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!

WACKY WEDNESDAY..."The Turkey Caper"

I'd just finished my dastardly task, when a knock came at the door. A police officer filled the doorway, a dark brooding scowl masking his face.


"Ma'am, we've had a report of an assault occurring from this location."

"An assault?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"You think I did it?"

"You're a person of interest in the purported crime."

Confused and slightly anxious, I led him into the living room. He perched on the edge of the sofa facing me directly, and flipped open his pad."

"Where were you this morning between the hours of 7:00 am and 10:00 am?"

"Considering it's barely after ten, I think it's safe to assume I was here. In my kitchen."

He peered over my shoulder at the stack of pots and pans near the sink. A few clumps of dressing still dotted the counter, and my rubber gloves lay in a wadded ball next to the carving knife.

"I can't assume anything. Is there anyone who could verify your alibi?"

"My alibi?" I thought of my husband who lay sleeping until almost nine, then sensing his help could possibly be used in the kitchen, managed to slip out of the house without my knowledge. I pictured him at the coffee shop, surrounded by other vanishing husbands, commiserating about the day's events about to unfold, filled with family drama and a clean-up project of epic proportions. Then there was the possibility they'd be expected to hang Christmas lights on a full stomach.

 "Well, my husband was here earlier, but he had to run an errand."

"Did you actually speak with him; make physical contact, so if I asked him he would say he definitely saw you?"

"What's this really about?"

"I told you, Ma'am. I received a report of foul play."

"From whom?"

"A Mr. Tom Turkey, Ma'am."

Well, that conniving feathered bastard! Fought me to the bitter end on getting inside that damn cooking bag! Thanksgiving traitor.

"There's no Tom Turkey here." As soon as I closed my declaration, the aroma of butter, herbs, and stuffing blending into a mouthwatering scent, wafted into the room.

The officer's keen sense of smell brought his nose into the air, wrinkling with a couple of loud sniffs. His gaze wandered back to the kitchen and I grimaced, knowing the butcher's knife, rubber gloves, and tall tale signs of cornbread stuffing scattered across the counter would seal my fate.

"Let's go over this morning's events," he demanded, licking the end of his lead pencil. "When was the last time you saw Mr. Turkey."

"This morning when I gave him a bath."

The officer's brows rose. "A bath," he repeated. "I presume no feathers covered his skin."

"Not a one." I wondered if I'd get a form-fitting orange jumpsuit.

"And after the so-called bath, what happened?"

"I rubbed him with oil." The raised eyebrows disappeared into the officer's hairline.

"And after you fondled Mr. Turkey--"

"I didn't fondle the turkey!" I protested.

"Okay, massaged Mr. Turkey, then. Is that when the assault occurred?"

"I told you, there was no assault."

"Ma'am, did you knowingly and willingly contemplate beforehand what action you would take on Tom Turkey once he'd been 'prepped' for the final attack?"

"Attack? So now I'm accused of attacking Tom Turkey?"

The officer leaned forward, brows knitted tightly. He snarled at me through a clenched jaw. "Ma'am, did you or did you not, shove your hand into certain private orifices and pull out internal organs and…" he swallowed hard, "…a neckbone belonging to the victim?"

I gasped, but before I could defend myself, he launched into more gruesome details…details that the evidence thereof, glared at me just a few feet away.

"And, Ma'am, after you sufficiently stripped all dignity from Mr. Turkey, did you or did you not, repeating push…" he looked away, apparently struggling, "…bread stuffing into the cavities you had previously hollowed out? And then, Ma'am," his tone now scathing, "can you deny the fact you tried to suffocate Mr. Turkey by placing him inside a plastic bag!"

"Hey, he nearly broke my wrist when his wings flipped out and blocked the opening!"

"It was self defense! He knew the orange coils glowing at him would be his final demise. Don't you think he could feel the heat rising, or had your heart turned to stone by then!" he accused.

The scenes he depicted played repeatedly in my head. I had no defense. I was guilty for each and every calculated action. The scent now filled the entire house, too strong to deny.

"Care to stay and help me consume the evidence?"

"Are you suggesting I partake in this crime?"

"If you pile potatoes, gravy, sweet potato pie, green beans, and a steaming homemade roll on top, no one will be the wiser."

"Cranberry sauce?"

"Made it myself."

He chewed his bottom lip, probably debating the consequences. I couldn't chance him changing his mind. Guests would be arriving shortly and I still had to set the table. Besides, how would it look if the hostess is being carted out shackled and half dressed? I didn't even have my make-up on and my hair was a mess. My mugshot would be a visual embarrassment to my family.

Desperate to save myself from such humiliation, I offered the ultimate…the one thing no man can resist. I licked my lips, curled my upper body his direction and batted my eyelashes shamelessly. "Pumpkin pie with real whipped cream topping?" I breathed in a husky voice.

He slammed his gun on the coffee table, his heavy breathing thrusting the silver star on his chest outward until it glistened under the overhead light. A bead of sweat formed on his upper lip and his eyes darkened to a deep bittersweet chocolate color. My heart pushed my ribs, the lump in my throat catching my breath. A shiver of excitement pebbled my skin when our eyes met and the hint of a smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

"When do we eat?"

Happy Thanksgiving! Here's me raising a wooden spoon in one hand and a turkey leg in the other in honor of all those who will knowingly and willingly assault a turkey. May your evidence be tender, juicy, and delicious!

Forever and Always...

Listening to:  "Made for You" courtesy of One Republic

He stood at the end of the aisle, hands folded behind his back, nervously shifting on his feet. His hazel eyes scanned the room, his jaw feverishly chomping on a piece of imaginary gum, which made me giggle. I'd watched his mother walk up to him and put her hand out, making him take it out a few minutes ago. He appeared nervous, uncertain...the same as me.

Smoothing my chiffon dress, I pulled the lace edge veil slightly over my shoulders. I didn't want it covering my face as tradition dictated. Several nightmarish scenarios played through my overactive imagination where the veil would catch on my dad's cuff link when he lifted it, or the headpiece would slip off during the orchestrated moment, ruining my hair. Or the fabric would tickle my nose and I'd sneeze...

The first step was the hardest. Remembering to smile, hoping no one noticed the slight trembling of my body or the bouquet shaking in my hand. I grasped my dad's arm so tight, I'm sure it felt numb by the third step. Ahead, a brilliant sunset slipped away on the western horizon, spreading golden fingers of light across the wall of windows I walked toward. The closer I got to the gorgeous heartthrob, still chomping, I noticed how the glow of the amber backdrop created a halo effect around his head, outlining each sandy curl. 

My angel--sent to me in a time of my life when I desperately needed a lifeline. Just didn't know my prayer would be answered in the form of a stranger who asked to borrow my binoculars at a Doobie Brother's concert. Four months later he returned the favor by dropping on one knee with a diamond ring and a promise to love me forever. Or at least try. 

I don't remember the ceremony, just the way we looked at each other, silly grins painfully pressing between our cheeks, and the kiss afterwards. A kiss filled with urgency, fear, excitement, and knowledge that we were embarking on a lifelong adventure, having no clue how to proceed...beyond the honeymoon (that we had figured out).  No instructions, or road map to follow. 

Marriage is truly based on blind love and guided by the heart. Each one is like a snowflake - original in design and equally fragile. There's no warranty, certainly no easy exchanges, nor a guarantee attached to that first kiss full of promise that you'll have a happy ending. You only have "hope" to rely on, besides each other. I'm one of the lucky ones who managed to give "hope" a good beating, but held tight to the belief everything would work out despite the obstacles that seemed to constantly bombard us. Every time we survived one, our relationship grew stronger, along with our respect for each other.

All these years later, after several buckets of tears have been shed through love, laughter, and heartbreak, he's still borrowing my binoculars. The sandy curls have turned turned gray and thinned, the deep "V" from broad shoulders to a "six-pack" waist has squared, and the gait a bit slower with less sway. But those hazel eyes still glitter, the playful smile deepening the crinkles at the corner of the eyes still hiding mischief, and the hands have remained strong...the arms comforting. When I snuggle into him at the end of the day, butterflies still flutter in my stomach and I giggle to myself as if I was twenty again...sleeping with my boyfriend.

Thirty-six years ago today, I married my best friend, with dreams of romance and endless possibilities for happiness. Thirty-six years later, I understand the meaning of true love...what real "romance" feels like, and the realization that "happiness" sometimes comes after paying a hefty price. I'm older, wiser, bolder, and still in love with my boyfriend.

I'm sharing a link to a darling video that makes me cry every time I watch - sweet and romantic...enjoy! (hope one or the other works!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Su1YLAjty-U&feature=youtu.be

http://youtu.be/Su1YLAjty-U

IT'S ALL ABOUT ME!

Current Listen:  If I Knew Then courtesy of Lady Antebellum

Just the title brings a flood of memories washing in, doesn't it? Ah, to go back to high school with the knowledge I have now.....things would be different....bitches would pay....and I'd probably be in a lot of trouble! I was so naive. When did the world become round?

Recently indulged in an online workshop about "putting yourself out there." The agent who taught the class (one my "fairygodmother" should give me) talked about author's blogsites. She warned us that agents look at your blogsite when considering your work. The sad thing, she said, is that authors spend a lot of time writing about their craft and not themselves. The comment was made that agents and publishers already know the mechanics of writing, but they know nothing about you. Yes, we all have our tabs (mine's above) that reveal just enough to let you know about us personally without giving out enough that a stalker will find us, but that's not what an agent is seeking.

What makes you tick? What do you love to do when you're not writing? How do you stir your muse from slumbering? Who are you? Like many, I've listed my favorite musical muses (always playing in my ears), movies, and books, but not why they are my favorites.


So today, I'm opening the screen door and inviting you inside off the porch. I'll warn you that you are not entering a sterile environment. After avoiding my lab with the soggy tennis ball waiting to play, you may have to push my favorite naptime blanket aside, readjust the several pillows on my sofa, and ignore the fact that you can probably write your name in the dust on the coffee table (and come back next week and still be able to read it). Let me confess that I hate housework. I do it because the Board of Health requires it, and on the weekends I slave the day away doing so, no one is allowed to walk on my floors, eat or drink, or use the bathroom facilities. "Life" will be lived elsewhere for at least twenty-four hours.


Below, I've posted a picture of one of the things I do love. Riding motorcycles. Harley Davidson is my brand of choice for the street, and my bright yellow four-wheeler affectionately named "Odie," takes me on my favorite mountain trails. They are also my "muse instigators." When I'm riding, I'm dreaming, thinking, and constantly plotting. My husband wanted to get helmets with walkie-talkies so we could "talk." Oh hell no!

My ride...my daydreams. Maybe I'm picturing him a couple years younger than me...twenty-something...buff, possibly naked from the waist up with a gnarly tattoo of the letters of my name (really long tattoo) artistically woven in rose covered vines (I'll add a small snake on the end to keep it "manly"), with waves of coffee colored hair edging his shoulders and tickling my wrinkle-free face when I lean into him. If he talks...well, you get my drift. The fantasy tears apart with topics of bills, politics, and what a dumb ass the guy in front of him is who cut him off. I even hesitated actually letting you get a glimpse of my "full body armor" thus, shattering the image I've carefully crafted of being a size "0" and outrageously beautiful. So I'm not a size "0."

Besides my writing, which is my true passion next to my hubby, reading clamours for attention, next. It fills the gaps when I can't write, still keeping my creative juices whetting my brain.

I read a post earlier about whether the new digital readers could possibly replace the old fashioned book? Books can be stapled, taped, and rubber banded when they fall apart, but drop an eReader, and it's over. All your "99 cent specials" are lost unless you paid double to the extra warranty. However, I own a Kindle and it is one of my prized possessions. Fits in my purse (as does most furniture by the size I lug around) so I can pull it out and read while waiting from doctor appointments to traffic jams. I can also read it when I'm the passenger on the back of my husband's Harley. But while taking a hot bath? I'd rather have the paperback I can pile bricks on top of to reshape when I accidentally (which "accidental" is listed as a strong personality trait) drop it into the bubbles.


So replace? No. Each has their place, and even though the eReaders are the "new kids on the block" and getting all the attention, eventually, they'll settle into their niche and become another good friend.

Aside from the "aforementioned" (I love using my developed legalese language once in a while), I like to cook, but that conflicts with my hatred of housework...cook means cleanup...so I really have to be in the mood. Camping is another favorite past time, although I found out after years of camping in tents with babies in diapers, that you can "camp" with a hot water heater, a flush toilet, and tempurpedic mattress. That's how this "princess" camps. Say what you want, I don't care. When I get up in the morning to my coffee brewing on the counter and you're freezing your assets in your fabric cocoon and have to get a fire going to put yours on to brew (20 minutes after I'm finishing my second cup), you'll be knocking on my "tent" for hot cup.


So that's me wrapped in chocolate (preferably dark). Come back again. Summer will be here soon, and we can spend some time in my courtyard sharing a cold drink, where a fountain trickles and my magnolia tree shades you from the 117 degree heat. Okay, so we'll go back inside where it's air conditioned, but the thought's lovely, isn't it? (And, so is being able to wear a size "0"!)

Until then....

Let's Limerick, Shall We?

Current Listen: The Immortals courtesy of Kings of Leon

Please note. Tonight's blog is to be read with a heavy imitation of an Irish accent. Brush up on your "R's" mates (okay so I'm an Irish pirate).

Tomorrow is St. Patty's Day and the wearin' of the green!
Leprechauns will play their tricks, some nice and some mean.
Catch one for luck
And you'll never be stuck
Only dreaming of fortunes to glean.

Limericks are a curious prose, originating in the dimly lit taverns of Ireland. Imagine yourself sitting steeled away in the corner, watching the drunkards banter back and forth, bumping into the poor girls carrying pitchers of dark ale to thirsty patrons. The more beverage consumed, the louder the voices become, and the subjects discussed turning raunchy in most cases. The competition to outdo each other in bragging rights to earn popularity, soon turns to ill attempts at humor.

Thus, the limerick is born. 

One over exuberant gent starts with a line, tipping his hat to his comrade across the table, whose sole purpose at the moment is to accept the challenge.

Line two is created, rhyming with the first. But then, an animated fellow eavesdropping from the bar, joins the merriment, adding a twist in line three.

His companion, leaning heavy on his shoulder to remain upright, interrupts with a short burst of words linking the mate's sentence, then graciously bows to the creator to finish.

Not to be upstaged by any means, he gulps the last of his brew, the foam coating his heavy moustache, and he blurts the final refrain, undoubtedly carried on a belch, but nicely tying the poetic disaster in rhyme.

Fast forward to the present. Are you wearing your green, or purposely seeking that "pinch." Is there a rainbow in your line of sight - one with a pot of gold glistening in the sun? Do your ears pick up the trace of a wicked giggle, or a flash of a mythical gnome darting by? Did your day start backward, the world feeling oddly off balanced? All signs of St. Patrick's Day mischief.

When my children were younger and I moved faster than the Energizer Bunny, I'd get up early and set up my "pranks." School clothes were hung from the light fixtures. Milk was colored green. Dinner was served instead of breakfast (my husband wasn't a fan of this particular trick), and hair was sprayed green. It was a day when mischief was acceptable.

Stuck between Winter and Spring, the soul desperately craves joviality. We need to be playful. Life is far too serious, especially of late. Disasters, economic woes, and political unrest plague our world. Our hearts are heavy, if not for ourselves, for our fellowman. Today, let go. Be a child again. Find the "leprechaun within" and let yourself be a little naughty. Laugh. Poke fun at yourself and be outrageous. If a party beckons, accept the invite and lose yourself for a little while. Tomorrow, you can transform back into the boring person you were March 16th. Hopefully, you'll be sober enough to remember who that person is, and where they live!

If I could only find my lucky shamrock to make my wishes come true. I'm still waiting on my "publishing fairy" and if magic truly existed and swirled around me, I'll also be ten pounds lighter tomorrow! On that merry little note, I leave you with my closing limerick:

There once was a writer of prose,
Who no longer fit in her clothes.
For when she'd create
Only chocolate she ate
And now she can't bend to her toes!

Here's your "There once was ________________." How will your limerick go?

Flashing my green.... Harley Brooks. (Joelene is still back at the tavern)

Today's thought: Don't watch others play in life. Join in the game once in awhile. 

WHERE DID THAT IDEA COME FROM?

Current Listen:  Falling In courtesy of Lifehouse

I belong to several writing groups. SCBWI and Romance Writers of America (RWA) being the hub, with "spokes" Young Adult RWA, Future Fantasy & Paranormal RWA, and my local Utah RWA chapter. All help roll my stories along from the throes of creation, to the oh so scary time to expose them to the harsh, cruel world of finding an agent and publisher. The latter two will serve as the final spokes in my custom crafted wheel, pushing my tales to places where they can be shared.

Being a part of these wonderful organizations has opened up endless doors and windows for me as a new writer. One of the well traveled highways I use on my journey for knowledge, are the many blogs and websites of my fellow writers. I am fascinated by the individuality of each cyber page these creative minds have constructed, and the information they offer.  No two are alike, and I'm not just referring to the visual display. The content is unique to each individual owner. Two blogs or websites can focus on the same subject, but the perspective will be totally different.

The same holds true to stories. Ideas are not original, but the stories told are unique to each author. The game "Gossip" runs parallel to this concept. An idea is whispered into one person's ear, who in turn, whispers the idea to the next, and the next, and so on. The last person being told reveals the secret and nine times out of ten, it's completely different from the original spoken idea. Each person was given the idea, but when they shared the idea with someone else, they added their own individual spin.

The book MATCHED came out recently, and I panicked when I read the short synopsis. "...futuristic...dystopian (government controlled basis)...matched mates." Several sleepless nights ensued. I bruised my best friends' sympathetic ears with my paranoia. 

DESIGNER GENES ...futuristic...dystopian...matched mates. Someone stole my idea! And published!

So many emotions ran rampant inside me. Once I found my lost mind and dialed up my maturity level a few notches, I downloaded a sample to my Kindle. I had to know. Not just for myself, but now that something similar is out there in my genre, I have to be able to say why mine is not like MATCHED.

The story is totally different. Same concept - different spin. I've locked my jealous green monster back in its cage, bolstered the locks and taken away the daily feeding of paranoia and self doubt. Two very powerful and self destructive snacks.

I've now downloaded the entire book and am invested in the story. Do I like mine better? Silly question. Is mine better? Even in my humblest of opinions, I can't or won't answer that one. To me, every story written is good. Someone has put their heart and soul into sharing a written piece of their imagination. I've been in awe long before I took up the mighty pen (or keyboard) of those who are brave enough to write and finish a book. I bow to those who are published, in any format. You're out there!

My idea was never really mine. To this day I could not tell you where it came from, but the story created from the idea, is all mine. Its a part of my crazy imagination now immortalized in written form. Do I wish I'd got it out there sooner? Hell yes! Funny thing is, "Matched" was one of the titles I played with using.

Good luck Ally Condie! What a wonderful imagination. Visit her website:  www.matched-book.com 

To those of you starting out as writers, I cannot stress the importance of joining a writing group. If I could set fireworks off the attract you to RWA, I would. It is a wonderful organization to belong to, and the branches reaching out from its base are equally invaluable to join. SCBWI is a must if you are writing anything related to children and young adults. Joining one of these powerhouse organizations is like belonging to an online university, specialized for your talent. The online classes are phenomenal, and the members blogs and websites are endless sources of information and fun. Check out my list to the left. I've added some more I've found helpful and enjoyable.

Again, thanks for stopping by! Leave me a comment. If you've read MATCHED, let me know. Just finishing HALO (love the cover!). Another's idea with a twist.  Later cyber friends!  Joelene, the sensible side of Harley Brooks

CUPID'S ARROW - LOVE OR JUST A WOUNDED HEART?

Current Listen:  Exit Wounds courtesy of The Script

VALENTINE'S DAY.  A day we celebrate "Love." Red roses, dark silk chocolates in glittery red heart boxes, and expensive cards filled with someone else's words...not ours. Oh we sign the card, but how many of us "writers" write our cards?

Remember elementary school and homemade "valentines" we created because we had no money to buy them? I'm guessing a lot of mother's have a shoebox in the closet or in the cedar chest, full of misshapen hearts with little one's terms of endearment. So what happened in between? We write hundreds of pages of romantic scenes and lip blossoming kisses, but rush right out and buy Hallmark's best, instead of writing our own. I must confess. My store bought greeting card is tucked inside the nightstand drawer awaiting Monday.

Below, in case I've guilted you into creating  your own romantic token but you suffer writers' block, are enlightening sayings written by my favorite (and non-liable) author:  "Anonymous."

"Once in awhile, right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale."

"My love for you is a journey; Starting at forever and ending at never."


"I tell you I love you every day for fear that tomorrow isn't another."

"The most eloquent silence is that of two mouths meeting in a kiss."

"No three words have greater power than 'I Love You'. "

Now let's talk about the "Valentine Gift." Here's where I get to have fun, and if my "peeve" is your "preference," please don't be offended. My intention is lighten not darken.

Pet peeves: 
1.  Heart shaped jewelry. Seriously. Are you really going to wear it after Valentines Day? Maybe if it's crusted in several carats of diamonds, big enough to look tacky and heavy enough to strangle. Then yes. By all means, "surprise" me.

2.   Sexy lace "teddys." For you. Right. It's like I want to say "Oh honey! How did you know I was dying to wear sheer red lace over my pasty white body (it's winter for heaven's sake) so my cellulite thighs can be enhanced by that comfortable piece of satin dental floss tucked between my dimpled 'cheeks'?" Pass me the grenade, but keep the pin.

4.  Stuffed animals. Loved them when I was fifteen; the first token of love from my pimply faced boyfriend whose voice was higher than mine. Smiled affectionately at sixteen because my boyfriend had a part-time job or bigger allowance so the fluffy gift was at least larger. At seventeen, my teeth ground together, knowing my boyfriend had put enough thought into finding the last one tucked on the shelf, that he forgot to remove the tag on his way over to pick me up for our date. At eighteen, a stuffed animal meant "something more" and was usually holding another "teddy." It was also a "parting gift."

Favs:
1.  Roses. Always a safe bet. While red roses are traditional, yellow roses call to my playful side and brighten any spot they're placed.

2.  Diamond rings. The larger the better. Need I say more? (Cupid will be greatly rewarded .)

3.  Dinner out and a romantic movie with a bucket of popcorn and a large bag of M&M's. (Cupid will get "lucky" later.)

4.  Shopping for clothing (other than lingerie) or furniture, without gasping for air or clutching a heart when the final tally is rang up. (Yep, a guaranteed "happy ending.")

5.  Hire me a weekly housekeeper. (Cupid will be horizontal for as long as that service is employed.)

But in the end, whatever my Cupid decides to do in my honor, I'll be thrilled with. Yes, even a lace teddy. A sense of humor is essential in a relationship, and me wearing one of Victoria's "secrets" will generate a gut busting laugh for sure! In the end all that matters is that he still considers me his "Valentine."

Love expressed in any manner, said in any language, and felt inside your heart, is wonderful. Hope your Valentines Day leaves a romantic memory that brings a private smile to your lips when it passes through your thoughts later.  Here's to a "hole in your heart" from Cupid's arrow. 

Thanks for spending a few moments. Harley Brooks, the lust crazed hopeless romantic stuck inside Joelene's head.

Thought for today:  You have to give "love" to receive "love." Pay it forward.

MUSES & BRUISES

Current musical muse:  Last Train Home by Ryan Star*
(*a favorite listen and used as "muse" in my story)

I TAMED TWINS. They were part of the zoo I was in charge of feeding, housing, and returning to "the wild." The tag-team was also a total surprise. Even to the doctor. At 3:00 in the morning I was advised my son had brought reinforcements (undoubtedly heard his older sister on the outside and made the decision she was too scary to face alone). His brother arrived four minutes later. 


Twins come without a set of instructions and rule the universe they are visiting. They have a bond that can't be broken. They're weird. They're a blast. One is "the instigator" and the other, "the informer." When they took off in opposite directions, I just had to decide which one was in the most danger and let the other roam free. They never face life alone. There's always someone to share everything with from chicken pox to alibis. The last was used constantly throughout their life, and I'm sure, I'm still being duped.


When your seven-year-old calls to establish an alibi for his whereabouts "all day" (the time was specifically mentioned which was my first clue - he'd only been gone an hour) your system goes on alert. My twins were supposedly next door playing while I was on cupcake detail for a church party. I pondered the phone call a full minute before donning my detective hat and running shoes (twins require a lot of chasing. I had the best damn legs during their early years). I stepped out onto the back porch and smelled smoke. At that moment I realized I was about to be the proud parent of a young arsonist.


Quickly, I rounded the fence line and discovered the small group of trees (3 to be exact) behind our subdivision (affectionately referred to as the "magic forest" by our kids) were being devoured by flames licking up their branches. And off to the side of the small inferno was Twin A. "The instigator." Of course I ran to make sure he was okay before I killed him. It should be noted here that twins have "followers." A small gaggle of boys appeared. Apparently, the "club meeting" had taken a turn for the worse when they decided to see if the lighter they discovered on a treasure hunt, could start a stick on fire. When it did and they dropped it they witnessed how fast a fire can spread. Lucky for them, the sidewalk and street halted the fire, and the only casualty was one tree. The Fire Department responded within minutes and the other "proud parent" stepped from the driver's seat of the engine and faced Twin A. Meanwhile, Twin B arrives on the scene wearing the angelic face of innocence...smudged with dirt and soot, his blond locks smelling of smoke. His alibi lost credibility immediately. Because my little darlings' father was on the fire department, they were spared any legal repercussions, but spent the next four Saturdays washing the whitewalls on the engines and pulling weeds in the gardens in front of the fire station during their dad's shift. Community Service.


This is only one of many pictures my twins colored in my life. My reason for sharing? I'm asked where my ideas for stories come from, or what inspires my imagination. Jordan and Jesse, my twins in Designer Genes were created from the two muses who kept my life from becoming dull. That's why they were so fun to write. I'd already been inside their heads, knew how they competed constantly with each other, and how when push comes to shove and life deals one a particularly rough hand, the other is there to support and stand guard. Such is the relationship with my characters.


My stories generally appear in my daydreams, usually while on a motorcycle, taking in the view and alone with my thoughts. They play like mini movies in my head. I see my characters physical features, hear the timbre of their voices, and watch them pull other characters into their world. I play the movie over in my mind, watching different scenarios play out. If they "click" a plot is formed and I put the "movie" on paper.


Some story lines come from a life experience, the words of a song that's touched me, a picture, or even a conversation I happen to overhear or a scene I watch while enjoying a cup of coffee or sitting at the park eating lunch. Some muses are instant stories, while others never materialize beyond a few sentences. I call them my "bruises." I never throw away ideas. Another day, a "bruise" may become a best seller.


What's your favorite muse? What spice flavors your life?

Again, thanks for stopping by.  Joelene, Harley's "twin"

Today's thought:  The easy things in life pass without notice, but when something's difficult, it gets our full attention. We can't rise above the "mushy" stuff. We need something "hard" to help us stand. (special thanks to Clancy Metzger for inspiration)

CONGRATS FELLOW NANOWRIMOS

Tonight's listen:  No More Cloudy Days, courtesy of "The Eagles"

November 30th came to close with the sound of thousands whizzing over the finish line with seconds to go before midnight, all rushing for the "claim to fame" of being able to write a book in a month of 50,000 or more words. Not an easy task!


You barrel out of the starting gates Week 1 with enthusiasm, unbridled energy and able to live on 2 hours sleep.


Then Week 2 hits. It's like the first week of January when the holidays are over and tax season looms. The wind is suddenly gone out of your sails and the edges of the story you've carefully laid the ground work on, start to fray. For some, its the week of "writers block" where hard as you try, nothing creative is coming forth. But you must write. (Taking a day off from writing on NaNoWrimo is hell to catch up on later. Trust me. I know.) So you plug away, maybe writing "aardvark" eighteen hundred times just to fill your daily word count quota, but you write something!


Week 3 knocks at the door and you gasp! One more week! And this particular week for we ladies raising our magic wands, or I should say "spoons" (thank you Loretta), proves even more challenging. There's "fowl play." Thanksgiving sneaks around the corner, along with several companions, most of which you only cook once, maybe twice  year. Not only are you responsible for creating the "memorable holiday," you still have your 1,800 words to type by midnight, as well. Personally, I don't remember tasting the turkey until the day after.


Week 4 just busts through the door, unannounced, and a panic attack ensues. Your word count is not where it should be. When you check your stats online, the diagonal bar is stretching far above your daily word count, visibly shaking you to realize that according to your "production output," reaching your 50,000 word requirement will fall way past November 30th's deadline.
Family ties are severed at this point. People approaching you carry long sticks and linger near exits for quick retreat. You're on the border of shapeshifting into some paranormal beast at this point, crazed and obsessed with meeting your 50,000 word count. You'll respond to your new nickname (hint: starts with a "B") faster than your own name.


Two days before the cut off date, I was looking at 43,000 on my word count. I think the sun rose and set, and I vaguely remember a migraine plaguing me, but I'm not clear if I ate anything besides my weight in chocolate, or drank anything that did not have thousands of milligrams of caffeine. On my lunch hour on "D" day, I took my laptop and memory stick holding my masterpiece, and sequestered myself in the public library where I wouldn't be disturbed, tucking into the 'Periodicals' section.


Let me take a moment to comment here. Old men do not bathe. It's a scientific fact, and they hang out in the 'Periodical' section of the library for entertainment. Holding my breath and typing a very intense scene of my story, I crossed the 50,000 word mark. I continued to sneak a word in here an there until around 6:00 pm. I opened my account, and downloaded what I had finished. I wanted to be safe, not part of the mad rush at 11:59 trying to crash the servers on the NaNoWrimo website by downloading my story.


"Riley's Pond" (formerly known as "Avoiding My Brother's Shadow"), while not quite completed, came in on NaNoWrimo at 52,075 words. When I shut down my computer at precisely midnight, my word count was 54,049, and I was in love with my new story. Still have a couple of chapters before penning "the end," but I patted myself on the back for a job well done. It's raw, full of colorful language, unsavory scenes, but has a happy ending. Kind of like "life."


Congratulations to my fellow "NaNoWrimos." Whether or not you reached the 50,000 word goal, you took on the challenge and trained yourself to be a disciplined writer. What a wonderful experience. What an amazing year so far!


Did I fail to mention that the week I was plucking feathers, I also submitted a partial of my manuscript to two agents, with a query letter and synopsis? A feat worth mentioning.


Goodbye November. You'll go down in my history as one of the "great ones." I'm putting on my new "stretchy pants" (thank you M&M's) and taking on the daunting task of making fixing my leaning Christmas Tree. However, if I tilt my head just a tiny bit, it's straight!


Happy writing my author comrades, and happy reading my friends. Now....let the holidays begin.


Thanks for visiting.  "Harley Brooks" (Joelene's evil twin)

Today's thought:  Never say "I can't," or you won't. Never say "I might," or you won't. Say "I can do anything," and you will.