Getting giddy for release day of “The Great Panty Caper.” And some other stuff.

“So I hear congratulations are in order!”

Those were the words of a business colleague I ran into on my lunch break last week.

Normally when someone congratulates me, I know what it’s for. It might be related to a successful media pitch I performed in my capacity as the PR manager for my city’s tourism bureau, or it might be a commentary on the impromptu striptease I performed on the bar the previous night. Either way, I know which it is.

But in this case, I had the good fortune of not knowing which wonderful life event prompted my colleague to congratulate me. Could it be:

The bridge where my gentleman friend
popped the question.

• I got engaged. Yep, that’s right. My gentleman friend surprised me with a ring and a bended-knee proposal on a bridge in a park where we were strolling during a romantic getaway last weekend. I bawled. And I said yes. Duh. Though he will always be my gentleman friend, it looks like he’ll also be my fiancée, and (assuming he doesn’t run away screaming in the next 12 months) eventually my husband.
• I have a new book coming out October 8—holycrapthatstomorrow. The Great Panty Caper is my latest release with Coliloquy, the awesome publisher of interactive fiction (sorta like a grownup version of choose-your-own-adventure). Technically, The Great Panty Caper is part of the Getting Dumped series, so you’ll recognize the characters and details if you’re a fan. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you can still enjoy The Great Panty Caper since it’s a standalone novella that makes sense even if you’ve never read anything else I’ve written.
  
• Early reviews for The Great Panty Caper have been rolling in quickly and making my head swell like an aroused flesh banana. Reviewers have written things like, “This book had me laughing out loud,” and “You will fall in love with the Shultz sisters.” Oh, and my favorite, “I read this book in one sitting. Then I immediately went back and read all the alternative versions. Then I had to go read one of Tawna Fenske's other books.” Music to an author’s ears!

With so many awesome things happening in my life, it’s understandable they’d blur together. I figured I might as well take advantage of that, and asked my gentleman friend if he’d like to tie the knot at the landfill (the setting for the first two Getting Dumped stories).

He hasn’t replied yet, but I’m sure that’s only because he’s so overcome with joy.

If you want to get your hands on The Great Panty Caper you can find it here for Kindle, or here for Nook, or here for the iBookstore, or here for Kobo, or here for Android. It’s only $1.99, which is less than a three-pack of Trojan Magnum condoms and almost as fun.

To follow the whole blog tour, here’s the lineup of friends, fans, street team members, and random strangers blogging about The Great Panty Caper:

• Ocober 8: Coliloquy
• October 10: Jennie Shaw of Well Shut the Front Door (review)
• October 11: Jennie Shaw of Well Shut the Front Door (interview)
• October 12: Erica of The Book Cellar (review)
• October 14: Lynn Reynolds (review)
• October 15: Heidi of CosmoChickLitan (review)
• October 17: ChickLit Central (promo post + giveaway)
• October 18 Elizabeth Flora Ross of The Writer Revived (review)
• October 20: Kate of Verb Vixen (review & character profile)
• October 21: Mary of Bookswarm (review)
• October 23: Kiera of Love,Romance, Passion (review)

Blue Cat, one of the stars of The Great Panty Caper.

Huuuuuuuge (like massive, Trojan Magnum sized) thanks to all those lovely folks for the wonderful buzz about  The Great Panty Caper. Seriously, guys, you’ve made this one of the most fun book releases I’ve ever had.

So back to the colleague who congratulated me.

I finally gave up guessing and inquired which accomplishment he was praising.

“I heard you fixed the popcorn maker in the break room,” he said. “I know how much you love that thing.”

Um, thanks?

Pretty much the worst book giveaway ever

Several months ago, I shared how my pets were obsessed with the giant box of Believe it or Not sent to me by my publisher.

Their obsession eventually waned, and I worked my way through the stockpile of books doing giveaways and promotions.

On the day we moved from our old house to the new one, I peered into the box and discovered one copy remaining.

Unfortunately, someone peed on it.

For the record, it's not saturated or anything. Just lightly drizzled.

The housemates vehemently deny using my book box as a urinal, and I checked all the book's Amazon reviews to make sure no one posted anything like, "this book sucks, so I took a whiz on it."

I don't mean to point fingers here, but I'm pretty sure it was one of the cats. My money is on Maestro, my gentleman friend's favorite among our five felines:

Maestro. Is he the guilty party?

But it's also possible Matt the Cat or Blue Cat committed the offense while jockeying for position in my writing space.

Or was it Blue Cat or Matt the Cat?

No matter, the damage is done. It got me thinking about those weird eBay auctions you see sometimes where someone's selling a piece of gum chewed by Britney Spears, or a Kleenex someone swears Tom Hanks blew his nose in.

So who'd like to own a copy of of Believe it or Not that's been peed on by my cat?

*crickets*

Don't all raise your hands at once.

OK, seriously. Tell me in the comments who you think peed on the book, and why you deserve this very special copy of Believe it or Not.

I'll choose a winner at noon PST on Sunday, August 18. That person will receive the copy of  Believe it or Not that's been ceremoniously anointed by someone in my house, plus one additional, signed copy of the book for your personal use. I'll package the pee copy in a baggie or something to keep it fresh for you, and I'll try not to let it touch the non-pee copy (because obviously we wouldn't want the non-pee copy to taint the pee copy – it might devalue it or something).

Questions? Comments? Suggestions on where I might go to find a qualified mental health professional?

I told you this was pretty much the worst book giveaway ever.

Caption contest top 5: Now it's your turn to vote!

Holy cow! When I asked you guys to write a caption for a chance to win a prize, you took me seriously!

Or humorously, depending on how you look at it.

I had a tough time picking five finalists, but with a little help from my gentleman friend (and perhaps a pet or two) we managed to narrow it down.

Now, it's your turn to pick a winner. Post your vote in the comments by 5 p.m. PST on Thursday, March 29. If your entry is one of the five finalists shown here, feel free to lobby for votes via Facebook, Twitter, your own blog, or by offering sexual favors to other readers by explaining clearly and professionally why you deserve to win.

The winner will receive:

1. A signed copy of Making Waves
2. A signed copy of Believe it or Not
3. A dozen handy bookmarks emblazoned with all sorts of fun details about both books.

Now here are the entries:

Now you see why I had trouble picking! Aren't those awesome?

Choose your favorite and cast your vote in the comments. And thanks to everyone who participated. You guys rock!

Write a caption, win an awesome prize pack!

Sunday morning, I was scrambling frantically to pack for a three-day conference. When I dashed through the office to grab my laptop, I was surprised to discover it already in use:

Those of you who've read Getting Dumped know Blue Cat is a character in the story. Those who've read this blog for awhile know he's my real-life pet, and that his massive size makes him a less-than-ideal guest on my laptop. Not only had he typed an impressive string of letters with his hefty gut, he'd knocked my full cup of water to the floor.

Luckily, the floor is tile and the cup is silicone (if you have pets or children and don't own a cupboard full of Silipints, go buy some now. Seriously).

Suffice it to say, I wasn't keen on having an 18-pound cat decide my laptop is his new favorite nap spot.

Which is why I was doubly unimpressed to return from my lunch break yesterday to discover this:

Not one, but two cats have now decided my workspace makes a delightful hangout. I should point out that Matt the Cat looked up only briefly for this photo op, and then resumed gnawing on the arm of my office chair.

Not to be outdone, Blue Cat had his furry butthole parked squarely on a copy of Believe it or Not, while his "I'm annoyed with you" tail twitches knocked pages of my editor's notes from Getting Dumped episode #2 to the floor.

Helpful little bastards.

But there is a point to all this, which is to tell you about a contest that will allow one lucky winner to snag the following:

1. A signed copy of Making Waves
2. A signed copy of Believe it or Not
3. A dozen handy bookmarks emblazoned with all sorts of fun details about both books.

You'll recall I asked you guys to come up with an idea for a contest giving away the aforementioned goodies. I perused all the entries, and was most smitten with this one:

jeanette8042 said...

You could take a funny or regular pic of your pets and the books and ask readers to make funny caption.

Splendid idea! Jeanette, send your snail mail address to tawnafenske at yahoo dot com, and I'll send you a signed copy of Believe it or Not for coming up with a good plan for the contest!

As for the rest of you, here are the rules:

Write a caption for the photo featuring Blue Cat and Matt the Cat. Post it in the comments by noon PST on Monday, March 25. On Tuesday, March 26, I'll post my top five favorites.

Then I'll open it up to you guys to vote. You'll be free to lobby for votes via Facebook, Twitter, your own blog, or by offering sexual favors to other readers by explaining clearly and professionally why you deserve to win.

I'll tally the votes after that, and will announce the winner. Sound good?

Now go forth and caption! Here's that photo again:

Why word choice matters

My dog, Bindi, is a three-year-old Australian Kelpie. In case you're unfamiliar with the breed, imagine a herding dog on crack.

Then dial it up six notches, add a genius level IQ, and remove the off-switch.

I originally acquired her two years ago to serve as an aid for a deaf elderly dog I owned. It took less than a day to teach her the commands to locate him when he wandered off in the woods and herd him back to me.

These days, her skills are utilized mostly by my housemates, who regard her as a sort of electric blanket to be grabbed while snoozing on the couch watching action flicks.

Feeling guilty about the wasted talent, I decided two weeks ago to teach Bindi a new trick.

"Bindi," I called, grabbing a fistful of dog biscuits. "Sit!"

She sat, of course, and waited for the next command. With my free hand, I made a finger-pistol and pretended to shoot her. "Bang! Bang!"

My plan was to roll her gently into a "play dead" position.

Her plan was to tuck her tail between her legs and flee the room.

"What the hell, Bindi?" I called. "Come back."

She slunk back into the room, looking like I'd just run over her tail with the lawn mower.

"It's not a real gun," I assured her, letting her sniff my hand. "See, it's just my fingers. We're only pretending it's a gun because it seems like kind of a cute way to teach you to play dead."

She listened carefully, cocking her head to the side and perking her ears up. I gave her a biscuit just to show there were no hard feelings. Then we were ready to try again.

"Bindi, sit!"

She sat. I cocked my finger and fired. "Bang! Bang!"

She tucked her tail, slunk across the room, and leaped onto my housemate's lap. From there, she eyed me with deep suspicion.

"I don't think she likes this trick," my housemate said.

Baffled, I retrieved my manual on dog behavior while dialing the number for a local dog trainer.

I'm kidding. That would be the logical move. What I really did was post a joke on Facebook about my dog failing to distinguish a gun from a finger.

After a few silly comments and "likes," a friend piped up as the voice of reason. "She probably thinks you're saying 'bad,' since she doesn't know the word 'bang.'"

Oh.

And duh.

I raced back to the living room and switched tactics. "Bindi sit!" I made the finger-pistol again. "Pow!"

I toppled her over with one hand and held her in the play-dead position. No whimpering. No tail-tucking. I let her back up and tried again.

"Pow!"

And just like that, my dog got the trick.

Considering what I do for a living, you'd think I might be smarter about choosing my words carefully. I'm a slow learner sometimes, I suppose. Thankfully, my dog isn't.

In case you want evidence, here's a ten-second video of Bindi executing her trick. Feel free to applaud and praise, or just share an instance when you realized the value of choosing your words carefully:

Who makes you howl?

With a wide array of housemates, significant others, and random strangers cycling in and out of my house like perverts through a brothel, my dog is rarely alone these days.

Bindi sees this as the biggest plus of our current living arrangement.

Each household member plays an important role in Bindi's life. I'm the steadfast provider of dog kibble, regular walks, and trips to the vet. One housemate is her supplier for table scraps and lazy afternoons on the sofa watching ninja movies. My gentleman friend can be counted on to throw her ball until one of them collapses from exhaustion.

Then there's the housemate who isn't much of a dog person. He doesn't dislike dogs, and will even drag her out for the occasional run or hike. But their bonding has been a little more tepid.

Or so I thought.

Several weeks ago, he sent me a text message:

Bindi & I had a howlin' contest this morning.

Intrigued, I clicked the attached 24-second video. (Warning: there's a curse-word in this video. If you're offended by curse-words, I suggest you not click. I also suggest you not read this blog or my books. Why the hell are you here, anyway?)


Now here's the funny thing – I've owned Bindi for more than two years. We've gone for countless hikes, endured lengthy road trips, and snuggled for endless hours. Never once have I heard my dog howl. I didn't even know she could howl.

I asked my housemate about it later when all the other household occupants were present. No one else had heard Bindi howl, either, but the howl-inducing housemate just shrugged it off.

"It's sort of our thing," he said. "She only does it when no one else is home."

I'm fascinated by this. Not only by my dog's behavior, but by the notion of one creature triggering another to do something he or she doesn't do for anyone else.

For once, I'm not being filthy.

I was thinking about this in the context of the rewrite I just submitted for my third contracted romantic comedy. One element of my marching orders from the editor involved tightening the bond between my hero and heroine. What is it that makes their relationship unique? What are the little inside jokes only the two of them share? What separates her from every girl he's ever dated or him from her ex-husband?

I can't tell you the answers to those questions without giving away some plot twists, but rest assured, I figured it out.

Are there things you share only with one special friend or significant other? I'm not talking about playing Spear the Donut. I'm thinking more along the lines of little things you catch yourself doing around a certain person who's the only person in the world to see you behaving that way. Please share!

And please take a moment to enjoy this second video my housemate shot just to prove the first one wasn't a fluke. Aroooooooooooooo!

On dog puke, candy canes, and my new life

At least once a week, I'm struck by how different my life is now than it was a year ago. I currently share my home with three grown men, five cats, and a dog.

It goes without saying the conversations taking place under this roof are a bit different than they were 12 months ago.

Like this one that occurred last night when my gentleman friend and I returned from grocery shopping to find the two 27-year-old housemates seated at the dining room table eating barbecue chicken:

HOUSEMATE 1: (to me) Your dog threw up.

HOUSEMATE 2: A lot. It was like something out of the exorcist. You wouldn't believe how much liquid came out of such a small animal.

ME: (scrambling to put down the groceries so I could inspect the dog. She was prancing around the kitchen with her tail wagging, in no apparent distress). Are you OK, baby? What's the matter? Is your tummy upset?

HOUSEMATE 1: It was a lot of puke. Like a lake.

HOUSEMATE 2: It took a whole roll of paper towels to clean it up.

ME: Was there blood in it? Has she been acting sick? Have you fed her anything unusual today?

In case you wondered what
broiled candy cane looks like.
No, I won't show you the puke.

HOUSEMATE 1: We made her eat a candy cane afterward. She had puke breath.

HOUSEMATE 2: Then we put a candy cane under the broiler to see if it would melt.

HOUSEMATE 1: It did.

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: (making an effort to be supportive) Was there anything in the puke or was it just liquid?

HOUSEMATE 1: Want to see a picture? It's on my camera upstairs.

HOUSEMATE 2: Wait, I've got one here on my phone.

ME: You both took pictures of the puke?

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: Is this why the snow shovel is on the porch? Did you try to shovel the puke?

HOUSEMATE 1: Check it out, look at this picture.

ME: Oh, geez. (To gentleman friend) Would you mind starting dinner? I think I need to write all this in a blog post right now and get it up fast.

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: You said "get it up fast."

HOUSEMATE 1: Knock on wood.

HOUSMATE 2: You said wood.

Yes, this is my life now.

I'm pretty damn happy about that.

My dog has two daddies

I'm fighting a cold right now, which means what little energy I have is being channeled into the final round of copy edits before Believe it or Not goes to print.

In case you're wondering, I've now read the manuscript 74,389 times.

Since many of you show up here expecting a laugh, I feel like I should at least share something that made me giggle recently.

I've told you before how my two 27-year-old housemates have plotted to use my dog as a chick magnet. Late last week, the two boys took my dog out for a hike in the snow. They returned home soggy and exhausted, but gushing excitedly about the newspaper photographer who snapped their picture.

"We're going to be famous," one of them deadpanned. "You'll be asking for our autograph on Saturday."

"Chicks love famous guys," the other agreed.

"Don't worry," the first housemate assured me. "We made sure to give the photographer the correct spelling of the dog's name."

Saturday morning, I heard them both up rustling around much earlier than usual. I came downstairs to find them frowning at the front page of the Local News section.

In case you can't read that, here's what it says:

A stroll through fresh snow
Bend residents [Tawna's housemate], 27, left, and [Tawna's housemate], 27, along with their dog Bindi, return to their car after a hike to Tumalo Falls west of Bend on Friday afternoon. Snow was about a half a foot deep along the trail. Look for the Well, shoot! field trip to Tumalo Falls on Page C1 in Tuesday's edition of The Bulletin.

The housemates watched me as I read it. "What do you think?"

"You mean besides the fact that it makes you sound like life partners?"

They both scowled. My gentleman friend picked up the paper and studied it. "What a nice young gay couple out for a walk with their dog," he said.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," I added. "So much for using the dog as a chick magnet."

So that was the highlight of my weekend (albeit, perhaps not theirs). How about you?

Please pet me, I'm writing

Note to self: the next time daylight savings time rolls around, consider the fact that your brain will begin waking at 2 a.m. with the urgent need to tap-dance around the bedroom. Given the resultant state of sleep deprivation, it is perhaps not the best time to plan things like the sale of your home, the final read-through for two contracted novels, or a blog post for the day job that requires you to sample mac-n-cheese at every local restaurant until you find yourself in a perpetual food coma.

I'll admit it, I'm fried. I've got no words left, so this seems like a good time for pictures. Pet pictures, to be precise. It's no secret I adore my pets, and that they're a constant presence in my life and my workspace. One look at my Facebook page or my Twitter stream confirms that.

So for today, I give you a handful of my favorite pet photos from recent months...

Bindi is a three-year-old Australian Kelpie, which is a fancy way of saying "small herding dog on crack." One of the best things about my two 27-year-old housemates is that they assist me in wearing her out with regular hikes and games of fetch. This is a shot one of the houemates took using an underwater camera.

The other housemate relies on a motorcycle for most of his transportation. This doesn't stop him from taking Bindi with him when he goes out for hikes. She seems to love it.

Bindi is surprisingly tolerant of the fact that she shares her home with three (yes, THREE) cats. One of the cats doesn't exactly count. Ivy is a crazy feral cat I trapped 13 years ago. She's spent most of her life hiding in closets and under beds. I recently bought Bindi a fluffy new dog bed, and Ivy decided she loves this bed with every fiber of her being. Suffice it to say, Bindi hasn't gotten to use it.

Ivy abhors being held. She also terrifies the hell out of my housemates, both of whom refer to her as "ninja kitty" and have spotted her only a handful of times.

You know how parents aren't allowed to have favorite children? The great thing about pets is that you can have favorites, and Matt the Cat is mine. He's a polydactyl cat, which means he has extra toes on his front paws. I like to think this has something to do with his kleptomaniac tendencies. Matt steals constantly from around the neighborhood. Gloves, stuffed animals, puppets, mouse pads, rolls of toilet paper, leaves, homework assignments, goggles, flip-flops, darts, socks...these are all things Matt has dragged through the cat door.

Oversized paws make an excellent sleep mask when you don't want to wake up in the morning.

Matt likes to assist while I'm writing. Here he is anchoring the printer so it doesn't fly away,

And here's Matt helping me write a blog post.

Then, there's Blue Cat.

When the cleaning crew showed up the other day to prep my house for sale, I eavesdropped as they made the rounds. I had to laugh when I heard one of them shriek (in Spanish), "That is the biggest cat I've ever seen in my life." I didn't have to look to know which cat they'd spotted.

Blue Cat has a shoe fetish. Anyone who leaves shoes lying around pretty much guarantees those shoes will be used as a feline pillow.

Though I'm not allowed to tell you much about the new secret project I've been hinting at in recent weeks, I can tell you that Blue Cat is a character in the story. He plays himself. Very crafty of him.

So there you have it....my brain dead post of the week. What do you think of my furry babies? Lie if you must and tell me you love them.

Otherwise, I'll sic ninja kitty on you.

My cat is a filthy pervert

Three years ago, I walked into a pet store and spotted Blue Cat in a lineup of death-row shelter cats. He was enormous and mostly shaved, and his tags declared him to be 12 years old. Minus a brief stint where he was adopted, matted beyond repair, and returned to the shelter, Blue Cat had been incarcerated for over a year.

I’m a sucker for hard-luck stories, so I adopted Blue Cat and hauled him off to the vet where I learned he not only has a temper, but he wasn’t 12 years old. He was more like three or four.

It also didn’t take long to discover that Blue Cat is a filthy pervert. At first I thought he was just friendly. Whenever pals would visit, Blue Cat would climb into their laps for an affectionate greeting.

I soon realized that while he greets everyone, his greetings with female guests are especially friendly. Heaven help the bosomy houseguest who reclines on my sofa to watch a movie. Within five minutes, Blue Cat will locate her sweater potatoes, curl up between them, and purr until he drools.

Did I mention he’s male?

I’m subjected to the worst of it since I live with him full time. If I’m on my back asleep, Blue Cat will wake me with a dance routine conducted entirely on my chest. If I’m seated at my computer writing, he will find his way into my lap, stretch one paw up, and hook his claws in my boob to anchor himself in place.

I try not to be embarrassed when he cops a feel with female visitors. All things considered, it could be worse. When I was a kid, my parents had a Chihuahua with a humping habit. It wasn’t so bad when he confined the activity to his teddy bear or bed, but things got dicey when he took a fancy to my aunt’s fluffy perm and mounted her head from the back of the sofa.

Have you ever had a pet with poor social skills? Is it best to just ignore my pervert cat’s behavior, or should I make an effort to civilize him? Please share!

And please let me know if you have a good method for extracting cat claws from tender flesh. Hypothetically speaking.

Make time for a paw in your butt crack

Every now and then, someone at a book event will ask about regrets in my writing career.

My off-the-cuff answer is that I don’t tend to regret much because every bonehead move has taught me something important.

While that’s totally true, something occurred to me yesterday when I was lying facedown on an air mattress with my dog’s paw wedged in my butt crack and the icy river turning my boobs to frostbitten bricks.

Once upon a time, I was represented by someone other than the amazing agent who currently reps me. This agent took me on for a project that didn’t end up selling, and as sometimes happens, seemed to lose interest after that.

I went through a long dry spell without much contact from my agent until I got an email from out of nowhere asking if I had any romantic comedy to pitch.

I didn’t, but since I write fast, I vowed to come up with something quickly. For two straight weeks, I brainstormed and noodled and drafted and polished and revised. I worked late into the night. I skipped road trips and family outings. I devoted everything I had to cranking out those manuscripts as fast as possible, determined to impress my agent and meet the arbitrary deadline I’d set for myself.

At the end of two weeks, I sent my agent the first three chapters and a synopsis for two proposed romantic comedies. Then I waited.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

A few months went by, and several “just wondering if you got it” emails went ignored. Finally, I caught my agent on the phone.

“Those romantic comedies,” I said breathlessly. “What did you think?”

“Oh,” said my agent. “I don’t know. Not really my thing, I guess.”

I wasn’t crushed by my agent’s words. Not really.

But what I did regret was missing those final weeks of my summer. I thought about the camping trips I could have taken, the hikes I missed, the outings with friends I gave up to focus every ounce of my time on those damn manuscripts and my self-imposed deadline.

I’m going to fast forward through the drawn-out saga that took place over the next few years, because that’s not the point of this story. Suffice it to say I left that agent, signed with the amazing Michelle Wolfson, and in February 2010, she landed me a three book deal for those same romantic comedies.

But did you notice those dates?

September 2007 – I was convinced that timing mattered. That I absolutely, positively, had to sacrifice every moment of those final weeks of summer to impress someone with my speed and efficiency.

But it wasn’t until February 2010 that anyone offered to buy those books. That urgency I felt way back then – all the stress and sacrifice and hurry-up-and-write-you-moron sentiment was completely in my head.

I thought of that yesterday when I tallied up my to-do list. Update website. Revise third contracted novel. Write a blog post. Clean my office. Write marketing copy for Sourcebooks. Comb the cat. Giggle about unintentional dirty euphemism.

Then I studied the list and considered which things absolutely, positively had to get done that day. I spent the morning doing them, then shucked my clothes, donned a bikini, blew up an air mattress, buckled the dog into her life jacket, and set out to float the river.

Because the thing is, summer will be gone in a few weeks. I can always find evenings and weekends to tackle that list, but spending time doing pleasurable things that can only occur during a small, precious window of time?

That has to happen now.

Besides, it’s all research for a humor writer. I have to appreciate the comedic value of the dog deciding thirty seconds into our float that paddling along beside me in her life jacket was an unsuitable means of transportation, and that she’d really rather hoist herself onto the air mattress, shake her soggy body, and spend the duration of the float standing on my back.

There’s also humor in the logistics of a solo float, which requires a half-mile walk lugging a limp air mattress, dragging a reluctant canine, and trying to pretend I’m not a 37-year-old woman walking through a busy shopping district in a bikini and ugly sandals.

That’s good stuff there. And that’s what I remind myself when I realize I’m loading myself with arbitrary deadlines and preparing to skip something fun in favor of tacking a to-do list.

Don’t sacrifice pleasure for tasks that can wait. Don’t miss moments you can’t make up later. Don’t forget that living is what gives writers the raw material we need to keep writing.

And don’t forget to clip your dog’s toenails before she uses your butt crack for balance.

A doggie-style love affair

My dog is in love.

She wasn’t looking for it, and her head-over-tail passion for my 26-year-old male housemate caught us all by surprise. She follows him around the house with her tongue hanging out, accompanies him on long hikes, and sleeps in his bed whenever he’ll let her.

He’s smitten, too. I catch him cuddling with her on the couch, talking to her when he thinks no one can hear.

But theirs is a doomed love affair.

As much as I appreciate the fact that the housemates’ presence allows me to pay the mortgage for now, I know they won’t always live here. I don’t picture myself in the kitchen with them when I’m 82, bickering about whose turn it is to buy eggs.

Which means my dog will eventually lose her boyfriend. I know this, and I wish there were some way to explain it. To let her know she shouldn’t get her furry little canine heart so tangled up in this ill-fated romance.

But then I think better of it.

When it comes to love or writing or really anything worth pursuing with passion, you don’t avoid throwing your whole self into it just because things might end badly.

What kind of world would this be if everyone who’d ever lost love or racked up a rejection pursued all future attempts with a half-hearted, half-assed approach? If you knew things weren’t going to turn out the way you hoped in the end, would you really want to miss the tail-wagging thrill of enjoying it while it lasts?

So as usual, I think my dog might be smarter than me.

Well, except for the butt licking thing.

There's more than one way to shave a cat

If a guy offers to shave your kitty, he doesn't necessarily deserve to be slapped.

As it turns out, not everyone has a filthy mind. As it also turns out, it takes more than one person to groom an ill-tempered cat.

Blue Cat before the big shave.

For months, I've been meaning to give Blue Cat a summer haircut. Besides having extremely long fur that's prone to matting, he has a fondness for rolling in dirt and cheatgrass. We reached a point that I felt like I was holding a filthy hippie with foul-smelling dreadlocks, only this hippie drools when he purrs. I knew something needed to be done, but the idea of doing it by myself was as appealing as rubbing wasabi in my eye.

A good friend who's either exceptionally kind or mildly suicidal offered to lend a hand, so we corralled Blue Cat in my downstairs bathroom and gathered all the necessary supplies. For the first thirty seconds, Blue Cat just thought he was being petted by someone with a vibrating hand.

Then he looked back and saw his fur coming off in clumps. That's when I lost the first layer of skin off my forearm.

As Blue Cat yowled, the dog whined on the other side of the bathroom door. When I slipped out to grab a pair of scissors, one of the other cats went skittering under the guest bed, convinced his turn was next.

Blue Cat took a swipe at me as I came back in the room. I wrestled him to the ground again and tried to make him see reason.

"You'll feel so much better when it's done," I told him.

He hissed and bit my hand.

In a way, I could relate. How many times have I tackled a set of revisions the same way? I know it's for the best. I know how great it will feel when the whole thing is over. Even so, I approach the endeavor with so much snarling and spitting you'd think someone was removing my kidney with a pair of pliers.

Are there tasks you undertake like this? How do you move past the shrieking and hissing and into a realm of acceptance? Please share.

And while we're sharing, here are some photos from the great cat shave of 2011. It'll be just like you were there (minus the claws embedded in your shoulder).

It takes several hands to subdue the vicious beast.

Blue Cat escapes mid-way through the shave and sulks in the bathtub.

Almost done...

A big old pile of Blue Cat.

Purring happily on my lap now that the trauma is over.

The sounds of bliss

One of my housemates is a born-and-raised Southern boy.

That means he's required by law to deep fry at least 60% of his food and cover the remaining 40% with butter, bacon, sugar, salt, or some combination of all four.

After a bacon-wrapped meatloaf incapacitated him for 24 hours, I took pity and offered to make a batch of healthy stuffed peppers with lean ground turkey and oodles of nutritious veggies.

He made a giant batch of french fries to accompany it.

I felt my arteries hardening as he dropped the fry basket into the sputtering grease, but he just sighed with pleasure.

"That's one of my favorite sounds in the whole world."

In a weird way, I could relate. Though the sound of hissing grease makes me mildly nauseous, there are certain sounds that give me instant bliss. I was reminded of that just the other day during a frantic morning of edits and emails and so many deadlines I had to wrap my head in a towel to keep it from exploding.

In the middle of it all, one of my cats hopped on my lap, turned in a circle, laid down, put his paw on my arm, and began purring loudly.

It was the auditory equivalent of Valium, and improved my mood by at least six-million percent.

In no particular order, here are some other sounds that have the same effect on me:

• Popcorn bouncing around in my air-popper
• My dog sighing in her sleep
• My mom humming while she performs mundane household tasks
• Friends cracking up over a shared joke
• Rain pattering on my back deck when my window is open on a warm summer night
  
• A hot guy singing cheerfully in the kitchen while cooking me breakfast
• Birds chirping in the morning
  
• A favorite song I haven't heard for years that randomly pops up on my iPod
• Any combination of moans, sighs, or pleasure-prompted gasps (I should specify that's only when I intend to elicit that response from someone, though I do enjoy a good prank call as much as the next girl)
• Water in almost any form, from a rushing river to ocean waves to the taps running in my tub
  

I'm sure there are a million other good ones, but those are my favorites. What sounds are guaranteed to give you instant bliss? Please share!

I'll be waiting by the phone in case that heavy breather calls back.

My dog the chick magnet

There are many things I like about having two single male housemates in their mid-twenties. Some of those things don’t even involve watching them repair their motorcycles shirtless in my driveway.

I’m fascinated by the inner-workings of the male mind, particularly when it comes to the most noble of male pursuits: meeting women. Since this theme factors prominently into the plot of most romance novels, I pay attention when the boys start talking.

The other night, Housemate 1 and Housemate 2 were gathered at my kitchen table eating mint Oreos and discussing the motorcycle rally Housemate 2 just attended. My dog Bindi lay adoringly at their feet, waiting for someone to either throw a ball or drop a cookie.

The conversation went something like this:

Housemate 2: Lotta guys at the rally had sidecars so their dogs could ride along.

Housemate 1: We should get one for Bindi. Can you imagine what a chick magnet she’d be riding in a sidecar wearing a pair of Doggles?

Housemate 2: Doggles?

Housemate 1: Goggles for dogs.

They both sat and pondered that for awhile, probably imagining a string of women lined up waiting to dive topless into the sidecar upon seeing my adorably attired canine.

Housemate 1: How hard do you think it would be to teach her to chase a ball in the park and then drop it at the feet of a good looking girl?

Housemate 2: Probably not too hard. She’s smart. There could be a special command so she knows which girls are hot.

Housemate 1: It’d be even better if we could convince girls she’s a puppy. Puppies are good chick magnets.

Housemate 2: She does look sort of like a German Shepherd puppy.

They both stared at my dog, still contemplating her chick magnet properties. Bindi whined and nudged her ball toward Housemate 2’s shoe.

Housemate 1: Or we could just throw the ball and accidentally hit the hot girl with it.

Housemate 2: Yeah, and then go apologize and let her pet the cute puppy.

Housemate 1: And offer to help wipe the dog slobber off where the ball hit her.

The conversation continued on like this for quite awhile, with the housemates contemplating several more strategies for using my dog to get girls.

Part of me wanted to ask if it had ever occurred to either of them to skip the gimmicks and just TALK to a girl.

Then again, what’s the fun in that? Isn’t there something flattering about being approached in a unique way? Not that getting smacked in the forehead with a slobbery tennis ball is a turn-on, but it’s certainly an attention-getter when someone makes a creative effort.

It’s true especially in romance novels, where you seldom have two characters get together without a meet cute. The hero and heroine in Making Waves meet in a Caribbean bar and end up posing as honeymooners to win money in a beachside Newlywed Game. The twosome in my second contracted novel meet when she mistakes him for an intruder in her mom’s psychic studio and threatens to brain him with a Budha statue.

Got any examples of a “meet cute” from your real life or your writing? What’s the most interesting way someone’s approached you or you’ve approached them? Please share.

I’ve got to get my dog ready for her debut as a chick magnet. Do you think she needs the pink Doggles or the red ones?

Kind acts, evil doers, and everything in between

Lately, I’ve been noticing a lot of random acts of kindness.

It started Friday when I was grocery shopping and a gentleman approached me.

“Can I pay you a compliment without offending you?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied, intrigued by the idea of compliment capable of offending me.

“If you have an old man who doesn’t tell you every single day how fine you look, get yourself a new old man.”

OK, so it wasn’t one of those acts of kindness like carrying my groceries to the car or helping a kid cross the street, but it still made my day.

From there, I dashed off to pick up a new pair of prescription sunglasses. The very next day, I dropped them facedown in the gravel. I almost cried when I saw the scratches on the lenses, and I drove back to Binyon Optical with a heavy heart.

“Is there anything I can buy to fill in the scratches so I don’t spend the whole summer thinking my glasses are covered with bugs?”

The customer service rep took a look at them and shrugged. “We’ll go ahead and make you new lenses, no charge.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. You’re a loyal customer, and you just bought them yesterday.”

A cynical friend suggested my recent lack of a wedding ring – coupled with the fact that both kind deed doers were male – was to blame for both acts of kindness. Call me naïve, but I don’t think that’s it.

I was at the dog park yesterday when I spotted a sign on the bulletin board. A dog owner had typed up a statement about her canine’s bad behavior, offering an apology to a couple whose dogs her pet had apparently harassed and noting that she’s working with a professional trainer to correct the behavior.

The other dog owners must have seen it, because scrawled at the bottom was an acceptance of the apology and a note wishing them good luck with the training.

None of them had to leave those notes. They could have just gone their separate ways grumbled privately about the humping or lack of humping or whatever the canine crime was committed.

But the fact that both parties went out of their way to make things right with the other warmed my heart and reminded me that deep down, people are generally pretty kind.

I think that’s why I get annoyed when I read books with one-dimensional villains who are evil without a trace of attempted decency. Unless you live in a cartoon, bad guys aren’t generally jerks just for the sport of it. Even misguided sadists tend to believe deep down that they’re doing something good for someone.

It’s something I’m keeping in mind as I work through edits in my third contracted book. I can’t tell you much without giving away some surprise story elements, but suffice it to say, it's critical to make sure all people doing bad things have enough kindness in their characters to allow readers to relate to them.

Even if they do deserve to be punched in the nose.

What’s the last random act of kindness you performed or had performed for you? Do you share my frustration with one-dimensional bad guys? Please share.

And while we’re at it, please join me in pledging to commit at least one random act of kindness this week. Go ahead and hit on someone in the grocery store. Tell them I put you up to it.

Things I never thought I'd yell

It’s disturbing how often I find myself shouting, “Stop biting the vacuum cleaner!”

I posted something similar to that sentence on Twitter Thursday morning. Within minutes, I had replies from oodles of Twitter pals offering similar phrases they never thought they’d find themselves yelling:

• Get your butt out of my face!
• Stop licking the carpet!
• Don’t eat that!
• Stop dominating her!
• Quit biting your tushy!

At a certain point, it occurred to me none of us actually specified we were talking about pets. Perhaps some of us weren’t.

Nevertheless, the whole thing made me giggle, and made me post it on Facebook just for more giggles. (For the record, if you think I make this stuff up for cheap laughs, behold the reply on Facebook from my young roommate noting how he overheard me yelling the vacuum thing that very morning. It’s true, people. Except when it’s not).

What are some phrases you’ve caught yourself shouting to pets, kids, or significant others that make you shake your head and mutter, “is this really my life?”

Please share! We could all use the laughter.

Also, don’t forget to drop by The Debutante Ball today where we’ve been chatting about writing advice all week. Today, I tell you why you should ignore me.

Have a great weekend!

How awkward humping can inspire your writing

The advantage of having a dog with extraordinarily high energy is that I have to drag my lazy writer butt out of the house to walk her each day or risk having her explode in a fit of pent-up frustration.

Dog guts are hell to get out of heater vents.

Long walks alone with my dog are a great way to let my brain chew quietly on a plot point or character issue, but there’s also an advantage to skipping the solitude in favor of a more social locale. The dog park is fabulous place for people watching.

For many authors, people watching is a key part of developing strong characters. Here are just a few of the interesting specimens I’ve met on my recent forays into off-leash areas.

• The TMI dog lady. If you’ve ever been to a dog park, you’ve met this person. You ask her where she got her leash and 20 minutes later, you’re halfway through a detailed story of her dog’s history with gingivitis. I’m pretty sure TMI dog lady actually lives at the dog park and spends her days prowling for someone eager to hear every intimate detail of her canine’s life. I’m also pretty sure I wear an invisible beacon identifying me to TMI dog lady as just that person.  
• The awkward humper. Though it’s generally the dog doing the humping, the level of shame the owner feels suggests he may as well be the one gyrating awkwardly atop hapless strangers. As the dog frolics about mounting anything that moves, the owner alternates between scolding the dog, apologizing to other dog owners, and nervously explaining to everyone that it’s a sign of dominance and not sexual frustration. Personally, I’m a big fan of both the awkward humper and his enthusiastic charge. Such single-minded devotion to an illicit pursuit is the mark of an excellent romance author.  
• The foot-in-mouth guy. This is a more rare specimen, which is one reason I love him so much. On a recent dog park visit, I saw a gentleman tossing a ball for his dog. Several other dogs joined in the fun, prompting the owner to give an impromptu talk about the desirability of rubber balls over tennis balls for fetching. “The texture on a tennis ball can wear down a dog’s teeth,” the man explained. The man beside him nodded in agreement. “I know! My dog will sit there all day trying to chew the fuzz off his balls.”  
• The poop ignorer. If you own a dog, you know it’s your responsibility to pick up when Fido does his duty. But there’s always one person who believes she’s been given a special exception. She stands there feigning intense interest in a rock while Fido hunches up and builds a log cabin. Everyone sees it. The poop ignorer certainly does, but instead of whipping out her little brown bag and doing her part to combat canine landmines, she continues on her merry way. Perhaps she has a severe poo allergy for which she wears a medical alert bracelet. I can truly think of no other explanation, but I do spend an awful lot of time hoping she steps in a pile on her way out.

Are you a people watcher when you’re writing? Where do you go to catch a glimpse of interesting individuals to inspire you? Please share!

And please let me know if you happen to be any of the aforementioned characters. If you’re the awkward humper, I’d like to buy you a drink.