This is My Body, This is My Blood

Nature Calls

I'm supposed to be busy revising, but ever since those rains hit last week it's hard not to get sucked through the window. What was brown and dusty only days ago, has morphed into rich, dewy hues of jade and emerald. As if the sea of green weren't enough to pull my gaze from the keyboard, the male goldfinches are exchanging their muted summer feathers for a shade of sunflower yellow sure to draw a crowd of horny females come mating season. Not to mention the racket they'e making at my feeder--one more distraction from the task at hand.

I happen to like the toasty lion's mane grass on the hills surrounding my house from April through October, but all this green is so delicious one can't help but want to throw on a pair of sneakers and take a hike up Bishop's Peak or head out to Montana de Oro for a walk along the bluffs. But my internal editor is a bitch."Stay on schedule, finish revisions, play later," she scolds.

Screw her. Even a dedicated writer can't resist the draw of The Great Mother to come frolic on her playground for a couple hours. Where's my pink hat? I'm outa here!

Things that Go Bump in the Light

This is your laptop. This is your laptop on drugs.

Actually, it's my trusty Compaq Presario on the floor after I accidentally (like I need to tell you that) knocked it off the desk when I jumped up to answer the door. Thank heavens I had saved the morning's revisions on my manuscript or I would also be on the floor after kicking myself in the ass for beng so stupid.

The last thing I needed to think about right now was buying a new notebook, but since I had to think about it, I researched several models and decided upon a Dell Inspiron 8600. Found one on eBay for 70% of retail and, thanks to a loan (Thanks, M!) it should arrive on my doorstep Thursday. Now I just need to figure out how to transfer my programs and files from the old computer to the new one.

While I'm waiting for my new laptop to arrive, I can always look for Waldo in the broken LCD display.

Home Run

I'm being held accountable by a loyal reader for a promise I made to share a certain story in which I suffered one of my most embarrassing moments. So here it is. Turn your head if you're squeamish.

Between wasbunds I dated L, a man with a great sense of humor who liked to share his funny stories in the break room. I once arrived at work to find a crowd of people standing around the front of his car where he was documenting one of those stories by pointing out the shape of my butt cheeks in the dusty hood of his yellow chevy to the delight of our grinning coworkers. I would have dumped him then and there, save for the genuine delight he took in surprising me with funny cards under my desk or blindfolding me before leading me to the table where he'd arranged my favorite Milano cookies in the shape of a heart or having flowers sent ahead to restaurants so the waiter would present them to me at our table. I tolerated his loose lips in exchange for his abundant humor and romantic creativity and he tolerated my obsession with organizing his unruly desk because Iwas unruly in other ways.

L's apartment was located a mere six blocks from where we both worked--which made for a convenient love nest on those afternoons when we were supposed to be out knocking on doors to solicit potential customers. Our boss referred to it as "cold calling." We referred to it as another serendipitous opportunity to keep each other warm in the middle of freezing ass winter afternoons.

Unfortunately, our regular rendezvous were interrupted for a couple of weeks when I had laser surgery to burn abnormal cells from my cervix, a part of my anatomy L affectionately called my "whatchamacallit." On the exact day my doctor gave permission to "resume intercourse" we skated across the icy street to his apartment for what turned out to be one of our more, er, energetic lovemaking sessions that combined food with play.

Afterward, as we lay atop tangled sheets, the steam still rising as it evaporated from our sweaty bodies, L reached beneath his back to remove what he imagined was probably an apple core or a piece of sourdough baguette. He held the item out for me to inspect.

Him: We didn't have strawberries, did we?

Me: It's the middle of January in Michigan. Where would we get strawberries, you doofus?

Him: Well then what's this?

Me:(Turning three shades of red) Um. I think it's part of my whatchamacallit.

Him: (Turning three shades of green before pitching the thing across the room where it bounced off the wall and lay like a dismembered nose on the floor in the doorway) Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Me: (Kicking unmentionable piece of my destroyed anatomy into the bathroom as I escaped) I think I'll run home and die now.

We both recovered, L more quickly than me. When I called my OB-GYN, she explained that it was normal for my body to eventually expel the destroyed tissue. She didn't mention this when we scheduled the procedure. I didn't mention I'd had assistance in the expelment.

Some men brag about fucking their girlfriend's brains out. L could now brag of being endowed to the degree he knocked his woman's whatchamacallit right out of the "ball park." However, I believe this story was his third and final strike against my field of tolerance, a foul way outside the borders of any woman's personal boundaries.

Missed that bat for a while, though.

PLEASE NOTE: This may be my last post for a while until I finish up a rewrite of my novel. Sorry for the lack of posts--I hope you'll hang in there with me through the silence of editing. Come November I should be back in the game. Thanks for your patience.

Kissing the Muse

I apologize for not posting lately and I probably won't be doing so very often for the next few weeks or so. I'm up to my elbows in a rewrite of Waiting for David, after an informative conversation with an editor at Harper Collins who was kind enough to call and offer some suggestions for improvement of the manuscript. Although no contract is on the table at the moment, she did promise to reread the book once the revision is complete and said she thinks I'm a "charming writer with great promise for success."

Well, that was enough to send my fingers flying back to the keyboard. In the meantime, my agent is reading  my other novel and I'm hoping to hear something positive from her within a month. I wish I could manage to post more regularly, but my muse only slobbers so much creative juice onto my lips and right now I need to hog every drop for the rewrite. I hope y'all will understand and still be around when I'm able to write more faithfully here.

xo,

ellie

Note: That's me, kissing my baby brother, one of my most loyal readers and inspirational muses. Notice the Agarn sideburns, thanks to my cruel sister's idea of a "new" hairdo.  Never trust an F-Troop fan with scissors in her hands.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

I'm continually amazed by the stupid things I do from day to day. So much so that I've decided to track my Stupid Ellie Tricks here on a list I can add to as time goes by. I usually blame these brainless episodes on perimenopause, or, if I can get away with it, on anybody in the room.

Yesterday while giving a massage, I paused to take a swig of water and tipped the jug back too far,  causing water to flood my nose and nearly drown me. My client never said a thing as we booked her next appointment. Maybe she figured my clothes were soaked from working so hard. either that or I was preparing for a wet t-shirt contest.

Walked up to a woman in Ross's and handed her one of my "Belly Cast" business cards. When she asked why I was giving it to her, it dawned on me that she wasn't pregnant, just had a poochie stomach. I recovered quickly, though, by telling her I was starting a new business and asking people to refer any pregnant women they know. Good save, eh? Yeah. I don't think she bought it, either.

Charged my cell phone on the car battery overnight and ran the car battery down.  The phone charged, though. Used it to call AAA for a charge.

I once attempted to pluck a loose hair from a customer's shirt without realizing it was attached to his chest.   

Proudly put a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on my car last month...next to the one I've had for years, which happens to read, "next mood swing: six minutes."  Sheesh.

When I was a realtor (in my former life) I once reached into my purse and offered my (very handsome) buyer a tampon with which to sign the purchase contract. 

Wore my bikini swimsuit bottoms inside out last summer (white crotch fabric displayed in full public view) for an hour at the beach before I discovered my faux pas in the restroom.

There are more, tons more, but I'm saving some for later.  In fact the best one, which involves s-e-x of course, deserves a post of its own.

Incidentally, the photo is of my son, who I caught making water rockets in the back yard last summer.  Note the curious "reservoir" on the fattest part of his, um, balloon. This is blackmail ammunition for when he threatens to tell family secrets.

Feel free to share your favorite Stupid People Trick here!