Debra Anastasia's Blog, page 58

My Book Boyfriend: Poughkeepsie by Debra Anastasia

My Book Boyfriend: Poughkeepsie by Debra Anastasia: Poughkeepsie ~ Debra Anastasia This is an adult romance novel (Rated NC-17 for the sexiness of it all) 4.5 out of 5 stars ...

Author Lisa Sanchez Release Day!

Hey Guys!


I'd like to welcome my friends and fellow author, Lisa Sanchez to my blog today. Faythe Reclaimed is her newest release and I was lucky enough to interview her! 


Check out the conversation below: 





      Me:  How do people react when they find out you are an author?
Lisa Sanchez: Hee hee. The first thing people ask me is what genre I write in. I proudly announce I write romance, at which point some people will get excited and ask where to look for my books. Then, of course, there are a few who think romance is below them and I receive an unenthused “Oh…romance.” Yes! Romance! I love the genre, and am proud to count myself among the ranks of talented authors who write such wonderful stories.
Me: What is your favorite romantic song that corresponds to your new book, Faythe Reclaimed?
Lisa: Yay! I’m so glad you asked this question. Music plays a huge role in my writing process. I created a playlist for Faythe Reclaimed just like I did with the rest of my novels, and my favorite song from the list was Crystal by Stevie Nicks. It’s a part of the Practical Magic soundtrack, and I’ve loved the song ever since I saw the movie.
Me: What is something you learned about yourself as you've worked through this series?
Lisa: I’ve learned that my writing process has evolved. I’ve always been a panster––that hasn’t changed––but I’m much more critical of myself while writing the first draft then I was before.
Me: What are some of the most important risks you've ever taken?
Lisa: The biggest risk I’ve taken in my writing career was taking the leap of faith and self-publishing the first novella, Cursing Athena, in my new sexy paranormal series. Going out on your own is a daunting challenge but one I feel was/is very rewarding.
Me: What is your ideal writing day like?
Lisa: Ideally, I’d like to have an entire day to write with no interruptions, no house to clean, no food to prepare for hungry mouths. This, of course, will never happen, lol…so I make due with the time I’m given. I’m usually able to squeeze a few hours of writing in while the girls are in school, barring any errands I need to run.




Blurb:
Running through a strange forest with a bloodthirsty demon hot on her heels wasn’t Taylor’s idea of a rockin’ evening. Then again, neither was soaring backward through time and space. Time travel chafed and left a rank, nasty aftertaste. So, when she finds herself floundering amidst a sea of Commandment-loving holy rollers who fling accusations of witchcraft and bedevilment like hotcakes in a diner, finding her way home jumps to the top of her to do list. Too bad she can’t remember who she is or where she came from. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Taylor realizes she’s fallen for Gabriel, the mysterious Latin warlock who came to her rescue.

Battling an identity crisis and lost in a time that’s not her own, Taylor is determined to find her way back to twenty-first century Hanaford Park. But first, she and Gabriel must work together to uncover the dark scourge lurking in the shadows of Salem Village, and in doing so, save their lives, and the lives of countless innocents from a lethal date with the hangman’s noose.
Available at: (I apologize that I don’t have the direct buy links at this time. They won’t be available until the day of) Amazon, Barnes & Noble Tulipe Noire Press
About the author:
Lisa Sanchez is a California cheer mom taxiing her way through life, one car ride at a time. Along with chauffer, she sports several job titles, including, but not limited to: author, chef, seamstress, videographer, nurse, enforcer, and general slave to her three daughters.

The first two books in her Hanaford Park series (Eve Of Samhain, Pleasures Untold) are published with Omnific Publishing. The third book, Faythe Reclaimed, releases with Tulipe Noire Press on May 17th 2012. Her erotic suspense, Obsessed was published March 29th 2011 with Loose Id. Lisa also took the plunge into self-publishing this year and released the first novella, Cursing Athena, in her new Order Of Seven erotic paranormal romance series.
Blog:www.lisasanchezromanceauthor.comTwitter: @LisaSanchez3Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LisaSanchezRomanceAuthorGoodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4028407.Lisa_Sanchez


Thanks so much to Lisa for dropping by! 

Poughkeepsie Review

Poughkeepsie

Click that link, it made me cry and relive writing all over again. 

Sweet Mother of Fudge Ch. 1

 Okay, this is the second trip report I wrote on the Disboards. I'm moving them over one chapter at a time so I have them on my blog here. So the dates and ages are off a bit (for those of you who know me well.)



If you are a fan of my last trip report, I'm sure there is a cream your doctor can prescribe for you. Until you get that appointment, here's my latest offering.


Our plans were five days and six nights in The World. It's been almost two years since our last proper visit. My parents work seasonally at Disney, so we get the perks provided for friends and family. Because of this we're able to go every year with the kids. This year we set up our visit to correspond with my grandfather's 90th birthday party. We sandwiched visits to my parents home in Florida on either end. So I was packing for four separate events, the traveling, the parent visit, the party, and The World.

Here's an excerpt from my pre trippy:
 
I guess I should list our cast members again just for hoots and Hollers.


"Me, Debra, I've been a Stay at home mom for over 9 years now. I've done many things to hustle some dolla bills. Like Ebay, daycare, etc. Now both kids are in school. I will warn you now, I find potty humor irresistible. Get out now if you find it unappealing. Run fast. And don't read my other trip report. I'm 33, just a few weeks from 34.

Him, Mr. A.  He is smart. Very smart. He hides it well.

Boychild (BC) My son just turned 9 years old. He was born a gentleman. I really can't take credit for how wonderful he is. It's in his soul and eyes. He is pure goodness and takes after his father. He holds doors, is polite, bangingly smart, and so appreciative of anything he receives. He'll be an amazing man.
 
Girlchild (GC) My girl just turned 6. She's trouble. She takes after me. Poor thing. She's feisty, and funny. She loves music and animals. She walks the tightrope of tomboy and princess like a pro. I love that. I love that she can be in her princess dress holding a frog in each hand. She has potty humor too (like these kids had a choice.)

Grandma. My mom. She'll be on board for our trip. Really, she just likes alone time with the kids. She's the source of all my evil powers and weird impulses. She's adorable and looks like everyone's favorite grandma. She has a way of talking to people that puts them at ease and allows her to tell them anything. Lipstick on your teeth? Fly unzipped? Grandma has got your back.

Grandpa. He's a saint. He's a hard working, very funny guy. He loves playing with the kids. And they are crazy about him. This year, he should appear more in my trip report, because he'll be with us every evening and two days in parks.

I'm jonesing for Disney. I can't lie. Our One day sneaky visit was last April. I need my Disney. I like once a year, long leisurely vacation. Almost decadent use of tickets and time. Hot? Let's go to the pool for a few hours.. Tired? Sleep in! This year we a ripe for Disney. Ripe. Ripe was a word Grandma always used for stinky armpits. That's about where I am now. I'm stinky for Disney.

I want my POP. I want my ADRs. I want to break in our Dining plan. What will that be like? I wonder. I'm trying to eat more now to stretch my stomach out so I can get the most bang for my buck.


Small talk. I just realized I suck at it. So bad. I have two examples for you.

I was watching my daughter's soccer game. (Which's really a blob of kids running in a pack together for 40 minutes too long at this age) And making the dreaded "small talk." The nice lady had described a restaurant and how fancy it is. Super fancy, leave the kids home and get dressed up kind of fancy. I was nodding and tried to make some noise out of my mouth to show I was paying attention. 

So I said, "So it is real Ritsy Titsy?" 

My brain stalled. I can't believe I just made up a word like Titsy and tried to pass it off in an adult conversation. So of course, this has sent me into a fit of inappropriate giggles which, to my horror, turned into an all out crying laughing, slapping my knees, farting heckle. I could hardly breathe at my own embarrassment. For Pete's sakes. It's bad enough I said it. No need for the spectacle of me dissolving in to hysterics.

Another example.

Gesturing with a tampon while talking to prominent community officials does not make your point more valid. I was digging through my purse getting my keys, when I was stopped by an important official to discuss some community issues. Not a problem, I was on my game this time. I made my case, with lots of elaborate hand gestures, as I always do when I a passionate about an issue. In horror, out of the corner of my eye, I see that I am holding not just my keys, but a tampon as well. 

My heads up response "Oh Look, I have a tampon, but I'm not on my period right now or anything."


More poor son, may have inherited this gift. The other day after eating a Peppermint Patty, he told me "Mom, every time I eat one of these cookies, I feel like I am sweating!"

 Here's another horrible story:
  
So I had my annual. You know, the annual. I dread it every year. Why is it you're never down far enough? You always get the, "Scootch down...Little farther" Etc.


 I decided this year I'd mix it up a little. I wanted to be the first woman to hear, "Whoa! Back up!!! Back the truck up!! Too far"

And I had to fill the sample cup. For the sample. I've issues with this because I always forget about this feat of balance and anatomy and use the potty before I need to ummm... donate. Well, this year I had a huge bottle of iced tea before I arrived. Just before I headed off to spoil the whole test, I remembered. That's right I was proud. In an urgent kind of way. After squirming in the waiting area, I was called back and handed the large sterile cup. This cup has always been a source of shame for me. My donations were always pitiful, having to ask the nurse, "Will this be enough?"

Not this time. My cup overflowth. Whoa Nellie. Holy moly. I carefully screw the top on my filled-to-the-brim cup. And then sent it through the special dual doors. (I'm secretly afraid that someone of the other side of that door will pull open their side, push open mine and say "Peeky, peeky.")

It occurs to me after I complete the transaction, I should have pored some out. Just to make it easier. For the peeky person on the other side of that specimen door. Oops.

Mickey's farts must smell like waffles and asphalt. I think. The other night we had a warm night and a warm breeze. We pulled up to the local ice cream shop that, for the love of everything holy, has a drive-thru. And they serve fresh made waffle cones. The combo of the waffles and the warm air hit us like a punch from Walt Disney himself (RIP Walt). Did this ever happen to you in your home town? We all started sniffing and dreaming of our next visit.

In preparation for the visit, we ripped a number off this bad boy everyday






And we sing. To the tune of "Oh Christmas Tree"

"Oh Disney World, Oh Disney World, We're coming to you soon, Oh Disney World, Oh Disney World we're coming to you soon. We'll be there soon, Oh Disney World, We're coming soon, oh Disney World. Oh Disney World, Oh Disney World We're coming to you, SOOOOOOOn!"

Complete with screechy out of tune voices and yodeling. While doing the universal hand motion for Disney (Making your two hands into fists and putting them like Mickey's ears on the top of your head)


The numbers got smaller and our excitement got bigger. My job was to make custom painted outfits for the kids. GC picked out Chip and Dale, Daisy and Donald, and of course, her beloved Pluto. BC was tougher. He's a little older now and was steering away from character shirts. So I made a monorail-themed one for him and a scrap book for him to get transportation driver autographs. I also made shirts for the kids to wear to my grandfather's surprise 90th (Normally, you'd shy away from surprise anything at 90, but my Poppy is a different story). At the last minute I decided to learn how to make matching hair bows for each of PS's outfits. Polymer clay and I became fast friends. I'll try and post pics here of each one. The packing was done, the pet sitter was in place. We packed the van. Tinkerbell presents were stowed away. Now it was time to go to sleep We were blasting off at 3:30am. The kids and I were still bouncing off the walls at 2:30am. Eventually we fell sound asleep, and Mr. A woke us up one hour later. And we were off.


Up next: What's that smell? Tinkerbell Farts!!!!

House Update!

My bathMy closetTwo colors in MasterGirlchilds closetBoychilds roomKids bathroomMy linen closetLaundry roomMy pantryMaster Carpet choicesKitchenKitchenKitchen

Disney Trip Report

We end this trip report with the story of my electrocution, how to win a peg game, and Mr. A trying to find my dignity.

Spoiler: He doesn’t
By now that shouldn’t surprise you.

In preparing to write this final chapter I was looking through the myriad of pictures we took on our one day extravaganza to the world. Some are fantastic but as always many are simply sucktastic. In looking at a few of the worst I begin laughing as my eyes are drawn to the family portrait I have proudly displayed in the living room.

This past winter I dressed up the Anastasias and took them to the local Wal-Mart. We've not had a family portrait since BC was about 18 months old. GC grew up looking at this portrait in which she was not included. Did she care? No. But I did. It bothered me. I wanted a current one. Now if you have never done a Wal-Mart portrait before, I'll tell you, they are cheap. Insanely cheap. Like $1.98 for four million copies. The gimmick is, to get the cheap deal; you have to take your first approved picture as your “package.” Then you have to sit for 6 much more flattering pictures. And you have to pass on said pictures and take the first one. Since BC was very little I've been hitting this portrait studio hard. I love my cheap package.

Mr. A hates the whole scene. It drives him crazy. He doesn’t want to get dressed up to go to Wal-Mart. He doesn’t want to pose right next to the entrance doors like a Wal-Mart exhibit. Don’t tell him, but I'm starting to agree. But I love a good deal and we never did find my dignity, so we dressed up and went to Wal-Mart. The hardest part is waking up the drunken “photographer.”. Really, he’s just there to turn on the technological nightmare that will give up the "deal" (a horrible picture in the worst lighting available). We position ourselves so we can all see our heads. The “photographer” trips and accidentally takes the picture. We approve it from a distance. Six more pictures later, we're on our way. I'll be able to pick up this important piece of Anastasia heritage in two weeks. Mr. A glares at me as I insist on doing a little shopping. Dressed up. Why it is such a crime to be dressed up in Wal-Mart is a mystery to me?

Two weeks pass and I go to pick up the heirloom. I wake up the drunk dude again. He hands me the familiar envelope, but won’t take my money. “No, It’s free.”
 
Hmmm…I love free things
 
I don’t argue and walk away with my free envelope. I sit in my minivan and pull out one 8x10 picture of my precious family. There is a huge sticker that says 

“Does Not Meet Quality Standards.”

The Anastasias did not meet Wal-Mart’s quality standards? They sell lead filled baby bibs. How bad could our picture be?

I peeled off the sticker. I could hardly breathe from the laughing. This picture may not be up to Wal-Mart’s standards, but it was right up my ally. We're all looking in different directions, like we were viewing a four ring circus. BC is behind us standing on two Styrofoam bricks; he's in the process of falling off and has a look of terror on his face. I'm trying to use a new trick I saw on Oprah, if you lean your face into the camera, you look like Cameron Diaz. (Didn’t work but I'm almost positive that trick recreated the face I made when I woke up during my colonoscopy ).

 GC is sitting on my lap and is looking off to the distance, no where near the camera. And Mr. A was obviously trying to anger me in a uniquely male passive aggressive type of way. He has a lazy eye which he controls most of the time (unless he's tired or drinking). Well, in the picture, he let his eyes slide, making him look like the lucky soul that can watch two rings of the circus at once. To top it all off, we're off center. The Standards Commission at Wal-Mart believed this horror show needed to be super glued to a thick block of cardboard because that would make it…better…somehow??? 

Was the store trying to save us from ourselves? If Wal-Mart really wanted to maintain their non-Anastasia family standards, they should've glued the cardboard to the front. I know the chances of getting Mr. A dressed up in Wal-Mart again are very unlikely. I'd have to put up with him showing up for the “portrait” in a wife beater and boxers. And he would do the eye trick, again. Once he laid his eye on this train wreck (and dragged the lazy eye over so he could focus) he'd make me keep it as reminder of the evils of portrait taking.

So I took a steak knife, hacked the “special” cardboard off the back and stuffed that sucker in a cheap lead and mercury-filled Wal-Mart frame (that apparently did meet quality standards) and placed it prominently in my living room. I explain to any visitors that the picture was snapped as Wal-Mart exploded and that's why we were so disoriented (except for Mr. A who had simply been drinking….with the photographer).
 
I did not find my dignity in Wal-Mart.


Soon after the cat climbing up Mr. A’s back incident, Mr. Atried to kill me. No one blames him, but I'm still angry. When celebrating our first Christmas together, Mr. A wanted classy, simple decorations. I wanted gaudy, abnormally large, light up Santa heads. Mr. A then used the illegal tactic of scaring the crap out of me to get his way.
 
Him: “Looks like somebody beheaded a giant glowing Santa.”
 
He knows I hate anything that is disembodied from its body. (I also hate skeletons. I was afraid of my own body for months after my mother told me I had a skeleton inside me.)

So we got classy. Or what we thought was classy at 23. In Wal-Mart (and we know how high their standards are).

But, as a special present, to be romantic, Mr. A put a very homely Santa, that was made of plastic shells, that I'd brought from my parents’ house on our new front door. This door (to our apartment) was solid metal. Right next to the door was a horrible halogen lamp that Mr. A dragged from his college apartment. It was ugly, but still worked. I guess lamps don’t have to be classy in Mr. A’s world.

But they can be deadly.

Well King Friday, the poopy footed cat, always made a mad dash for the door when opened.

Mr. A told me to go look at the front door. Ahh, a surprise from my brand new husband. I opened the door to look and King Friday tried to run. I put my hand out delicately to stop her and gently grazed the college lamp with my other hand on the door. An electric current raced through my body. I had created some sort of path for the electricity that usually lit up his hideous lamp. What happens when you plug in Mrs. A?

She screams. The loudest scream in the world. And she pees her pants a little. Now our apartment door was directly opposite our neighbors’ metal front door. (They'd never plugged themselves into it as far as we know)

You remember our neighbors? They were laying in their bed all nicey nice when an almost naked Mr. A tried to put his fist through the bathroom wall and screamed at the top of HIS lungs when the cat climbed him like a tree? Well, turns out Mrs. A can scream louder.

As the current pulsed off, I collapsed and crawled into the living room.
 
Where was my shockingly romantic husband? Well, he was in the kitchen running as fast as he can while staying in one place, Flintstones style. By the time he got to me I was crying. He was sure someone had tried to kill me. He was also in his boxer shorts.
 
Him: “Are you ok? What happened?!!!The neighbors are going to come to the door and check this out! Is it okay if I put my pants on? Should I call an ambulance?”

I stare at him. He's in his boxers. Again. Did he hang up the Santa in his boxers? Shell Santa deserves more respect than that. I tell him to get dressed. I'm not going to die. Mr. A puts his pants on (It took several years of training to get him to wear pants at home. And by training I mean helping me into an ambulance on various occasions in the middle of the night.).

Now, I know everyone feels bad for our neighbors, but they made it all up to us when we had a dinner party. After one glass of wine, the husband became screamingly drunk and began telling us about his affair (in front of the wife) and that he was picking up our cordless phone conversations on his handheld scanner and he liked listening in…. Weird. Weirder than cats and lamps.

I did not find my dignity with the lamp.

But who cares about dignity when you can see the Fudge!!

The Anastasias are in front of the candy store, my secret head mission, and I shout out “How about the candy store?” to Mr. A. Now, Mr. A is in exit mode, he can see the glow from the parking lot lights. He knows my head mission could ruin us. He sees that by some Mickey miracle, the gates are not crowded. By farting around in the candy store, we could squander this miracle and wind up with the squishalisous nightmare escaping the Kingdom.
Mr. A looks at me with doubt and suspicion. I silently reenact the lamp electrocution fixing my face in a reminder of the terror and angst I suffered. I play dirty for fudge and he relents.
 
I'm in the candy store. And the pick your own Fudge line is outrageous. The Jiggler is pulsating in anticipation of its favorite treat. A dilemma. The kids are picking out reasonable prepackaged treats. The cashier line is almost empty.

An answer is stacked close by. The prepackaged Fudge, promising it's made daily, in an insanely expensive collector’s tin. Almost double the price of the pick your own fudge.

God I love the sound of that. Screw “Pick your own apples or strawberries”. Pick Your Own Fudge!!!! Fresh from the vine or the butter vat. 


I pick out a tin. Knife to enable the sucking included. We pay…a lot… for the stuff and head out. We take one glance at Main Street, which is lined with millions of people awaiting the fireworks. We dump a naked stroller at the stroller curtain. And we leave the park. We get on a reasonable two monorail wait line. We get on the resort monorail, thinking it would be faster to board. It wasn’t, but it afforded us more time to enjoy the fireworks from the monorail. We had great seats and watched the exploding magic above my house. We took a deep breath.

We were out. There was no stopping us now. We weren’t smooshed. The window of escape we had hoped for was there even with the fudge stop. We boarded the tram and the kids were thrilled with their last “ride” all the way back to Dopey.
 
The kids were asleep as soon as the minivan doors closed and I had a knife in my hand before we were off property.

An hour and half and we're back to the scene of the crime, the cockroach bite. We tucked the kids in bed and showered up. My parents had sprayed for “palmetto” bugs when they came home earlier that night. We never did see another of Mr. A’s little friends for the remainder of our visit. The next morning we piled up our plastic Mickey bags full of the things we had to have. We always save the bags and use them months later. Like a special treat. It's hard to throw Mickey away.

We headed to the Cracker Bear by my mother’s for lunch. The kids were very fond of getting a toy and a meal, so we went to a lot of Cracker Bears on this vacation. We sat at a huge table with many extra peg in the hole games. We all muddled through the frustrating, embarrassing game. I look at my mother. She has one peg left. I watch her do it again.
 
Me -“Sweet Mother of Fudge Woman! Are you doing that on purpose?”
Surprised blue eyes look back.
 
Her-“Of course, ever since I learned the trick I can get one or two pegs left”
 
Me-“Care to clue me in Mom?”
 
Her-“Well, you point a point of the triangle towards you, and bring all the pegs towards you”
 
I try it. Two pegs. Try it again. Two pegs.
All the years of shame and head hanging, and mom had the answer.

See you thought this trip report was just a lot of crazy talk about my butt and farts and poop. But you have now learned a wonderful tip, which will make you look smarter! You are Welcome!

So we drive home at the end of our vacation. It's always tough to leave, because we have a rip roaring ball with my parents. And also with my in-laws. We have so much fun with all of them. My dream is to have us all live closer to each other.

Of course, we had reservations for a hotel on the way back (actually we had reservations at just about every hotel on I-95). We gave Pedro the finger he deserves for being a pitiful reminder of what we left. Have you ever seen anyone with a “South of the Boarder” bumper sticker? I can’t make sense of it. Bizarre.

The kids watch movies, Mr. A and I fill out a notebook for a trip report. (Like I would ever write a trip report about one day? How boring would that be?)

We're almost home. When I have to pee. I had the unfortunate timing of having a huge drink just before we hit “The dead zone” There are no potties for about 45 minutes. Mr. A and the kids are fine on their peeometers. But I am not. I have to go. My eyes are getting bigger and my whining is getting louder.

Mr. A remembers a creepy 7-11 next to a liquor store (why does he know about this place?) It's our last hope before flat fields and no stores for at least another 20 minutes. We pull in. I can’t move. From all the pee. Mr. A runs in and out. Too quick for good news.
Him- “It’s broken”
Me-“mmssgdgspeendj”

We move onto plan B.
I was really avoiding thinking about plan B.

Me-“I'm just going to have to go in the kids’ potty.”

We have an emergency potty in the Stow n’ Go for when GC was being potty trained. I pull it out along with the dusty old emergency diaper.
Emergency toddler potty has a teeny weenie hole. 


I lined the potty with the diaper and climbed in the back. I made room on the floor.
I assumed the position.
 
Me- “Get us out of this parking lot so I can have some dignity”

Now, on a good day, I get stage fright. If a public bathroom is stone cold quiet with others in it, I can’t do my business. I need a little noise or something. Or a shock. Or a good laugh.

Perched on a potty in the back of my minivan with my whole family staring at me was too much.
Mr. A is driving around looking for a more private place. I think he is trying to dethrone me. He just can’t resist throwing me around.

I'm telling myself that the windows are tinted and no one can see me. But I know the truth. On a sunny day everyone can see you just fine.

Mr. A pulls over in front of an “abandoned” house. We all look as if on cue into the house. A good ten people are gathered on the sun porch, looking at us looking at them. I give a little wave.
I scream- “What are you doing?”
Mr. A speeds away from the house “Trying to find your dignity!”
The laughing does an old bladder good and I use the teeny potty. By the time I get everything cleaned up and crawl to the front, We are getting close to home. Our one day visit to the parks over. It left us wanting more, and enjoying what we did get to do.

So that's it friends! How many chapters did I drag out my one day? This should be illegal. I must confess, I was surprised some of the things I wrote didn’t get me kicked off of my beloved Dis boards. Thank you so much for reading. 

Close Encounters with the Night Kind: Review: Poughkeepsie By Debra Anastasia

Close Encounters with the Night Kind: Review: Poughkeepsie By Debra Anastasia: He counts her smiles every day and night at the train station. And morning and evening, the beautiful commuter acknowledges him—just like ...

Beckett at the Olive Garden

The Olive Garden was a hell of a place to get trashed. Okay, to stay trashed.Beckett had parked in front of one of the exits, and he now sauntered into the building. “I need a table. And I need alcohol.” The host looked Beckett up and down. He handed him a beeper and asked for his name.Beckett smiled. “Allota Fagina. Does this fucker vibrate?”The host nodded and seemed to be trying to look busy. “Yes, Mr. Fangina. It will also light up.”“Excellent.” Beckett stuffed the beeper down the front of his pants. “My balls love when it’s dinner time.” Beckett winked and found a seat.Just as he started to nod off in his high-and-delirious state, he caught a whiff of sexy perfume. He opened one eye and saw a pair of legs he knew would make a really nice belt. He followed them up, grinning at the curves his palms wanted to feel.She was pretty, and she was on a date. Judging from the body language, she didn’t know the man next to her in the lobby of the restaurant very well.Beckett stood and had to waddle with the large beeper in his pants. “Hello, gorgeous. Do you work for UPS? Cause I could have sworn you were checking out my package.” He winked and placed a hand on her hip.“Dude. She’s with me,” her date protested.Beckett ignored him like he wasn’t there. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” He bit his lip and wrinkled his nose, leering at the woman’s body.She shook her head. “What the hell is wrong with your square crotch?”He knew from her voice that he had her. She was interested and appalled at the same time.He motioned with his hands as if explaining why he’d chosen a fine wine. “Well, Angel Ass, I didn’t know you’d be here, so I needed something to occupy my dick.”Her date ran a hand over his mouth. “That’s just not cool. Back off, man.”Beckett finally turned his attention to the man, and his icy cold voice changed the whole atmosphere of the room. “Go home.”The date looked from the woman’s face to Beckett’s. “You’re going to switch dates? Really? Just because he said so?”Beckett turned off his menace and faced her again, waiting.“I think I am.” She was rewarded with Beckett’s dimples.“Well, I never.” Her date huffed away from the scene of the humiliation.“What’s your name, Princess?” His hand touched hers.“Shannon. The only reason I said yes to your weird ass is because I think Chad might be gay. Otherwise, you and your beeper would be eating alone tonight.”She let him take her hand and lead her to a padded waiting bench.“The only reason you let me hustle you is because you know that laying under me will make you scream ‘Beckett’ hard and long.”Shannon rolled her eyes. Beckett’s pants lit up at the crotch.He held up one finger and smiled with his eyes closed. “I swear, Olive Garden must use car batteries in these things.”Shannon stood and headed for the wide-eyed host.Beckett pulled the beeper out and plopped it in the man’s hand. “My table for one just turned into a table for two. I’m that awesome. Bring us a bottle of every wine you have in this building, then bring us the menu.” Beckett took Shannon’s hand and dragged her in exactly the opposite direction the host indicated. He chose an open booth and sat next to her, instead of across from her like a normal man would.They were almost nose to nose when he looked at her. “Ms. Shannon, your eyes are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in an Olive Garden. I fucking swear.”His modern-Romeo lines were interrupted by the delivery of six bottles of wine and two glasses.“Hi, my name is Dan. I’ll be your waiter this evening.”Beckett waved him away. “Come back when at least two of these bottles are empty.” He filled Shannon’s glass, then his own. “As I was saying, you’re the most beau—”Shannon put her hand over his glass, stopping its path to his mouth and his words. “What are we drinking to, Mr. Vibrating Balls?”Beckett looked at the other side of the restaurant, jaw twitching. “Want me to track down Gay Chad for you?”“No, I want you…” She turned his face toward hers. “To answer my question.”She removed her hand, and he took a long swallow of wine.“I’m drinking because it feels right. Good enough?” It might have been a good enough answer, but Beckett knew pain filled his eyes as he spoke.“No. I think you hijacked my date because you don’t want to be alone.” She took a sip of her own wine.“Damn it, girls with legs like yours aren’t supposed to be thinkers.” Beckett tried to get her to smile.“Am I right?” Shannon put down her glass and laid her hands on the table.“Don’t you believe in a little slap and tickle, Shannon? Because I can slap like a fucker and tickle places on your body that’ll make sure you never, ever remember Chad’s name.” He leaned in audaciously for a kiss, then sat back and trailed a finger over her arm.“Wow. That was... You are...” Shannon reached for her wine.“Talented? Well-endowed? Relentless? Long lasting? I’m all those things. And tonight, you’re all I want.” He willed her to believe him.She turned her body away. “I kind of wish that was the truth, which is crazy because we just met. And really? You put industrial beepers in your pants. But you’re lying to me and yourself.”She turned and put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk? I won’t judge you. I’ll just listen.”He grabbed a bottle from the table and skipped his glass altogether. “So you’d rather have me whine to you about my sorry ass like a pussy?”Shannon grabbed her own bottle and toasted his. “Yes. Pussy through it.”Turns out she was a good listener. Beckett left out the incriminating parts, but she seemed so astute. Even with half a bottle of wine in her, he had a feeling she picked up on some parts she shouldn’t have. After they’d picked their way through the Thanksgiving-sized meal Beckett ordered, she summed up his long-winded explanation neatly.“You love a girl, and you’re afraid you’re not enough for her. So you’re leaving her to fend for herself in the world while you drink yourself stupid. Because that’s better for you both…somehow.”He growled in her direction. “It sounded a whole lot prettier when I said it.”Shannon held one of his large hands. “Beckett, sometimes we don’t pick the right people to love, and sometimes love picks the right people for us. I don’t know if there’s a more perfect man out there for your lady, but I can’t imagine you laying down and giving up. Because you’re that awesome.”Beckett nodded. “I wonder if you’re right, sexy fucking lady that I kidnapped. Does this mean I don’t get to see you naked? Because I think that would be a shame.”Shannon shook her head. Beckett waved the scared host over to demand that he call a cab. Shannon held Beckett’s hand as he dropped an alarming number of bills on the table to cover their bill, plus a huge tip.When cab pulled up at her house, and he insisted on walking her to the door.“Shannon with the beautiful mouth and the fucking too-smart head, I know I can’t pound your pussy into tomorrow, but can I at least have a kiss goodbye?”“Fine.”In an instant Beckett had pulled her to him, cradling the back of her head as he skimmed her lips with his, tempting her with his tongue. She moaned and leaned into his chest. He expressed his thanks with his mouth, and she rested her cheek on his bicep. Finally, he stopped kissing her to simply hug her.“Shannon, you’re a light in the dark. Never settle—you’re fucking fantastic.” He turned to leave.“Beckett!”He turned and smiled as he opened the cab door.“It’s always light somewhere,” she called. “You’re fucking fantastic too.”Beckett nodded solemnly as he closed the door.

Disney Trip #13

The bridge was chaos, no pattern of traffic. We lock eyes, getting out is going to be sucktastic

I walk in front of the stroller and Mr. A steers. Inch by slow inch we head in the direction of the gates. Every person on the bridge is going a different direction. I feel the panic set in. I am a tad, smidgen, small amount, claustrophobic. I'm trying to take deep breathes and not panic. Just when I get close to screaming in an inhuman demon voice, “Sweet Mother of Fudge Get Out Of My Way!”

I see a glimpse of salvation. There's a line of smiling cast members and each are holding what looks like those fancy airplane wands. 

They're in the middle of Main Street saying, “Stay to the right of the lights”

They were controlling the flow. Adding order. I piped down my crazy demon voice. I inched forward, the stroller inched forward, Mr. A inched forward. We stuck close to the cast members. Too close. Scraping up against them close. Knowing what deodorant brand was their favorite. Or if they were wearing any at all.

But my claustrophobic brain was saying, “Lights good, follow the lights.” It was soothing, repetitive and gave me an idea. I added a little swirl to my step. If I can get The Jiggler in a mesmerizing pattern , I'm hoping it will put GC to sleep.

Or maybe convince the four gazillion people behind us to turn around and do something else besides leave.
 
“Go to Pirates of The Caribbean,” said the Jiggler.
 
“Go find an empty popcorn cart and ruin your vacation,” The Jiggler taunted.

We're close to Casey’s. The going is slow. I pass the place where Mr. A and I had ice cream last trip at a table outside. We inch on. I remember walking Frankenstein-Style down Main Street with my two best friends from High school.

Flashback* * *

My next door neighbors were also my best friends growing up. We had a ball. They were always with me, even on the tippy dock at the lake dodging the dog turds. At 16 my parents loaded me and my girlfriends in the RV and took us to Florida. We were going to spend three days in Disney. But before, we wanted to work on our tans. Now, my two friends are Italian and have a deep, beautiful skin color year round. And they would get a tan on the beach. We were from New York and this was before spray tans. In order to prove you went away to a tropical place, you had to come back with a tan. Now, I am Polish and Irish. I've never had a tan in my life. I have the very desirable skin tone of bloated corpse, Pasty white with blue undertones. Don’t hate.

We marched out to the beach, to the local sun tan lotion cart and got what we needed most. We reached right past the Sunscreen, sun block, and hats. We bought a bottle of Panama Jack. Not sure what that is? I'll help you out. It is basically cooking oil. That smells really nice. We spread out our towels. We all oil each other up. On them… sexy. On me, it enhanced the “raw chicken about to be cooked” look I was shooting for. And we spent the day at the beach by my Aunt’s house. It was cloudy so we reapplied Mr. Jack often. We frolicked in the waves. They looked like Italian swim suit models. Me? I was rocking the rare albino pink dolphin look.

 What fun. Six hours later we were picked up. I was sitting in the back of my Aunt’s car, when I notice her looking in the rear view mirror a lot. In horror .

By the time we came back to the RV I was shaking. Then, I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t talk. I was pinking up as they watched. They drove me to the E.R. It took three hospital personnel to hold me down to get in the IV of saline. None of them were surprised at my stupidity. Apparently, a lot of my Irish friends make a raw deal with Mr. Jack. My girls and I were supposed to go to Disney the next day. 

When I could finally stop chattering, I asked the Doctor, “Can I go to Disney?” He rolled his eyes at me. My beady eyes got all determined in my hot pink head “I AM GOING!”
 
When I was released from the hospital, my Italian friends were also sunburned. On them, of course, it was charming. A sweet blush. Making them even cuter. I was now a screaming blister color, and I've very light colored eyes. I looked and moved just like one of the M. Night Shyamalan characters. Crap, now I'm scaring myself.

But, dammit, we got up the next day and went to Disney. We helped each other get dressed, with no one able to bend their arms and legs. As graceful as stiff Barbie Dolls. We went on all the rides. We winced and screamed in pain on most of them.

Good Times.

* * *
Remembering my angry lobster waddle always brings a smile, we keep inching forward. We're getting closer to the gates and then the unimaginable! A miracle! The Jiggler hypnotizing had worked. I heard angels singing as the crowd cleared. They'd stopped heading for the gates. Down by the Candy Shop and the gate there was a reasonable amount of people doing reasonable things.

And I in my head I heard a “go fly” on my fudge… from God… or Walt, either way I was going in. The line inside might be long, but there was hope. 



Up next, we end this trip report with Mr. A trying to find my dignity.

Laura Braley: A Visit From Debra Anastasia and a Special Guest.

Laura Braley: A Visit From Debra Anastasia and a Special Guest.: Today I am turning my blog over to Debra Anastasia, the author of Crushed Seraphim and Poughkeepsie . I've had the pleasure of getting to kn...