Best Friend For Christmas

I am super excited to announce the release of, Best Friend For Christmas. It is the first book to the series of tales of Promise and Snow-po.

Best-Friend-for-Christmas-CoverTo purchase or preview a copy at Amazon click here.


What I learned from a marathon of Entourage on HBO

wallpaper-s8-1600The past week, my husband and I spent our entire time cuddled on the couch watching back to back episodes of Entourage.  I am talking all eight seasons. It was easy for the both of us to get caught up in the show, because we never heard of the show before the movie.  The show definitely sucked us right in.

As a couple, we both understood how Ari could simply take his wife for granted. It is hard to balance family life with work.

We also loved the way Ari built, clawed, fought and negotiated strategy to get to the top of agents. Ari did not have the best ethics, but he worked hard and never let “no” stop him for getting what he wanted.

Finances of the star Vince and his friends pretty much sums up life. Money comes and money goes. It seems like there is never enough and when you have it life is a hell of a lot better than when you don’t.

My husband enjoyed the negotiations and strategy throughout the show along with the wide variety of tits, asses, hot girls, hot cars and the appearances of real directors, writers, studio executives and actors.  For me, my favorite part was the writing. I enjoyed the dialogue. I thought it was a well written show. I enjoyed how scripts were evaluated on the show. I have always dreamed of being a writer, even with the frustration of Final Draft software. I know what I want to write. I know what I like to write about. I even know my limitations on what I can and cannot write.  It never really occurred to me that all that shit doesn’t really matter. What really matters is what the audience of movies and television want.

In reality I could write the best movie ever about a cat that can crotchet small hats to be sold on Etsy, but in reality no matter how well that script or novel is written not many are going to pay a dollar to read or see it.

I just want to tell the casts, directors, and writers of  “Entourage” thank you. Thank you for letting me to finally understand the business. If it was not for me sitting on my sofa ordering pizza multiple times with my husband for the past seven days, I might still be trying to sell my handcrafted piece of shit. Now, I am a wishful writer with nothing, but hey at least I am not wasting anyone’s time.

If you want to know more at Entourage please check it out at:

Going Shopping

“Whatcha doing?”

“I’m making a budget.”


“Because I’m broke.”

“Oh, ok. Do you want to go swimming after?”

“No, I’m busy.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“I’m going shopping.”

“I thought you said you were broke.”


“Then why are you going shopping?”

“Because, I need to.”

“Oh, ok. Whatcha buying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whatcha need?”


“Then why are you going shopping?”

“Because I need to.”

“That’s stupid. Why don’t you just go swimming with me?”

“Because I need to go shopping and get new stuff.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Noooo, you’re stupid swimming on a weekend with in the heat when you could be shopping.”

“But I don’t have any money to shop!”

“That’s because you need to do a budget!”



Hard-on in the pool

“Did you cause a man to have a hard-on in the pool?”

“What? No, gross.”

“I beg to differ. We caught a man jacking off in the locker room.” I had to send two of my best lifeguards in there to stop him.

“Well, it’s not my fault.”

“Then why is his wife saying different. She said she saw you swim up to her husband at the deep end of pool. Over there in the corner in the lap swim lane with your top hanging off.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Lady, we don’t do this here. This is a public pool for children and families.”

“Listen, listen, it’s not what you think.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“What? Why?”

“For turning tricks in my pool.”

“No! You’ve got it wrong. Really, I probably did that poor old man a favor. Look at him. He’s what 50 plus, bald, with a belly. Look at his wife! She is in a scooter, or Walmart mobile. I was just fucking swimming.”

“Hey, there’s children no cussing.”

“They are fucking in the pool. We are inside this whatever you call this of an office that smells like dirty feet.”

“Respect me and the lifeguard office. I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t call the Po-Po. Listen, just listen. I think you will laugh. I usually swim laps every weekend and a wear a pathetic one piece with a little skirt around it.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Everything, ok. Now shut up so I can tell you my story. I got tired my of 50’s style fat lady suit, so I bought this cheap flimsy bikini in Large. How was I to know that my 5 foot tall size 36B tits would pop out of them?”


“Shhhhh, I got to the other side of the pool and I ask that old man with a ring on his fat harry finger to fix my suit. I thought it was a failsafe. I could’ve asked any of those Army guys to help me, but noooo. I looked for the most asexual creature in the pool and asked. I really didn’t come on to him, and I am sorry about his dick. It’s not my fault.”

“Language lady”

“Yeah, yeah, so you see it was not my intention. I don’t do things like that you know. I go to church. I am married too.”

“You’re off the hook this time, but next time ask a lifeguard. That’s what we are here for.”

“Got it.”


Top 10 things you should never do at a writer’s conference

  1. Arrive late and ask, “Did they really start without me?”
  2. Walk up to the first person that smiles at you and hand them your business card and say, “Here’s my card. I’m a fabulous writer.”  Later you find out the man you handed the card to was a publisher.
  3. Walk up to the front of the room to get the instructions for getting online, so the guest speaker has to search for it. “Excuse me, can I please have my guide for starting this presentation?”
  4. Humming hymns, songs, lullabies in class. (This is not song writing 101!)
  5. Try to sell your unpublished novel to someone so you can buy a cup of coffee.
  6. Sit in the front of the class with your hearing aid on your lap and start yelling, “I can’t hear you! Speak up!”
  7. Sign up to pitch your script with the agent that says, “I don’t like women’s fiction. I don’t like women’s nonfiction. I don’t like women.”
  8. Tell the guy sitting by you, “I’m not just funny looking, I’m also a funny writer.”
  9. Listen to the creepy old guy who keeps asking you to put ice down your shirt.
  10. Tell the agent you are pitching your manuscript to, “This is normally my nap time. I’m just going to tell you the truth my novels sucks, it’s broken and stupid.”

Sick by Flu Toots

“Whatcha doing?”
“I’m sick.”
“You don’t look sick. Why are you playing video games?”
“Because I’m sick!”
“Why do you think you’re sick?”
“I went to the movies and someone farted on me. One of those bad flu toots. They just kept floating into my face one after another.”
“Gross! That didn’t happen.”
“Yes! Yes it did. I sat for two hours behind three sick tooters.”
“Why did you sit there? Why didn’t you just get up and move?”
“My parents made me. They paid for the movie and they made me stay. I had to put my dad’s coat over my head and look out the sleeve. I was about to vomit.”
“You’re sick.”
“I told you.”
“No, you are sick and in a real sick way.”
“I know!”

“DPchallenge/ doompocalyptic-resolutions

Here’s the backstory for this week’s challenge: The tin-foil hat, Mayan apocalypse conspiracy people were wrong about the world ending in 2012. Hooray. Time for them to go back to watching grassy knoll footage in slow motion. BUT!

They were only half wrong. There’s a gigantic meteor hurtling toward earth at an alarming rate, and a 97.3% probability that we’re all going the way of the dodos and dinosaurs within three months. So, this year you aren’t going to make resolutions about losing a notch on your belt. You aren’t going to concern yourself about polishing off Remembrance of Things Past once and for all. You don’t even care a jot about emptying your email inbox. In three months, doompocalpyse is going to be upon us. So what are you going to do?

Fuck you 2012! Gone are the old days of weepie tears, fat thoughts, binge eating, self-destruction.  The world is ending in three months! I’m tired of being nice! I’m tired of being sorry for shit I didn’t even do. Quite honestly I don’t even like the puss-puss I’ve become, so watch out World, I have three months to live! My three months start now.

My new beginning starts now. I call my peep in NYC.

“Whaz up?”




“Shirley! It’s me Cheese!”

“Cheese…Why you talking funny?”

“You owe me bitch.”


“Sorry. No, I’m not sorry. No more apologizes. It’s the new me.”

“No good.”

“Ok, you’re not a bitch. I need a ride.”

“You in China Town?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Ahh, you come visit and shopping? I find you good purse.”

“Shirley! The world is ending. That crap is crap! Let’s travel.”


“Paris! Where else? My passport is no good. I need you to hook me up with one of those guys.”

“What guys?”

“You know the pimps that brought you over here from China. The ones you had to work off your freedom with hardcore sex.”

“Nooo, I virgin!”

“What about those stories you talked about hiding in small places in the dark cold and listening to people call your name. You said you almost wanted to cry in pain.”

“That was the story of me playing hide-n-seek as a child. I’m American. I’ve never been to China.”

“You can’t be an American. You’re not smart like all those other Asians in school and you talk funny.”

“So, you stupid and talk funny too.”

“You’re Chinese!”

“You’re a dumbass!”

“Ok fine. I’ll be a dumbass,  but can you help me?”

“Yes, stop watching CSI, 24 and all those television shows, oh and try getting off the caffeine. Are you still on your way to NYC?”

“Yep, the bus is still moving. I guess I’m screwed for the last 3 months of my life. I sold all my stuff.”

“No you didn’t. You too lazy.”

“Fine, you’re right. I was in a hurry to leave. Talking about it makes it sound kind of stupid. I just thought with the world falling apart I should run off and live my dream and travel around France.”

“You can stay with me in China Town. It might only be NYC, but I can show you China, Russia, Italy, Poland and the world for that matter without ever leaving the country.”

“Shirley, syeh-syeh.”


Beth finished applying her second coat of mascara. Then she smiled back into the mirror to check her teeth. Her cell phone began to buzz and vibrate along the counter. It was her alarm. The alarm she set to leave the house to pick up Wendy. They had RSVP for the fall trunk show at their favorite boutique. The owner had scheduled a live performance from a new men’s a cappella group. The singing sensations were famous for not only their romantic songs but for the eye-candy of a show with muscle-toned arms, six-pack abs and bulges in all the right places. Beth sprayed one last puff of cheap perfume.

Beth arrived at Wendy’s house. Wendy was home alone. Her husband, Bob, was one of those beef eating animal hunters. Wendy refused him to hang any of his trophies, but that did not stop him from chasing the hunt with his bow and arrow. He just donated his catch to friends and coworkers. Tonight, was the eve of deer season. While Wendy was to be spending money on fashion and enjoying the show, her husband was to be camping with old fraternity brothers.

Beth knocked on the glass door and walked in announcing herself. “Wendy, are you ready? You should see my new mascara. It’s supposed to be thick lash. I had to put two coats on. You would think at thirty-five dollars a tube, it would take less than two coats to give me same effect as the five dollar drug store brand.” Beth stopped in the living room. Wendy was sitting on the ottoman crying. Her makeup was smearing as she wiped off the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“That bitch…” Wendy pointed towards her window.

“Your neighbor?”

Wendy nodded in agreement. “That stupid bitch is ruining my life.”

“What happened?”

“The grave, remember the grave for Wrinkles?”

“No, I never knew you had a pet.”

“Well, I did. I loved my Wrinkles. Then that woman comes along to ruin it for us.”

“Shut the front door! You think your neighbor killed your dog.”

“No, not my dog. Wrinkles was my hamster.”

“I didn’t know you had a hamster. I’ve been your friend for last five years and you’ve never told me about a hamster.”

“He was a childhood pet. He died when I was eight. I was like really upset when he died, so my mom let me have him get stuffed. Then I put one of those little voice recorders in it with a recording of him playing in his cage. I could push on his chest to hear the recording. I loved having stuffed Wrinkles. It was like he was still alive without having to feed him or clean his poop.”

“That’s sick Wendy.”

“That’s what Bob said, so when we moved here last year he made me bury it. I went out and buried it. Then I ordered a tombstone for him. It was so beautiful. I held this small private ceremony.”

“Apparently, I wasn’t invited.”

“What does all this have to do with your neighbor?”

“That bitch decided to dig it up.”

“Yuck! Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m serious. The tombstone is gone. There was a hole in the yard.”

“How dare that woman to dig up your hamster tombstone. Where was it buried?” Beth asked as she looked out the window.

Wendy got up and started to point. “Over there”


“Over there, next to the new patio.”

“Wendy, you don’t have a patio.”

“I know. It’s my neighbors.”

“Wendy, are you telling me that you buried your hamster,Wrinkles, in your neighbor’s yard?”

“Of course, why would I want to bury it in my new yard? Bob pays a lot of money to landscapers to keep our yard amazing. I don’t want to mess our yard up, so I notice that the neighbor never went in her back yard. That’s when I decided to plant my dear sweet Wrinkles there.”

“With a tombstone? How big was it?”

“It was small, like the size of a medium pizza box. Don’t forget I also planted daisies beside it. Before me, that woman had no flowers in her yard. Now, she decides to build a patio right where my Wrinkles was resting.”

“Wendy, that yard belongs to her.  She can dig up any grave you place there. Look at how happy she is sitting there reading a book.”

“I thought you were my friend, not hers.”

“I am. I’m just saying that maybe your neighbor is not such a bitch because she dug up a grave you placed on her property.”

“I guess.”

“Are you ready?  We’re going to be late for the musical performance if we don’t hurry.”

“Sure, but one more thing; when we get back, can you help me dig in her trash to look for Wrinkles?”

Vern meets Susie

It was Saturday. Vern woke up early. She threw on her sweats and went downstairs. She made breakfast for her father. He sat at the table reading his newspaper eating his eggs. Vern sat down beside him drinking a cup of coffee. “Daddy, after I clean the kitchen, make the beds and vacuum the house I’ll be heading out. I’m meeting Susie for lunch.”

“Who’s Susie?”

“She’s my old college roommate. She got into pharmaceutical sells in the nineties and made a fortune.  She’s in New York this week for her annual visit to corporate. Now do you remember her?”

“Yes, she’s the sexy, skin and bones girl with the red hair.”

“Yep, that’s her.”

“Am I coming with you to lunch?”

“No, no, no of course not, Susie wants to meet up with me for lunch at one of those stuffy restaurants. The kind that makes you wear shoes, shirt, and pants.”

“I wear pants.”

“Yes, sometimes you do. Then there are those times I find you wandering about the VFW in those running shorts that look rather similar to skimpy male swimsuit.”

“Hey, I don’t complain about what you wear.”

“True, but I don’t wear the type of clothing that anyone could complain about, unlike you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Anyways back on topic daddy. I’m just letting you know my plans for the afternoon. I’ll bring you back something to eat.”

“Yes, yes, I got it. You are going to lunch with some yuppie friend of yours from college and you want to gossip about things I don’t give a crap about. Just make sure you bring back a pasta dish, with bread, don’t forget to make sure they put extra sauce on the side and if it’s no trouble get me a dessert. Better yet, you should get two desserts in case I don’t like one.”

“Daddy, I’ve never seen you not like a dessert.”

“There is always a first.”

“Never mind, I need to get busy or I’m going to be late.” Vern went about cleaning up the kitchen. She cleaned the table and put the breakfast dishes in the washer. Then she stripped off the sheets and put clean sheets on the beds. Then she started the laundry. She cleaned the bathrooms. Then she folded the clean linens. She started a new load of clothing in the washer. Afterwards, she vacuumed the house. Over two hours had passed while Vern cleaned the house. The timer went off on the oven.

“Vern! Vern! Vern!” Vern’s father hollered from his chair in front of the television.

“Got it daddy.” She went into the kitchen to turn off the oven cleaner.

“Are you going to town like that?”

“Oh no, I set the timer, so I know it’s time change. I’m going back upstairs now.” Vern hobbled up the stairs.  She got into the shower. She went in her closet and looked around for an outfit. She fumbled around until she found exactly what she was looking for. She got dressed. Then she put her wet hair in a low bun. She slipped on her favorite old pair of tennis shoes. They were those toning shoes that looked super cool with the little bumps on the bottom of the soles, but now, they were old and the shoelace on the right shoe was so frayed that she had to tie it in a knot. She made her way back downstairs. Her father was in the kitchen getting some juice.

“Vern you look like shit.”

“Thanks daddy.”

“No Vern, I’m not kidding. You look worse than you did when you were cleaning the house.”

“I know.”

“Why? Why are you going into to town looking like that?”

“Daddy, Susie has never had children. She got a tummy tuck last year. She just got a facelift this year. Susie has a personal shopper at one of those stores that forbids you and me from entering. She gets her hair done every week; in hence, she’s perfect.”

“You look like you are wearing a garbage bag and those shoes are falling apart. What the hell does that have to do with you wearing that black plastic workout suit?”

“Everything, I can’t compete with Susie. No matter what I do, I will look like trash compared to her.”

“That’s your excuse for dressing like trash?”


“Vern, just don’t go if she makes you feel that way.”

“I want to. Susie is full of fun stories. I love meeting her and listening to her gossip about her life. I just get tired of trying to compete with her, so I give up.” Vern replied standing at the front door.

“Sweetheart, I will never understand you or any women for that matter.”

“That’s the grace of age, you don’t have too anymore.” Vern was walking out the door.

“Vern, don’t forget to get my food!” shouted her father.

Ain’t no time for a cowgirl that always has to go…

Recently I had to travel back home to see my family.  My roots are all the way back in a small town of Oklahoma.  I grew up country, not just your run of the mill one acre yard country. Nope, I lived in a small farm-house with horses, dogs, chickens, pig, goat and sheep.  I have to say I didn’t love my living arrangements, but there is some charm to just being back on the farm.

The first day, my son and I helped my brother-in-law feed the horses.

Then we get to feed the jackass.  No, not the jerk that cuts you off Highway 1 in Princeton, New Jersey or Lincoln Tunnel.  I’m talking about the real jackass, the one you pinned the tail on at birthday parties, but this one of course is alive.

Next, I ran like Phoebe from Friends into the house with my legs and arms swinging because the cold air is burning my nose hairs. Time for breakfast before we haul cows to the stockyards, hmmm, there is bacon, coffee, cereal.  I forgot to mention I have a horrible, rotten, absolutely, ugly stomach. I am on one of those strict diets of fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, nuts and 12 servings of water a day. I sit eating my nuts and drinking my water as I watch my sister and her husband sip on their coffee. I wait till they are not looking and grab a little bitty, tiny, cup of coffee with milk.  Oh mother of yum yums, this coffee is hot, creamy and awesome. I hurry up drink my forbidden coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher before my sister catches me.

Now, I am in the truck with my son, my brother-in-law, a former professional bull rider, and another cowboy I went to school with. This is when a cowboy begins to do what he is famous for, he sings.

We drive down a steep hill. “Hoot-Hoot!” I holler.

“Did ya mean, ‘Hee-haw?’”

“Oops, I forgot.  Hee-haw!”

After a long country drive, our first stop was to a man’s farm who wanted to sell only two cows. The two cowboys get the cattle in the trailer in one attempt.

Then we drive another twenty minutes to the next farm to pick up more cattle. I get adventurous. I get out of the truck and being to snap pictures of my son and I near the cows.  Outside of the truck, I can smell the dropping of the cows, but that does not stop me from taking pictures.

I get chilled so I jump back inside of the truck.  GRRRRRR! My stomach begins to roar.  I try to ignore it. The cowboys are taking much longer this time, because they have to separate the herd of cows some are coming and others are staying.  GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! Ruuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggggg!!!  I hunch over holding my stomach.

“Mom was that you? Did you fart?”

“Noooo, it’s my stomach…Don’t talk. I think I need to go.”

“Seriously?”  He looks at me like I’m an idiot.

GGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Roars my stomach again.

“I can’t hold it.” I jump out of the truck.  The owner of the ranch is standing at the gate.  Holding my irrational stomach, I stumble up to the old man. “Excuse me, Sir. Can I use your bathroom?”

He shakes his head and mumbles something. “Fine, follow me.” He leads me to a garage with guest quarters and small bathroom. He leaves.

I get comfortable in the bathroom but now my stomach just stops. I can’t do anything. I literally put myself together and go back to the truck. Everyone is staring at me. I get in the truck. “I couldn’t do it.”


“I couldn’t go. I had to go, but I guess I had performance anxiety. I don’t know.”

“I tell ya what. We’ll head up to the diner. You can use the bathroom there, eat a salad, drink water and then we’ll head out.”

“Sounds good” I reply. Sure enough at the diner, I did my duty. Talk about relief. Everyone was eyeballing me as I walked to the table. Talk about awkward…Then I ate my grilled chicken salad without dressing and drank my two glasses of water. Then we went to the stockyards.  This is where the two cowboys unload the cattle.

Leaving the stockyards and after drinking my required bottle of water, plus two glasses of water at lunch I got to go pee.

“Excuse me, I think I need to go.”


“Yes, but the good news is this time it’s only number one.”

“Fine” my brother-in-law responds. We pull off at a small gas station. I use the lady’s room and purchase two bottles of water. I pop back into the truck. We begin heading down the highway.  The problem is Interstate 40 in Oklahoma is bumpy, I mean real bumpy like you are driving with a flat tire, yet we didn’t the road is just bad. After about five minutes of bouncing in the truck, I have to go to the bathroom again.

“Can we stop again?”

“Whatcha need?”

“I think I need to go.”

“Talk about high maintenance. How about I call your sister to pick ya up at the next ranch? At the rate we’re going we’ll never get the next load of cattle delivered today.”

Sure enough, my short-lived experience as a cattle hauler ended.  That’s ok. I enjoyed my time laughing and hauling cattle but there just ain’t no time for a cowgirl that always has to go.

(P.S. I know ain’t, ain’t a word but if you ever want to use it you are welcome to in Oklahoma. Hee-haw!)