I'm going to hell Pt. 2

So, last night I was attending Christmas Eve services at my church. And it was a very lovely ceremony. But it was running a bit long and I was anxious to get home and finish my story. Now, I am a firm believer that God knows all and sees all and hears all. Even our thoughts. Am I a bit paranoid? Maybe.

So, it was in the middle of this ver reverential celebration of the birth of the Christ child that I begin to mentall write the ending to my story. It was a very involved sex scene, complete with the word 'fuck.'

Oh shit! Not only am I thinking about fucking (both the act and the word) but I'm doing it in church. ON JESUS' BIRTHDAY!

Hell, party 0f one.

SNOW DAY!

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Well, as people in other parts of the country may or may not know, there's a blizzard here in Colorado. And my job, in its not-so-infinite wisdom has declared not one but TWO snow days! Hell yeah! I've spent the day sleeping, watching trash television, and reading. Tonight, I will spend writing. I do my best writing between 1 am and 5 am. I have a process. I like to sit in a dark room with my laptop and write. So that's what I'll do tonight.

I also got my official membership to Romance Writers of America. Yeah me! I now plan to join 2, possibly 3, chapters: Heart of Denver Romance Writers; Passionate Ink; and Colorado Romance Writers Inc.

I am so excited to meet other aspiring and published writers!

Happy Snow Day!

Random Thoughts

I haven't blogged in like a month. You may ask what have I been up to? Well, I'm STILL polishing my novel and writing-and re-writing- my query letter.

I'm also realizing that I'm WAY behind the times. A couple weeks ago I checked out the first season of 'Queer as Folk' from my local library. Luckily they have self-checkout because I felt just the tiniest bit conspicuous with that box in my hand. Kind of like when you go to buy condoms. Everyone knows what you're going to be doing later that night.

Anyhoo, I don't have cable so I never got a chance to watch QAF when it was new and exciting. But I did watch 'The L Word' and I really enjoyed that show. With 'L' I was hooked immediately. I have to say that it took at least 4 episodes of QAF before I really got into it. I don't know why. Maybe because it was so raw. I mean, all they needed was to show an actual erect penis and it would've been gay porn. Shocking!

But eventually I came to enjoy the show. And now I have my faves. Emmett cracks me up, he's my favorite character. I think Ted is really hot. Michael I can take or leave. And Brian can't act. Also, aside from Brian and Michael, the other characters get no play. Except for that little boy, Sunshine. Seriously people, that's like illegal and kind of creepy.

There are still moments in that show that make me cringe in a way that doesn't happen with 'L.' Maybe it has to do with the more gritty storylines. I mean men, even gay men, are still men. I don't know many men that go for softer, more emotional storylines.

So, what about you? QAF or The L Word?

More Randomness...

My favorite shows this week are

The Best Week Ever

And

The Soup

And don't worry, everyone will get a Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa present VERY soon!

Peace on Earth

File Under 'I Could Give A Fuck'

Last week Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes got married. Now this event is really insignificant in my life as it was in almost everyone else's in this country and in he world. My problem, AGAIN, is that the media assumes that the public is hounding for news about the wedding. I could care less what dress she wore or what food they served at the reception.

But what bothers me is that for like a week, I could not stop seeing reports about the wedding. In fact, the TV Guide channel practically ran this stupid two-hour show about the wedding on a perpetual loop last weekend. (At least, I assumed it was two hours because the shit was on FOREVER! I stopped watching the TV Guide channel that week and was forced to just click aimlessly through my channels.)

Now, I wish Tom and Katie every happiness. I do. I think he's a freak and she's brainwashed and vapid, but hey, to each his own.

What got me is that everyone, and I mean everyone, seemed to have an opinion about this relationship. People (reporters mostly) that I am 100% sure have never met Tom Cruise nor Katie Holmes in their entire lives, now have a national forum in which to give their unsubstaniated best guesses on things that are none of their business. One woman actually went so far as to say that she believes that Katie's parents didn't approve of the relationship but that all changed once Suri was born. But how does she know that? Maybe they still don't approve. Maybe they're going along with in because they want to stay in the lives of Katie and Suri. Maybe Tom Cruise sent them to the mother ship to get a labotomy. I don't know. But neither did she. Since when do we have the right to pry into people's lives? To dissect their every move? I understand that celebrities are fascinating to most people. But since when did that come to mean that they weren't entitled to any sort of private life?

And more importantly, why are innocent bystanders such as myself subjected to the media's constant fascination with every single aspect of a celebrity's life?

The dispirited writer

Everybody has talent. Even the most untalented of people have something that they're good at. The most boring accountant or actuary you've ever met probably plays a mean bass guitar. If you find that you're truly talentless, then you haven't looked hard enough and need to try again.

For me, I love writing. I really do. And judging from the response to this blog and The Sweetest Taboo, I'm pretty good at it too.

The problem:
I'm lazy and insecure.

Oftentimes, I lack discipline and focus. I can be like an ADHD child on speed. My minds skips to seventeen different places. I can't commit to one thing. I need help focusing. Otherwis, I'm liable to walk off into unpublished author oblivion.

The problem is not that I don't want it. I do. I've wanted to do this since I was 18. I'm 27 now and life has gotten in the way of my illustrious writing career. I've read many, many, MANY times that unless you're Nora or JAK, making it in publishing, especially mass market fiction, especially romantic literature, you don't make money.

My solution was a fall back career. I went to school. Got my Bachelor's. Went back to school for my Master's. Took another test and got licensed in my chosen profession. So, now I'm sitting pretty for someone my age with no children. And no husband. And no boyfriend. And no life.

And I still can't find the time to devote to my writing.

I wish I were really brave and could just say 'Fuck it' and leave it all behind. I could live in a carboard box with only my laptop which I hide beneath my tattered tweed jacket. I would spend my days in the library. Working on my novels. Creating sexy and funny stories that I will one day sell to the masses in mass market fiction.

In actuality, even if I were to chuck it all, I'd probably be at the library, as I am right now, surfing the internet, as I am doing right now. Because I lack discipline.

Shit! The whole 'lazy' thing just never goes away!

I'm also insecure.

I think most artists are.

I want people to like me, to like my work, to lavish adulation upon me to feed the black hole that once was my self-esteem. Well, maybe more of a brown hole or a closed door with light shing from beneath the door and around the frame.

At times, I'm crippled by fear. But that just feeds my desire to do better.

So why don't I devote more time to my crafy? Is it just laziness? Am I not a good writer despite all the evidence to the contrary? Do I want it but just not enough?

What keeps people from following their dreams?

Because misery LOVES company

I'm miserable. I have Strep throat. And I'm surfing the internet aimlessly. Here's what I've found...









This ladies and ladies (I don't know that very many men come round these parts) is what I've said before about big girls who dress inapporpriately. There is no reason on God's green earth that this woman should be out in this outfit. I admire it when we big girls have confidence, but come on!

And to show that it ain't just big girls...


Photos courtesy of Hot Ghetto Mess

Election Day

And as always, it's bittersweet. Here in the fine state of Colorado, in one day the democrats have wrested control of the state from the hands of the evil republicans. In the same breath we also banned gay marriage and domestic partnership.

A bit of a paradox? Yup.

But you can't get everything you want. Our only hope is to storm the House and the Senate!

However, as a democrat myself (as if y'all couldn't tell), I say that our victories are not so much a big vote of confidence in the party but more of a slap in the face to President Bush.

Our country is ready for a change, we're tired of the way we're being run into the ground. We want our troops to come home safely. We want reform and bipartisan cooperation.

Was that made clear enough tonight?

Now, personally, I consider myself a moderate liberal. I have some very liberal views and I have some moderate views, not so many conservative views (obviously!). I love this country and I wouldn't want to live anywhere else on a bet. I want to see a return to taking care of our own country. To work on our problems with poverty and homelessness and lack of healthcare. If we aren't healthy ourselves, how can we then be an example that other nations WANT to follow?

Can you tell I'm a Social Worker?

I'm very frightened of those on any extreme, any fanatic. The crazy liberals and the crazy conservatives. I can't hang with people who speak in absolutes but leave no room for possibilities. If our country is to be united, it will have to be under a moderate flag. One that leaves room for broader knowledge and possibilities.

A big you go girl to Nancy Pelosi.

OBAMA 2008!

Love Affair

I fell in love with romance when I was very young. I think I was 12 or 13. No, wait, I was 11. I read 'Gone With The Wind' in 3 days. Hey, 1100 pages is a pretty big feat when you're 11. To this day, it remains my favorite book. I highly recommend it, it's WAY better than the movie.

Anyhoo, the point is that people never really get over your first love. I sure haven't. I must have read thousands of romance novels. I started with HQ Temptation and Desire. No HQ Presents for me. I went straight to the 'hardcore.' Story of my life. My favorite writers of the time were Barbara Delinsky, Ruth Jean Dale, Kate Hoffmann, and Olivia Rupprecht. (Sidebar: Hurts So Good is a Loveswept that is totally fucking awesome!) As I matured so did my taste. I went from serials to single titles. Here, I discovered Nora and Jayne. Then, as my mind was in its formative years, I discovered historicals and they totally blew my mind. Linda Lael Miller and Susan Johnson. These books were dirty. And graphic. And wonderful. Not just because of the sex although I do have to say that as a hormone riddled teen, the sex was definitely an added bonus.

But more than that I love the fact that there is always a happy ending. I love happy endings. (In books, smartasses. I am NOT a masseuse.) I enjoyed, and still enjoy, couples overcoming adversity and pain and finding something good and true at the end. This was especially important to me because my life had never been a particularly happy one. I was a shy, socially isolated teenager. For me, there was always tunnel and no light. In romance novels, the hero and heroine always managed to find that light. It gave me hope. It helped me to think that maybe, just maybe, I could have that same happiness. That the suffering I was going through could make me stronger.

That's why I write romance. For me, it was a lifeline. I hope that in someday, my words will someday give that same hope and happiness to another person. That's why I write romance. That's my great love affair.

And even after all these years, the sex still ain't bad.

The magic has gone

So, I'm in a bit of a funk. I'm not reading. I'm not writing. I'm not dating. I'm not doing much of anything at the moment. I'm a bit apathetic at the moment.

But oddly enough, I do care about the fact that I don't care.

Why?

I couldn't tell ya. Maybe it has something to do with the change of time or the phase of the moon or the fact that there's nothing happening in my life right now. I feel a bit stagnant and I have no idea how to create something exciting.

How do I know that I'm in a rut?

Here is a typical phone conversation with me.

You: Hey! How's it going?
Me: Good. And you?
You: Great. What's going on with you.
Me: Nothing much as usual. Just working...and working.
You: Are you dating anyone?
(strained silence)
Me: Not in the past like ten years.
(awkward silence)
You: Oh, well. I'm sure something will come along soon.
Me (defensively): What? Is that your way of saying that I need to get laid?
You (timidly): No, I'm just saying you're a great girl and I'm sure that something will come along soon.
Me: You saying that I'm a great girl is like saying I have a great personality. Why don't you just advertise that I'm a fat, lonely girl. Why don't we get one of those sandwhich boards that you see those idiots on corners wearing and parade me up and down the 16th Street Mall. The sign can say 'I'm a great girl with a good personality.' For a little bit of irony let's add 'And I'm not at all desperate. Here's my phone number 303-123-4567.'
You: Well, I've got to go.
Me: Fine. Leave me to wonder where my life is going. Leave me in a nihilistic hell. I'm only going through an existential crisis but don't let me disturb you life.
You: Lunch tomorrow?
Me: See you at 1.
You: Later.
Me: Later.

Well, most of that is true (y'all can guess which parts).

You know what is going through my mind? 'The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again each time expecting a different result.'

That's what contributing to my rut. I do the same thing every day. I talk to the same people. I visit the same websites. I watch the same shows.

I need change. I need excitement.

I need a life.

*SIGH*

The magic has gone.

And in other news, one person who's not on crisis? John Mayer. He's actually funny. Check it out.

Hell anyone?

Let's go together. I'm on my way there right now. My handbasket should be here to pick me up at any moment.

I just finished watching 'Nip/Tuck' (one of the best shows on television btw) and there was a little person who has a significant part on the show. And being the curious person that I am, I got to thinking. What do I really know about little people?

A whole lot of nothing.

I do know that there are many forms of dwarfism. I do watch 'Little People Big World' afterall.

And it seems to me that Peter Dinklage who stars in the show, has one of the more 'lucky' forms. It also seems to me that Dinklage is a really funny name for a little person.

And that my friends is reason number one for going to hell.

As I continue to think, I wonder, in the way many normal people would, what his package would look like. I have heard that little people have normal heads and torsos but short arms and legs. That being said, he could, this little man, have a penis that hung halfway down his leg thereby giving the impression of some serious meat. I mean, there's no reason to believe that God would be so cruel as to give little men little pee pees (because let's face it, small penises are called pee pees).

Being a woman, I can honestly say that I would be let's say a bit put off if I got into bed with a man with a penis the size of a 9 year old. But then again, if I were to go to bed with a little person, I may have less than high expectations. I would be pleasantly surprised, however, if said person were hung like a horse, or at least looked the part. If a little person had a normal sized dick, it would look bigger than it actually was. It's a matter of perspective. Bigger objects seem smaller farther away and vice versa.

Ooops, my handbasket is here.

If I ruled the world...

I have a t-shirt that says 'Everyone is entitled to my opinion.' People look at it and laugh, probably wondering why an adult has a shirt with Tweety Bird on the front. Little do they know that the shirt tells people in explicit terms what my personal philosphy is.

The world would be a much better place if everyone would just do what I said. My world would be one based on common sense, common decency, and equality.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm NOT a megalomaniac (much!). The world doesn't have to elect me as empress or give me huge amounts of money or even lavish praises upon me. They just have to listen to me and do what I say.

I'm a reasonable person. I wouldn't order people to walk off bridges. And although I'd be tempted to demand Colin Farrell as payment for my services, I'd refrain from indulging in my more base insticnts. I'd sit around on silken pillows, a Black Buddha. People from around the world would come and gather before me, patiently awaiting the pearls of wisdom that drop from my full, lush lips. (If this scene is in anyway reminiscent of the Princess Leia and Jabba the Hut, please keep that to yourself.)

So, you may be intrigued and ask yourself (or me)...

How would this world be different?

Well, here are just a few ways in which the world would change...

1. People would be free to marry whomever they choose. Now, please don't misunderstand, there are certain caveats to this satement. Such as people COULD NOT marry their siblings, children, cousins, aunts, uncles, or any combination therein. They COULD NOT marry animals. Now what Petey and Ole Bessie choose to do within the privacy of their barn is between them and God.

2. Everyone would be middle class. There would be an even distribution of monetary resources. Educators and Social Workers (such as myself) and Sanitary Engineers would be afforded the respect and remuneration that they so greatly deserve. No poverty or homelessnes would exist. I know that this sounds a bit socialist and I know that the US is a Free Market Economy, so I don't want to begrudge our entrenprenuers, so if people are able to become rich, there would be a requirement that businesses be socially responsible.

3. There would be National Healthcare. Enough said.

4. Quality education for all members of our society. Now, I'm not suggesting that everyone HAS TO go to college, but that there is an equal OPPORTUNITY to go to college. In my world, people choose not to attend college not because they're not prepared academically or technologically, or financially, but because they truly choose not to do so.

And THAT'S my world.

I HATE Celebrities

I do. Well, most of them. Almost all of them. Now, I don't know these people personally, so I don't really hate them, just the idea of them in general. I hate that we've become a society that reveres them and obsesses about them. Myself included. (So there is a bit of self-loathing there.)

But as you may have read in a previous post, I'm more fascinated when bad things happen to them.

Is it jealousy? Of course that's a part of it. Who wouldn't have a little pang that these people get paid an inordinate amount of money for basically doing what we all can do? Not to say that many celebrities aren't talented because they are, most of them. But let's face it, it's possible that anyone could be an actor but how many people can be astrophysicists? I'm just saying.

However, I have a real problem with the way in which our society treat them and agrandizes them, as if they were somehow inherently worthy of such adoration for simply being famous. When in actuality the chance of being famous depends mainly on luck. The country is filled to the brim with talented actors and singers and dancers and blah blah blah. But they're not famous and 95% of them never will be. And the ones that are really are no different than anyone else on the street.

So why is it that we're a nation obsessed with celebrity? We love to love them and we love to hate them. We enjoy builiding them up until they're on a pedastal and then we enjoy tearing them down to the ground with almost cannibalistic pleasure. It happens all the time. Just look st the recent press on Madonna.

Now me, I've never even written a fan letter. I don't buy celebrity magazines or fashion magazines or even tabloids. Or any magazine in general. I don't see the point in wasting my money or time. I don't watch ET or Access Hollywood or The Insider. Same reason.

Now, I wish I can say that I don't watch television in general, but then I'd be lying. I watch more than my fair share of television. I'm obsessed with it. And movies. And music. I like to be entertained. But I don't mistake that the characters that I so enjoy on television are in any way representative of the actors that portray them. I don't think that famous people are special just because they're famous. I respect and admire their talent but there's a woman in my church choir with a voice that puts Whitney Houston to shame. And that puts things in perspective for me. I like people more than I like celebrities.

I don't know that everyone has that same perspective.

Case in point. Princess Diana and Mother Teresa both died within a relatively close proximity to one another. And yet, who's death garnered more attention? Who's funeral was broadcast in its entirety on two continents? Not Mother Teresa. Both women were known for their generosity and kindness (although I think that living with lepers for 40+ years takes a bit more precedent over 'visiting' orphanages, but again, that's just me).

Who am I to say that Mother Teresa's death was more important than Priness Diana's or that Mother Teresa was a better person than Diana?

I can't.

And neither should anyone else.

Madonna's Maladies

Okay...

Is it just me or is anyone else pissed off at this whole Madonna-Malawian baby boy thing? What I'm having a problem with is why the media is giving her such a hard time for adopting that baby. Angelina Jolie can walk her happy ass into Cambodia or whatever African nation that she adopted Zahara from and the whole world talks about what a good deed that she is doing and how she's such an amazing parent full of love. The bitch wore a vial of Billy Bob's blood around her neck for heaven's sake! Not to mention the fact that she's a homewrecking slut. (Sorry to sound so harsh but I really, really, really have a problem with infidelity. Another topic, another blog.)

Yet, Madonna, who's only real issue is the fact that she had a bit of a checkered past and that unfortunate decision to have a gold tooth during her 'Erotica' years. Oh, and the fact that she banged Vanilla Ice. And Big Daddy Kane. At the same time, apparently. Which reminds me I never did get a gander at that 'Sex' book so if anyone happens to have a copy of that, hit me back.

One of the major arguments that I hear is that if Madonna really wanted to help the little boy, she would provide money to his family and his village. 'He has a father. Help the father to raise the boy." What a load of shit! Everyday here in the United States people adopt children who have living families. Mothers, fathers, grandparents. When a wealthy couple is looking to adopt, we don't tell them that they should just help the parents financially. No, we let them buy that kid.

Another argument is that Madonna didn't follow the laws of Malawi. Well, duh! When was the last time a celebrity had to follow the law? They get special treatment. The more money you have, the more doors are open to you. It's a sad but true fact of the world. Again, I point to Angelina. She was in and out of Zimbabwe with Zahara before anyone could say 'boo.'

Give me a fucking break!

What's up with me?

I haven't posted in a week. What have I been up to?

The answer: a big fat nothing.

I've been making snail progress editing my finished ms. 'Working' on two new projects. And trying to work on my blog story. All with limited success.

The problem: the internet. It's a horrible, horrible thing. I get lost in it for hours upon hours. And the bad part is that I don't do anything all that interesting. I surf the same spots, read the same blogs, read the same e-mails. I think I could do more if I had a faster connection, but I'm working on dial-up. It's free so I don't complain. Much.

So, here I am, 11 at night and instead of working, I'm surfing, trying to think if anything interesting happened in the past week.

It hasn't.

I'm actually a really boring person with a really boring life. I'm a watcher not a doer. I watch entirely too much television (it's on right now. I'm watching a documentary about Wal-Mart, an entirely different conversation) and spend entirely too much time with my family. Why do I do it? I'm young, I'm in the prime of my life, I'm single. Toxically single (a whole other issue).

It's all very sad. Pity me.

What I do have are a sharp tongue and a keen intellect. My powers can be used for good or evil. Lately, they've been doing more evil than good. But, I'm always funny. Well, mostly funny.

I like that about myself. I like the unique perspective that I have on the world. Once, I was considering writing a book full of my opinions. It was going to be semi-autobiographical. It was titled 'Confessions of an Unknown Fat Girl: or Everyone is entitled to my opinion.'

Writer's are generally observers of the world. We see, we interpret, we skew to our own POV. Hey, we're fiction writers, not reporters. At least not the CNN kind, maybe more in the realm of Fox News. But way better. At least we can be believeable.

Ciao bellas

Deja Vu All Over Again

First some funny:
I was reading a book today at BN. Luckily I didn't buy it because it contained the following phrases:

"He buried his face in her muff." EWWW! That's just wrong on so many levels. Muff has not been used since 70's porn. Actually, it was even tacky in "Debbie Does Dallas." I have a few suggestions. Try beaver. Or the always classy hairy clam. Yeah, those work.

Also in the book: "He drank down her girl juice." I am so not even touching that one.

I'm all for 'purple prose' as we call it in the industry. There are only so many ways that one can describe the fluids that accompany the orgasm, but the thought of calling it 'girl juice.' I'm just saying.

Next:

I have one big fear. Actually I have a lot of fears but for the sake of brevity, I'll talk about my big fear of the day.

My fear: becoming my mother.

I can see it happen. Literally. I see some of the gestures that I do and I think 'Oh, shit! That's my mom! That's her. I can feel her start to possess my body. That's not my hand." All of a sudden I have to stop everything I'm doing and run to the mirror. I half expect to see my mother reflected there. You know, kind of like Bloody Mary, only WAY scarier.

Don't get me wrong. I love my Mama. It's just...well, she's crazy. And not in the she's a bit eccentric wearing her panties on her head sort of way. But in the Psycho, I-will-cut-you-bitch, kind of way.

Seriously.

She's going through menopause, but that's only exacerbated an already existing condition.

Growing up, my siblings and I would pray that when we got in trouble, our dad would be the one to whup us because once our mom got a hold of us we'd be lucky to sit down at the end. When my mom used to whup us, it would be in time to her word. I-thought-I-told-you-to-clean-up-your-room. Each word accentuated by a smack. Or there was the switch. Does anybody else the switch? My parents would make us go outside and strip one off the tree. Then...well you know the rest.

So you can see that why turning into my mother is a frightening proposition.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT:

I saw a bumper sticker today. WWLDD. So, naturally I thought of the popular WWJD (What would Jesus do?). And I came to the conclusion: What would Lucifer Do Differently?

What can I say, I'm evil.

How would you interpret it?

A BLOW to the EGO

It may surprise many people to know that I don't have that many friends. At least according to MySpace. I have about 40. And I think ten of them are celebrities or bands or some random person. So needless to say that it always gets me excited to log on to MySpace and see that I have a friends request.

And that's exactly what happened tonite. Imagine the scene...a lonely young woman sitting in front of her computer. She longs for some acceptance. After all it is a Friday night. And she is dateless once again. Truthfully, she's only two glasses and a pair of sensible shoes away from playing for the other team. But she has hope. So in an effort to relieve the crushing loneliness in her chest that threatens to turn her soul into an immense black chasm of emptiness.

Well, maybe not quite that dire.

More like the fear of becoming like that creepy old lady who lives in that big house on the corner, her yard overgrown hiding all manner of creature including her seventeen cats and twelve dogs. The entire visage so frightening that little children dare each other to walk past and then end up running past, screaming 'She's sucking out my soul.'

Wait. I hate cats. That was way worse. I'll take the black chasm and sunken chest please.

Back to the story. She's checking her MySpace account when Lo and Behold, she has a freinds request. She could feel the heart begin pound in her chest. Fingers shaking, she clicks on the bright blue word. There he is. John, her mind sighs. could this be him? Could it be that easy? She takes a minute to daydream. This could make a very cute and funny story to tell their grandchildren. How Granddad 'found' Nana in a sea of profiles, choosing her above all. Again she moves the cursor. Click. Her breath stops in her throat. Faster, dammit, faster, show me my destiny.

There. There he is. John. 40 years old. United Kingdom. Okay, that could be a problem. Not too unmanageable. Intrigues she scrolls down the page. It looks a little off. There's something that she can't put her finger on.

Then she sees it.

Thunk. The sound of her heart dipping into her stomach like a boulder. The words blur as the tears fill her vision. It's over. All before it even began. It was the last thing she'd ever expected.

An advertisement for how to make money money using the internet.

Using her sleeve, she wipes her eyes. No more crying. Suck it up and go to bed. Your cold lonely bed.

Awww.

It wasn't quite that involved. I don't think I'd named our grandkids. Just our firstborn. And his sister. Maybe their baby brother as well.

Aw, well. There's always the next random loser that sends you a request to be his friends.

Maybe next time, it'll be an advertisement for Natural Male Enhancement.

Random Ranting

As my loyal readers may already know by now, I'm an asshole with an opinion. I have one for everything. Even those things that I know nothing about. Especially those things that I know nothing about. I go off half-cocked and make outrageous statements that may or may not be correct. But I do it with conviction. I have a lot of that. I have conviction. Which is a good thing but can also hurt me because I tend to see things in terms of black and white, right or wrong.

An example: Infidelity. I think it's just plain wrong. There is never any justification for it. Period. I don't find it romantic, I don't see the participants as tortured souls. THERE WAS NOTHING ROMANTIC ABOUT GUINEVERE AND LANCELOT. They betrayed her husband, their friend, and their king. And for what? The kingdom fell and Guinevere ended up living out her days in a convent. With no sex. Ever. Unless the nuns were doing things that I don't want to know.

But this was so not what I wanted to say tonight. I did have a point to this rant.

WARNING THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS CONTENT THAT MAY BE OFFENSIVE.

It all began with shoes.

I hate the mall. I HATE the MALL. I LOATHE THE MALL. I also hate shopping in general So imagine my surprise when I found myself wandering the esteemed halls of K-Mart. I didn't have any agenda. I was just kind of loafing around with nothing to do on a Saturday night (pathetic but true). So my good friend Julie calls me and we decide to go to a shoe store because we both decided that we needed to buy shoes. And pants. Well, I needed pants. I'm not sure about her. She may have needed pants.

So, we're in the store looking for shoes. And I'm pointing to a pair of chunky-soled something or others and I ask Julie, "What do you think?" "Fine. If you're a lesbian," came her ready reply. Needless to say, I don't buy the shoes but I do leave the store with a nice pair of New Balance sneaks.

Fast forward to the next day. I'm at Payless, my normal shoe mecca, looking again for a nice pair of black shoes suitable for work. And all the shoes that I find are nice, sensible shoes. Lesbian shoes, according to my friend Julie. So I call her and I leave her the following message, 'Hey Julie. I think I'm a lesbian. I like sensible shoes.'

And I did. But I didn't want to buy them.

Now, before anyone jumps down my throat for making crass generalizations, I do now have justification. I was watching an episode of 'The L Word' in which all of the main lesbian characters are on a quest to find out if another woman is a lesbian or not. Their two main tells: The woman's nails and her shoes.

So apparently even lesbians have a dress code. And it starts with the shoes. I guess clothes do make the man, or the lesbian for that matter.

What about you? What would your clothes tell the average people watcher about you?

Football Freak

I love football. No, I adore football. If football were a real man, I'd be his love slave and allow him unfettered access to my body. THAT'S how much I love football. Most days, football loves me back.

Fantasy football, however, hates me with a passion. For the second year in a row, I am LAST in my fantasy football league. I am a laughingstock. People now stop and point at me on the street and whisper behind my back that my team, Moe's Joes, are now 0-4. They shake their heads in shame as they ask what kind of football fan am I.

A very sad one.

Now, some women who read this may be asking themselves how another of their kindred can be so devoted to such a violent and immature game. To them I say, have you ever taken the time to WATCH a game. To see modern-day warriors take the field in a battle of wits, skill, and brawn is truly an almost holy experience.

Plus they wear really tight pants and most times have great asses.

For me, I think that football is an outlet for all of my pent-up aggression. Since I can't necessarily go around tackling all the people that get on my nerves (mostly because I'd never even have time sleep) I have to get my jollies some way.

What about you? How do you release frustration?

My Blurb

So this is the blurb that my good friend Jaye wrote about my blog...

"Random Acts of Randomness lives up to its title. You never know what subject CreativityVacuum will take on next. But you always know her unique perspective on the issue will be funny. The hot sex scenes are just a bonus."

YEAH!!!! She hit it right on the head. At least SOMEONE sees the humor that I try to spread in the world. And hot sex is never a bonus. It's a necessity, ladies. Am I right? You know I'm right.

Ciao Bella

ANNOUNCING...

The winner of the 'Name My Book' Contest is....(drumroll please)

Nicole and 'Chasing Riki.'

CONGRATUALTIONS!!!!!!

This was a very hard decision. You all had some VERY GOOD entries. In the end, Nicole's title just seemed to click.

But I have to say that it was a close race with Ljay and 'Mister Opportunity' running a close second. This title alone has sparked an idea for yet another book. And for this, I have decided to offer a prize for runner up which is some very luscious Godiva chocolates.

Thanks to everyone that participated. You guys were awesome. Thanks again for visiting my blog and I hope that y'all will continue to read and enjoy my admitted craziness.

To Nicole and Ljay, y'all can claim your prizes by e-mailing your addresses to me at CreativityVacuum@gmail.com

Later Gators

Evil Bitch Whores

It's time that I introduced the world to a group of women that I call the EBW- Evil Bitch Whores. Now, this is a special category reserved for a certain type of woman.

Please don't misunderstand. I'm not a misongynist. Some of my best friends are women. But as with everything there are the proverbial 'bad apples.' Or immensely evil crazy bitches. Both men and women.

Evil Bitch Whores are women who amplify everything that is wrong with the world. They're narcissistic. They prey on the misery of others. They create misery in other people's lives. The worse part is that they somehow always come out smelling like roses. It's never that they did anything wrong. It's always turned back on you. Other people like them. There are moments of normality. But they can turn just as quickly. Cross her and she will make it her life's mission to make sure that you pay.

They do it with a smile on their faces and a knife behind their back or in yours.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be too gloom and doom, They're not always the Devil Incarnate. They can be arrogant, self-agrandizing, sanctimonious, self-involved, patronizing, or just plain stupid.

And because I consider myself an evil bitch- not to be confused with an Evil Bitch Whore- I'm also a bit petty. So, I include those women (and men) that I simply don't like.

Now, I have my own list of EBWs. There is even a Queen of the EBWs-well more of a shared title. I will reveal my Queens but I must warn you that there will be an outcry the likes of which the earth has never seen. So when you read the next sentence please keep your scream to that of a low roar.

The Queens of the Evil Bitch Whores are: Martha Stewart and Oprah Winfrey. I cannot stand these women. Martha for the obvious reasons. But Oprah you may ask. Why Oprah? Well, the simple answer is that I hate her. I can't stand her. I am the first to admit that she has done a lot for a lot of people. She is an incredible philanthropist. She is also incredibly fake. I think she is out of touch with the common person. She is sanctimonious and presumptuous and thinks her shit doesn't stink. That's just my opinion. I don't actually know her but I'm sure that I don't want to either.

There are also EBWs that don't reach the status of Queen. Mine are too numerous and my time limited.

Okay. So what brought about this discussion?

I'm watching Larry King Live with Dr. Laura Schlessinger. This bitch is out of her fucking mind. I literally cannot believe the steaming, heaping piles of shit that come out of her mouth. She basically said that women belong in the home, raising her children, and catering to her husband's every whim, sexually and otherwise. They shouldn't work outside the home, they should be self-sacrificing drones, and be happy about it.

Don't get me wrong. I am all for women being good mothers and wives. But I think the way that this is defined is different for everyone. If you want to work outside the home and need to put your child in daycare, that DOES NOT make you a bad mother.

But Dr. Bitch would tell you differently. She would tell you that you need to be at home raising your children, cooking their meals, and screwing your husband blind. Women are to be submissive towards their husbands.

But Dr. Laura, I'm a single mother. What do I do? Dr. Laura says that you need should move in with your parents and only work at night. Simple really.

Premarital sex? Never!

Women should act like 'unpaid whores.' But only for their husbands. Direct quote. Lay back and open your legs, ladies! Not in the mood? You will be. Just let him rut on top of you for a few minutes and eventually you'll have an orgasm.

But what if I'm not happy, not fulfilled? You should get the joy in your life from taking care of your family and catering to your husband. How could you not be happy?

She has now made the Queen of the Evil Bitch Whores a triumvate.

If you had a league of EBWs, who would make the cut?

CONTEST UPDATE

So, I decided that if this were to be a real contest I should at least offer a prize. And that's what I've decided to do. The winner of the 'NAME MY BOOK' contest will receive a $25 gift certificate for the book store of your choice. To sweeten the pot I'll even throw in some Godiva Chocolates. Contest restarts today and ends 9/30/06.

Good luck Peeps!

NAME MY BOOK CONTEST

So, I'm working and reworking and reworking my query letter when all of a suuden it occurred to me that I'm seeking representation for a book that has no name. So, I'm enlisting the help of my five loyal readers to help me find a name.

So here it goes...

Riki Watson’s life was…well, boring. But it was hers and if she wasn’t happy then at least she could be content. So when exactly did her orderly life turn upside down? In the space of twenty-four hours she learns that her best friend, a woman for whom the word hoochie seemed to have been invented, has become involved with their boss, a man that would make any Trekkie look like The Fonz hanging out at Arnold’s on a Saturday night with two hot chicks on his arm. As if that weren’t bad enough, their sex life was apparently nothing short of Sexual Olympics. Added to these startlingly revelations is the fact that her entire family believes her to be gay. Well, sure she hadn’t had a date since Bush the First was in office but that had more to do with lack of opportunity than lack of desire. It was definitely not lack of desire.

A chance meeting in a bookstore brings Marsh Evans into her life. Riki knows from that moment that her life would never be the same. He was everything that Riki could ever want and nothing she believed she could have. Riki doesn’t believe that they have anything in common. Even if she disregarded the fact that he was White and she was of mixed heritage, there was still the fact that Marsh was drop-dead gorgeous and she was well…not. However, these obstacles don’t seem to stop Marsh in his pursuit of Riki despite her attempts to put distance between them. Eventually, Riki has no choice but to give in to the incredible desire between them.

There's more to the story but that's a general sketch. So people...

NAME MY BOOK!!!

And speaking of Jaye...

I was IMing my friend Jaye tonight and like always I enjoyed our 'conversation.' But it did get me to thinking. A dangerous occupation to be sure but one in which I engage in with startling regularity. Anyhoo, my good friend, who is also a romance writer and although I've not read her stuff her blog is enough to convince me that she's nothing short of brilliant (Please note that these comments are solely the opinion of this writer and were not in any way solicited or paid for by Jaye) and I were discussing telling people what we do now as our avocation although we hope to soon make it our vocation. And we both agreed that we're a little, shall we say hesitant, to tell people that we write romance.

Now, I know that I've written about this before and I've said that I'm proud to tell people that I write romance. And I am...after a bit of hesitation. And under the right circumstances. And to the right people. But the fact that I hesitate seriously pisses me off. Why should I hesitate? To be honest I think that it has a lot to do with the perception that what I do is somehow less than honorable or worthwhile.

And that's the problem. Our society has a grudge against not only romance but also 'popular fiction.' Which is somehow different than 'literary fiction.' Jaye described it as the difference between a huge Hoolywood blockbuster and a critically-acclaimed indie flick. And to all this I say...bullshit! There is nothing wrong with commercial success. Nothing wrong with bringing a good story with a happy ending to the public. Nothing wrong with a bit of brain candy. And by implying that writers of 'popular fiction' are somehow less talented that those that write the other crap sounds like a whole lot of jealousy to me.

And really how does one distinguish 'literary from 'popular' fiction? I know it's not the level of telent. So what makes it 'better'? I wish I knew, But I do know that those who write that type of fiction look down their snooty little noses at us lesser peons. But they can kiss my ass. I'm having way more fun.

Hasta Luego

Fat Fashion

I wish that I had the discipline to post everyday like my good friend Jaye (see sidebar for link, she's kick-ass!). As it is, I surf the internet for untold hours and get nothing accomplished. If I ever get an office in my home, my computer won't have an internet connection. It helps to have no distractions.

So...what great thoughts have I been thinking?

Well, number one is how hard it is to find sexy lingerie for big girls. C'mon designers! Big girls want to look good for their men. We want the crotchless panties. But not the edible undies. We'd go throigh like 10 packs in a day. Plus there's the added downside that most women have no desire to stick fruit roll-ups (or any other food product-see previous post) in our hoo-has. SIDENOTE: I should really look into all the euphemisms that I know for human genitalia.

But back to my point...I have been scouring the internet for said items (sans fruit panties) and have not been very successful.

And that leads to yet another related point. Why do fashion designers feel that all big girls want to do is wear MuuMuus? I know that there's been a shift, but for the most part, it's same ole, same ole when it comes to larger women. Did you SEE Project Runway? That design that Jeffrey made was made for a cow. Now I may be a heifer but I am not a cow.

What else?

My best friend just got engaged. And while I am very happy for her, I also want to gauge her eyes out.

Is this normal or am I more demented than I thougt?

Adios

Fat Chicks and Horror Flicks

Fat people aren't in horror flicks. Not that I'd actually want to be in a horror film but I'm saying that even if we were I wouldn't be much of a challenge. This is how I imagine the scenario:

A dark cabin in the woods during a thunderstorm. Six friends are on vacation. After a night of laughing and wine, the friends prepare for bed. Unfortunately, two of the friends are also a couple so they decide to make love. And as you all well know, sex is like a psycho magnet. Suddenly, outside the window, a crazed machete-wielding sociopath appears in the window with a flash of lightning. He silently makes his way inside the cabin while the unsuspecting friends sleep or bone. He goes for the sex monkeys first, slashing and slicing his way through the beast with two backs. The noise awakens the other residents who run toward the noise. (Which in and of itself is a huge mistake.) All, that is, except for the lone fat girl who decides to stay her happy ass exactly where it is. The others, upon seeing the massacre of flesh and blood, run toward the phone, whose service has been inconveniently disrupted due to the storm. They decide to make a run for it.

Now, where the sociopath is at this time is anyone's guess, he's off plotting his next move in his elaborate cat and mouse game.

They rush into bigt girl's bedroom. She waves them away, 'Nah, I'm good.' They look at her incredulously. Doesn't she know that a machete-weilding psycho is trying to kill them. Yes, she answers, she does. But there's also no way that she can outrun him so they should just go ahead and do what they do. She's just going to chill. They don't have time for this shit, someone yells angrily. Let that fat bitch die. Yeah, well it's not looking that good for you either you, dumb fuck.

So, the friends leave the big girl to her fate and run off to eventually get maimed somewhere deep in the woods because that's what usually happens in these movies. She knows that when they get outside none of the cars will work because true psychos are truly genius and he would have thought about that before starting with the dice-o-matic thing.

So, she waits. Kicking back, bowl of popcorn in her lap, reading a romance novel. The psycho burts into the room. Blood rnning down the wicked blade in his clenched fist. She looks up and in a bored voice states, Well, lets get this over with. Mr. Crazy Pants tilts his head as if in askance. Look, Crazy, Machete Wielding Psycho, you and I both know that there's only one way this will end. I'm too big to try to outrun you, even if you do do that slow walk thing that somehow always manages to catch unsuspecting coeds. So, I'll save you the trouble and myself the effort. I'll just lay here and you can go ahead and kill me. Just let me finish this paragraph right quick and then we can do this.

The psycho is clearly bewildered. She was supposed to be running. She was supposed to be afraid. He had a fucking machete for chrissake! To prove his point he waves said object. No deal. She continues to read her book, idly turning the page. Needless to say he's in a bit of a quagmire. He's a killer. It's what he does. But he's also a man so he likes the thrill of the hunt. She's not cooperating. Added to that, there were three other who were locked and loaded as it were.

Decision made, the psycho turns and leaves the room. She's no fun.

So, the fat chick is saved and uses her cell to call the police because she's apparently the only person that thought of that. And she looks very sad as she attends five funerals but deep down inside she thinks, that's what y'all get for all those fat jokes.

Of course I AM Black so these are all moot points.


Later

Crimes of Fashion

I've never proclaimed to be a fashion expert. I don't know DKNY from Chanel. But even in my limited experience I know that there are certain things that must never be done. Ever.

1. No booty shorts in church- even if they are the 'classy' ones that look like a pair of nice plaid pants that some hoochie chopped off just before they reached the lower curve of your ass. Now while I have no problem with this at the club. In fact, I think it's quite cute. But don't wear them to church. God's house deserves more respect than your half-moon. For that matter, there are any number of things that you shouldn't wear in church. T-shirts that say 'I'm with Stupid' or 'Co-ed Naked Volleyball.'

2. Men should never wear cut off shorts. EVER. Not unless you live in rural Alabama and are sitting in front of your trailer, cigarette dangling from your mouth with a can of Budweiser in a beer cozy. If this happens to describe you, then go on with your bad self. If not, then can I interest you in a nice pair of bermuda shorts, or a pair of Dockers perhaps?

3. Fat people- including myself- should not wear clothes that cause the following body parts to hang out: belly, ass, or thighs. Now if you want to play up your assets, more power to you. Let those titties run free. Ain't no shame in your game. But at all time, remember, classy can be sexy. Honestly, those looks aren't even all that on skinny bitches.

Now, I'm sure that there are more Crimes that I haven't reported. What's on your Most Wanted List? Better yet, What are your Pet Peeves?

Ciao

FINALLY!

...well not yet but soon. It's official, I've fulfilled my occupational obligations. I took my licensing exam and I passed. Thank you very much! Now I can concentrate on what's important. So you can expect an update to my story VERY SOON! I swear. Thanks to everyone for being so patient.

*Peeking my head out*

Yeah! There really is a 'real' world out there. Not that I get to see much of it these days. I hope y'all know that I'm not avoiding you. I've just been really busy studying for this test that I need to take for my job. In 12 more days, the test will be over and I can get back to my real life and my real world. Writing.

I was talking to a friend today and he was commenting on some of my blog entries and he told me the sweetest thing. He said that I should get a collection of essays together and he would buy them. Now he wasn't talking about my romantic writing but my funny writing. He told me that he'd been showing my blogs to friends and he was very impressed with me. I thought that was the sweetest thing he'd ever said...and if you knew him, that's saying a lot. He's not exactly the soul of kindness. But he's fun and quirky and an asshole so I love him.

Now, if y'all couldn't tell from my previous writings, I'm a tortured artist which means I'm massively insecure and in constant need of validation.

Part of me wants to be the next Nora Roberts while the other half wants to be the next Dave Barry. I want to write romance novels and have a weekly column in the New York Times. Is that too much to ask? I am nothing if not a study of polarities.

So I thank everyone who reads this blog and appreciates both sides of my personality.

And to those who check to find the next installment of 'On Business' I know I've said it before and I've meant it every time, it's on its way. I think there will be two more and then it'll be done. But never fear, another will soon take up the torch.

Making like a gopher,

Me

P.S. Speaking of polarities and talent, I think I'll take a cue from my pal Jaye's blog and posit something: Does talent transcend genre? If you're good at fiction would you be equally fabulous at say being a columnist? Answers appreicated.

Human Root Cellar?

WARNING: FUNNY BUT SICK HUMOR AHEAD

Ok.

I admit it.

I have never had the urge to mate with a fruit. Or a vegetable. Or sausage.

Or really any food stuff in general

Odd topic for a blog you say?

Definitely.

Do you, CV, spend a lot of time thinking about vegeatility? (It's supposed to be a play on beastiality but it's two am here in CO and I'm not about to pull out Roget and find a cleaver new word for vegetable. Is there one?)

Actually, dear reader, I do not. But I was recently listening to Howard Stern on my SIRIUS satellite radio. (The BEST investment I ever made, by the way.) When his ever-annoying sidekick Robin Ophelia Quivers announced that when she was younger she was (and I quote) "Like a rabbid dog" with lust that she would raid the refrigerator--IN HER PARENT'S HOUSE- bto look for suitable items to pleasure herself with.

NASTY ASS!!

She then proceed to lead a detailed discussion about the process of finding just the right 'material.' A cucumber was too 'girthy' and a carrot wasn't 'girthy' enough. She then moved to the freezer. A hot dog, which needed to be defrosted, wasn't the right size so she moves on to the sausage. Finally a match.

As I listened in my car, parked outside my apartment building as neighbors peeked out their windows, I could feel my jaw drop as the story unfolded. It was one of those things where I don't want to listen but I couldn't turn ot off.

She told the story, it was in a weird second person way. She kept on saying 'You look in the fridge to see what might work' or 'You decide that hot dog doesn't work.' And all I could think about is 'Don't lay your shit at my feet, bitch.'

In my head I imagined a young, blonde Robin rifling through her parents' refridgerator like some sort of perverted Goldilocks.

A cucumber? Too big, she decided.

A frozen hot dog? Too small, she decided, her vaginal lips starting to turn that purpley-blue tint that us Black folks get when we get hold.

A Polska Kielbasa? Just right, she moaned in ecstasy.

Sick.

So, a few days later, I decide to tell my mom and dad about this phenomena. To my horror, neither of my parents were surprised.

'Girls do that all the time," my mother says, my father shaking his head in emphatic agreement.

I'm thinking what nasty hos do my parents be hanging out with.

'You'd be surprised,' my father chimes in.

Hell, yes, I'd be surprised. Never once in my like have I considered sticking meat into my cooch. (No jokes please)

Or any vegetable for that matter.

So, I get to thinking. This must be a generational gap. I mean, I grew up in an age of dildoes and vibrators. They had the potential to be easily accessible. I even got one from my oh-so-generous-sex-shop-employee cousin for my eighteenth birthday.

Then I started to feel a little sad for all of those poor women who came into their sexuality at a time when it was still a dirty thing. Who reduced themselves to fucking bananas. Who quivered in ecstacy at the sight of a cucumber. Who's only way of releasing all of their pent-up frustration was to stick a sausage in their womanhood.

But then I thought, 'You had your hands and fingers, you nasty bitches. They were invented like 10 million years ago. Use them.'

I am proud to say that I have never desired to be a human root cellar.

I have never placed groceries in my poon.

God Bless America!

Ciao

P.S. I can tell you this though, I now look at my parents' friends in a whole new light. Mrs. Walters definitely has the look of a woman who's molested a pickle. Or a prune. At least if the saying 'You are what you eat' also refers to your nether lips as well.

Sparkle Moments

It's hard being a genius. I mean, the pressure alone is enough to break lesser persons. You, the average reader, would be amazed at all of the positively brilliant things that I think everyday.

The problem is that I never remember them.

Seriously, out of the blue, I'll think of something funny and I'll want to blog it.

But as quickly as the idea comes to me, it leaves me.

Now, if I were a smarter person, I would carry a notebook to catch my sparkle moments as I just now thought about calling it. Well, the problem with that is that I would have to remember to carry it and then I would have to remember to write it.

Now, I said I was a genius, I didn't say that I was smart. Intelligent maybe, but smart, not always. Did you know that Einstein couldn't tie his shoes and Howard Hughes never bathed? That didn't stop him from getting laid on the regular, but then again he had money. Women and men have done a lot more for a lot less. It's no hardship having sex with a smelly person. C'mon, you know you've done it for free. You probably won't tell anybody, but it was probably the best screw you ever had. I tell you, I would so do Bill Gates, that troll looking dude simply for the fact that he's the friggin' richest man in the world. Does that make me a whore? Probably. However, I was already having issues around being a slut so we're just talking semantics, here.

But I digress. Which, of course is another one of the perils of being...

yes, a genius.

Ciao

Celebrity Obsession

Okay, I admit it. I'm obsessed with celebrities. Not in the I'm-going-to-stalk-you-until-you-realize-that-we-should-be-together-forever way. More in the I-think-it's-really-funny-when-bad-things-happen-to-famous-people. I think that we all are. Americans in general relish the misfortunes of others. It's what we do. Now do we do it because we're jealous? Probably. Do we do it because it's fun? Definitely! I have to say that when I hear that a celebrity is going into rehab or lost all their money to unscrupulous business managers, it puts a smile on my face. C'mon, you have to admit that you feel the same way.

Expect for death. I draw the line at death.

Unless it's a funny death. Like they died while on the toilet jacking off to kiddie porn. I'm sorry. I don't care who you are, that's just funny.

Except for the kiddie porn. That's sad.

And what is this thing with mashing celeb couples' names together. TomKat or Brangelina. That's just stupid and wrong. Do they have no other identity? Will they forever be entwined? And it's a recent phenomenon. Brad and Jen weren't called Braden or Jenad. It's a sad commentary on our country today.

I mean can you imagine going to a dinner party and introducing yourself as "Moniken." (Monica and Ken---get it?)

I seriously spend too much time thinking about this shit.

But like I said, it's an addiction. I can't help but lapping up gossip like a drunk man with his last bottle of rotgut.

Later

My week in Hell

Well, it wasn't really hell and it wasn't really a week, but close enough. As those of you who read my blog may or may not have noticed, I've been less than active this last week. Well, there's a reason for that. I've been in California visiting my Nana. She's sick and has to go on Dialysis.

So, for the first time in years, my family decides that we need to take a road trip. The result: seventeen hours in a car with my parents, EACH WAY. And that's not exactly a trip ANYONE wants to take. What you have to understand is that my mother is crazy. I don't mean eccentric or wild. No, the woman is literally insane. Her diagnosis: my money would be menopause sprinkled in with a dash of undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder (Manic-Depression for my lay readers). All in all, it makes for a tasty crazy concoction. And then there's my dad. He's not crazy or insane, but he feeds off of my mom's crazy. They've been together for twenty-four years and their interactional pattern in pretty much set.

And then there's me, pretty normal, average gal (quite a feat considering my role models), well on my way to committing acts of murder. And it's not being cooped up in a car with them, no. And it's not sharing a hotel room with them. No, the reason for my homicidal rage was quite simply that they can't fucking drive! As you all well know, I have road rage issues, and when my parents decide to go 50 mph, in a 75 mph zone, I tend to get a teeny bit irritated. Like to the point where, as we're snailing through the Utah desert, I think to myself, "Huh, a person could drop off a couple bodies here and no one would be the wiser."

It was a comforting thought.

Later

My hot night with Three Guys

So Saturday was a red-letter day for me. I spent it with not one, not two, but three men. One of which even wanted to sleep with me.

#1 Man
Name: Sam

I met Sam when I was out at a bar to hear my friend's band play. He's a friend of a friend and my friend told him that I was an aspiring author. Sam is also an aspiring writer. He's going to grad school to get his MFA.

So we chat for a few minutes on and off throughout the evening. He's getting hammered. And then the time comes when he asks me what I write. I tell him honestly that I write romance. And then he sends me a look. Like I'm doing something wrong, like it's a sin. And then he tells me that I need to write 'real' books. 'Literary fiction,' he intones over and over again.

At first, I'm embarassed. I mean I love writing romance. And I'm damn good at it. But there are times when I get embarassed to tell people what I write. Then I started thinking, why? Why am I ashamed of the books I love so much that I want to write them?

And then I got mad. Fuck him! There is nothing wrong with my craft or the genre I choose to embrace. Just because we're writing romance does not make us any less talented than any other 'fiction' writer. We are just as talented, just as imaginitive, just as creative as any of them. I'd like to see James Joyce write a really good romance novel.

Good Luck, buddy!

Man #2
Name: Tom

So, I'm on my way out of the bar when I feel a hand on my arm. I turn to find this average-looking white guy holding on to me.

"Hello," I say, perplexed.

"I have to tell you that you're hat is dead sexy."

I almost faint. He had the sexiest Irish brogue I'd heard. And what was one an average guy os now like ten-times hotter. So, instead of walking away, I stay and talk. I'm no fool.

We flirt, and laugh. He seizes his opportunity to put his head on my breasts (longer story). And as we talk, it becomes more and more clear that this man is angling for some sex. And I found that I was not above giving it to him.

Then in the way of all great lovers, some of my friends come to say goodbye and his attention gets pulled away at the same time. And before you know it, the moment's gone.

SIGH

I really wished the night ended differently.

Man #3
Name: Asshole in a Cab

So, I'm driving home and I pull up to a stoplight. Next to me is a cab. I look over to see two drunken assholes in the back seat.

Suddenly, one flips me off.

Now, normally, I would chalk this up to drunken randomness, but this night I was feeling more than a little frustrated. And like the lady that I am, I yell:

"Yeah, fuck you too."

My window was down.

So was theirs, and not one to take things lying down, they yell back,

"Fuck you, you fat black bitch."

To which I reply,

"Back at you, drunken white asshole."

All in all, the most exciting Saturday night I've had in a while.

SIGH...Tom

Later

My Two Cents

Penny #1
Is it just me or does this whole 'immigration' debate seem sort of racists. I mean all the talk is about 'illiegal immigrants' but they're really talking about Mexicans. The debate is about Canada. We;re not thinking about building a fence to keep the Canadians out (and why would we? Who would supply the quality comedians?)

Now I know what you're going to say...most 'illegal immigrants' are Mexican, plain and simple. I do agree. However, my point is why are we making it so hard for Mexicans to come into the states? Our border with Canada allows for Canadians to enter our country willy nilly, whenever they want, no visa needed. You don't armed guards at the Canadian border waiting to snatch those dirty Canadians before they cross Lake Superior and enter the country where they'll take low-paying jobs that most Americans, even those that are poor as shit, wouldn't take. No, just those brown-skinned, hard-working Mexicans.

And that, to me, is uber-racist.

2nd Penny

LET GAY PEOPLE GET MARRIED YOU STUPID (GOV'T FAT CATS) FUCKERS

Seriously, how sanctified and holy is marriage when you can go to Vegas, get married and annulled all within the space of 54 hours (yeah, I'm talking about you, Ms. Britney Spears Alexander Federline)

CREATIVITYVACUUM HAS SPOKEN.

A Lament for the Damned...

Well, if you've read my previous post, then you'd know that I'm going to hell. I mean, don't you go to hell if you spend part of your time in church on Sunday lusting after your pastor? Because that's exactly what I did these past two Sundays. It's not love, and it's not really lust, but there are times during his sermon that I look at him and go, 'Wow, he's hot.' And he is. I think that what's getting me is that he's really funny. I mean, he's cute, but he's also almost 60 at least. And while this may have horrified me at 20, as I near my 27th birthday, it doesn't seem all that insurmountable. And he looks good. So, in addition to lusting after my pastor, now I wonder when did 60 become not old. Huh.

But anyway, is it wrong to admire a man at church? I mean lots of people go to church to look for available men. But doesn't it seem weird and a bit creepy to feel that way about your MARRIED pastor? It does seem weird, but knowing that I'm going to hell anyway, it kind of makes it easier to take.

Later

P.S. If you're following the story, a new chapter should be up in the next couple days. And thanks for reading my ramblings, but the title should have warned you.

Guess who's Coming To Dinner?

I was watching this movie tonight and I have to say that it's one of those movies that is always relevant. Sidney Poitier is a genius as well as Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. However, that's not what this post is about, This movie did get me thinking. I'm a big proponent of Interracial/Intercultural relationships. In fact, all of the stories that I write feature IR romances. Now the good news is that these books and storylines are becoming increasingly popular, especially with e-pubs. And because e-pubs are now venturing into print, these stories are now creeping into bookstores, at a slow pace, but a steady pace.

Here's the bad news. 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner' was almost 40 years ago. 40! That's longer than I've been alive. Yet, as groundbreaking as that movie was, it really did little for this type of storyline in the Hollywood media. And I can imagine how controversial that was. An older Black man with a young white girl. WHAT!?! That's crazy. And it was a movie that dealt with the subject matter in a frank, sensitive manner. It's a classic example of great filmmaking.

But when was the last time you even heard about a movie with an IR storyline? I know when I did, but the truth is that Hollywood rarely make movies with IR couples. Why is that? After 40 years are Americans still so offended by the thought of two people of the same race being together? It can't be more 'taboo' in America's eyes than a gay couple, yet I see more of those in movies and on television than I do IR couples. What up with that?

Later

P.S. And I don't mean that funny but irrelevant Bernie Mac/Ashton Kutcher schlock, 'Guess Who?' I admit that I enjoyed it but watching the original, I see that they did that movie a grave disservice. What's even sadder to me is that I can't even find IR couples on soap operas. There used to be a time when all of them had at least one IR couple. Not so anymore. However, if you want to see a quality romantic comedy featuring an IR couple, I'd suggest 'Something New
starring Sanaa Lathan and that Hottie McHotterson Simon Baker.

Sans Sex

So, as the two people that read this blog know, I am an aspiring romance author. Unfortunately, lately I'm not feeling very aspiring or inspired and have therefore resorted to the old standby...research. Which basically means that I'm reading a whole lot of books. Fortunately, I'm a fast reader. And now, biting the idea from a friend of mine, I'm making book recommendations. I'm currently reading a series of mysteries by David Handler, the Berger and Mitry mysteries. It's about a New York film critic living in Connecticut (slight thought break, has anyone ever met anyone from Connecticut? I was thinking about that last night, and I can't say that I've ever had the pleasure. Do people ever immigrate from Connecticut? I know that tons of people visit there or settle there, but I don't think they leave. Could Connecticut be the most inbred state in the country and we just don't hear about it? Think.) who meets a Black State Trooper and they fall in love. And solve mysteries. Hence the subtitle "A Berger and Mitry Mystery."

Now, I have to tell you that I'm digging these books. Which is surprising considering it is rare that I read a book that has no sex. I'm strictly a romance, romantic suspense, romantic thriller, or romantic mystery type gal. Do you get that I love romance? But I've got to say that I am definitely expanding my repetoire. They really are enjoyable, a little slow, gentle, and not too much violence, and nothing graphic. So if that sounds appealing, y'all should definitely check them out.

I really should get a ratings system. Hmmm...what would I do. I read a lot of romance and increasingly a lot of erotica. Maybe instead of stars, I should use batteries. Get it...batteries. I know you do. And when I'm evaluating mysteries, I should use little magnifying glasses. It's definitely something to think about.

Later

BTW...the first two books in the Berger and Mitry series are called "The Cold Blue Blood" and "The Hot Pink Farmhouse." Both of which rate 3 out of 4 little magnifying glasses.

Call me Old-fashioned

So this is going to be a bit of a rant but I promise to keep it short. This particular rant has to do when the evening news. I watch it, I like to stay informed. But I have to ask, when did this annoying habit of newscasters laughing and flirting with each other develop? I hate it. I want to watch the news, not two people who probably hate each other trade witty repartee. I didn't ask for your opinion and I don't want to watch senseless banter. If I did, I'd be watching 'Will and Grace' not the evening news. I long for the good old days when news was unbiased and newscasters were somber reporters of daily events, not pedantic and trite. The days when newscasters could be dependent upon to be honest and trustworthy and not necessarily chosen for their Hollywood good looks.

(Humming 'Ms. Robinson' by Simon and Garfunkel)
So here's to you Peter Jennings, a nation turns it's lonely eyes to you, whoo-whoo-whoo
Where have you gone Ted Koppel? Everyone has left and gone away, yeah yeah yeah
God Bless you Please Walter Kronkite, Jesus loves you more than you will know, oh-oh-oh

(They're the last journalists that I believe had any integrity, but I could throw in a Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw...son los mismos)

*Sigh*

So in the immortal words of Edward R. Muro (another one of the greats)...

Good night and Good luck

Funny Shit

So, my family and I are crazy close, like almost to the point of being psychotically enmeshed, but that's neither here nor there. The point is that we spend A LOT of time together. And when you spend so much time together, you sometimes forget that you're not hanging out with your friends. Especially myself. That being said, another thing that you need to know about me is that I LOVE to curse. I use fuck and shit and bitch and mother fucker and ass on a regular basis. Except when I'm at work...not good to curse around children under six. Now there are people that believe that cursing is the sign of a weak mind and to them I say 'Fuck you. I've got a whole fucking lot of education so you can kiss my ass bitches." (Like that? Yeah, I know you do.)

Anyhoo, the point I'm trying to make is that I have a really bad habit of cursing in front of my parents. Yeah. I know, but I can't help it. And twice in the past week I've cussed in front of people and they've looked at me and said, "I didn't know you cursed." To which I laughed hysterically and said, "My parents would disagree with you."

But, it's not like I learned this shit on the street. My parents used this exact same language in front of my sibs and I during all of our formative years. So, they only have themselves to blame. The sad part is that should I ever be blessed enough to actually have kids, I'll probably do the same thing. So if you see an adorable three-year old going through daycare laughing and saying, "This is some funny shit." That's my kid.

Later

Post Note: The other night my parents and I were hanging out (again!) and we were talking about what we'd do if we won Powerball. My Dad and I want to buy Harleys and my mom says to my dad, "If you get a trike, I'll be your biker bitch."
More funny shit!

So the question becomes...

...Is no sex better than bad sex? I mean really bad sex. The kind of sex you can only have with a virgin who's lived in Mongolia all his life and hasn't even had the occasional blow job or hand job in the back seat of his parent's car. I know most men's response to this, 'Bad sex is like bad pizza-there's no such thing.' But au contraire my penis-having friends. The same cannot be said for woman. For us, there is such a thing as bad sex and a remedy. It's called 'Faking an Orgasm just so he'll get the fuck off of me,' It's simple but effective.

So we know that there is bad sex but is bad sex worse than no sex? I mean yeah it's bad, but at least you're having it, right? And then there's all the accoutrement (look at me using those fancy college-like words) that go with having sex. I mean, you may be in a relationship with a really wonderful man whom you care for deeply despite his lack of sexual prowess or you may be doing it so that your light and heat don't get turned off. But whatever the reasons there are distinct advantages to having sex, regardless of quality.

And are we really so shallow as to base our relationships on sex? Do we really value sex so much that we would value it over simple things like companionship and heating our homes? Have we really become that jaded?

My answer: Give me my vibrator and shut the door on your way out.

Later

A Mother's Kind Words

So, the other day I was hanging out with the fam and as is often the topic when you're edging towards thirty, the subject of my love life came up. My brother for some reason believes that I'm going to marry a white man. For my part, I have no problem with that. It's been so long since I had a date, I wouldn't care if he were green. Hell, I'm probably green.

Anyhoo, so whilst my brother and I were debating the merits of Interracial dating (FYI, he has 'issues' with Black women, but that's a post for a different time), my mother turns to me with a quizzical tilt of her head and quite seriously, she tells me, "You know, I don't see you married at all." My eyes widen and my jaw drops on to the floor as she continues "Oh, I think you're going to have kids but I don't think you're going to get married." Now this of course comes from a woman who tells me at least once a month that she has dreams of my getting married. Most of the time, I'm married to some Jewish doctor or a Canadian or some such conjuration of her imagination.

My brother and I stare at each other for a minute. He of course recovers quickly and burts into laughter. So I say to her (and please take this for the sarcastic commentary that it's meant to be) "So, what you're telling me is that you see me as a whore. Is that it? Am I to be yet another sad statistic? What you see me with four kids and five Baby Daddies? Is that what you're saying?"

My mom shrugs nonchalantly and says "No, I just don't think you're going to get married."

At that my friends is a mother's kind words.

Later

Christmas Musings After Easter

I'm going to hell.
No, really. I am. I know, you're shocked! I was, too. I mean, I really am a nice, decent, if somewhat perverted and bitchy person. I try to live my life in a way that doesn't harm others. But this means nothing; I'm still going to hell. And this here's why:
First, let me preface by saying I love Christmas, and embrace the spirit of giving and love and peace that it brings. Unfortunately I have a mouth like a sailor and a mild case of road rage. Not the: Knock-out-your-windshield-with-a-nine-iron kind of road rage. But rather the: I-think-that-all-other-drivers-are-idiots-and-shouldn't-be-allowed-behind-the-wheel kind.
With that said, this is me for most of the Christmas season. (Me singing along to KOSI 101) 'Oh, Holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the morn of our dear savior's birth. What the fuck are you doing, you stupid-ass motherfucker?!?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I swear to the sweet baby Jesus, you are the son of a whore.' And that's me yelling in my car at the top of my lungs (which have considerable power) after someone cut me off or is going like 15 in a 50 mph zone or just being an asshole in general. One minute I'm praising the birth of the Son of God and the next, I'm taking his name in vain and using profanity.
And that, my friends, is a surefire ticket to hell.
Pray for me

Repost from another time-MUCH FUNNIER!

My First Post: What I should've said:

So, I pride myself on being massively self-important and think that everyone should listen to what I have to say. To give me a forum is a dangerous thing.

But anyhoo...what exactly is my concept of Random Acts of Randomness? This is a something that I think we should all embrace. Basically it involve me e-mailing my friends a bunch of crap that's on my mind, thing that I've been thinking about, all the weird shit that goes through my head. It's really just for my own amusement because no one really cares. Also, I like to think I'm funny and set about proving it on a daily basis.

With that said, here's what's been on my mind lately. Do rich people have health insurance? I mean, not your 'typical' rich people like doctors and lawyers you make $500,000/yr. I mean your Bill Gates' and Waltons. Do they have good insurance coverage? On one hand, you would think that they have the best coverage money can buy, but on the other hand do they really want to go through the hassle of fighting with insurance companies over paying for a heart transplant. Think about it.

Something else that should be noted about me is that I'm kind of a bitch. I know, you think I have a sweet face, but it's all show. Have a conversation with me some day, you'll find out. Take Saturday for instance. I was walking down on the 16th St. Mall, minding my own business when out of nowhere a man comes towards me wearing a red velour peacoat, a pair of velour pants that may have been black at one time but has now faded to a brownie black (it's a color, ask Crayola!), and a pair of brown loafers with tassels. Tassels people! So, I'm staring at him, not a polite glance, but really staring at him and I'm thinking, 'He really did it! He really left the house like that.' I mean come on! Who looks at themselves in the mirror and thinks that's attractive? And you just know that he was walking out feeling really good, like a panther on the prowl, going to find himself some Ladies!

Later

Occupational Hazards

Okay, something that y'all may not know about me is that I am an aspiring romance author. Chessy? Maybe. Fun? Definitely. So, last night I'm in my room, click-clacking away, when a truly random thought came to me. I'm writing about people having sex with each other. I'm writing words like 'wetness' and 'cock' and I'm like really. I'm really writing this? These are things that I wouldn't say in real life. I can't imagine telling my boyfriend 'I'm so wet for you, baby.' But yet, I'm writing it.

The problem comes my friends when I'm trying to describe the process of the act of having sex. Do y'all realize the imagination it takes to write a really good sex scene. If I just wrote: "He put is penis in her vagina, thrust for about 2 minutes, and released his seminal fluid." it would be horrible and no one would read it. Women don't want that. I know. I'm a woman myself, most days. (JK!) They want the emotional connection as well as the detailed descriptions. So everyday I struggle about how many ways I can write a french kiss. Tongues in mouths that's all they are. But they have to be soft or sweet or deep or wet. I'm pulling out my thesaurus (a very useful tool anyway) like 7 million times a day. And then I move on to descriptions of thrusting and holes and more wetness and mutual masturbation. That takes A LOT of work dammit!

But how great would it be if I could actually make a living doing what I do? If somebody asks me what I do for a living I could say I write word like 'cock' or 'pussy' and I get paid to do it. Tee-hee. My life would be sweet!

Later

My First Post

So, I did it (again!). I've created another blog because apparently the blog that I have on MySpace isn't enough. I need to feed my megalomanical tendencies by making sure that my voice gets out to a larger audience. I mean, I've always been of the opinion that the world would truly be a better place if only everyone would bow before my superior intellect and common sense...JK
Actually, I'm just bored and I'm dangerous when I'm bored. I named my blog Random Acts of Randomness because that's just what it'll be...just the random musings of my random mind. (Have I used random enough times?) I like to pride myself on being funny so I really hope that the eight people who read this will be entertained. Not by this one necessarily because I'm not feeling particularly creative but I can assure y'all that I am one funny mofo. And as soon as i fgure out how to do this blog thing, I will get right down to my own funny shit.
TTYL