The Monday after

A week of root canals (my second in three weeks), earthquakes, hurricanes and baby bears eating veggie puffs in the back of my truck leaves me skittish as to what this week is going to throw at me. Hopefully it will be filled with kitten videos and unicorn-shaped cookies because I'm developing a twitch.

The girls have left me for more intellectual pursuits, apparently their school board doesn't appreciate the summer activities I planned of zombie staggering and poking ghosts until they giggle. But guess who wants to be in charge of the Kindgergarten Halloween party? Yeah, baby. Deadhead make-up, drooling, cupcake fights. It'll be like my wedding all over again.

I'm headed back into rewrites and edits for the two books for the next few weeks so send care packages. If a zombie answers the door, don't be alarmed - it's just me this time.

Hurricane Granola

Before we all (east coasters) start running in small circles about Hurricane Irene blowing down our doors, it's time to lock and load on our snack food. Electricity may be out for days, refrigeration will be sketchy, and those pretzels should have been bird food weeks ago so how do you keep your energy up for one more bloody game of Parcheesi? Hurricane Granola. Yeah, baby.

Ingredients:
6 cups oats
1/2 cup almonds
1/2 cup coconut --- it is a tropical storm after all
1/2 cup dried fruit: apricots, pineapple, papaya
3/4 cup honey
3/4 cup veggie oil
2 tsp Vanilla
1 tbsp Pumpkin Pie Spice

Set oven to 300 degrees and mix ingredients in a high-sided pan.  Bake for 30 minutes, turning oats every ten minutes. Remove from oven when the dinger goes crazy and turn one more time so it doesn't harden, then let cool.

Store in an airtight and waterproof container on a high shelf until needed as comfort food while the storm gets down with her bad self outside.

Stay safe!

SNAP

I'm on vacation with the family in the last fleeting days of summer. We've hit the beach, and I, as usual, forgot my camera as Vyo showed of her mad new Frog swimming skills and my husband buried various children in the sand. At least a couple of them were ours, I'm sure.

Since I am camera-less, I'm storing memories in the extra storage of my brain. It's not foolproof and I'm sure I'll confuse this vacation with the one from two years ago that involved southern California and farm animals but I'm looking at this as a writer's exercise.

What details can I remember and use later - sunsets, bug bites, humidity and Vyolette wrestling a giant inflatable dolphin in the waves - and what will get filtered out or used as fodder for another story or slide into a column somewhere. Will tiny bits of conversation between the girls enter the mix or have I tuned out everything having to do with pop stars' tattoos and hair dye?

What snapshots of your past excursions will you put into your stories? I see that dolphin showing up somewhere...

In other news:
THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE and THE ZOMBIE TAROT are both with their editors! I'm awaiting their input before the final push at the end of the month to make two shiny new books for next May and June. I'm celebrating writing both books this summer by not drooling onto the keyboard and venturing outside to see that bright thing in the sky.

Getting down, getting funky with Bad Austen

Ahhh, to be finally recognized as one of the Best of the Worst warms the Austen cockles of my heart. As I'm rounding the bend on THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE and ZOMBIE TAROT this month, BAD AUSTEN coming out in November just makes me happy. Available for pre-order now from Adams Media, get down - get funky with my version of how Marianne and Willoughby really met.

Light bounced off the disco ball like tiny diamonds shattering on the gold lame dress pants hugging the aerobics-toned legs of Willoughby. Long limbed and nimble as a tiger, he prowled the dance floor at the Holiday Inn Scandals in search of a partner, his platform boots clicked on the parquet floor in rhythm to the beat of Donna Summers soulful siren call about the last dance for the desperate and slightly sweaty. Spying the cascading curls of a young woman across the room, he gyrated her way, his intent clear – their hands must touch, their breath to mingle, they must speak each other’s unspoken language.

It's Austen gold, my friend.