RECAP.

So I've been silently working away...bereft of an agent...bereft of literary love...to finish a couple of writing projects.

I kind of lost my way for a bit.  Had a moment (quite a few actually) of squishy, face palm, why-the-feck-am-I-doing-this?, ego stomping.
One of my novels sat with an agent for a year. It was very exciting. After a sub, I received a revise and resubmit request.
Chuffed, to say the least.
A full request followed and then I settled in to wait.
I had other full requests during this time...Yeehaw, but they didn't pan out. I had a full request, but the agent wanted an exclusive. Couldn't give it because of all of the other plates spinning in the air.

Sigh.

The life of a writer is glamorous, eh?

Anyhoo. Reality. It bites.

After a very long wait...I finally got the call. REJECTED. But here's the sticking point. The rejection was based on the original query, and not the revised sub. The new stuff was apparently lost in the circular file. Shite happens. The agent is awesome, but from the feedback I know the revised manuscript was never seen.
My little glass house shattered.
Agents are busy. I get it. Writers are a dime-a-dozen.
But it was still a kick in the gut to have worked and waited, then passed by because of crashed files.
Hey. Shite happens.  The agent is still awesome. No worries. Just not my time.

Meanwhile in Simianville...

I had to step back. For seven years my poor hubster, my poor children, all supported my writing frenzies with patient smiles, plates of food that miraculously appeared in front of me at odd hours, and allowed me to get two novels, four collections of short stories, and a burgeoning graphic novel out of my head.
I put my eggs in another creative basket and took a break from writing.
I opened an etsy shop so I could channel my art into another form. It's been quite successful.
I caught up on movies.
I devoted time to The Walking Dead.
I became a devotee of Game of Thrones.
I enjoyed Grimm -- gotta show the love for a locally filmed show.
I maintained my relationship with Supernatural. yeah. mmmmmm.

I NEVER DID THE HARLEM SHAKE.
Wtf?

Lost track of some friends -- life happens, made new friends, reconnected with old friends again.

I still dabbled with writing -- wrote a zombie short from a horrible nightmare I had.
Took part in a writing prompt -- Bump off your enemy in 200 words or less -- that went into an ebook anthology.

Dove into my child's school world and headed up a major fundraiser for the PTA (NEVER AGAIN, BTW...)

My particular brand of awesome is a bit out of place at that school.  But of course it was a success. Even if I do say so meself. I tripled the previous years' revenue and kicked wicked high! HiiiiiiiYahhhhh!

But in the mean time:

I had dinner parties. And cocktail parties.
Went on family holidays.

Thought briefly about being pope:

naw.

Discovered my children are amazing and funny. My eldest loves to swear. My bad. But fer fuck's sake! oops.
She informed me thusly: I was born an Irish woman. It's in my blood. It's who I am!

F.M.Freddy! What have I done?

And she's very good at it, too. Heh. I'm probably going to start getting calls from the school soon. Sigh.

She's also a rock star. I'm so proud. My little monkey is at School of Rock and at 7 going on 8, she's amazing! In June she will be performing at a nightclub -- three Iron Maiden songs: Fear of the Dark, Hallowed Be Thy Name, and Run To The Hills.  She's got a huge voice and I'm looking forward to all the posh life she will provide in my dotage. 
Cackle™

And Shite went south.
A close family friend turned out to not be such a friend. She went a bit cray cray...totes (thanks, Finn and Jake) and I had to cut the rope lest she drag me down the cliff face with her.  Had to release the flying monkeys!

It was beautiful, man. Just beautiful.

But also sucky. Suckness.
Suckage.
And money suckage, too. Cost me close to $1200 to rid myself of that brand of crazy. No good deed goes unpunished.

I should have seen it coming

The thinner the eyebrow, the crazier the chica. Boom!

turmoil, turmoil, turmoil....and then holding pattern.
Retrospect and deep thoughts ensued. Ed Asner only visited one time...and I can't remember what he said in the dream. Non-dead Living spirit guide gone silent.  Uh-oh.


But I still had the deep dark urge to write.

yes...you are writer...you are still a writer...

My poor writing partner, Ariana Burns, is pretty amazing. She has suffered so while I wallowed in self pity.
We've been co-writing a novel for about 30 years.
Okay.
Not 30.
But it feels like it.

heh. It started out as a Nano challenge. And we are sooooooooo close.
I'm going to put this in the public eye so you all can hold me accountable:

I WILL FINISH WILDCAT OF THE HIGH SEAS BY AUGUST 10. 

And now for part II of my Ari promise:
I WILL FINISH THE THREE KEYS OF CAPTAIN HELLFIRE SONGS BY JULY 10.

 
The graphic novel will be done by December. It has to. It's just too amazing not to be. Michael O'Mannion's art is the bomb diggety.

I'm going to self publish one novel:

and keep looking for a home for Melvin:

And I will get a pony.


(crickets)

Okay. Maybe just a bike.

 So. There is my recap. Tahdah.
Whatevs.

It's that kind of blog today.  Oh yes, yes indeed. 

And why not? I write these little bursts of creativity to satisfy the exhibitionist tendencies in my life. My Facebook page is rife with examples of over sharing. This blog, too, serves as a clearing house for the little blorps of grey matter that wriggle free and scream for attention. 

What shall I share today? Lots of different things.

Let's start with this:

   Embarrassment bucket list

 What is an Embarrassment Bucket List? 

Mortifying things that happen when and where other people will see.  Luckily, due to some divine law, if you manage to cross of an item on this list it will never happen again. Hopefully. Maybe.  Potentially.

Some things are out of your control. 

Being caught outside in your backyard in your birthday suit (no girdle, no bra, no lipstick, NO dignity) because you think you'll be able to dash out quickly and hop in the hot tub without anyone seeing...but no...the neighbors have guests over and they are all out on their top deck as you come waddling out, starkers, oblivious, cocktail in one hand and smoke in the other.

 Good times.

Number 2? Why number two of course.

I recently had the flu. As we all know Mommies don't get time outs, do-overs, or real days off.
Cue violins and laugh track.

In my quest to get stuff finished before I collapsed on my death bed, I had two errands to run. Two.
The bank, and to return some helium tanks to a rental place (I was in charge of a school function -- heh...PTA Monkey).

Not only did I throw up in the bank lobby and completely humiliate myself,  I proceeded on the next errand  to have the trifecta at the rental return counter.   Yup. Yuppers. Yupparooni.

I coughed, vomited, and blew my dignity out me arse, all right in front of the poor service guy. Yes. It is what you think it is.

Damn! That's nasty, yo!

Yeah.  Lovely. There's no coming back from that one.

Embarrassment Bucket List?
Check. Check. CHECK.


In other news I have a child that likes to paint with poop. Stellar. But of course I do. I'm a smoking simian. Monkeys fling poo. Ahhh, but do they paint with it? Mine does.  She's a genius!

A veritable Poop Picasso. Epic.
Speaking of poo...

(nice segue)

I am obsessed with Samy and Amy Bouzaglo from Amy's Baking Company and Bistro Boutique Crazy Bonanza. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you need to see it.
Their restaurant was featured on Gordon Ramsey's Hells Kitchen. They were the only people Gordon Ramsey has EVER walked away from in the show's history.

Amy and Samy are Nucking Futs!

Here is the link : Crazy time wackadoodles

She says she speaks cat.
Oh. Dear. My. My.
And not in the awesome Super Trooper kind of way.
Whoa.

Meow, Amy. Meow. You need some lithium, babe. Seriously.

A big old shot of WTF.

Even though I believe you to be utterly and sincerely CRAY CRAY, I do feel bad about the amount of horrible racist comments hitting your facebook page and twitter, and tumblr, and whatever.
You and Samy are horrible people. But bringing race into it is off sides.
Let's just stick to the facts:
You guys scream at and threaten your patrons, your employees, you steal their tips, you sell fake food, you sell other company's cakes and claim them as your own, you do things to customers' food that will hurt them -- overspice much?-- you throw GOD in folk's faces and then turn around in the same sentence and say the most obscene things.
Don't get me wrong. I worship at the altar of profanity.

But bitch, you crazy!

Seriously unbalanced. Wacked. Out there. Un-hinged.

You make me look like the poster child for Normalcy. Color me humbled.

Who am I to judge? Why yes...I am the decorum police.

But...

I still hate woodpeckers with every fiber of my being and dream of delightful Eli Roth inspired ways to kill them.
I think free samples sitting out on counters are terrifying.
I don't understand the lure of Bubble Tea.
I hate all manner of blank blank Dynasty reality television shows, in fact 98% of all reality tv shows.
Justin Beiber is a little twat.
Auto tune songs make me stabby.
The Wicked Witch caught a bum rap.
I laugh when people fall down.
Achondroplasiaphobia is my excuse to be a horrid little monkey.
I think society would benefit from Thunderdome justice. Bust a deal...Face the wheel.

So there it is then.

My friend Emily, ELI!!!!, suggested I write about things that aren't what they are.

Duran Duran. They are neither Duran nor Duran.

Love it, babe. (that's what she said...heh)

From Urban Dictionary the meaning is someone who is perfect without flaws. 

Simian Gothic. That's without flaw.

But is Duran Duran truly Duran.
Why yes. I believe it to be so.

Philosophical Monkey say, her name is Rio and she dances in the sun.  The reflex is a lonely child who is hungry like the wolf.  Save a Prayer for Electric Barberella because is there something I should know?

That needs to go in a fortune cookie somewhere.

Time to go fall into a cocktail.

Smelly bye byes.

Foinah Out.

Oh. There I am.

Greetings.
Yeah, yeah...it's been a while.
I'm busy. Two kids, life, flu.....
more flu, house guests, turmoil, creative differences, pity parties.


AND saving the universe from unscrupulous resellers....

 There is a seller on Amazon called any_book.  Wow.  I had to file many claims to finally get them to stop listing my stuff fraudulently.  Before you buy anything from them on Amazon, take a look at their feedback rating. Don't be fooled by the 5 stars, look at their percentage rate. Last time I looked it was 94%. Lots of 1 star feedback. That says a lot.
That battle kept me busy.

This blog carried on without me.

But you know what? I discovered this blog is a clearing house for monkey pics. I'm apparently the go-to gal for every odd simian pic you are looking for on teh interwebz. And let's not forget a shout out to the e-cig spammers.

Don't I feel special? Am I going to stop blogging? Naw. Whatever. I amuse myself with the postings here, and really isn't that why I write?

I'm still looking for an agent. That's been daunting, and an exercise or exorcise in self loathing and insanity.  I receive great feedback, but it's the standard WHILE WE LOVE THIS PROJECT WE JUST DON'T FEEL IT'S A GOOD FIT FOR OUR AGENCY or the good old "We just don't know where to market this. Perhaps another agent will have more luck."
So I've been taking a break. Stepping back to let the novels breathe for a bit.  Yeah. that's it.


My nose is ground flat from constant application to the grindstone.

 In happier news the hubster and I just celebrated our 12th wedding anniversary:

Aren't we a lovely pair?  He's my sweet babboo. Oh yeah.

I caught pneumonia for two months and quit smoking.  I immediately gained 10 pounds.
Screw that! Oh, my lovely little clove cigars, I'm sorry I abandoned you. I've come to my senses.

Nothing says I'm sorry like chain smoking.  The conundrum -- pudgy but pink lunged or svelt(ish) and tar-coated? Need you even ask?

Plus there's that whole image thing. The writer who doesn't smoke and drink is the writer who doesn't write. Never mind what I said about my little break. Just because I'm not typing doesn't mean I'm not storing up ideas.

That's sophistication. Ayup.

With time off from my writing (the pity party I referenced earlier in this post) I've been able to have some quality gal pal time. The Divine YaYas. The Cackle Pack.  I've discovered a number of things that go well with rum, including little juice boxes.  This could get scary! heh.

Hey girl! WeeWa and Foi. Good times.

And my world is complete now with the return of The Walking Dead.

Who doesn't love zombies? Eh? And here's a question: Were you just as disappointed as I was that the zombie apocalypse didn't happen? 12/21/2012 was suuuuuch a let down. I mean really! All that build up and nothing, not even a ripple in the space time continuum. Sure we had the meteor over Russia recently, but even that was pretty ptttfp. Maybe it dispersed microbes that will start the plague! Ooh!

Not that I'm actively condoning the dead rising to eat brains and make havoc, but it would be better entertainment than C-Span and the current budget cuts.
Meh.


So to all the fans of random monkey pics, I thank you for your google prowess. Here's a token of my gratitude.

(That's me hosting a PTA function at my daughter's school. What can I say? I'm a Rock and Roll Mom in Heathers world.)

That's all I've got. You wanted more? Maybe tomorrow.

5X5 (yeah, my thumb is tucked, but four is the new five. )
-- Foinah

My letter to an ASS HAT

Dear fat white guy in a douli (but you probably call it a coolie hat) at Reeder Beach with your unleashed pit bull,

I'd like to thank you and your illustrious group of whatever they were for making one of the last warm, pleasant days of 2012 so memorable. I know I'll never forget it.

No, no, no…your scraggly goatee/face hair spread and your hipster rim glasses didn't make you look douchey at all. 

And your wife/help mate/breeding partner really made an impression with those bleached out, lumpy dreads piled on her head – to her credit her skull actually had more hair then her arm pits! Good for you, honey.  Your friends, outdoor guy and the mother of his child (?) with the frosted hair and anorexic/post birth body, are definitely keepers. Oh yeah. You guys all fit together like, hmmm, white sheets at Klan rallies? Yeah. That's a good descriptor. 

But most of all I just LOVED meeting that dog.  My heart sends a big "Yo!" shout out for the free stress test. I'd also like to personally thank you for proving Kegels work. I didn't pee!

How much fun was it for you to see your "friendly" pit bull CHARLIE come charging down the beach at full speed and attack me? It must have been awesome. Yeah…I'll never forget it. Good thing you had him in a muzzle, the same color as his fur so I couldn't tell he wouldn't actually bite me, so you could laugh, laugh, laugh as I tried to run uphill, in sand, to get away.  Good one. I really enjoyed being slammed into at full speed by your "don't worry, he's friendly" dog that was growling and had his tail between his legs. And then you got the added bonus of my absolute terror when he bolted for my children.  I'm reeeeaaaaallly sorry I tried to kick him. Yeah. I meant to use that piece of driftwood. 

Usually I'm better prepared.

 

Is that why you finally called him back to your spot in the sand 150 yards away? And thanks for manifesting that leash out of thin air and giving me dirty looks because of the stooopid leash laws.  Yeah. What's that about? Who wants to keep a dog reined in in public? Sheesh.  Those meanies who hate pit bulls. Okay…so the ratio is five evil, face-chewing, baby gnawing PIT BULLS to one happy, friendly, family pet, wouldn't hurt a fly, we leave him alone with our infant all the time PIT BULL. Those tight asses and their statistics.  I'm sure your free spirit/ runs way too fast/why is he muzzled? pit bull is super cool around your own tiny babies.

And thanks for the apology, by the way. What apology? you ask.

Exactly. 

I really enjoyed your comments over the next forty-five minutes as I moved my stuff down the beach and stayed between your dog's line of attack and my children.  But that wasn't good enough. As you were leaving, that last dig about letting him go on our side of the beach, just to see what he'd do…that was some funny stuff. I'm still laughing about you saying I should be running down the beach catching Frisbees in my mouth… oooh, burn.  Were you implying I'm a dog?  I like dogs (just not your dog). 

But you like dogs.

So was that a compliment?

You're just too deep for me, man. Whoa.

You're right, of course, I shouldn't have sworn in front of my children. I shouldn't have called you assholes…I should have called 911.

My bad.

But hey, thanks for a memorable day. Thanks for making my kids cry. Thanks for coming to the beach today and spreading your brand of sunshine.

I must repay your for this. No, really. I insist.

How about this?

I'll just keep mentioning you, describing your sultry, swollen looks, your muddy blonde hair and pale basement/WoW induced complexion, those bits of sandwhich lingering in your face scrag, your pit bull named Charlie, your rapier wit, and ask my readers to keep an eye out. We'll play spot the oh-so-non-douche-douli-wearing-man's-man so EVERYONE can see how charming and erudite you are.  You'll become a star among gas giants. Maybe a brown dwarf.  Your white sheet buddies will be so impressed.

In fact I'll give you the special honor of appearing in EVERY ONE OF MY BOOKS from now on. You'll always have a place in my heart and the stomach of whatever eats you between the pages. My gift to you.