

I honestly can't think of a reason,

Why I'd spend my last cent

On penile enchancement

When I haven't got one in the first place.

I know there's a list of "Naughty and nice"

My name should appear on the first at least twice,

But the gift I'm expecting

Simply takes no erecting

Nor can it be bought off some cyber website.

So stop sending me nonsense I find such a bore

Messages, pictures--send me no more,

Your pharmaceutical hash

Is now in the trash

You address permanently logged under "spam."

For those of you feeling slightly overwhelmed, exhausted, and huffing "bah humbug" under your breath, I hope I've put a little smile on your face, caused an eyebrow to raise, or at the very least, taken your mind off the long list of things still left to do, even if only for a moment. Find the humor in life--the knot in the rope you're swinging from, and hold on.

As always, friends, thanks for stopping by and sharing in the wackiness of my Wednesday!