FACT: Chocolate milk baths aren’t just for ladies, according to the Internet.
In my novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, a scene involving a chocolate milk bath plays a prominent role. So, to honor the main characters Sera and Bill, I thought I’d post a simple recipe for making your own kind of chocolate milk bath. It’s good for the skin — and well, fun.
Double-dog dare you.
Ingredients
2 cups powdered whole milk
½ cup cocoa powder
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Mix dry ingredients all together first, then pour into the tub as you’re filling it with warm water. Relax into the bath, preferably with one of my novels nearby for reading.
Let me know if you try this. When I was writing the novel, I tried it myself. Ahhhh….
The research we writers do for you readers is plain hell sometimes.
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I recently visited with another book group that read Blue Straggler, and I always love it when I hear how animated and passionate readers are about the characters in the novel.
This particular conversation revolved around Adam and Rudy — two very different male characters in the story — and which one of the two was more likeable as a long-term romantic interest for Bailey (and for the book group members …).
And then one of the members asked me who MY favorite character in the novel is. That’s a pretty tough question. After all, I created them all and they lived in my head with me for a very long time before the story was complete and out in the world. It’s kind of like asking me which of the many dogs I’ve had in my life is my favorite. I’ve loved them all in different ways. I can’t pick. Ever.
I will say, however, that I plan to write a sequel to Blue Straggler, and Rudy will have a big part in it. Because I think I might miss him the most.
Now – your turn. If you read Blue Straggler, comment below and let me know which character in the novel was your favorite and why. I’ll choose a winner based on which comment I like the best. (I’m queen of this little world/blog, you know.)
Best part: Winner will receive a signed paperback copy of Blue Straggler – in its original 2012 cover (those are in limited supply, baby!)
Now, don’t let me down. Comment away!
Here’s a recap of the some of the characters for you:
Bailey — Directionless female protagonist approaching 30; uses self-deprecating humor to deal with life; enjoys Cool Whip and alcohol on frequent occasions; can’t keep a relationship longer than it takes milk to expire in the fridge
Rudy — Bailey’s best friend since college at Texas A&M; will kick your ass at Jeopardy; Bad at dating and financial management.
Idamarie — The third and oldest member of the friendship triangle; shells out good diner food and mostly good advice. Fourth-generation Texas woman with the hair and sass to prove it.
Adam — Moody mountain man with a beat-up Jeep and heart, plus a lot of dogs and a barn for rent.
Francis — Coffee shop owner and Bailey’s first friend in Colorado. Nice Southern accent.
Stella — Feisty mail carrier and mayor of Gold Creek, Colorado. Don’t look at her prosthetic ear.
Tuck — Tow truck driver, originally from Texas, now living in Gold Creek. Has a Jesus bobblehead on his dash.
Bailey’s Mother — Enjoys throwing backyard parties and yard sales, and berating Bailey. Co-owner of family’s fiberglass cow business.
Bailey’s Father — Rancher. Values beer, old outlaw country, gambling, and good dogs.
Lawrence — Librarian with Skills.
Weasel – Bailey’s cat she believes is out to get her.
Willie and Waylon – Bailey’s family’s dogs
WHO WILL YOU CHOOSE?
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Denver Foothills people: Wow, a mountain lion. How big? Male or female? Adult or juvenile? Be sure to knock on your neighbors’ doors to tell them. Bring your dogs and children inside for two weeks. Be on the lookout and report all evidence!
Colorado Mountain people: Yep. Heard him last week on my roof at 2 a.m. Went outside, heard him hiss at me, went back to bed.
Texas people: Honey, where’s the camera and my gun?
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By the way, I wrote about my own encounter with a mountain lion once for my now-defunct online mountain living column. Here’s an excerpt, for posterity.
I think I’ll always remember his stare. His black-brown eyes locked on the front end of my car and didn’t flinch. The muscles along his jaw moved, but his face and eyes did not. He didn’t glance away, not once. His ears didn’t move, either, as I thought they might. His tail was black-tipped and as long as his body, and it switched back and forth, as he seemed to be considering his options. It reminded me of how a house cat might swish his tail before pouncing on a toy mouse. I actually wondered at one point if he might lunge toward my Subaru.
His face was sharp and angular and surprisingly small compared to the rest of his body. A black line continued from his nose to his mouth, and combined with his long whiskers, he looked like he had a thin, handle-bar mustache. His stance was slightly crouched as he looked at me, his sleek body lines sloping to the back feet. He was wary of me, but there was definitely a sense that he was in control.
It seemed like five minutes or so that we stared each other down. I thought about fumbling for my camera phone, but that seemed somehow wrong. Besides, one movement on my part would have shortened our time together, I think.
Finally, with a swift decision, he leaped from the right side of the two-lane road to the left. And in one long and graceful jump, muscles rippling under his tawny fur, he disappeared into the brush and trees leading to the creek behind our home.
Afterward, as I continued along the road toward our house, I shivered a bit, literally, thinking of all the times my husband, son and I have walked that same path along the creek. Had he been there any of those times, after grabbing a drink from the water, watching us? Swishing that tail?
In some ways, I kind of hope so. After all, he’s one of us.
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[photo credit – St. Mary’s College of California]
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It’s been three weeks now, and I’ve had only one Dr Pepper in a moment of weakness. And here’s the thing. It’s not getting easier! I still crave it like crack. When will this end? I need a patch. (And it’s a helluva good thing I never got addicted to Virginia Slims.)
Current Problems of Life Without Dr Pepper (not an exhaustive list):
Eating a burger today without Dr Pepper was like eating warm, freshly baked bread without real butter. It just shouldn’t be done.
Dr Pepper is a connection to home; it’s the national drink of Texas (unofficial). Without it, I’m a tad bit unanchored. And trust me, no one wants to be around me when I’m unanchored.
Coke is not a substitute. Neither is Root Beer. And don’t get me started on juice.
Water tastes like … nothing. Adding lemon makes it takes like lemon-nothing.
Coffee makes me speak really fast in meetings and pee too often. And I can’t drink it past 5 p.m. or I’m up all night craving Dr Pepper (and peeing).
Tea tastes like grass. Not the good kind.
I’m having to go to bed early just to keep myself from going to the SitNBull Saloon down the street to get a take-out Dr Pepper from the mean biker-bartender. Note: I don’t even think they have takeout cups, but I could bring my own. The biker-bartender would love that, I’m sure. I can see the look on his face right now.
Drinking vodka and wine at the same levels as I was drinking Dr Pepper is not advised by the American Medical Association.
My old stand-by comfort foods just aren’t the same without my refreshing, fizzy DP. Now, when someone asks, you want to go to Noodles? How about a bowl of chili? I say, eh.
The real kicker? My husband has quit Dr Pepper, too. And weight is dropping off him like <insert good metaphor I can’t think of right now>. Me? I’m gaining weight. Because in my sick little head, if I can’t have DP, then I’m damn sure gonna have pie and peanut butter.
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Announce to your six-year-old child and husband that you are finally going to kick your crack habit. Ask for their loving, non-enabling support. Tell them, with their help, your body will be pure once again! Tell them this isn’t like those 12 other times you’ve tried to quit. And tell them you are way stronger now — and not to think of that unfortunate time back in 2010. Post to Facebook and graciously accept sincere congratulations from friends across the nation. Post to Twitter and get several replies from high fructose corn syrup fanatics.
Day 2 – A.M.
Order a grande, double-shot mocha at Starbucks because you deserve it after not drinking Dr Pepper all day yesterday. And you need the caffeine to ward off the withdrawal headache. This is going to be a good day!
Day 2 – P.M.
Drink a glass of wine (health benefits) for dinner instead of your usual Dr Pepper on ice. Drink another glass of wine to congratulate yourself on being so health-focused. Drink another and decide the evening walk can wait; you’d rather watch HGTV.
Day 3 – A.M.
Try to convince yourself that Honey Green Tea really is just fine. It’s great! Really great. Sip it in gratitude.
Day 3 – P.M.
Beg husband to drive to a neighborhood café and get you a Coke. Not a Dr Pepper because that would be wrong. But just a Coke. You know, to get you through the crisis. Even heroin addicts get help coming off, right? Offer unmentionable favors in return. When he refuses, search the Internet for cheap divorce lawyers.
Day 4 – A.M.
Stop for gas at a convenience store on your way to work. Figure it won’t hurt to have one very small fountain drink of Dr Pepper to ease the developing headache and quiet the shakes. Make plans to hide all evidence of the purchase from husband and son by carefully disposing of receipt and cup. Learn the Dr Pepper dispenser is out of order. Say a curse word so loud people in the store look at you. Take a deep breath. Consider it a sign from the Universe, put down the cup, and walk away. Exhibit pride for your determination to beat high fructose corn syrup at its own evil game. Go through a drive-thru and get a bacon-egg burrito because it is now justified.
Day 4 – Noonish
Experience withdrawal irritation at maximum levels. When a man bumps into you while talking on his cell phone in the kitchen at work and does not even acknowledge the invasion of your personal space, resist the urge to yank the phone from his hand and toss it in the trashbin. Instead, give him a nasty look and walk away. Stare longingly at the Cold Drinks! vending machine on your way back to your desk.
Day 4 – 2 P.M.
Drink a lot of water and announce to your coworkers that you are on Day 5 of the New You. Then realize it is only sadly Day 4. Decide to take a break to get more fancy coffee, which likely has more high fructose corn syrup in it than a Dr Pepper. Argue vehemently with people on Twitter for no good reason about the People’s Choice Awards. Envision them drinking Dr Pepper and hate them even more. Tell them so in 140 characters or less.
Day 4 – 3 P.M.
Sext husband in hopes he will change his mind about buying Dr Pepper at the store. Get no response.
Day 4 – 5 P.M.
Repeat “I will not stop at Sonic. I will not stop at Sonic.” to yourself 20 times while driving home. Fight back road rage during worse-than-usual traffic. Listen to meditation music to soothe your soul, which is going through withdrawal, too. Flip out when there is no wine in the house for dinner. Read “If You Give a Dog a Donut,” to your son at bedtime and begin to think of writing your own book called, “If You Give Me a Dr Pepper, I’ll Lick Your Face for Free.” Hope your mom isn’t reading any blog posts you write about this.
Day 5 – A.M.
Post to Twitter that the first person to bring you a Dr Pepper over Sonic ice wins a million dollars. (Void where prohibited.) Ignore snarky responses. Lie to spouse about the reason you need to run down to the neighborhood café. When he doesn’t fall for it, have a really positive discussion about how you can fight this together. Cross your fingers behind your back when he’s not looking.
Day 5 – Noon
Throw bottled water at spouse when he suggests it for lunch. Then sit down, drink the water, write a post for your blog, and know, for sure, that you’ve really kicked it for good this time. After all, five days is a long time. Eat Bottlecaps candy while writing blog post. Make plans to buy a 12-pack tonight.
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There are a lot of things people never tell you about hitting age 40 and beyond.
A blog just isn’t legitimate until there’s a picture of the Ropers in it.
Sure, I knew about the wrinkles and gray hair coming my way. I knew my eyesight would begin to worsen and I’d be shopping for Mrs. Roper-style-hanging-around-my-neck drugstore glasses at some point. And my doctor kept warning me about the “belly roll” that would collect and be hard to get rid of in my 40s. (Can’t they come up with another term for it? Like Lower Abdomen Memory Foam?)
But here’s what they don’t tell you. They don’t tell you that the pimples of your high school years will start coming back and your chin is gonna start to look like your freshman yearbook picture. For no apparent reason. They don’t tell you that your joints will start making sounds reminiscent of old, haunted-house hardwood floors. And it’s scary. Really scary.
This is what came up in an image search on Google for a “complicated outfit.”
They don’t tell you that those ads you used to laugh at that targeted women with a “sudden urge to urinate” might one day not be so funny, especially when you happen to be wearing an awesome, complicated outfit that, well, takes a while to remove.
And yes, they may have told me that my skin would one day fight back from the years of baby-oil tanning, but they sure as hell did not tell me that the fight would include having strange-looking skin tags frozen off my body in a dermatologist office once a year. Seriously, no one EVER mentioned the freezing machine. That thing burns like a mother.
But mostly, they didn’t tell me about bat wings.
Listen, I’ve never been especially proud of my arms, but they weren’t hideous before. A few scars and red scales, but fairly firm, I would say. After all, I can hold my own tossing cattle feed bags and I’m a master snow-shoveler. We’re talking heavy, wet spring mountain snow, too. Not any of this dry powdery two-inch stuff down here in the foothills. (Mountain snob alert.)
These are not my bat wings. Mine are way sexier.
Regardless, something has changed. I now have a layer of bonafide flab hanging down on each arm, flapping in the wind like sheets on a clothes line. And as sexy as that sounds, it’s upsetting.
The first time I noticed them I was putting my hair in a ponytail in front of a mirror and actually looked behind me to see if someone else was possibly standing there with their own bat wings. No such luck.
Of course, my first course of action was to look online to see if I was the only one that this was happening to so early in life. I mean, I thought bat wings were for women in their 60s. Turns out, they indeed start in your 40s, as “middle-aged skin is like cotton with less snap,” causing sagging.
First of all, WebMD, don’t call me middle-aged. And secondly, I want Spandex arms back.
Experts say you can do boot-camp-style tricep exercises to help, but not completely solve the problem. Which does not in any way sound encouraging or appealing. Plus, as Sweet Brown says, ain’t nobody got time for that.
You can also have upper-arm liposuction. But if I’m not going under the knife for the aforementioned lower abdomen memory foam, I’m not risking my life for my breeze-making upper arms.
I tell my son that I love my muffin top (which he so generously pointed out to me after seeing a weight-loss commercial one day. It’s a good thing he’s cute.). I tell him that it’s a souvenir from lots of good food and good times. But these bat wings? I don’t know that they represent anything but old age and the lack of funds and courage to hire Jillian Michaels to yell at me.
By the way (ATTENTION: stop reading here if you are easily offended!) when I googled “bat wings” during my research, I came upon a horrible discovery. Apparently, according to Urban Dictionary, there are other slang definitions for bat wings that have nothing to do with arms. They include but are not limited to:
A woman’s large vaginal skin
The spreading and sticking of a man’s testicles to his inner thigh. This usually happens at random in summer and is caused by perspiration and must be physically unstuck.
When a female neglects grooming in the pubic region and wears a bikini.
One that I just cannot bring myself to type right now.
Nothing like a little Urban Dictionary to make you 1) gag and 2) feel even older than 40. You’re welcome.
And …. now … I don’t feel so bad about my arms for some reason. Maybe I’ll just buy me some Mrs. Roper tunics. You know you want some, too.
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Listen. It has come to my attention (my mama hates you) that you are a key ingredient in two of my most favorite things on earth: Dr Pepper and Cool Whip. If you were also in Cheetos, it would be a trifecta of incredible goodness. (By the way, I looked that up to make sure, and nope, you’re not on that list. There is, however, something called Disodium Phosphate, which concerns me, but that’s another blog post.)
But here’s the thing, HFCS (I can call you that for short, right? I think our relationship is at that point now) … you’re no good for me. You’re like that guy I dated for a few weeks in 1998 who drove a fast motorcycle and smoked The Mighty Herb for breakfast. He was fun and all, like a chilled-out version of Bandit from Smokey and the Bandit (Part 1, not the sequels), but I knew it would still probably end with me in a body cast at some point.
This is not the guy I dated. Mine wore pants. Most of the time.
You see, sugar (just kidding), people tell me you cause diabetes (in small studies, and only type 2). You make my cells into cancer-receptors (in even smaller studies, in adolescent mice). And I’m afraid you might be directly responsible for my muffin top that’s gotten so large it’s more like a wedding cake layer. One of the bottom ones.
In fact, did you know there is a website titled “Why High Fructose Corn Syrup Will Kill You?” Which made me so sad. Because I love you. And what hurts you, hurts me.
Of course, your PR team has set up its own sites, as well. I found one that I read for a really long time because I really wanted to believe in it all. You. Santa. Effing Elves on the Shelves. It all sounded so true! So right. So hoofs-on-the-rooftop magical.
You seem so innocent.
But alas (I’ve always wanted to use that word in a blog post), I know it’s only pot smoke and mirrors. I know the Real You, and you’re bad, bad, bad. You’re so bad that I won’t even let my kid near you, lest he fall for your mysterious powers. I’d push him away from you as quickly as I’d push him away from a growling pit bull. (I almost changed that to say “push him away from a falling boulder” because I really don’t want a bunch of pit bull people taking down my website because they think I’m a PB hater. I’m not. But a rolling rock didn’t sound nearly as dramatic as a snarling dog known in the media for biting children, so I kept it in. I’m going for the visual here, people. Lay off.)
Random rusty nail picture to drive home the impact of my words.
Back to us, HFCS. You and I … we’re like fire and gasoline. We’re like oil and water. We’re like a rusty nail and a foot attached to a person who’s never had a tetanus shot.
And I’ll admit it. I think I may be addicted to you. You’re my crack. My meth. My scotch on ice. I need a 12-step plan. Or I need to go cold-turkey. (Typing that makes me get a little shaky in the hands. Hallucinations may be next.)
So what are we going to do about this little situation? Are we just going to continue with this tango of no-goodness? Are we just going to keep driving into the night on that motorcycle and a cloud of weed? Am I going to keep this charade going on forever?
As Jack Twist says in Brokeback Mountain, “I wish I knew how to quit you.”
That’s right, High Fructose Corn Syrup. You’re my Jack Twist. I’m your Ennis. Only I’m a 28-year-old writer (no comment necessary)/future blues singer, and you’re just a common sweetener made by processing corn in some weird, unnatural way and subsidized by the government.
I don’t have the answers.
All I know is that for now, there is an ice-cold DP in the fridge calling my name, and the makers of Cool Whip now make a Cool Whip Frosting in three heaven-inspired flavors.
Damn you, High Fructose Corn Syrup. Damn you.
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Observation #2 of living like normal people: People down here are way more up into my business.
Let me explain.
Hoodlum One: Trouble. Offense: Eating stuffed animals that are not his.
We have two golden retriever mixes, Trouble and Sky. And I will admit it to the world: They are hoodlums! They believe it is their job to destroy socks, pillows, t-shirts, towels, and the occasional pine tree. They also believe they must protect us from the very dangerous white-tail deer that lurk around this new house. And they are fully committed to their jobs.
That means they bark when there are deer around. And unlike at 10,500 ft., where the deer are still very much wild and don’t stick around if a dog barks at them, the deer down here look at our dogs, like, “Yeah. Whatever. Bark at me all you want. I can’t hear you. You’re invisible to me. And this tall grass is really good, by the way. You should try it.”
This infuriates the hoodlums. First, they don’t like grass anyway unless they are sick. And second, the message they send back to the deer is this: “Fine. I will bark my head off and foam at the mouth like I have rabies if you continue to just stand there.”
Further complicating things (for me), is that, unlike in the mountains, the houses here are right on top of one another (literally, since we live on a hill.)
So, it was only a matter of time before a neighbor decided he must talk to us about our barking dogs, on behalf of another neighbor. (So he says. I can’t hear you ….)
Hoodlum Two: Sky. Offense: Never sharing chewbones and being quite vocal about it.
This neighbor also told us he has observed our dogs and he does not believe that we walk them enough. And that he feels sorry for the dogs when they bark like that. Ummmm. We do walk our dogs, and we play with them for at least two hours a day in the backyard, and they are actually treated pretty much like humans …. which is better than this dude treats his girlfriend, from what we’ve heard of their conversations. (Maybe they’re not getting in enough walks together.)
So there you go. When you decide to leave the mountains and live like normal people, it seems you have to actually DEAL with people. And that’s just not something I’m good at.
P.S. Observation #1 – it’s damn hot down here. I have Al the Swamp Cooler blowing on me and the hoodlums right now, in fact. Yes, the hoodlums are so mistreated, lounging on my bed, chewing on massive chewbones with cool air blowing in their faces. But hey, at least they’re not annoying nosy neighbors.
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In my novel Blue Straggler, the main character, Bailey, admits to being truly afraid of two things: lightning and rattlesnakes. That statement could be autobiographical for me, except you’d have to substitute “dentists” for “lightning.”
Yes, I’m one of those crazies who fears going to the dentist. I’d rather go to the ob/gyn than the dentist. I’d rather experience Chinese water torture. I’d rather be forced to eat dung beetles, or just dung. Seriously. Yet, I make myself go once a year (okay, it’s usually more like once every two years, but don’t judge me) because basically I don’t think I’m going to be all that sexy in dentures. Also I like to eat and to eat well, you really should have teeth.
I can trace my dental phobia back to growing up in rural South Texas where we didn’t have fluoride in our water until we got MTV and I left for college. (Exaggeration alert. I was in junior high. Probably – I did not research this. Sue me.) I had cavities back then and a dentist (we didn’t have many choices) filled like 100 cavities in one appointment. Or maybe six, but still. It scarred me, okay?
This is me in the dental chair. Not really. But can you believe the things you can find on the Internet?
So, this past week, I stepped into my current dentist’s office for a cleaning and checkup. I say my current dentist because I’m also a “dentist hopper.” I jump around to a lot of different dentists, because once a hygienist or dentist hurts me, I leave them without a note. And since anything having to do with going to the dentists hurts like hell, I love `em and leave `em a lot. This is why I get about 10 different notices from dentists all over Denver saying I’m past due for an exam. (Clean up your mailing lists, people! I’m over you!)
I’d prepped for the appointment with drugs to soothe the soul and ibuprofen to take the edge off the pain. And yes, I was just there for a cleaning.
Let me just say that those drugs did nothing for me as soon as I smelled that gawd-awful dentist office smell. What the hell is that smell, anyway? Burned flesh? Jawbone sawdust? I suggested to the receptionist who took me back to the cleaning cube that they should pump laughing gas in through the air vents. She didn’t laugh.
I took my seat in the chair, and the hygienist promptly tilted my ass so far back I nearly slid off that slippery vinyl chair, head first. Then she attempted a conversation, with me in the yoga pose I like to call “Upside Down Sitting Duck.”
Hygienist: Do you have any concerns?
Me: Not really, other than you’re going to hate me because it’s been two years since I’ve had a cleaning. Ha, ha. Ha?
Hygienist, looking at my chart and frowning: I see that. (She could have humored me with, “I won’t hate you, don’t be silly.”)
Me: I’m sorry. (Also at this point, I have a very good view of her nostril hairs and she could use some maintenance.)
Hygienist, aiming a sharp, archaic tool at me: Let’s get started.
Me: Wait! Can I have a topical anesthetic?
Hygienist: Why?
Me, blood pressure rising: Because, byotch, you are about to wound my gums! (I didn’t really say that. I actually said, “Because it helps with soft tissue pain when you scrape my gums; I read it on the Internet.”
Hygienist: I’ll have to check with the doctor.
She leaves and I enjoy the view of a popcorn-style ceiling, which they should really remodel this century. When she returns with the goop, I also bring up another uncomfortable topic.
Me: I also wish to decline x-rays.
Hygienist: <Insert very long speech here about how they are a great and necessary diagnostic tool, and how I am pretty much the stupidest person in America for not getting them.>
Me: I realize all of that. Thank you. I still decline. I don’t like radiation, and why yes I do know how it compares to security devices at the airport. I’ll sign the form, please. And yes, I know that you will not get to bill my insurance company $1,000 for x-rays. I’m truly sorry.
So, as you can tell, the hygienist and I are not on friendly terms, and this is not a great way to shape a relationship with someone who is using barbaric measures to supposedly remove tartar buildup. In short, this woman obviously hated me, and she took it out on my poor innocent, inflamed gums and teeth. Also, she almost sucked my entire tongue up with that little tube one time. I came out of the chair a little.
At this point, I was just praying that the ibuprofen would kick in, because my head was starting to throb. Also, note to readers: Ibuprofen makes you bleed a little more than normal. Enough said. I think I needed more than one of those bib things.
I also found this on the Internet, which pretty much sums up how I feel about going to the dentist.
When she finished with me, my cheeks and chin were literally peppered with tartar pieces (and maybe pieces of my teeth, who knows). I could have used protective eyewear. I had been in a battle I could not win, even if the dentist did eventually tell me I had no cavities from what he could see without the x-rays.
That night, I immediately found that having vodka in the house is a good thing. Because y’all, I had to self-medicate. Plus I think vodka is good for killing bacteria in your mouth. I’m going with that.
For two days after, my teeth were so tender that I couldn’t even eat Cheetos without pain. And yes, you haters out there, I KNOW that if I went every six months, I wouldn’t have so much tartar buildup and the hygienist would not have to put her foot on my chest to get the pressure she needs to scrape the crap off.
The moral of this story is that there is no moral. I just hate going to the dentist. As soon as I get rich, I’m going to take advantage of sedation dentistry … for cleanings.
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If you ever see any of the following status updates on my Facebook page, call the authorities because I’ve been hacked! (Wait. Are there authorities to call for that, by the way? Is it even illegal? Are there fines? And what is in that huge box at the top of my closet? These are the kinds of questions that keep me up at night.)
And now for posts you will never see from me:
I signed up for my next marathon today – so excited.
Wow, it’s 5 p.m. and I totally forgot to eat today.
My performance in last night’s kickball game was crazy good.
Enjoying the brilliant writing in Fifty Shades of Grey.
Please, everyone, check out my new glamour-shot profile pic!
It’s 75 and sunny outside, but dang, I really want to finish this report before I hit the trail.
Brought home our new pet today, a kingsnake just full of personality and small rats.
OMG. I’m jonesing for some new stiletto boots.
Yay! Time to clean the house!
A full morning of mall shopping, followed by a super-light lunch under 500 calories. Can life be any sweeter?
I wish my friends would stop sending me Ketel One vodka all the time.
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare haters, you can’t handle the gaming truth!
Does my avatar make me look fat?
I love that my husband hides dirty dishes in our oven. It’s such an endearing trait. XOXOXO
Can’t wait to go to the Kid Rock concert tonight.
Being a working mom has been such a freaking breeze this week. I feel so bad for women who have nannies and maids. They are truly missing out.
Check out our new (to us) Ford Crown Victoria with tinted windows.
The new Taylor Swift and Toby Keith duet. Is. Awesome.
Go, Mitt, go!
For the record, I have never turned down vodka of any kind. I know this is difficult to believe, but it is indeed true.
So … what update would NEVER come from you?
Come on, spill below! It’s fun and a good way to waste about 15 to 20 minutes depending on how fast you type.
* Disclaimer: If you are considering purchasing 1,000 copies of my novel, Blue Straggler, and any of these fake posts offend you, I completely and utterly apologize and also I take Visa.
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