Xmas Present Winner - #1

Two winners left, people. Get it while its hot! (See the post below)

An Ode to Missy:

There once was a land
On the Southeast coast
“That could make all children smile,”
It would constantly boast.

This land needed workers
Its own little slaves
To do the work of the Devil
For next to no pay.

It is at this job
Where a mouse was their boss
That two young girls met
Yes, their paths, they did cross.

The one girl, athletic,
Curvy, with one hot physique
The other, svelte and clumsy
She’d trip over her feet.

The two became pals
The best of, in fact
They vowed lifelong friendship
It was their own little pact.

The clumsy one, me
Was quite naïve
Never been drunk before
Her 21st birthday’s eve.

This dear friend of mine
(Missy's her name)
Stole the innocence from me
Yes, she is to blame.

Oh, Sweet Alcohol!
You offer such love
No man can compare,
You must be sent from above!

She’d pry the glass from my hands
Which were holding the neck in full throttle
And pull back my hair
As I threw up in the bottle


And I’m glad she was there
Every step of the way
Yes, this is what friendship
Is made of, I say.

We journeyed to Hell
Then made our way back
Now grown up and calmed down
And not nearly as whack.

She now lives cross the country
We’re forced to bond through email
It may as well be Siberia
For these two females.

And though it’s been 3 years
Since we last saw each other
When we talk it’s as if
We never left one another.

Whether 3 years or 3 days,
I admit sans her cajole
This young girl is my friend,
My family, and Soul.

We may never be neighbors
Or even in neighboring states
But I know one thing’s for sure
That this friendship’s too great—
For whenever she needs me,
I’ll be there for her
Go ahead and ask her vice versa
I’m sure she’ll concur.

Deck the Blog with Boughs of...

...holly.

Right. So, ok, here we go. Because I am a Christmas NUT and love this holiday so much, I am doing something that you may consider crazy. I'm going to give a present to the first three people to comment on this post. The idea came from Merry of Mom and More (I am a computer idiot and have no idea how to link...sorry!)who got the idea from JerseyGirl who got the idea from another blogger I don't know, and so on and so forth.

So, let's recap: You, reader, comment on this post. Then, you, reader will receive one of the following Christmas gifts from me.

1) A poem written just for you. It will be tough since I know very little about every single one of you, but I'm up to the challenge. The poem will be posted here and also be sent to you via email to post on your own site.

or

2) A (used) copy of one of my favorite books. You'll get your choice of a few, just in case you haveit or have read it. I'm thinking one will be the nonfiction book called The Physics of Christmas which goes into detail about how fast Santa's sleigh has to fly in order to make it to every house in time, etc. Or you could have a copy the book Grab Your Tiger, which is an anthology of short stories (featuring a story by yours truly), Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie, or Lovely Bones.

That is all...Merry (early) Christmas bloggers!

A Redneck Holiday

I could regale you with tales of my boring Thanksgiving, which consisted of a very healthy baked turkey, steamed green beans, mashed potatoes, etc. I prefer my turkey served in a vat of Crisco, my potatoes swimming in a pool of butter, and my green beans submerged in melted cheese. But, you know, this healthy stuff worked too. My arteries will thank me later.

After dinner, I suited up in a bulky sweatshirt (A GIANTS sweatshirt, which was definitely not appreciated by my boyfriend’s New England Patriots loving family!). I pulled the hood up around my ears and over the enormous ski cap that was tightly hugging my skull. Tucking the frayed hem of me jeans into blue Ugg boots, I slipped gloves over my fingers and headed out with the boys.

I was being taught how to shoot a gun. His dad showed me how to load the bullet into the chamber and the proper way to position it—against your shoulder so that there is no kick back (or something to that extent). Pretty much all I heard was “Blah, blah, blah…aim at the target…blah, blah, blah…pull the trigger.” I have a very bad tendency to get a tad overzealous and not pay attention to important details…like instructions.
The conversation went a bit like this:

Sean’s Dad: Now, you pull the lever back and you’ll see the bullet be shifted into the barrel.
Me: (I put my finger on the trigger)
Sean’s Dad: No…not the trigger, the lever.
Me: Isn’t the trigger also a lever?
Sean’s Dad: No, it’s the trigger. THIS is the lever. It cocks the gun.
Me: (Chuckles to myself that Sean’s dad said “cock”)
Sean’s Dad: Ok. So, go ahead and pull the lever.
Me: (I put my finger on the trigger. Mainly to amuse myself; I know this is the wrong “lever”)
Sean’s Dad: That’s the trigger!
Me: Oh, right. (I load the bullet)
Sean’s Dad: So, now the gun is live.
Me: The gun’s alive?
Sean’s Dad: No, the gun IS live. As in it’s ready to shoot.
Me; (I lower the gun from my shoulder) Oh, so that means, it’s like—
Sean’s Dad: Don’t lower the gun! Once it’s cocked, you want to keep it pointing at the target. Just in case.
Me: Oh, ok. It doesn’t seem to safe though to be yelling at the girl holding the loaded gun.
Sean’s Dad: Now, to aim, you align the front thingy and the back thingy (I can’t remember the proper terms) with the target. Then just pull the trigger.


I squeezed one eye shut and looked through the alignment thingy that was just in front of my face.

Sean: Nice face, hun. You don’t have to growl at your target though.
Me: So, who could this gun kill?
Sean and Sean’s Dad: Who could what?
Me: I mean, what type of game would you shoot with this.
Sean’s Dad: Well, it’s a 22 bullet. It could kill just about anyone, if aimed right, but I wouldn’t go hunting any moose with it or anything.
Me: Wow.
Sean: You’re scaring us, Colleen.

I ignored him. Through the metal viewer, I saw the brown cardboard target. The power I held between my delicate hands was tremendous. My knees shook. This metal thing that was only a few pounds, resting against my bony shoulder could take a life. Whether that life was a bird or a person, it had the power. I had the power. And I liked it just a little too much. My finger wrapped around the trigger like a snake coiling around its prey and I squeezed, gently at first. Then a little tighter, I heard the loud BANG. I lowered the gun and 40 feet in front of me, a tree branch rocked back and forth.

Sean: Hey, you hit the target!
Sean’s Dad: And you hit that leaf! See it swaying?

Oh, I could see it. But that leaf—that leaf never even saw it coming.

Not for the Faint of Heart

Warning: This post is a tad bit graphic. Easily PG-13. If you are among the faint of heart and easily disturbed by potty humor, discontinue reading.

You have been warned.

So have you ever had your cell phone in your pocket and gone to the bathroom just to have it fall out of your pocket into the toilet? Yeah, me too. Only today, I had a small glass bottle of foundation in my back pocket. It fell in the toilet and shattered against the side of the bowl.

It happened as I was standing after going not only number one, but also number two. So, there, amongst my own waste, were shards of glass and foundation glop.

I knew I had two options...I could flush, but I assumed flushing shards of glass couldn't be good for the potty. Or I could go find my office manager...a woman to help me determine what to do. I decided that attempting the first option would be much less humiliating. And if the toilet clogged, so what? Then I can let them know and pass the blame onto someone else.

So I bite the bullet and flush. I hear shards of glass tinkling against the porcelin bowl and just as I thought everything would be fine, the water started swirling in the opposite direction and the water, piss, poo, and foundation started spilling over top of the toilet bowl and all over my Steve Madden suede boots. That's karma for you, huh?

I'm pretty much the ONLY girl in the office who wears foundation so I knew they'd bust me if I didn't fess up. I went to find my office manager to explain the debacle....and she joined me in the bathroom. Her face twisted, horrified by my mess. I told her that the toilet must have already been clogged because the poo wasn't mine.

"And the foundation?" She asked.

"Yeah, that's mine." It was quiet for a moment, so I continued, "I dropped my foundation bottle in there. Then when I leaned in to retrieve the pieces of glass I accidentally leaned on the flusher lever (we have those old toilets with the huge metal push handle thing)." I waited for her response, biting my lip nervously.

Amazingly enough, she believed me and a smile cracked through her disgusted face. "I knew the 'mess' here couldn't be yours. No way anything this big could come out of a girl so small!" Ahhh, if only she knew me better.

So now...I'm walking around and my boots smell like my own feces. And urine. It's awful. My colleagues all know what happened and everyone else can smell me. If I were a cartoon character, a green-like fog would be trailing behind me as I walked. To make it worse I have to get on the subway tonight smelling like sewage.

Moral of the story: Do not put anything breakable in your back pocket when using the loo.

Successful Query, yay!

As some of you may know, I have been querying agents for a book I finished. My first book of memoirs, a couple of which are featured on this blog. The style of my book is very unusual, as it is in short story format, but the stories are sequential and with a narrative story arch.

I've had a lot of success with my query letter and have had all but 3 agents request to see partials or fulls of my manuscript. So far, I have yet to hear back, but my fingers and toes are crossed! I thought that perhaps, you all would want to see an example of one letter I sent out to a senior editor at Citadel Press (no, she's not an agent, but I figured what the hell...it couldn't hurt). The writing in my letter was very stylized and the type of format that will either be loved or hated by those reading it. I guess my mindset was that since most of my book was written in this style, if they didn't like it, better to weed them out early. And since there's no way to please everyone, I took a risk, hoping to grab the attention of the agent and/or editor most like myself with a similar sense of humor.

So...here's my letter with one response (from the editor):


Re: I FORGIVE YOU…(AND OTHER APPALLING LIES)

Dear Ms. *********,

I love coffee. Sometimes people try to switch my coffee from caffeinated to decaf. I can always tell the difference. I also like Pringles, but only the reduced fat kind because they crunch better when you bite into them and they aren't as greasy. I'm an actress sometimes, a photographer rarely, a producer most of the time, and a friend always. But seriously, and yes I can be serious, I consider myself a work in progress. I believe if you fall asleep at night the same person that you were in the morning, you might as well have stayed in bed. Life will kick you in the balls, but I kick back harder. I am a dreamer. I am a romantic. I am pragmatic. I am contradictory. I am who I am and I love who I am. I love my family, my friends, my life, and every crusade I've fought to get where I am. Although it's been proven that caffeine is addictive, stunts your growth, and is bad for your teeth—I like it. And I’ll never allow anyone to steal the caffeine from my coffee. My book chronicles the important, the funny, the sometimes life-changing moments I have experienced. These are my stories. These are my memoirs. These are the reasons I became the woman I am today.

My memoir, I Forgive You…(and Other Appalling Lies), chronicles the groundbreaking experiences of my life. I use humor as my defense in the face of every hardship. From the first time I was dumped to my battle with cervical cancer (and HPV), you accompany me on the stories (large and small) of my life that have made me the woman I am today. And in spite of everything, I continue searching for a love that will curl my toes and a man similar to the coffee I drink each morning: Tall, Dark, Delicious...and will keep me awake all night long.

I read about you on Citadel Press's website. After seeing that you are a senior editor for genres such as humor, memoirs, and narrative non-fiction, I decided to send you a query letter. I’m young, ambitious, and I guarantee that I will be a published author within two years.

What gives me an edge? Well, my current boss is a celebrity, an amazing writer, and extremely supportive of my efforts. Her name is Linda Ellerbee. I currently work as her associate producer for Nick News on Nickelodeon. My writing career began at age six when I started creating stories to accommodate my wild imagination. My favorite was about an angel whose job was to watch over a little orphan girl. I am a graduate of the Savannah College of Art and Design, with a BFA in Photography and have been a regular writer for TheTruthMagazine.com and a regional magazine called Chesapeake Pet. Most recently, I had a short story published in a book of anthologies, GRAB YOUR TIGER, which was released in April of 2007.

I'd be happy to send you a complete manuscript for your review. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.


Sincerely,

Colleen Katana

Future Best-Selling Author


Her Response:

Dear Colleen,

Thank you for this most unusual and entertaining query letter. Things are a little crazy leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday, but I’ll be happy to take a look at the manuscript afterward. Feel free to send it along.

All Best,
***********

Chocolate on the Treadmill

Who would like to go ice-skating in Hell with me? Anyone? Bueller?

Well, it's official. Hell has frozen over and I, Colleen, have a boyfriend. This girl is officially OFF THE MARKET.

So, the boy, Sean, just moved to New York from Los Angeles to be with me. And things have been going great. It's like we're in this ethereal bubble of love and happiness. People stare at us, wanting to vomit, jealousy oozing from all orifices as we walk down the street hand in hand, staring lovingly into each other's eyes.

Last night, our love bubble popped. The stress of two people living under the same 600 square foot roof (and a dog...soon to be two dogs once we bring his back with us after Thanksgiving) became too much.

I came home from work, tired, achy, and cranky. I'm not an avid exerciser, but Sean is. For this reason, I joined the local gym so that we could bond over having rock hard abs and pecs that could poke your eyes out. I had been going 4 times a week, approximately; two work nights and on the weekends. My body has never been more sore. It's as though the devil himself reached his fiery little hands through my skin and ripped apart each quad, each bicep, each tricep, each hamstring, each calf...you get the picture. By the middle of this week, I could barely move, let alone work out. The simple act of laughing caused so much pain that if I even got the impression someone at my office was about to tell a joke, I would just turn and walk away. So anyway, I got home from work, and on my way picked up paper towels and some Halloween candy that was on sale. I was so excited about the M&M's and Reese's Cups I bought. I hadn't even seen chocolate in two weeks let alone eaten any and it sat in the plastic bag I carried with an aura of light surrounding it.

I got home, placed the bags on the counter and he immediately saw the candy, diffusing the flame of excitement that burned within me. Here's how the conversation went:

Him: Candy?
Me: Not just candy--but Reese's!
Him: Great.
Me: What? It was on sale.
Him: Do you KNOW how much sugar is in that?
Me: No. Is it enough to make YOU sweeter. If so, you should eat some pronto.
Him: I'm being serious.
Me: So am I.
Him: We have enough sweets in the house.
Me: Such as? Because the sweetest thing I've had these past two weeks is yogurt with fruit.
Him: There's a lot of sugar in some fruits.
Me: Yeah, in Delusionalville where you currently reside.
Him: And you have honey mustard. That has a ton of sugar.
Me: It's not like I pour the honey mustard directly into my mouth and drink it--a tiny bit goes on my sandwiches. HEALTHY sandwiches.
Him: It's still a lot of sugar.
(I take a bite of the Reese's cup. By his horrified face, this is apparently the equivalent to making out with a stranger at a bar right in front of him)
Me: Mmmm, this is SO good. I can just hear that sugar being stored as fat cells.
Him: You're not funny.
Me: Yes I am. Maybe not in Delusionalville where you currently reside.
Him: You used that joke already.
Me: But you didn't laugh. I thought I'd try it again.
Him: Nope, still not funny.
Me: Are you sure? Cause it may be--outside of Delusional--
Him: Stop! So, are we going to the gym tonight?
Me: Seriously?
Him: Well, I'm going.
Me: I'm only going if I can bring the bag of M&M's.
Him: YOU CAN'T EAT M&M'S AT THE GYM!
Me: Then I'm not going. And I'll eat them here. On the couch. And I'll purposefully drop one on your side so that it melts tonight while you're watching tv. So what is it? M&M's on the treadmill or M&M's on the couch?
Him: The gym. But we're walking in seperately and I'm pretending I don't know you.
Me: (under my breath) Good luck with that.

TEARS, FEARS, AND THOSE PRE-SCHOOL YEARS

TEARS, FEARS, AND THOSE PRE-SCHOOL YEARS
_____________________________________________________________
Occurred: March 2007

Her tiny teeth crunched away at the Cheerios in the bowl in front of her. To my right sat Maddie, humming an indiscernible tune while munching, milk and grainy bits of wheat floating in her mouth suspended between two rows of teeth.

“Finish up, kiddo,” I stood, bringing my own bowl of empty cereal to the sink, “we need to get you to ballet.”

“Ballet!” she shrieked and shoved another spoonful into her mouth. Dried, crusty milk was resting on the corners of her lips and she tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand.

“And if you finish soon and dress quickly, we can grab ice cream on the way.”

“Ice cream! Ballet! Yaaay!!!!” She lifted the entire bowl to her mouth and drank the rest of her cereal with one big gulp.

Well, that’s one way to finish, I guess.

Eliza was attending a Saturday class at a local University and needed me to take care of the Mad-ster for the day. I was, of course, happy to find an excuse, any excuse, to steal her for the day and bond with my favorite 4 ½ year old.

We stretched the pink tights over her legs and threw on the leotard over that. Then, I layered her in jeans and warm sweater. She buttoned her peacoat as I tied a scarf around her neck and pulled a hat down over her ears. We left their Astoria home hand in hand and walked in the brisk winter to the nearest Baskin Robins.

Maddie skipped beside me, three of her steps equaling one of my own. She hopped around, babbling on and on about how excited she was about getting ice cream. Her little fingernails scraped my palm. “Mommy never lets me eat ice cream. Even when I’m a good girl and I clean my room and I am quiet and help her bake Mrs. Annabelle cupcakes…I still don’t get to eat ice cream.”

I looked down at her, not able to see her face; only the top of her pink and white ski hat. “Why doesn’t mommy allow you to eat ice cream?”

She stopped skipping and looked up at me, her big brown eyes so dark I could barely distinguish her pupils from the irises.

“Because I’m allergetic to milk.”

Crap. How could I forget that she was allergic milk?

“Ya know, Maddie, it’s really cold for ice cream. Wouldn’t you rather have hot chocolate with soy milk? Yum, I know that’s what I want!”

In actuality, I hate anything made of soy. I find soy milk’s odd yellow color disgusting and would rather continuously poke myself in the eye with the dull point of a pencil than taint my hot chocolate with something as vile as soy milk. But I also realized that if Maddie got sick as a result of this scoop of ice cream, I would never hear the end of it. Nor would I ever be able to see her without a chaperone again for at least six months.

So, apparently, suggesting soy hot chocolate as opposed to ice cream was the equivalent of telling her that every last one of toys was going to be burned in a bonfire while we passed out brand new toys to every one of her friends leaving her with NONE. Her legs gave out beneath her and she crumbled to the ground in a fit of tears. In the land of Maddie, this suggestion warranted acting as though you had just swallowed battery acid.

“BUT…I…..YOU…SAID….WANT…..ICE CREAM….NOT…..MILK…..”

I bit my lip to stifle the laughter. “I’m sorry, Maddie, but I don’t speak Insane Toddler. Use your words…what are you trying to tell me?” I crouched and held her body steady as she caught her breath, calming down.

“You::sniff:: said ::sniff sniff:: I could have ::sniff:: ice cream. I don’t ::hiccup:: WANT hot ::sniff:: chocolate.”

“Ok,” I said, “That’s a fair statement. Why don’t we compromise.” She stared at me blankly, waiting. “You know what compromise is?” She nodded, snot starting to drip from one nostril. I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and handed it to her. “Ok, then. I will keep my promise and buy you the special ice cream that you’re allowed to have and if you’re a good girl and don’t complain about that, then we will split a soy hot chocolate.” Her eyes lit up and she started smiling again. “Deal?” I stuck my hand waiting to see if she'd shake on it.

“Deal!” She grabbed my hand and shook it eagerly.

* * *

Maddie and I made it to her upper west side ballet class just in time, but not after spilling half of the cup of hot chocolate down the front of her sweater. (which ultimately soaked through and stained her ballet leotard underneath) We ran from the subway stop to her studio, me: always a few steps ahead, dragging her behind me. The other mothers glared at me when we entered through the heavy glass doors, knowing Maddie, but not recognizing my face at all. They assumed I was the nanny or babysitter, which ultimately meant I was dirt. Hired help. And I suppose essentially, I was the nanny for the day. I knelt in front of Maddie and unbuttoned her coat, flinging off her hat and scarf. Together, we stripped her of the layers until she stood in front of me, a tiny ballerina, her soft light brown curls hanging just below her ears. She grabbed my hand, excited to show me off to her friends. Pulling me toward the loud voices of children screaming and laughing, she stopped in front of the instructor; a tall, lean woman whose features were chiseled and exotic. Her neck was long and that paired with her pale skin made her appear like a swan in front of me.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling clumsy and awkward in front of her.

“Hello.” She smiled warmly.

Hello. She made the word sound so classic and elegant. I wished I could pull off saying hello with the same memorable charm she did.

“Are you the babysitter today?” She wasn’t judgmental or condescending. Afterall, I guess what she does every Saturday is similar to that of babysitting several pre-k children all at once.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Maddie beat me to it.

“No, she’s my Aunt Colleen.” I nodded, smiling. “And she’s a ballerina too!”

I grimaced. Why did she have to say that? I smiled weakly at the Swan-lady. Maddie and I used to dance around her old house all the time, putting on music and twirling, pretending as though we were principal dancers in Swan Lake. When I was a kid, I took dance lessons and even throughout high school and college, I did. But I am far from being a ballerina.

“Really!” It was more of a proclamation than a question. “And where did you study?”

Maddie looked at me, eyes wide, not understand the question, but pretending to.

“Oh, well, I actually am more of an actress. I studied theatre moreso than ballet. Maddie was just a little confused because she’s seen me dance in a few shows.”

“Ah. I see. And where has Maddie’s father been? Mack, I believe is his name. I haven’t seen him lately.” I paused, the wheels in my head turning about the proper way to answer this. I assumed, It’s none of your damn business, would not be an appropriate response.

Again, Maddie beat me to answering. Her little lips became suddenly pouty and her head angled to the floor, her eyes looking up at the teacher and myself from under her eyebrows. “My daddy doesn’t live with us anymore,” Her voice was quiet, “He lives with Uncle Daniel.”

It was as though the entire room of gossiping mothers hushed with the one statement. Although they all pretended to be engaged in other conversations, their bodies were all leaning toward the three of us. They may as well have pressed their ears to glasses against a wall, listening.

The Swan seemed shocked and at a loss for words. “Well, she said leaning to Maddie slightly, “Sometimes daddies choose to live with other daddies, and that’s ok too.”

Maddie looked up at me, confused.

“No,” I corrected her quickly. “No, it’s not like that. He just had to go back to Virginia for a bit.” I glanced at Maddie still looking at the floor and then at the other mothers, waiting like vultures to feed on the gossip. “For work.” I added quickly at the end.

The Swan nodded. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Aunt Colleen. I hope you can make it to the spring recital.” She glided past me, constantly a vision of grace walking on the balls of her feet like a Barbie doll.

I leaned down to Maddie who was still quiet. “You ok, kiddo?”

She nodded. “We’re still a family even if daddy doesn’t live with us.” She spoke like she was reciting something she had learned in a book.

I nodded. “Yes we are.”

“And I’m not going to cry about it because big girls don’t cry.”

“Ok, Fergie, calm down there. Big girls cry. Even I cry…sometimes.”

She scrunched her nose and it reminded me of when I was young and used to do the same thing. “I’ve never seen you cry.”

I thought for a moment. How can I explain this? “I’ll make another pact with you.” She stared at me intently. She loved the idea of being involved in an adult meeting. “If you and I are hanging out and for whatever reason, one of us feels the need to cry, we will. No holding back for whatever reason. That means, I can cry in front of you, and you can cry in front of me.”

She nodded and ran off to the middle of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure she fully understood the pact, but someday she would. And when she did, I knew I’d be there to kiss away her tears. I knew I’d be the one rocking her back and forth reassuring her that tears were a good thing at times and they let the weepies out.

Moments later, she fell, landing on her bum. She looked at her instructor and then at me. Deciding on me, she tottled over holding her backside with both hands.

“Does this mean I can cry now?” She said, her eyes wide and glistening. She bit her lip, waiting for my answer.
I nodded and opened my arms. Her little body fell into mine and her body shook as she cried.