I’d like to go on record to say I’m surprised how many people were surprised I would use sushi for fun and biological warfare. Now I can understand my coworkers’ newfound anxiety last month, but it was the other emails where I was counseled about properly verbalizing to my boss how I didn’t appreciate his sweaty, meaty hands all over me that gave me pause.
Properly verbalize? Are you kidding me?
Verbalizing is not a problem I have. In fact, it’s probably a genetic flaw. I understand that I am just over five feet, but I feel as big as anyone and I run my mouth accordingly. I’ve only backed down once. I was hit by a car in Spain and, as I slid across the hood, I loudly mentioned the dude’s mother and another rude verb…or two. He came out of that sedan like someone launched...
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So my long-suffering agent asked for a bio. This is probably to be expected and any normal person would just dash off a few lines about this and that and be done with it.
But when have I ever been normal?
What should have taken two minutes ended up taking two hours. Part of it is because I’m off my meds and flying so high you could smack my ass like a piñata. The rest is just general neuroses.
I had no idea what to write so I did what I always do when I’m feeling especially ignorant (read: all the time): I Googled it. And Google had lots of answers. I’m just not sure any of it was useful…much less applicable.
Some sites suggested using buzzwords like, “professional.” Except that won’t work. I’m the farthest thing from professional. I once hid a California Roll in a boss’s...
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Poor Boy Genius. I dragged home another dog. For those of you who are unfamiliar with my pet situation, BG has barely survived it. There’s Turbo who disdains him, Tempi who regards him with naked suspicion, and, until recently, there was Jessica who treated him like a minion.
Although, to be honest, my grouchy mare treated everyone like minions. We considered it part of her charm.
Anyway, accusations were made when I showed up with Tag and, in BG’s defense, he’s right. I did agree we didn’t need any more animals. But, in my defense, he should have known I was lying when I said it.
It’s not like I intended to bring home another dog. It just kind of…happened. My mom was looking for a rescue to keep her two golden retrievers company and The Humane Society had recently...
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I just love the holidays. There’s all the food and family and garlands you can hang yourself with. I was told recently that my deeply embedded hatred for Christmas music stems from not having grown up with proper holiday traditions. To that end, I say:
Did so grow up with proper holiday traditions
And Rudolph still sucks
Anyway, I know several families that go out shopping together on Black Friday, which is supposed to be one of their traditions. My family would rather dig our eyes out with spoons. Black Friday is not us, but we do have Estate Sales. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it’s a lot like a Black Friday Sale. Everyone lines up. Everyone waits in the cold. Everyone bum-rushes the door so they can check out the stuff inside. In this case, a dead person’s antiques.
Yeah,...
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Maybe it’s because ASHES has been sitting on an agent’s desk without comment for the better part of two months, but everything is starting to parallel the writing process for me. Can’t get my dishwasher to work? Neither did my last hero. Husband recently set himself on fire? Yeah, well, who hasn’t envisioned torching an entire manuscript? Incapable selling my latest project horse? Well, that comparison isn’t much of a stretch. Except it kind of is because we’re talking about Lucero here.
Or Lucifer as we are prone to calling him when his owner is out of earshot.
Anyway, it’s a gorgeous Saturday afternoon and Andrew is using one half-finished cigarette to light another. “Now listen to me,” he announces. “This is going to go great. Lucifer has as much jump as he does stupid....
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It must be that time of year again. The kids are back in school, the summer light is smudging into orange, and my OCD is on overdrive. There are some benefits I guess. I get plenty of steps in when I hike across the house to touch the side door locks for the fifth time.
In that way, it’s great exercise and prevents me from cheating with my pedometer by beating it against the tabletop until I get my 7000 steps for the day.
Yes, you read that right. Apparently, the only thing I hate more than The Jersey Shore is not hitting my pedometer goal for the day. You would think, being OCD, cheating would bother me.
You would think wrong.
Anyway, after years of therapy and better living through chemistry, I can now say the words: “You are not (entirely) crazy. Your OCD is only acting up because...
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I think my coworkers are trying to domesticate me. It would make sense. I hit three months on Monday. The honeymoon period is over. My tendency to blow dry my hair via my car’s heater turned to full blast has gone from charming to…well, let’s be honest, it was never charming, but it did get the job done.
Still, there’s nothing quite like looking over to see your boss (perfectly groomed at 6:15 in the morning, cruising in her immaculate BMW) while you’re driving with your knees, draped over your dash, your 1997 Toyota belching black smoke to let you know you are not and never will be management material. Her expression was priceless. Really. It was such a perfect blend of horror and disbelief. Haven’t seen anything quite like it since I told...
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So I electrocuted Boy Genius again. For anyone keeping score—which apparently BG is—this makes twice. Now I’m sure a smarter writer could do a lot with this, but I’m in a creative cul-de-sac at the moment so I’ll just resort to my usual:
“I told you to cut the power!” Boy Genius is rubbing his arm with enthusiasm and it’s pissing me off. Like he’s the only one who’s been traumatized here. I mean I had to keep Turbo from doing a victory dance around his flailing body. This is not stuff you put on Christmas cards. This isn’t even stuff you admit.
Well. Maybe it’s just stuff you shouldn’t admit. But since when has that ever stopped me? I pass my personal line of decency all the time. It’s how I know I still have one.
“I did cut the power!” I make sure to stand...
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Of all the things people told me to worry about when I married Boy Genius, my dog, Turbo, was not among them. In my defense, I was preoccupied with other stuff. Stuff like the wedding I didn’t want, the foreclosed home we just bought, and the fact that BG’s grandma fingered my wedding dress announcing to everyone how white was not my “friend.”
To this day, I’m still not sure whether white’s not my friend because she thinks it washes me out or because she thinks I’m a whore.
But I’m getting off point here because I still feel kind of guilty about not considering the Turbo situation. I’m sure other people, better people, would have expected a period of adjustment between my new husband and my spastic dog. There could have been a plan or, at minimum, an acknowledgment that...
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So Leslie the Life Coach has conducted her big reveal and, no, I don’t mean her breasts finally burst free from their polyester prison. I mean the other Big Reveal. The one where she references the personality tests I took, six pages of Excel spreadsheets, and the voices in her head to explain how I’m destined to be a teacher. Specifically, how I’m destined to be a riding instructor.
Yeah, I needed a moment to compose myself too.
But back to poor Leslie. Y’all, I really think she was expecting applause. She had the biggest, toothiest grin on her face and she gave me an invoice on scented letterhead. She didn’t understand where the awkward silence came from, much less what was up with my expression, which I can only charitably describe as a hemorrhoid grimace.
Sadly, this is not the first...
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