Ellyn Oaksmith's Blog, page 18
December 3, 2013
Free Book Contest -- Worst Christmas Gift Ever
Go to https://www.facebook.com/EllynOaksmit... and share your worst Christmas/Hanukkah/Holiday gift ever and win one of 5 free e-book copies of Divine Moves. Contemporary romance with a groove!
My New Book is Launched!!! A Holiday Treat for under $1.00
Christmas is coming whether she likes it or not…
Meryl thought things couldn’t get any worse. She’s caught her husband in bed with the neighbor. She just found out she’s broke. Then her estranged mother, Faye, shows up.
Faye wants to be a grandmother and has money to loan so it’s hard to turn her away. But what Meryl doesn’t know is that Faye, a former stripper and born again Christian, plans on opening an exotic women’s dance studio in Meryl’s affluent suburban community.
When Meryl’s book club volunteers to promote the studio by performing at a charity tea, they discover that their laced up ‘burb isn’t as proper as they think. As her husband fights to win her back, Meryl grows increasingly attracted to a handsome sheriff, recovering from his own loss. But first she has to get through Christmas.
Funny, sad and sweet, Divine Moves reveals the forces that derail our lives and the sometimes divine intervention that keeps us on track.
http://www.amazon.com/kindle/dp/B00H1...
Meryl thought things couldn’t get any worse. She’s caught her husband in bed with the neighbor. She just found out she’s broke. Then her estranged mother, Faye, shows up.
Faye wants to be a grandmother and has money to loan so it’s hard to turn her away. But what Meryl doesn’t know is that Faye, a former stripper and born again Christian, plans on opening an exotic women’s dance studio in Meryl’s affluent suburban community.
When Meryl’s book club volunteers to promote the studio by performing at a charity tea, they discover that their laced up ‘burb isn’t as proper as they think. As her husband fights to win her back, Meryl grows increasingly attracted to a handsome sheriff, recovering from his own loss. But first she has to get through Christmas.
Funny, sad and sweet, Divine Moves reveals the forces that derail our lives and the sometimes divine intervention that keeps us on track.
http://www.amazon.com/kindle/dp/B00H1...
December 1, 2013
The Best Hawaiian Christmas Gift
The plan was, minimal gifts, minimal food, maximum sun and all our dough spent in plane tickets. I was a teenager. My family was going with our best friends, collectively, The Brysons. Between the two of us, we had six kids. Our mothers had gone to University together and their husbands had to get along or spend many weekends unhappily. As luck had it, they became fast friends.
There was no problem settling in. We stayed at a condo near the beach. It was familiar and we shucked our gear, changed into bathing suits and hit the beach. I am sure there were some arguments about my sister and I looking out for our younger brother. I am sure my mother won.
We spent the days at the beach, eating Siamin noodles from McDonald’s and roasting in those pre-sunscreen days until we resembled toast. My nose probably peeled the entire time. My mother likely tried chasing me around with one of my dad’s long sleeve shirts, telling me I was going to turn into a wrinkly prune. I knew that wrinkles would NEVER bother me. Besides, my dad’s shirt was like, totally ugly.
Christmas dinner, which was supposed to be a light affair, turned into something else at the hands of my father who feels that holidays are all about butter, cream and a chunk of meat. He roasted some huge beefy thing in the oven until we were all sweltering and disgusted by the smell. What smelled delicious in foggy Seattle, made our stomachs turn in the tropics.
He presented us with his feast, along with my mom’s best friend’s offerings, which were traditional and heavy. Did I mention that she’s a saint? Part of her saintliness was realizing that no one was going to go along with my father’s delusion that we would eat much. So she bought into his whole Christmas feast ethos and feigned jolliness when we all sat down in various stages of undress and made faces.
"Well isn’t this nice?" she said as we all sat down at the table which took up enough room in the condo living room so that we sat against the walls. Some of us were out on the balcony. Six sullen children stared at the food without comment. Nice? We wanted to be at beach. Or the pool. Or chasing peacocks. That was my brother.
We managed a few bites and tried to run off. My mother caught us by the straps, forced us into the kitchen. We washed dishes from a meal we neither wanted nor enjoyed before dashing off. If we heard one more rotation of the Don Ho Christmas tape one of us was going to jump. We were on the 22nd floor.
New Years was much more fun. The whole city of Honolulu comes alive with fireworks. The fathers bought a bunch of M80’s. Being men in the 70’s they were not looking for sparkly but something that can take an eye out. They took their weapons, along with their children, to light off a few across the street from the condo. Across the street is a school. The police that arrived, lights blazing, told us that it was against the law to light off fireworks, especially illegal ones, on a school ground. Who knew?
Later, after a few, possibly a few too many cocktails, the dads decided that the leftover fireworks were going to waste. We weren’t allowed to come but we did watch on from the 22nd floor balcony as our fathers blew up tremendously loud M80’s. They reverberated across the parking lot and up the building with a pleasing force.
Soon after we had the memory of a lifetime provided as the same police arrived and our fathers ran off the property, away from the police, scaling a fence. We then had the epic joy of seeing said fathers getting a scolding from their wives about setting a bad example and the you-could-have-gotten-killed lectures we’d heard countless times. The dads didn’t seem to mind. They had a great time. Time for another drink.
Yes, there was sun and surf and palm trees but the best part of that trip was watching our fathers get chased by the police.
Merry Christmas!
There was no problem settling in. We stayed at a condo near the beach. It was familiar and we shucked our gear, changed into bathing suits and hit the beach. I am sure there were some arguments about my sister and I looking out for our younger brother. I am sure my mother won.
We spent the days at the beach, eating Siamin noodles from McDonald’s and roasting in those pre-sunscreen days until we resembled toast. My nose probably peeled the entire time. My mother likely tried chasing me around with one of my dad’s long sleeve shirts, telling me I was going to turn into a wrinkly prune. I knew that wrinkles would NEVER bother me. Besides, my dad’s shirt was like, totally ugly.
Christmas dinner, which was supposed to be a light affair, turned into something else at the hands of my father who feels that holidays are all about butter, cream and a chunk of meat. He roasted some huge beefy thing in the oven until we were all sweltering and disgusted by the smell. What smelled delicious in foggy Seattle, made our stomachs turn in the tropics.
He presented us with his feast, along with my mom’s best friend’s offerings, which were traditional and heavy. Did I mention that she’s a saint? Part of her saintliness was realizing that no one was going to go along with my father’s delusion that we would eat much. So she bought into his whole Christmas feast ethos and feigned jolliness when we all sat down in various stages of undress and made faces.
"Well isn’t this nice?" she said as we all sat down at the table which took up enough room in the condo living room so that we sat against the walls. Some of us were out on the balcony. Six sullen children stared at the food without comment. Nice? We wanted to be at beach. Or the pool. Or chasing peacocks. That was my brother.
We managed a few bites and tried to run off. My mother caught us by the straps, forced us into the kitchen. We washed dishes from a meal we neither wanted nor enjoyed before dashing off. If we heard one more rotation of the Don Ho Christmas tape one of us was going to jump. We were on the 22nd floor.
New Years was much more fun. The whole city of Honolulu comes alive with fireworks. The fathers bought a bunch of M80’s. Being men in the 70’s they were not looking for sparkly but something that can take an eye out. They took their weapons, along with their children, to light off a few across the street from the condo. Across the street is a school. The police that arrived, lights blazing, told us that it was against the law to light off fireworks, especially illegal ones, on a school ground. Who knew?
Later, after a few, possibly a few too many cocktails, the dads decided that the leftover fireworks were going to waste. We weren’t allowed to come but we did watch on from the 22nd floor balcony as our fathers blew up tremendously loud M80’s. They reverberated across the parking lot and up the building with a pleasing force.
Soon after we had the memory of a lifetime provided as the same police arrived and our fathers ran off the property, away from the police, scaling a fence. We then had the epic joy of seeing said fathers getting a scolding from their wives about setting a bad example and the you-could-have-gotten-killed lectures we’d heard countless times. The dads didn’t seem to mind. They had a great time. Time for another drink.
Yes, there was sun and surf and palm trees but the best part of that trip was watching our fathers get chased by the police.
Merry Christmas!
November 29, 2013
November 23, 2013
Preview of Divine Moves -- Coming December 1st on Amazon.com
St. John Vianney’s lobby, like every other church she’d ever visited outside of Vegas, gave Faye the creeps. Vegas chapels were cheery places, draped with fairy lights and dusty silk flowers. Drunken couples could dash in at any moment, say their nuptials and embark on any kind of relationship they deemed appropriate. A church like this demanded something: sobriety, children, and tasteful eyeliner.
Faye wasn’t looking for a middle class life, just an AA meeting. And that first step, walking into an unknown church, was always hard. All those statues staring down, judging.
“Yooo-hoo, right over here!” someone called from the dark.
Faye delved further into the narthex. It opened into a tiny chapel on the left, the main nave dead ahead and a large multi-purpose room to the right. This was reserved for Boy Scouts, bingo and, three times a week, alcoholics who wished, mostly, to remain anonymous.
“Keep going!” The disembodied voice yelled. Faye could smell coffee, a hallmark of AA meetings, who frequently shifted their allegiance from booze to cigarettes and coffee.
She was a bit late, but nobody cared. Seated in hard grey folding chairs, 34 of the 36 people had announced their names, followed by the ubiquitous, “And I’m an addict.”
The uniform proclamation always made Faye feel like blurting, “and I’m an Orangutan,” or something outrageous, to get a laugh. She never did, mostly because the one thing she’d learned above all at AA was that she shouldn’t seek attention. She wasn’t extra special or extra anything. She was just another addict.
The meeting was on the large end of the AA spectrum. As in Vegas they were all ages, shapes and sizes. Unlike Vegas, they were better groomed, with corporate logos stitched into their jackets: Microsoft, Boeing, Nintendo, AT&T. Designer purses squatted like small, obedient dogs beside women in tasteful make-up and burnished leather boots. Even the twenty-somethings wore nicer jeans and gold, instead of silver nose rings. There was an absence of tattoos, which Faye found refreshing.
Despite a nagging worry that this was a better class of drunk than Vegas, Faye found a seat in the back. A few men covertly admired her legs. Faye found it comforting.
A silver-haired man with broad shoulders spoke. “My name is Victor and I’m an alcoholic. I’m happy to say that my twelfth anniversary of sobriety was Sunday.”
“Right on Victor!” “Go Victor.” “Congratulations!” Some people clapped.
Victor smiled. “I celebrated with Italian food.” He patted his stomach. That was another escape for some addicts: food.
Faye found herself wondering if he was single. She wished she’d worn her other wig, or even bought a new one for the occasion. She’d mentally rehearsed her spiel so that when her turn arrived, she didn’t sound stupid. “My name is Faye. I’ve been sober almost five years. I’m up here visiting my daughter and grandchildren. I’m hoping to move here and start a new business.” She didn’t mention Vegas. She didn’t say new life. Everyone was here to start a new life.
Victor, arm slung over his chair, smiled kindly. Along with a few other people, he said “welcome” with such genuine warmth that Faye felt tears leaking from her eyes, threatening the nine coats of carefully applied mascara. She thought about telling these nice people that she’d opened Meryl’s liquor cabinet a few times, even smelled the bourbon once, as if she could get drunk from the fumes. That she lovingly touched the labels and thought that there was something truly beautiful in the carefully designed bottles and labels. Something solid and classic that for her was a sure fire invitation to death. Booze bottles were pretty. Something only an addict would think.
Only another addict would understand that sometimes, when she woke up in Meryl’s bonus room, she felt the booze singing her name in the sweetest, most seductive tones. Like James Earl Jones broadcasting from inside a bottle of Grey Goose. She’d dig her nails into her palms, talk to Jesus, sometimes just zone out on bad TV to get her mind off the shallow promise of oblivion. If that didn’t work she smoked, exhaling out the window so she didn’t have to go downstairs, closer to the liquor.
The later it grew, the harder it was shutting her mind against the past. The image of her dad, at the worn linoleum kitchen table in the tired old farmhouse kitchen, reappeared no matter how hard she fought.
The trick was feeling God in her tired body. Sometimes there was only shit, particularly at a certain hour, waiting for sunrise. Finding God in all the shit was the real trick of sobriety.
Faye let the meeting go on without her, deciding not to talk. It made her feel stronger, knowing that others on this very hill fought the same battle daily. They were stronger together.
She didn’t need to talk. Just being here tonight was enough. She’d found her new meeting.
One day at a time.
Faye wasn’t looking for a middle class life, just an AA meeting. And that first step, walking into an unknown church, was always hard. All those statues staring down, judging.
“Yooo-hoo, right over here!” someone called from the dark.
Faye delved further into the narthex. It opened into a tiny chapel on the left, the main nave dead ahead and a large multi-purpose room to the right. This was reserved for Boy Scouts, bingo and, three times a week, alcoholics who wished, mostly, to remain anonymous.
“Keep going!” The disembodied voice yelled. Faye could smell coffee, a hallmark of AA meetings, who frequently shifted their allegiance from booze to cigarettes and coffee.
She was a bit late, but nobody cared. Seated in hard grey folding chairs, 34 of the 36 people had announced their names, followed by the ubiquitous, “And I’m an addict.”
The uniform proclamation always made Faye feel like blurting, “and I’m an Orangutan,” or something outrageous, to get a laugh. She never did, mostly because the one thing she’d learned above all at AA was that she shouldn’t seek attention. She wasn’t extra special or extra anything. She was just another addict.
The meeting was on the large end of the AA spectrum. As in Vegas they were all ages, shapes and sizes. Unlike Vegas, they were better groomed, with corporate logos stitched into their jackets: Microsoft, Boeing, Nintendo, AT&T. Designer purses squatted like small, obedient dogs beside women in tasteful make-up and burnished leather boots. Even the twenty-somethings wore nicer jeans and gold, instead of silver nose rings. There was an absence of tattoos, which Faye found refreshing.
Despite a nagging worry that this was a better class of drunk than Vegas, Faye found a seat in the back. A few men covertly admired her legs. Faye found it comforting.
A silver-haired man with broad shoulders spoke. “My name is Victor and I’m an alcoholic. I’m happy to say that my twelfth anniversary of sobriety was Sunday.”
“Right on Victor!” “Go Victor.” “Congratulations!” Some people clapped.
Victor smiled. “I celebrated with Italian food.” He patted his stomach. That was another escape for some addicts: food.
Faye found herself wondering if he was single. She wished she’d worn her other wig, or even bought a new one for the occasion. She’d mentally rehearsed her spiel so that when her turn arrived, she didn’t sound stupid. “My name is Faye. I’ve been sober almost five years. I’m up here visiting my daughter and grandchildren. I’m hoping to move here and start a new business.” She didn’t mention Vegas. She didn’t say new life. Everyone was here to start a new life.
Victor, arm slung over his chair, smiled kindly. Along with a few other people, he said “welcome” with such genuine warmth that Faye felt tears leaking from her eyes, threatening the nine coats of carefully applied mascara. She thought about telling these nice people that she’d opened Meryl’s liquor cabinet a few times, even smelled the bourbon once, as if she could get drunk from the fumes. That she lovingly touched the labels and thought that there was something truly beautiful in the carefully designed bottles and labels. Something solid and classic that for her was a sure fire invitation to death. Booze bottles were pretty. Something only an addict would think.
Only another addict would understand that sometimes, when she woke up in Meryl’s bonus room, she felt the booze singing her name in the sweetest, most seductive tones. Like James Earl Jones broadcasting from inside a bottle of Grey Goose. She’d dig her nails into her palms, talk to Jesus, sometimes just zone out on bad TV to get her mind off the shallow promise of oblivion. If that didn’t work she smoked, exhaling out the window so she didn’t have to go downstairs, closer to the liquor.
The later it grew, the harder it was shutting her mind against the past. The image of her dad, at the worn linoleum kitchen table in the tired old farmhouse kitchen, reappeared no matter how hard she fought.
The trick was feeling God in her tired body. Sometimes there was only shit, particularly at a certain hour, waiting for sunrise. Finding God in all the shit was the real trick of sobriety.
Faye let the meeting go on without her, deciding not to talk. It made her feel stronger, knowing that others on this very hill fought the same battle daily. They were stronger together.
She didn’t need to talk. Just being here tonight was enough. She’d found her new meeting.
One day at a time.
October 23, 2013
The Mind of a Writer is a Very Scary Place
Of course there is an outline for the book. The outline is the plan for the camping trip. We'll head up into the mountains, have an adventure, roast some marshmallows and everyone will learn something. Oh yeah, the heroine will fall in love. With a hot guy who smells good.
Then the bear shows up.
It's not every day that I write a bear shows up. Sometimes it's a bear free day and everyone gets to keep chugging along. I refer to the piece of paper on my left. Things happen as planned.
On a day like today the evil twin on my shoulder whispers, "have the old lady run away." So, while the heroine complained to her mother about the bitter, nasty, angry old woman, the old woman over heard. Since a lot of the book is the younger woman finding out that she has a lot more in common with this old woman than she'd like to find out, it's poetic that the old woman takes off. The younger woman panics. (And the hot guy, who is a Sheriff, is called. Ryan Gosling will play him in the movie.)
Now how on earth can a septuagenarian woman in the middle of a rural Southern town make it very far at dusk? It's up to me to figure out how this woman skedaddles and how far she makes it. Who does she stay with and how long does she stay lost? (Answer: long enough for a good, long panic.)
I do stuff like this all the time and it makes every day interesting. I have plopped people who didn't know how to ski at the top of a 3 diamond ski run with "instruments of death" strapped to their feet after they'd bragged about knowing how to ski. I've had a dog fall from a helicopter -- into a bank of powder snow. He lived. (And it's based on a true story.) I've had a woman get drunk trying to drown the spice from her boyfriend's cooking attempt, who also dangled from a mountain side. I've had a kid set his dad's Mercedes on fire, I've had that Dad ride his bike into a moving car, I've had that kid kidnapped. I've had a middle aged book group strip down to their unmentionables at a charity auction when the audience was expecting modern dance.
All of this was on the spur of the moment. Hopefully it doesn't read that way. Hopefully it seems like the well executed plot that couldn't work any other way.
My old lady will live to see another day. All my characters will. I think. For now.
Happy Halloween.
Then the bear shows up.
It's not every day that I write a bear shows up. Sometimes it's a bear free day and everyone gets to keep chugging along. I refer to the piece of paper on my left. Things happen as planned.
On a day like today the evil twin on my shoulder whispers, "have the old lady run away." So, while the heroine complained to her mother about the bitter, nasty, angry old woman, the old woman over heard. Since a lot of the book is the younger woman finding out that she has a lot more in common with this old woman than she'd like to find out, it's poetic that the old woman takes off. The younger woman panics. (And the hot guy, who is a Sheriff, is called. Ryan Gosling will play him in the movie.)
Now how on earth can a septuagenarian woman in the middle of a rural Southern town make it very far at dusk? It's up to me to figure out how this woman skedaddles and how far she makes it. Who does she stay with and how long does she stay lost? (Answer: long enough for a good, long panic.)
I do stuff like this all the time and it makes every day interesting. I have plopped people who didn't know how to ski at the top of a 3 diamond ski run with "instruments of death" strapped to their feet after they'd bragged about knowing how to ski. I've had a dog fall from a helicopter -- into a bank of powder snow. He lived. (And it's based on a true story.) I've had a woman get drunk trying to drown the spice from her boyfriend's cooking attempt, who also dangled from a mountain side. I've had a kid set his dad's Mercedes on fire, I've had that Dad ride his bike into a moving car, I've had that kid kidnapped. I've had a middle aged book group strip down to their unmentionables at a charity auction when the audience was expecting modern dance.
All of this was on the spur of the moment. Hopefully it doesn't read that way. Hopefully it seems like the well executed plot that couldn't work any other way.
My old lady will live to see another day. All my characters will. I think. For now.
Happy Halloween.
July 21, 2013
Giveaway of e-books on Ellyn Oaksmith Books - Facebook
Visit Ellyn Oaksmith Books on Facebook, "like" the page, message me your address and I will mail you a free, downloadable copy of my (any device) e-book.
https://www.facebook.com/EllynOaksmith
https://www.facebook.com/EllynOaksmith
June 8, 2013
Dissing other Writers
I just took a recent online seminar for Harper/Morrow authors on the author/blogger relationship. These are bloggers who read and review books. Much of the conversation, which was driven by writers asking questions online, was about reviews. How to interact with reviewers, how to react to a bad review. Thank reviewers for a good review?
First of all, I don't read reviews anymore. I found that a bad review could send me into such a downward spiral, it actually affected my writing. So to hear all these writers agonizing about reviews was an eye opener for me. And a very smart writer on the panel said she made it a point not to review writers within her genre. I made a huge note and circled it.
Then I went and erased my only review, which was quite good, of a popular romance writer. My reasoning was that this was the only field I can think of where people publically critique their colleagues and maybe it's not helpful.
Maybe the conversation needs to be about supporting one another. And even though my review was positive, I had a few minor comments that the author can probably figure out for herself and has already heard from someone else. Because overall, if anyone has any idea how much effort it takes to produce a novel, I do. So shouldn't I be applauding her efforts instead of analyzing them?
So from now on, my reviews will be on books that aren't in my genre, which is still a pretty huge number of books. The world has enough critics. Writers get enough feedback. All they are going to hear from me is "good job."
First of all, I don't read reviews anymore. I found that a bad review could send me into such a downward spiral, it actually affected my writing. So to hear all these writers agonizing about reviews was an eye opener for me. And a very smart writer on the panel said she made it a point not to review writers within her genre. I made a huge note and circled it.
Then I went and erased my only review, which was quite good, of a popular romance writer. My reasoning was that this was the only field I can think of where people publically critique their colleagues and maybe it's not helpful.
Maybe the conversation needs to be about supporting one another. And even though my review was positive, I had a few minor comments that the author can probably figure out for herself and has already heard from someone else. Because overall, if anyone has any idea how much effort it takes to produce a novel, I do. So shouldn't I be applauding her efforts instead of analyzing them?
So from now on, my reviews will be on books that aren't in my genre, which is still a pretty huge number of books. The world has enough critics. Writers get enough feedback. All they are going to hear from me is "good job."
April 29, 2013
Book Review - Chanel: an Intimate Life
Coco Chanel: An Intimate Life by Lisa ChaneyMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
I had to run over to my stack of library books to remember the last book I had read. That tells me something about this book. I am not all that interested in fashion history but I do have a thing for the French, having lived there for a year a few eons ago. That being said, this is a book that digs into Chanel's life, however, she is a woman who loved to cloak herself in mystery. So no matter how diligently Ms. Chaney dug and dig she did, there is a veil of mystery that one feels in reading to the point where you finish the book and have a hard time saying much about Chanel. I didn't learn much more than I already knew. A string of affairs, dubious wartime conduct, anti-semetic leanings that were confused by deep friendships with Jews. All in all, a woman who freely acknowledged that she was bundle of contradictions. Ms. Chaney is a good writer and knows how to present Coco in a fashion that brings out both her charms and ugliness. She has a very sad background, which was one of the best parts of the book. Most of her life bounced from man to man without any great discovery or revelations and that, perhaps is this books downfall. Most of Coco Chanel's life was lived in success. And sometimes that is not the most interesting story. It's worth checking out though. I did enjoy returning to it while I read and finished the whole book.
View all my reviews
April 11, 2013
My Teenaged Next Life
In my next life, I am coming back as a teenager on Spring break. Not a teenager who has to worry about colleges or any adults concerns, the kind that live in my home, whose major concerns are the kind of cereal in the house and how much they can possibly cram into a carry-on bag.
I will begin my day at noon, whereupon I will go downstairs where my crabby mother is hunched over her lunch, disgusted by my long-limbed, wasp-waisted beauty when all I really do is sleep and eat junk food. My short tour of the kitchen is marked by the only comment I make in this room which is "How come there is nothing to eat?" Fruit, anything whole grain or that needs preparing, slicing or doesn't come in a noisy bag doesn't count as food.
The rest of my day will be spent taking a epically long shower during which the previously mentioned parent will bang on the door several times. She yells things about our water bill and the fact that she's not made out of money. Duh. She's made out of cellulite and caffeine.
I respond by yelling one of two things: "What?????" and "I can't hear you!!!!!" From there it's a good hour or two to get dressed, including make-up, although I don't really need any. I just like staring in the mirror. Then I wail about having no clothes although I will never admit to my mother that I spent the bulk of my clothing budget on Justin Bieber books on Amazon.com and a bunch of make-up at Sephora.
Lunch is two bowls of Doritos. When my mother asks if I've eaten any fruits or vegetables I respond as if I were in the shower. She gives me a weird look and hands me a banana.
Checking up on my friends via text takes until late afternoon. After that it's a few hours on Instagram. You can never see enough cute puppy pics or cats eating ice cream cones, can you?
Now it's time to bug my mom to take me and my sister to Dairy Queen. I make a few lame offers to help around the house hoping to butter her up. She sees right through this and asks "What do you want?" Sometimes that woman is so sarcastic.
Finally after my sister and I make a big show of getting along and helping one another, we manage to talk Mom into taking us to Dairy Queen, if we pay. We also have to empty the dishwasher, which we have to do normally, which is fine.
By now it's late afternoon. My sister and I round out the day by watching Psych, the only TV show we agree upon. If we're quiet and stay upstairs we avoid a bunch of housework and dinner helping stuff, which is awesome.
Rounding off my night is more texting, surfing the web for a couple of hours and reading into the wee hours so I can sleep in again until noon.
That will be my next life. I'll skip all the bad stuff about being a teenager and stay forever looped into Spring Break. I'm sure it'll all work out just fine.
I will begin my day at noon, whereupon I will go downstairs where my crabby mother is hunched over her lunch, disgusted by my long-limbed, wasp-waisted beauty when all I really do is sleep and eat junk food. My short tour of the kitchen is marked by the only comment I make in this room which is "How come there is nothing to eat?" Fruit, anything whole grain or that needs preparing, slicing or doesn't come in a noisy bag doesn't count as food.
The rest of my day will be spent taking a epically long shower during which the previously mentioned parent will bang on the door several times. She yells things about our water bill and the fact that she's not made out of money. Duh. She's made out of cellulite and caffeine.
I respond by yelling one of two things: "What?????" and "I can't hear you!!!!!" From there it's a good hour or two to get dressed, including make-up, although I don't really need any. I just like staring in the mirror. Then I wail about having no clothes although I will never admit to my mother that I spent the bulk of my clothing budget on Justin Bieber books on Amazon.com and a bunch of make-up at Sephora.
Lunch is two bowls of Doritos. When my mother asks if I've eaten any fruits or vegetables I respond as if I were in the shower. She gives me a weird look and hands me a banana.
Checking up on my friends via text takes until late afternoon. After that it's a few hours on Instagram. You can never see enough cute puppy pics or cats eating ice cream cones, can you?
Now it's time to bug my mom to take me and my sister to Dairy Queen. I make a few lame offers to help around the house hoping to butter her up. She sees right through this and asks "What do you want?" Sometimes that woman is so sarcastic.
Finally after my sister and I make a big show of getting along and helping one another, we manage to talk Mom into taking us to Dairy Queen, if we pay. We also have to empty the dishwasher, which we have to do normally, which is fine.
By now it's late afternoon. My sister and I round out the day by watching Psych, the only TV show we agree upon. If we're quiet and stay upstairs we avoid a bunch of housework and dinner helping stuff, which is awesome.
Rounding off my night is more texting, surfing the web for a couple of hours and reading into the wee hours so I can sleep in again until noon.
That will be my next life. I'll skip all the bad stuff about being a teenager and stay forever looped into Spring Break. I'm sure it'll all work out just fine.
