Look Mom, I'm on Oprah!

Okay, you caught me. I'm actually nowhere near Chicago, but I am on the hot seat! Twice!!

My new friend, Jessica LeSaicherre, has invited me to her blog for a little chat about the struggles of doing it all. (Read: How do you bathe, feed and love your children, keep a little spice in your marriage, and pick up dog poop all while becoming a writer?) Besides the fact that Jess has an awesome blog, and is as cute as a button, she's also a member of Team Peeta. (Bonus points in my book). So swing by, say hello, and check out my interview beginning this Thursday.

And in other exciting interview news...

The fantastical Anita Howard has invited me to participate in her QUERY TRACKERS MAKING TRACKS series over on her blog this Friday. Most of you know that QT played a huge part in me finding my agent, Rachael Dugas (the darling little dynamo who will be swinging by Rookie's blog very soon). It was a treat & an honor to sing QT's praises to Anita. I'd love to see you over there, too.

BETTER THAN SLICED BREAD

Last week I was granted an AWESOMESAUCE award by the amazing, and soon to be best selling author, Anita Howard. I'll be honest and admit that my first thought upon notification was, bloody hell! There's a reason why people don't ask me to participate in dish towel chain letters, or pass me a loaf of soon-to-be Amish friendship bread. The reason is because I don't follow the rules. I never have. Rules infuriate me! (And the thought of eating a slice of bread that originated from 10 days of neglect on my counter is about as appetizing as anal warts. Just about.)

But because I love me some Anita, and because I happen to have some serious blog envy going on, I decided I would follow the rules, this ONE time, and play along.

So, it is with great pleasure I present the the AWESOMESAUCE award to the fabulous and witty Ms. Jessie Humphries. Besides the fact that the girl has titled her blog page with the best letter in the alphabet, "B", she's just damn funny and puts together some entertaining, well-written blog posts on a regular basis that all begin with the letter "B". (She first reeled me in with her "B is for BRINGIN IT" post on August 12. This post was inspired by the darling Mr. Ryan Gosling, which provided me a perfect opportunity to comment about my favorite blue-eyed honey, Mr. Bradley Cooper. I am to Bradley Cooper as Barack is to the word 'change'. I will incorporate it as often as possible.) So, congratulation's, Jessie. You are so worthy of the awesomesauce, I hope you bathe in it for days.

And now to the rules. *sigh* *groan*

1. I'm supposed to thank the person who bestowed me with this fabulous award.
THANK YOU, ANITA!!

2. Pay it forward to no more than one person a month.
NOT A PROBLEM. THE AWESOMENESS STOPS WITH JESSIE.

3. What is your favorite song currently playing on your iPod?
THE GLEE KIDS RENDITION OF, DON'T STOP BELIEVIN'

4. If we peek into your Internet history, what would we find?
LAST GOOGLE SEARCH: IS BRADLEY COOPER SINGLE?

5. And lastly, what is your all-time favorite movie that you watch over and over again?
DO YOU EVEN NEED TO ASK?

Sixteen Candles - Final Scene - Movie Ending. Watch more top selected videos about: Sixteen Candles, Michael Schoeffling

The second that music starts playing, my heart actually stops beating. It does not get any better than Jake Ryan in topsiders and when he says, "Yeah, you." Ahhh...I'm in Heaven.

That's all I have for today, my bloggerly buddies, but something exciting is in the works...

STAY TUNED!

LOCKED IN THE WRITER'S CLOSET

Shh...Please don't tell anyone I'm in here.

This is my secret hideout and if too many people find out about it, I'm afraid they'll force me out. It's not that I don't like it out there, in the real world. The people are nice and the food is pretty tasty, but it's so much different in here.

In here I can really be myself.

I can talk to the voices in my head and nobody thinks I'm crazy. They think I'm inspired.

In here I'm encouraged to color outside the lines. In fact there aren't any lines in here. It's just me, a big empty page and a brand new box of crayons. (I love new crayons).

In here my big ambitions are met with excitement, not speculation.

In here a rejection doesn't mean failure, it means I'm one step closer to success.

In here all the nonsense in my head has a purpose. And it's a purpose I'm discovering more every time I step inside.

I know the day is coming when I'm going to have to 'out' myself to the rest of the world, but until then I'm going to stay out of sight, answering only to those who know the secret password.

HAIL, HAIL THE MIGHTY MULLET

In my opinion a mullet is a lot more than a hideous hairdo that should have been snuffed out the day it was invented, along with every man, child and K.D. Lang fan who ever donned it atop their head. THE MULLET IS A STATEMENT. It says, we've got to take care of a little bit of business before we hit the party.

Which is exactly what's happening on this post today.

First, THE BIDNESS:
Query Tracker is quite possibly the coolest site for hopeful authors to meet, connect and record our efforts as we try to land an agent. Now that I've earned myself representation, I am stoked to report that I participated in a Query Tracker Success Story which can be found here. (I'm not very comfortable with self-promotion so if I need to toot my own horn to get a little attention than, toot toot. That's all I got.)

Now, THE PARTAAAY!
Recently my witty and panty-loving pal Angela, as well as my new pal, A.M. who has exceptional taste in girls and goats, bestowed me a very special gift. It is the Liebester Blog Award.

(I am told that Liebster means "friend" in German. I suspect, though, that it has something to do with hooves and intricate bead work. Research pending).

The Liebster award is presented to bloggers who have less than 200 followers, with no conditions for the recipient other than to link back to the givers and bask in the glory of being recognized by some pretty cool chicks. (Actually, that's not true. I'm supposed to tag five people with this gift, but rules scare me. The second I read, "ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS..." Melvin actually leaps from his wheel and I'm left pudge-brained wondering how the goat got my undies over his horns. Rules aren't good for Rookie).

Because I'm the rebellious, youngest daughter of a former minister, I'd like to incorporate my own rules as I always do. Rather than tagging 5 friends for this list, I thought it more fun to create a list of people I'd love to be tagged by. (naughty, naughty, preacher's kid!)

The list goes something like this:

1. Bradley Cooper (Come on, you know me. If I can incorporate his name into a blog, I will).



2. Mark Salling, a.k.a. Noah "Puck" Puckerman, from Glee. This sexy boy with a one-track mind makes my toes curl. 'Nuff said.
3. Shia LeBeouf. Shut up. He's legal.

4. Mathew Fox. Just because LOST is gone, and PARTY OF FIVE ended too early, doesn't mean I can't keep swooning over this fella.5. Ben Affleck. He's still hot, even with a little extra poundage. So long as we don't talk politics, we're good to go!

(No celebrity hunks were harmed during the making of my most recent fantasy)

LIFE AS A WRITER, THROUGH THE EYES OF A HAMSTER

If I've ever commented on your blog, or emailed you privately, you probably know that I have a hamster living inside my brain. (It's true. Under all that hair there is a brain) My little hamster does not have an official moniker, though this week the name MELVIN popped into my head, so I think that's what I'll call him. One thing my little hamster friend definitely does have, however, is a tremendous amount of influence on my life.

Because this may be an advanced concept for some of you to process (or, more likely, too ridiculous to consider) I thought I'd give you the lay version of what my life as a writer is like through the eyes of Melvin. Please follow along using the pictures for guidance.



Here we see Melvin in the condition I was in on Monday after returning from vacation. He is fat, lazy, and content with doing absolutely nothing. He hasn't written anything in days, and he drank more alcohol than his furry little body was used to. He doesn't care about much of anything--except getting some sleep.



Here is Melvin on Tuesday. He woke up to the painful reality that he was fat, lazy, and had been, up until that morning, absolutely content doing absolutely nothing. In short: MELVIN WAS A LOSER WITH NO FUTURE! Because he was a disgusting, going-nowhere little beast, he immediately began nourishing his body with healthy treats like broccoli, blog posts, water, books, and emails from encouraging friends. If he was going to get back on that wheel, he'd need energy, right?



(Side note: On this day Rookie received an unfair amount of support from a fellow writer and dear friend, assuring her that she had not lost her passion for writing, and that God would not deny her an opportunity to be published, simply because she took a few days off.)

And today we see the fruit of Melvin's labor. See him there? He's sprinting on his wheel! That sucker is about ready to fly off its hinges! Ideas are percolating, words are flowing, fingers are flying...it's a good day to be a writer. Melvin is on a roll. (literally...see below)





And then...well, then we will come to this weekend. When Melvin will rest. He will eat just enough, but not too much. He will drink a little, not a lot. He will write enough to feed his habit, but stop before overdosing.
Melvin's an interesting little guy. He's a passionate, dramatic and soulful little creature. He takes things seriously, over-analyzes everything, and pours himself into his work. But I guess that's the life of a writer--through the eyes of a hamster, anyway.

Heading to the trees...

Twenty years have passed since my dear husband graduated from high school. Because I love him, and am anxiously awaiting 5 days of no diaper changing or lunch packing, I will be joining him in the great northwest. That's right--we're heading to a small town in Oregon where recreational activities include: rafting, smoking pot, hiking, smoking pot, not wearing deodorant, and...smoking pot. (I actually don't roll that way, but do enjoy being entertained by those who do)


So until I see you again; be well, write like you love it, play nicely with each other, and pet your goat often.

NIGEL: THE PANTY THIEVING GOAT

This is my goat, Nigel.

He lives in my backyard, though it's no secret he'd prefer to be back in his summer home in Bexley, grazing on the uptight British grass that works "brilliantly" on his immune system.

By day he's a struggling loan broker, but by night...well, I just found out he's something very different...

Here's how it went down:

While watering the plants last night, I stumbled upon a small, leather bound book tucked snugly between a planter and the ceramic patio fountain Nigel drinks from because bending over to drink from a rubber garden hose is beneath his station. Five, golden letters were scrawled across the cover of the worn treasure, DIARY.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I flipped the book open hoping to uncover the secrets of my mysterious pet, but instead found remnants of the parchment paper that once filled the soft, bound interior of the book. (Nigel considers heavy stock paper a delicacy befitting nobility).

I collapsed into the cushions of my new, wicker-like-vinyl love seat, while the diary fell to the cracked cement floor beneath me. "What has become of me?" I groaned, guilt-stricken by my juvenile behavior. For months I'd been trying to uncover some hidden truth to Nigel's illusive past, but I continued to come up empty. It was a hard pill to swallow, but maybe he wasn't a sinister goat after all--maybe I was just a suspicious, Fox News-watching conservative who assumed everyone was up to something. I closed my eyes and sucked back a deep, cleansing breath. "Never again," I vowed. "Never again will I think the worst of Nigel."

I retrieved the book, hoping to stash it back into its hidey-hole before Nigel returned from happy hour at VanOmerling's dairy, when I saw it. A scrap of thick red paper complete with nibbled edges and the cloven writing of an educated goat.

My heart raced as I did a quick over-the-shoulder check that the coast was clear. It was safe, so I hunched over the paper like it was a lone flame in a frozen tundra and read the following words: If my owner does not answer these questions by midnight--I shall steal her panties and add them to my collection.

The thought of Nigel stealing anything that belonged to me made my stomach turn. After all, I forked out over $300 for the vaccinations he needed to enter the country and don't get me started on his deworming medicine. Even online Canadian meds are expensive! But the thought of him stealing my undies...No Way! I pulled the blue Bic from behind my ear, because all writers carry a pen with them at all times (and a flask), and sat down to answer his questions.

What do you call your panties/underwear/undergarments? Do you have any commonly used nicknames for them? I reeled my head back, "What do I call them? Undies. Obviously. Or broochies, what my Dutch neighbor, Mrs. Slegors, called them growing up." I jotted down the words while I spoke and moved on to the second question.

Have you ever had that supposedly common dream of being in a crowded place in your underwear? I couldn't help but laugh as I responded to this question. "NO," But I often find myself trying to feed fish who are living in only an inch of water who I've neglected to feed for well over a year. (I suppose that's not funny to the fish. They always seem really pissed in those dreams).

I moved on to the third question, it read: What is the worst thing you can think of to make panties out of? This wasn't an easy question to answer. I thought for a moment, uncomfortable-feeling items flying through my mind: burlap, barbed wire, Democrats--and then it came to me. I quickly wrote, "GRASS". Not only does it itch sometimes, but it also attracts neighborhood cats who want a change from litter.

Question four required less than a second of thought to answer: If you were a pair of panties, what color would you be, and WHY? My favorite color is purple. So I wrote, "PURPLE." But then, because I'm a writer and our motto is "edit until you die", I crossed it out and wrote, "DUSTY LILAC."

I felt my cheeks flush when I read the fifth question: Have you ever thrown your panties/underwear at a rock star or other celebrity? If so, which one(s)? If not, which one(s) WOULD you throw your panties/underwear at, given the opportunity? The memory washed over me like an ocean of feel-goods I wanted to drown in. Ray Romano's baby face, and these panties...damn, that was a great post-9/11 comedy fundraiser.

The sixth question was a no-brainer for this preacher's kid: You’re out of clean panties. What do you do? I wrote in big, capital letters: GO COMMANDO, BIATCH!

Question number seven actually stirred up a buried emotion I hadn't realized I was carrying. I sat down on the love seat and pondered the best way to answer. Are you old enough to remember Underoos? If so, did you have any? Which ones? The answer was obvious enough--of course I remembered Underoos. I was born in '75--everybody had them. Everyone but me, that is. I wiped back a tear as the vision of the Wonder Woman Underoos I nearly stole from Amber Webb's drawer flashed through my mind faster than an invisible jet could travel. White, chin-high undies with tiny pink rosebuds was all I was good enough for. A package of six for $6 at Penney's...I quickly penned my answer, "YES." and "No." and "WW." and moved on to number eight while the taste of resentment still lingered in my mouth.

Thankfully, question eight offered some levity to my mood: If you could have any message printed on your panties, what would it be? I considered my answer for a moment before jotting down the response, "REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT."

The last question left me a little confused: How many bloggers does it take to put panties on a goat? I had no idea what a blogger was, but figured it had something to do with Nigel's drinking mates back in London. I wrote down "5", because I would need at least five stiff drinks to dull the humiliation of falling victim to panty-thieving goat and called it good.

Just when I thought I was done, and the knowledge that my favorite cheetah print undies with the tiny pink bow on the front was feeling secure, I read the last line on the page. It said, TELL ME WHERE THREE OF YOUR FRIENDS LIVE SO I CAN ASK THEM THESE QUESTIONS OR THEY WILL ALSO LOSE THEIR PANTIES TO MY EXTENSIVE COLLECTION.

BLOODY HELL!

My heart was beating outside of my over-priced, lightly-padded Vickie's T-back--I couldn't give this deliberate thought. I scrawled down the first three names that came to mind: Angela, Huntress and Marian, I capped my pen, slipped it back behind my ear and tucked the paper back into the diary.

The morale of the story: Always wear clean underwear. And never trust a goat named Nigel.