Old People Are a Menace

There. I said it.

My parents are in their mid-70s, one with advancing Parkinson's Disease but doing well and the other regularly lifted 80 lbs of chicken feed weekly for her crazy brood on her tiny farm. Since last Sunday was my birthday (and Father's Day), I received phone calls and made them as per the holiday:

Me: Happy Father's Day, Dad! What's new in the world of Parkinson's? (seriously, it started out like this)

Dad: I feel great. We're moving forward with a new therapy - the hyperbaric chamber. It will push oxygen into my brain to help it function better.

Me: So you'll essentially blow up like a frog in biology class?

Dad: That would be fun, but no.

Me: Can you text me while they're doing it?

Dad: No. But I'll hum.

Me: Hum?

Dad: Yes, it will keep my mind off of things. You know, like, being pumped full of oxygen. And now I'll be thinking of frogs.

Me: Sorry. Can you take photos while you're in there? I haven't seen a hyperbaric chamber before.

Dad: *sigh* No.

Me: You're no fun. Want to see the new tattoo I got for my birthday? I can text you so you have something to look at in the Chaaaaaaaamber.

Dad: No... Is it a frog?

Me: No. I'm just kidding. I got a nose piercing instead.

Dad: Good. Save the tattoo for when you hit fifty.

Me: Dad, Bev (sister) told me you like peanuts a lot lately.

Dad: Yeeeeess, why?

Me: I heard you should probably request a blue hearing aid next time too. They don't have the same crunch as a peanut but they are a bit more expensive. Just sayin'.

Dad: Shut up.

Me: What? I can't hear you? I'm enjoying a delicious snack of hearing aid peanuts.

Dad: [hangs up]



While on the phone with my Dad, my Mother called and left a voicemail:

Mom: Staaaacey? Can you wish Bryan (husband) a very happy Father's Day? I hope he has a wonderful day with his fabulous daughters - and you too. I don't want to use up all the tape on this message (tape? on a voicemail?) but I just wanted to tell him Happy Father's Day.

I'll be sure to tell him. Right after I call my shrink about how both parents forgot to wish me a happy birthday though they've both essentially spoken to me that day.

Callback to mom:

Me: Hey Mom. I told Bryan he's fabulous.

Mom: Thanks. Did you make him a cake? Men like cakes.

Me: Yes, Mom. Chocolate with strawberries. You know, how I like on my birthday.

Mom: Yes, well, about that...

Me: What?

Mom: I forgot to send your card with $5 in it.

Me: No problem, I'll bill you later.

Mom: Oh, you. And tell Bryan his is coming too.

Me: It's not his birthday.

Mom: I know. But I can't make him a cake and your skills are, well, in another direction.

Mom: Why are you humming?

Me: I'm thinking of frogs.

Mom: My children are weird.  [hangs up]

I love the little humans, them humans what I love to eat. I bite their tiny heads off...

... and nibble on their tiny feet.

HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE is staggering its way to your local bookstore, September 28th (available for pre-order at Amazon now) and I couldn't be more excited. I'm awaiting word on author readings around Halloween but don't be surprised to see me pop up at zombie walks in and around Washington, D.C. with a wagon full of books to sign.

I'm currently working on opening a shop for The Zombie Dating Guide, chock full of dating tips/t-shirts/magnets and other goodies to stuff your dorm room with Undead goodness. What are other items you'd like to see?

What kind of critique partner are you?

The last few weeks of summer vacation have me shoving all sorts of goodies into the family memory bag: tubing down the Shenandoah, water parks, DC with friends, and me showing the girls the right way to throw elbows at the outlet stores for back-to-school clothes. That Coach bag is MINE, beyotch! But I digress.

Taking a break today, I found a few occurrences of writers and industry professionals asking/telling about critiques. How they give them and what ultimately the writer is looking for when it comes to feedback. I'm afraid I fall into the "don't blow sunshine up anyone's butt" category, while still leaving a bit of ego intact for the writer. I'm not cruel but I am honest. In the past year, however, I've learned the Kiss-Kiss-Kill-Kiss method that works in a variety of instances but for our purposes, we'll adhere it to manuscript/article critiques.

The premise is simple: say two nice things about the piece, one thing that can be improved in your opinion and follow it up with another positive thing. Reinforce the good stuff without leaving out the bits that need help. Rinse and repeat as necessary.

You'd be surprised how well this works with husbands. I never have to do the dishes again. ;)

Are you a long lost sister of the Bradys when it comes to critiques or can put the beatdown on Cruella?

Deadlines.

While making some adjustments to An Army of Erma's writer schedule, I forgot to include the one thing every writer needs: a deadline. Many of us may say we have it covered, we mean to start first thing in the morning and whip out a chapter or an article by the next day but, in my own case at least, I need a firm date circled in red on the calendar that I can ignore until the last minute.

My writers are professionals. They also have very busy lives and things come up so when I tossed out the new format without a deadline, I heard crickets until a few days ago when I put down a date. Then people came out of the woodwork, I think relieved that I had given them something to shoot for. I have every confidence that we'll fill up Ermas with excellent columns but next time I need content -- they get the date circled in red.

Do you need a deadline?

Identity crisis and clown cars

My blog has been going through an identity crisis for weeks now. If you're a regular reader (hi Mom!) you may have noticed the clown car of blog templates running through here faster than Lohan going through rehab. The busier I get, the more I want to fix what ain't broke. I can't tell if it's OCD or if I'm flexing that Gemini awesomeness (i.e. ADD) again.

Nevertheless, I'm going to stick with this one for a while, I love the orange and swirly bits on the Zombie Dating Guide website so I'll try to link the two together in readers' minds as suggested by Beth from Wisecrack Zodiac. That woman is clever.

When do you get the urge to change your blog design? What colors or style do you look for?


Updates on writing:
  • Zombie Christmas carols and a short story submitted for the upcoming The Undead That Saved Christmas anthology
  • Futzing around with a ghost-themed romance short story
  • Flirting with NaNoWriMo
  • I've added Undead Fred's Top Ten Zombie Dating Tips to BuzzFeed

Get this. Someone thinks I'm strange. Well, duh.

Fresh on the heels of my spectacular win at Harley May's blog for the book NUMB by Sean Ferrell (I can't stop plugging this book, he'd better send me extra cupcakes), I discovered I was nominated for the Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits Award by brilliant writer S.S. Michaels at Slush Pile Hero. I have no idea how she came to this conclusion that I deserved an award for being... odd. Shut up.

So, to claim my award, I'll shake my bad thang and post it with pride from her website:

Cate Gardner’s story collection ‘Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits’ is forthcoming this October from Strange Publications. In honor of her new book Cate is holding a contest for the Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits Award. You can find out about the award and see the prizes here.
Without further ado, my own strange seven. Not as grand as the Magnificent Seven but I suspect they were just showing off.

  • Beth Bartlett at Wisecrack Zodiac because I love astrological rhyming.
  • Amy Mullis at Mind Over Mullis because I can't get that cat yoga column at An Army of Ermas out of my head. My lawyers will be contacting you soon.
  • Harley May because she thinks I'm pretty. Aaaaaaaaand, she's weird. Oh yeah, I went there.
  • Angie Mansfield. I can't decide between her talking Jade plant, Fred, and the Zebra Rag. Both equally fascinating. It's nice to see a girl letting the voices in her head take over once in a while.
  • Melanie Avila - she speaks for her dog. Yeah. I thought so too. (Disclaimer: Owen is the cutest puppy next to my two dogs I've ever seen. Yes he is. Yes he iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis).
  • Jason Tudor because no list would be complete without the author of Galactic Milk and the illustrator of the Zombie Tarot.
  • Adam Slade at Editing Hat because my daughter and I can't stop laughing over his recent release, The Reaper's Tale.
And the rules of this award, because there's always a catch (from Cate's blog):

1. Add the logo of the award to your blog post.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded it to you (don’t mess with strange people).
3. Nominate seven other blogs telling us why you think the recipient is strange enough to deserve the award.
4. Leave a message for those nominated on their blogs.
5. And, if you email catephoenix(at)gmail(dot)com and tell her you’ve received the award for your strangeness, she’ll enter you in the biggest kick-ass Strange Men competition ever. Details over at strangemeninpinstripesuits.com (click on the award link on the home page)

I feel NUMB.

Well that was a close one.

Harley May announced the winners of her contest for Sean Ferrell's book, NUMB this morning and I was among the lucky ones though I think it was more of a pity win than an actual smackdown. After seeing the thought, talent and blatant OCD displayed by the other winners, I barely squeaked by.

Thank you Harley and Sean!

Lions, potato men and Numb -- just another day in Paradise.

I have no idea what this has to do with humankind's inner struggle

Because I love Harley May so, when she said, "Hey Stace, let's make people do evil things in order to win this fabulous ARC from Sean Ferrell for his new book, NUMB." I said, "Where do I sign up?" Like I usually do. Then we braided each other's hair.

Harley's contest was for my interpretation of key scenes in the novel. I, naturally, took the most dangerous, by which I mean what I had on hand, with the lion bitchslapfest. Yes. I made up that word. Bite me, lion.

No. That is not winky on Potato Man, it's an elephant trunk. Mark Henry is just going to have to search elsewhere for debauchery. Sheez, people.

Yoga for writers, no zombies, no writers -- wait, same thing.


I've been writing about the Undead for so long that my body started to emulate one a bit too closely this week. So I huffed and I puffed and let my husband drag me up and down the mountain along the section of Appalachian Trail that is at the base of our lane in Virginia. In the next book - he dies. The man who swore to love me forever  apparently hid the vows that swore to burst my lungs with exercise after weeks of having my butt in a chair.

Ergo, I was a bit stiff. Not bad for a zombie but bad for a woman of my middle-aged years who wants to see the nether end of them. After icing myself off with a margarita upon our return, I vowed to return to yoga and the the suppleness of my youth. Yeaaaaaaaaaaah.

Today I started out with an easy stretch over my head. Both arms extended to where I guessed was the sun on this foggy humid day. Thank god I brought along more margaritas. A girl can't get parched, you know. Bad for the muscle tissues. Stretch is done, I feel magnificent. Pulling one elbow to the back of my head and drawing the hand down to my bra strap to be grasped by my other hand doing who the heck knows what but it did manage to tickle, I felt the gentle burn of biceps that hadn't been used for much more than typing words like "putrification" and "chased by men with pitchforks" in many moons. I was a goddess.

Moving on, I propped up a leg on my chair with my best Captain imitation, reminded myself that I needed more rum next time I exercised, and stretched out my leg, arm and core with an enthusiastic Warrior pose. The photo has been destroyed. You're welcome.

Next was my back and thigh muscle thingys so folding forward and clasping my hands together beneath my knees while seated, I managed to squish the crap out of my boobs in an effort to save my back. Hell no. I did, however, find the candy wrapper my er, dog, left behind under the desk.  *licks fingers*


Wanting to pace myself, I went straight into corpse pose for writers. The phone call to my husband higlighting the exhaustive effort I put into today's routine of superior fitness. Tomorrow -- belly dancing!