Better than the pictures, was the look on her face.

I went to the woods to see a friend

I ran down roads lined with scenes like this, as geese flew overhead

She asked me if I missed living in New Hampshire. I said. No. It's too hard to be isolated, to pine for the arrival of a UPS truck, a tree man, a visit from a neighbor. 

( I am a social animal.) 

 After a while, I missed dressing up, wearing high heels, being surrounded by pretty people wearing fashions I coveted. Though, sure, I missed the barn of cows and the raw milk waiting on the other side, the coffee can of cash, fresh cheese. So, I jogged down the road and bought morning eggs from a cooler in a yard, as a rooster greeted me.

 Of course we needed toast with our eggs, so a quick trip in the other direction, yielded fresh country bread, baked three days a week in this oven.

  Sold on the honor system in this unmanned storefront.

 I know that in a few weeks, this beauty will turn ugly. In a few months it will bottle up the people, chain them to woodpiles and fireplaces. The woods will be silent. The geese, long gone.

 And then, I remember, the way a community rallies. 

The way the kindness of your neighbors is what helps you make it through. When the oil runs out. When the ice storm takes your power. When your family is hungry and the driveway needs plowing. A land this pretty needs its ugly parts too. 

And maybe I do miss it. Just a little. 

 Or maybe now, having lived in the ugly for a while, I have forgotten 

how pretty simple can be.

Gators, Crabs, Jellyfish, Sore butts and Claustrophobia. The hazards of summer.

Sometimes when you try to synopsize a period of time, it comes out in spurts and globs-- like a stubborn jello shooter in a too deep plastic cup. Usually I am given the liberty of compiling my thoughts, and then downloading them at my leisure, so the glops can at least cling together -- congealing into a storyline that contains a beginning, middle and end-- but sometimes, I just prematurely ejaculate the memory... and you end up with something like this.


I so wish I had bought this bra. I can already see next halloween.


I caught crabs on vacation.

It was dark and I should have known better. At first, there was a lot of shouting and chasing and running and some cursing, with nothing but a blue pail and a tiny sand shovel.


We always brought home one extra one for the dog to chase. We only lost one under the stove... the same stove that claimed the gecko we caught another night.We bought a five dollar net and the crabs got bigger. Just as much cursing and whooping.


With in days, my son was a pro, graduating to a long handled net and a very bright lantern.

This is the biggest blue crab my son pulled out of the surf. He ate it.

There's only so much you can say about shellfish, except. Yes, I was right about the females and the egg-filled asses.
We rented a boat one day in Panama City Beach. We followed a map to a shoreline supposedly full of shells. Nope. But there were a shitload of purple and clear and pinkish jellyfish. They didn't sting too bad.

Another day, after I was treated to a claustrophobic moment when forced through a black tunnel on an inflatable tube, feeling like a pretty little turd riding a tampon through the sewer( ie: spent the morning riding water slides, and floating down over chlorinated faux rivers).. we ate bar food, drank very strong drinks with silly names, drew on the walls then fed some alligators.


This one finally woke up, slithered into the water and chowed down on the treats dangling from our gator friendly fishing pole, much to the delight of every boy in the world- and a few drunk womens too. ayuh.
AS for the sore butts portion of the summer hazards, that would have to do with the inability to rent scooters in our local area. AGe, insurance, cost and availability all a factor. Here comes the tricky part. Renting bicycles and getting a decidedly anti- cardio Father and a decidely slowpoke daughter to keep the pace with the highly competitive boy turned out to be only fun for two of us. 12 miles in the heat felt like 30... I am no Lance.

You can censor me but you can't shut me down. Just ask my husband.

So, I went to a party. No news there.

I took pictures. No news there.
I let people draw on me. No news there.
I posted a picture of the drawing on Facebook. No news there.

Until... a few hours later when FB gave me a warning, then pulled it.

So, I'm posting the picture here.
No news there.
My new best friend, Kathleen drew that lovely anatomically correct body part, though some of the guys thought it a bit stubby and stubbly. My arm was the guinea pig for her art, as she boasted it was her forte' in college to tattoo foreheads of sleeping people in such a manner. And seeing as there were a few sleeping partiers by this time of the morning... well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I should back up. The party started like this:
beautiful warm, sunny late afternoon on the lake, 60 fun guests, bartender, captain and caterers in a luxury 120' houseboat complete with music, booze, food, TV, Derby, poker, dancing and celebrating an early Cinco de Mayo.
Did I say there was booze?
as the sun set, there were games:
all masterminded by the host, Martini and his lovely wife.

Hey look, it's Toby's Angels. ( the guy who almost got the tattoo... but he woke up and started drinking again.)

Once again, I met loads of cool new folks, exchanged info, added FB friends and even have plans to catch up to a family on our next beach trip, as they have a cute daughter the same age as my son. See, I am always on the look out for everyone's best interest. Just another day as a party girl. Best images I missed with the camera?
One guy's wife sleeping sitting straight up on one end of a long long couch and one gal's husband sleeping face down on the other end. Oh, yeah, and there was also some guy who wanted EVERYONE to get in the hot tub nekked. We ran into him on the lower level ... when he was wearing a towel. Just a towel.

I love my friends.
And to quote Jerry... "The best day of my life was when my best friend bought a houseboat."

Still Chasing the Dream

While packing for my recent writing conference in Florida, I did the three things any smart gal does: check weather.com's extended forecast, choose the prettiest shoes, and bring lots of books. I was ready for some sunshine, as Atlanta's teaser of Spring went from 60 degree days to 30 degree days and I hate being teased.
The conference was called Sleuthfest, sponsored by the Mystery Writers of America, the Florida Chapter and was geared to the detective/police/PI/thriller/suspense market... more suited for the novel I'm almost done with, not really the one I wanted to pitch, but the agent list was very respectable and I had at least one friendly face in Florida to look forward to seeing, an author pal who told me most of the business gets done in the bar. SO that was one thing I could look forward to. He also promised to show me this cool place. Vizcaya.
One of the statues at the entrance. Boob Anole extra.

Of course, I enjoyed the workshops, learned some new stuff, made some new friends, got the requisite author photos and signatures,
Big name to watch out for and a great guy, John Hart.
Super funny and talented Brad Meltzer, who taught me the value of giving.
did some shopping and went to the beach where we saw this guy catch a snapper, though he had no idea what kind of fish it was until someone told him.All the things you cannot do on the Pier. And now you KNOW I wanted to do them all.


Yes, it was a great trip. Fun times, good food, a bed to myself. Coupled with the fact that my reading of a chapter of We're Not Waving, We're Drowning was very well-received by my peers and I didn't choke on pitch day, nabbing me two agent requests, while two others came in electronically. I also scored some points with a positive and encouraging critique of the work in progress. It's always good to know you are on the right path.
It may have cost a bit of money, time away from the family, and the bitch of a delay getting home on blizzard day... a delay in a terminal where some guy almost died- when no one could heimlich the chicken sandwich out of his throat.
I am dead serious. That guy is going to have the sorest most bruised chest when he gets out of the hospital. Freaked me out. All I could think about was Palahniuk's book, Choke.

When the people near me invited me to join them for dinner before we flew out, I declined saying there was no way I could eat after seeing what happened with that guy.
"Are you sure?" they asked, "We could bring you back some chicken wings."
"Great," I said. "Chicken bones. Thanks."


So, to wrap it up, I'll say this. I'm glad I went, though coming home in high-heeled sandals to snow drifts and my son's Hooters Snow Girl was a bit unexpected.

Anyone who has spent any period of time with me knows I am stubborn- though I prefer to call it "determined."
I knew a guy once who made his Queensland Blue Heeler attack a deflated soccer ball hanging from a tree on his farm in Southern California with a simple whistle command. That dog ran and leapt into the air, snagging the ball and clamping his jaws onto the scarred leather. His hind legs hung two feet off the ground as he spun in slow circles.
We sipped our beers and watched, waiting for him to understand his predicament and give up, until the guy said, "He'll hang there all day. Once he's locked onto to his prey, until it gives, he can't open his mouth."

I'm like that dog.
I've been swinging under the publication tree for seven years. It's what I want and it's what I'll get. Sure, along the way there have been a fair share of hits and accomplishments for my short stories and essays, but my deflated soccer ball is the elusive book contract dangling from the branch of the perfect literary agent.
And after a few years of hearing, "It's not for us." and "Great writing, but..." my jaws are getting tired.
But here I am. Sending out the novel to a bulldog of an agent, another who wears pink and two secret links, continuing to hope for the best.

Moms take Bunko One Step Further

Our monthly Bunko meet up is more than a dice game, with this kind of booze, some of the husbands call it DRUNKO.
It's more than winning a few bucks and telling a few embarrassing stories to women who understand you. It has become an excuse for a Mom's night out for dinner or shopping- a weekend away, a trip across a draining lake...Liz and her husband are kind enough to invite us to spend the night and most of the next day with them on a lovely houseboat ( enough beds to sleep 10-- or more if you're creative).This is our third year and we now have a list of "things we do".
Liz brings these fruit creations.
Debbie sleeps on the top deck.
The snorers sleep in the smallest lower cabin.
We have a song playlist.
This year I brought a small karaoke machine.
Liz gives door prizes. (This year we scored some of her homemade creations and came up with ways she can sell her adorable cosmetic bags and jewelry online.)
And we gave her a private joke- signed cookbook.We play poker with M&M''s.. eating our winnings and stealing more whenever we can...
and we swim to a nearby island. (
It's more of a dog paddle/float with life preservers under our butts and plastic cups of wine in our teeth...and yet...)We have a wonderful time and always hate for it to end.
This year, we stole the Vegas saying- WHAT HAPPENS AT BUNKO STAYS AT BUNKO, but really, what kind of trouble can 9 women possibly get into on a houseboat beached on a deserted island of deer?

My First Adult Slumber Party With the Husband, Or My Son Stays Home Alone With the Dogs.

Living near a big lake is good. Even better when you have friends that have houses there, and doubly good when one of them has a second home that is a honking big luxury houseboat.

Not sure how much slumbering will happen, but it will be nice to not have to call the cab for the ride home- plus I really like these folks- all of them and look forward to a nice adult time.
Anybody have a good recipe for jello shots with absinthe?