Dicks and other compelling reasons I love my gentleman friend

In the shopping center closest to my home, there is a Dick’s Sporting Goods. For those unfamiliar with the franchise, Dick’s is a national chain with more than 500 stores nationwide offering sporting equipment, apparel and footwear.

And the occasional good laugh, if you have a particular sense of humor.

Lucky for me, my gentleman friend does. Since Dick’s is adjacent to the grocery store we frequent, we drive by it several times a week. It never fails to amuse us.

“Did you hear Dick’s had a really big year?” he asked last weekend as we cruised through the parking lot. “Business has been growing like crazy for Dick’s.”

I gave a solemn nod and tried not to giggle. “It was such a hard year for a lot of retailers, so I’m glad Dick’s kept it up.”

“They’re facing some stiff competition these days. You’ve really gotta give Dick’s a hand.”

“Sales were actually sagging at the start to the year, but profits rose and Dick's finished on top with help from some corporate outreach,” I said.

“That and a little stroke of luck,” he agreed. “I like how their customer service isn’t too in-your-face.”

“I never come out of Dick's empty handed. My only beef is that their women’s apparel kinda sucks.”

“Oh, you should hop on the Dick’s website,” he said. “The selection is good, and their sale price on balls just dropped.”

Once our shopping was complete, we returned home and unloaded groceries as my gentleman friend’s offspring scurried upstairs to hang their coats.

“How much longer do you think we have before the kids catch on to the Dick’s jokes?” he whispered.

“Forever, I hope,” I replied. “Good use of longer, by the way. I almost didn't notice you worked that in there.”

“Thank you. Nice job with working that in there.”
 
“I try.”

When sexting isn’t sexy

Sixteen months ago, I visited New York City for the first time and met my amazing agent in person. The meeting occurred just two months before the release of Making Waves, and two months after I found myself in a new romantic relationship for the first time in fifteen years.

My agent and I discussed the strangeness of those life events colliding, and she offered miscellaneous bits of advice. “You should probably steer clear of sexting,” she suggested.

She was either joking, or making a sincere effort to safeguard my budding reputation as a debut author. Joking seems more likely, since I write romantic comedy. Where a sex scandal might damage the career of a children’s author, it would only pique public interest in mine. Not that I’m planning to release amateur porn videos (hi, mom!) but suffice it to say, I don’t fret about leaked text messages harming a reputation based largely on risqué humor and inappropriate sexual innuendo.

In any case, I can’t say I took the advice to heart. I love naughty text messages, especially the ones from potty-mouthed gal pals trying to get a laugh out of me.

Most sexy messages I send are meant for my gentleman friend, though admittedly not all reach their intended destination. A few months ago, I mistakenly sent my realtor a frisky lunch invite. Thoroughly amused when I cleared things up, she inquired if I might be free for a fully-clothed meal instead.

One of my best girlfriends told me recently about a sexy text exchange she had with her traveling husband. In the midst of their spicy correspondence, autocorrect issued a message from her declaring, “my piss is so wet for you.”

Her husband was not aroused.

My worst blooper occurred the first time I met my gentleman friend’s ex-wife. The meeting was arranged to ensure she felt comfortable with the new woman in their offspring’s life, and the mood was friendly but awkward.

During a lull in conversation, my gentleman friend tried to lighten the mood by texting me something hilariously filthy from across the table. Unfortunately, it was the precise moment I handed my phone to his ex to show her the cracked screen.

The look on my gentleman friend’s face is one I’ll remember ‘til I die.

I’m still not sure the ex-wife read the note, though I doubt she’d be surprised by her former spouse’s habit of easing strained moments with risqué humor. It’s one of the things I love best about him, and I doubt I’m alone in admiring the trait.

Do you have any awkward sexting moments you’d care to share, either intentional or unintentional? I’d love to hear about ‘em! So would my mom. It’ll take her mind off that amateur porn thing.

Anything sounds filthy if you say it right

I was devouring a container of leftovers at lunch the other day when I was overcome by fondness for the guy who helped make the meal.

Naturally, I took my feelings to Facebook.

Happiness is dating a guy who makes amazing sauteed spinach.

The second I wrote the words, I decided they sounded filthy. I know I've done it to myself (snicker) with my habit of turning even the most innocent phrases into sexual euphemisms.

Not that I have any idea what sexual act that particular phrase might represent, but as one Facebook pal noted, "it sounds like it probably would (and maybe should) be banned in several states."

Implied naughtiness sometimes stems from the reputation of the person writing or typing a phrase like that. My grandmother, for example, could write it in her holiday letter and no one would think twice. 

When the phrase is spoken, however, it's all about tone. I came home the other night to find the housemates engrossed in a conversation about a wildlife tourist attraction in Alaska. One of them took a swig of his beer and gave a lopsided smile.

"They'll even let you comb the caribou," he slurred a little drunkenly.

The other housemate snorted. "Comb the caribou? Is that what the kids call it these days?" 

I haven't stopped laughing about it since then, nor have I stopped trying to imagine what that might be a euphemism for. Something tells me it's best left undefined.

Have you read or heard any phrases lately that weren't meant to be dirty but somehow ended up sounding that way? Please share!

Then practice saying, "leave a blog comment" in different tones until you convince yourself it's the raunchiest phrase ever uttered.

The joys and burdens of being the office pervert

When I started my day job doing marketing/PR for my city's tourism bureau over a year ago, they knew up front about my life as a romance author.

The first thing they saw when they visited my blog the day I interviewed was a post titled "My hole got plugged, so my jugs aren't full." Suffice it to say, they know what I'm about and they're OK with it.

It didn't take long for me to establish myself as the office pervert. It happened by accident during a discussion about brochures to educate tourists on local activities.

"We could group kayaking, whitewater rafting, standup paddleboarding, and canoeing under the same heading," someone suggested.

"Sure, we could just title it Watersports," another staffer agreed.

I started laughing, assuming she'd said it to be humorous. Everyone turned and stared at me. "What's so funny?"

I stopped laughing. "You're joking, right?"

"About what?"

I cleared my throat. "Watersports? You want to have a brochure in the lobby encouraging people to pee on each other for sexual pleasure?"

They looked at me like I'd just yanked off the boss's underwear and put it on my head. It was then I realized I was the only one familiar with the filthy slang term.

Just to prove I wasn't making it up, I googled "watersports slang" and sent the link to the team. That was my first lesson in, "let's not put anything in office email we wouldn't want appearing in a city audit."

I tried to be good after that, keeping snickers to a minimum even when someone declared in a meeting, "this recession has been hard on all of us."

But I was forced to trot out the pervert card again when I spotted a colleague's Facebook post on the company page promoting a local ice skating rink. "Who wants to snowball with me?" she wrote, obviously trying to add a little personal flair to the post.

I assume snowball is some sort of ice skating trick. I also assume the perverts reading the post would know the other definition of the term. The meaning so filthy, I'm not going to explain it here, nor am I going to encourage you to google it unless you're safe at home and free from risk your loved ones will analyze your browser history.

Let's just say it isn't something my colleague would wish to offer as a service in a public forum.

I tried to explain, but that didn't seem like a conversation we should have in an office environment. "Just go home tonight and google snowball sexual slang," I told her. "And keep an eye on the Facebook post in case the perverts take the bait."

I went a few more months with my pervert card tucked safely in my wallet. I was doing pretty well until our director of sales and sports development announced we're hosting a national fly fishing championship and requested my help with the press release yesterday.

"Tell me a little more about the sport," I emailed. "How is it scored?"

"It's measured, and total inches gives you your ranking," he explained in a reply message. "If you have the highest number of inches on a section, you get first place and/or 1 point."

I couldn't resist. "This is the filthiest email I’ve gotten all week," I wrote back. "Nice work."

When we passed in the hall, he just shook his head. "Only you would think that."

It's safe to say that was my proudest moment at work.

How about you? Do you have particular reputation in your place of business? Is it something you'd be ashamed to tell your mother? Please share!

I'll be busy snickering over another email about fly fishing's measurement-based scoring system. Apparently, it's a hands-on process.

Even moving day is filthy if you listen closely

I spent the weekend helping a friend move, a process that’s approximately as enjoyable as sliding down a razor blade banister into a barrel of grapefruit juice.

On the bright side, there was no shortage of amusing innuendo. For example…

Disassembling furniture

• We need to find a good place for all the screws
• It should be loose enough now you can just use your fingers

Packing

• Will this fit in that box?
• That’s way too big to shove in there

Lugging furniture up and down stairs

• Do you want to be on top or bottom?
• Hold on, I need to get a better grip so I can slide it
• Let’s switch so you're not behind me
  

Loading the moving truck

• We need to put the smaller things in before we cram in all that big stuff
• Push harder and you should be able to get it in
  
• Why don’t I stick that in my trunk instead?

So that pretty much covers the excitement of my weekend. How was yours?

My realtor talks dirty to me

Selling my house wasn’t my first choice, but I’m rolling with the process and enjoying the little pleasures where I can find them.

Like the fact that my realtor talks dirty to me. She knows I’m a romance author, though I’m pretty sure she has no idea how fond I am of naughty innuendo. Here are just a few things she’s said in recent weeks that seriously had me biting my tongue to keep from laughing:

• The sign will be there Friday, and he’ll call if he has a hard time sticking it in.
• We had a little trouble getting it up, but the listing is live!
• Is it OK if we come through the back door?
• We’ll bring them by tonight, but they can’t get off until five.
• The flyers are done, but we need someone to swing by and stuff them in the box.
• We’re planning an event with all the other agents, but you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get a dozen realtors to come at the same time.

That last one she said on the phone Tuesday night, and I swear she paused afterward like she was waiting for me to laugh.

You’ll be proud to know I didn’t. Much.

So have you heard any good innuendos lately? Please share!

I have to go trim the bush. What? She said it would make things look tidier in front.

You dirty little beach

Burying my toes in the sand.

This past weekend marked my last scheduled book signing or speaking engagement until mid-October, and I capped it off with a day trip to the Oregon coast.

A day at the beach with family and friends should be innocent enough.

In theory.

But here are a few of the filthy phrases that had me rolling in the sand with laughter yesterday...

On ocean tides:
Wow, it's really coming in hard.

On building sand castles:
If you get it wet, you can pack it a lot harder.

On digging a fire pit:
That's a nice hole. Can you make it a little deeper?

On building a bonfire:
I need a couple really big logs.

On keeping the fire going:
It's hot enough, so go ahead and stick it in.

On kite flying:
Do you need a little help getting it up?

On packing up the beach blanket:
Don't shake too hard or you'll get it all over everything.

On the importance of resealing the picnic Tupperware:
Well of course you'll get sand in it if you leave it wide open on the beach.

So how was your weekend? Any filthy innuendos to offer up, beach-related or otherwise? Please share!

Way to work that wood

Every now and then, my parents get a chance to remember why I shouldn't be allowed out in public.

They got to rediscover this on Friday at the Oregon State Fair when we stumbled upon the nation’s premier lumberjack competition, the STIHL® TIMBERSPORTS® Series. The event is touted as, "wood-chopping, saw-slicing, heart-pumping lumberjack action."

You already see where this is going, don't you?

I sincerely wish I'd had an audio recorder or a notepad with me to record the running commentary from the ESPN announcers. As it was, I missed a lot of the play-by-play because I was on my knees howling with laughter as tears ran down my face and my mother simultaneously pretended not to know me and not to be every bit as amused as I was.

Here's the gist of what had me in stitches:

Announcer 1: Let's talk a little bit about the wood out here today.

Announcer 2: Yes, definitely! You know, a lot of people don't realize the hardness of the wood makes all the difference when it comes to a competition like this one.

Announcer 1: And believe me, this is some hard wood these guys are dealing with!

Announcer 2: Well, it's not just the wood, but the way the guys handle it. Stepping up to the platform now we have Floyd Jones. Now this man knows how to work the wood!

Announcer 1: Indeed he does. Watch the power behind that motion! He's really putting some muscle into it.

Announcer 2: You really have to appreciate the technique when he's working it from the front like that. A lot of people don't realize the force you need when you come at it from above.

Announcer 1: Oh, things are really heating up now! Look at the precision when he moves around to get at it from behind. That wood is about to give!

Announcer 2: And he's down!

We only got to watch one round before my parents decided we might be better off in the livestock barn.

If you've ever seen ram testicles, you already know that was a severe miscalculation on their part.

So how was your weekend? Any good wood whacking or other forms of unintentional risque humor? Please share!

Stick it in, stroke it hard, paddle me

On the big list of cool things I get to do for my day job, taking a standup paddleboarding lesson yesterday was pretty high up there.

Not just because the sport itself was fun, but because I’ve truly never found an activity so ripe with double entendres.

I was holding back giggles from the very start when my instructors began explaining strategies for mounting the board (a process that involved getting down on my hands and knees).

It was actually a good thing I was down there, since many of their subsequent instructions had me rolling on the ground in laughter.

For the record, these guys were 110% professional. I truly don’t think they realized most of the stuff they were saying could be twisted around by a dirty-minded romance author.

Here are just a few gems from the afternoon’s lesson...

On sizing my paddle: You need a good eight inches here.

On learning to move the board through the water: Stroke it hard at first – you want to really stick it in there.

When my board got a little tipsy: Did you bring a change of clothes in case you get wet?

As one of the instructors and I began to collide: We’re gonna bang rails. Hang on, I’ll get us off.

One instructor to the other on how he likes his new paddle: It’s great! I love how stiff it is.

Expressing concern the water was too shallow for getting on the board: You need to get it deeper when you mount.

Upon spotting a trout upriver: That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.

On techniques for maneuvering through a section of swift current: Sometimes you paddle and paddle and paddle and then you just ride it.

Honestly, there were at least a dozen other phrases that struck me as hysterical, but I didn’t have a notepad with me out there on the water. At one point, I sprinted back to my car to make a note of some of those gems on my iPhone. The instructor followed shortly behind me, along with a mutual professional acquaintance we’d run into on the river. The instructor knew I was within earshot, but the mutual acquaintance did not.

This is all setup for the following dialogue I overheard...

Mutual professional acquaintance: The girl you’re teaching? She’s just great. Really wonderful person.

Instructor: Yeah?

Mutual professional acquaintance: Super smart, really funny, very sweet, and great tits.

Mumbling ensued…I assume this is when the instructor suggested I might be close by. Then there was a lot of uncomfortable silence.

I emerged from my car, figuring I’d better put them out of their misery.

Me: Sorry to keep you waiting, I was just jotting down all the filthy comments you guys have been making unintentionally.

Long silence.

Mutual professional acquaintance: Did you…um…happen to hear my comment just now?

Me: Of course. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I do have great tits.

OK, so it wasn’t a double entendre. There’s a time for wordplay and a time to just be blunt. I don’t always get it right, but based on their expressions right then, I think I got it right that time.

Things you shouldn’t peddle at yard sales

Ever have one of those days where everything is one big sex joke you really shouldn’t make?

It started Friday evening. I was gathering things to take to a friend’s yard sale when my 20-year-old housemate came home from Bible study. Since he’s moving out next week when the college term ends, I asked if he had anything he’d like to sell so he won’t have to move it.

“Let me check,” he said, and bounded off up the stairs.

I wandered out to the garage to survey my own collection of saleable crap. When I returned to my office, I discovered he’d left a small pile yard sale goodies for me to take. The pile included the following:

• A lamp
• A recipe box
• Several articles of neatly folded clothing
• A pocketknife
• A poster

And these:

I stared at them for a long time, wondering if it was a joke, a mistake, or genuinely his idea of good yard sale merchandise.

I was also kind of wondering if he had the keys.

But by then, he’d gone to bed. Knocking on his bedroom door to inquire about a pair of red fur handcuffs seemed like a bad idea on several levels, so I set them aside and called it a night.

The next morning, I headed off to the yard sale. Included among my items for sale were two giant boxes filled with 10 years’ worth of Playboy magazine. Yes, the subscription is mine. What? I love the recipes, articles, and political commentary. I’m only dimly aware there are naked pictures inside.

I was a little worried my friend might balk at the idea of selling big boxes of nudie magazines, but realized I had nothing to fear when she began setting out an array of sex manuals for sale.

“Maybe we should set these on the other side of the yard so people don’t have to dig through the boxes right next to us and worry we’re judging them,” she mused.

“It’s our stuff,” I pointed out. “Why would we be judging?”

So we sat and waited. It hardly took any time at all before a guy came up and made an offer on an entire box of Playboys.

Then a few of the sex books sold.

Then the rest of the Playboys sold to a guy who couldn't fit the box on his bike, so he opted to leave the bike with us and walk home with his box of magazines. I wish I was kidding.

I should point out we weren’t just peddling porn. There was furniture and clothing and appliances and artwork and everything else under the sun.

But even so, the sex thing permeated every exchange.

“Are you allowed to go down on things?” a woman asked as she marched up to my little cashier table.

I looked up in alarm. “Um—”

My friend kicked me. “Prices. She means prices.”

Right.

An hour later, my friend got a similar inquiry. “How firm is this?”

By the end of the afternoon, all the risqué merchandise was gone. It’s possible one of the books made it into my pile of purchases.

It’s also possible those handcuffs never made it to the yard sale at all. What? They're fuzzy.

How to measure the smut?

I told you last Friday that the most common question at the “librarian speed dating” event focused on what each book was about.

Want to know the second most common question?

It was always accompanied by a slight shift in the chair, maybe a glance to one side or the other, even a blush in one case.

Then the librarian would clear her throat. “How steamy is your book?”

The first time someone asked, I choked on the grape I was eating. Then I quietly gave myself the Heimlich maneuver while the other two authors at my table used words like “closed door” and “discreet.”

When it was my turn, I shrugged. “My debut, MAKING WAVES, includes the word ‘vibrator’ 17 times.”

The number was on the tip of my tongue because I’d counted the previous week to amuse myself. It’s true, but it doesn’t paint the whole picture. The book contains a fair amount of bawdy humor, but the hero and heroine don’t consummate their relationship until fairly late in the story. Technically, the scene fades to black before the actual “moment” occurs (depending, I suppose, on how you and Bill Clinton define “moment.”)

That differs a bit from the second book in my contract, BELIEVE IT OR NOT. Though it may change if my editor requests it, the “moment” in that book lasts for nearly 20 pages and actually made me blush once on a read-through.

Both books are packed with a lot of risqué humor that might not resonate with all library patrons, and there’s a helluva lot of sexual tension in both. But steaminess? I’m not sure how to define that.

I did have to laugh when one of the librarians described an elderly patron returning to the library with a romance novel that had been recommended.

“This is the filthiest book I’ve ever read!” she declared as she thrust it at the librarian.

“Um,” said the librarian, fumbling for words.

“Where can I find more?”

How do you judge the steaminess quotient in a book? How do you measure the smut? Is it risqué language, sexual tension, the duration or graphic nature of actual love scenes, or something else entirely?

More importantly, does it matter?

In case it maters how many times the word “lust” is used, that would be 10 times for MAKING WAVES, 14 times in BELIEVE IT OR NOT, and 6 times in LET IT BREATHE.

Just thought you should know.

Wait, what did she say?

I love to eavesdrop.

Since I’ve never met a writer who didn’t love to eavesdrop, this is akin to telling you I’m rather fond of Chianti.

My favorite conversations to overhear are the ones that take awhile to figure out. I’m thinking of the one that occurred in a romantic oceanfront restaurant where Pythagoras and I dined on a recent trip to the Oregon Coast. We were seated so we could both watch the ocean, but Pythag had his back to the adjacent table.

That’s where the good conversation was happening, and it went something like this:

Older woman: He’s having a really hard time getting it up.

Younger woman: I think it’s just not long enough.

Older woman: Maybe if it were tighter—

Younger woman: No, I think he just needs it to be blowing a different way.

Pythagoras – who couldn’t see where the women were looking – was wide-eyed by this point. I actually could see what they were discussing, but I was still laughing so hard I nearly choked on my dinner roll.

“They’re talking about that guy flying his kite on the beach,” Pythag finally guessed.

“Probably,” I admitted. “But wait ‘til it ends up in one of my books.”

Are you an eavesdropper? What’s the most interesting conversation you’ve overheard? Please share in the comments.

And watch what you say around anyone with a notebook and an evil gleam in her eye.

Wild monkey sex

Last Friday, regular blog commenter Mary Brebner joked about some of my past blog topics, adding "wild monkey sex" to the list.

Obviously, this sounded like a great topic to me.

I photographed the following love story pictorial a few years ago in Gibraltar. Gibraltar is a British territory at the southern end of the Iberian Peninsula, and the primary reason I wanted to visit during our month-long trek around Spain and Morocco was to see the large colony of wild Barbary Macaques living there.

That's a fancy way of saying "really big monkeys."

The monkeys did not disappoint. In fact, they were one of the best parts of that trip. The highlight of my monkey experience unfolded while I was innocently snapping pictures of a small family of monkeys spending a pleasant afternoon together. Take a look:

Mommy Monkey, Baby Monkey, and Daddy Monkey enjoy a fine afternoon together.

If you look closely, you can see evidence that Daddy Monkey is having impure thoughts.

Monkey foreplay at its finest.

Mommy Monkey and Daddy Monkey provide Baby Monkey with a little sex education.

You know, you've gotta hand it to the monkeys – they get the job done without a lot of fretting about her checkered past or his insecurities stemming from a troubled relationship with his father.

Of course, it doesn't leave you with much of a plot for a romance novel. Still, you've gotta admire the lack of inhibition.

Have you ever witnessed any amusing couplings in the animal kingdom? Do you think there's some appeal to this sort of fuss-free amorous interlude?

Please share in the comments. I'll be searching for that video I shot of the tortoises mating in Barbados. No, I'm not kidding. I'm really not.

The big, hairy butt of romance

Some friends of ours just moved to a house a few blocks away.

After lunch, we went to visit and point out the highlights of the neighborhood.

One of those highlights is a large wooded area ideal for hiking, biking, and snowshoeing. It’s also a shortcut to the school their pre-teen daughter attends, and our friends were eager to take a look.

The five of us set out toward the woods, with Pythagoras leading the way down the dirt trail. “It’s really peaceful,” he explained. “We rarely run into anyone else out here.”

“Lots of great trails, too,” I agreed.

That’s when we all noticed the red pickup truck at the trailhead. It was unremarkable except that we rarely see vehicles there. As I continued to prattle on about wildlife and foliage, Pythagoras got a funny look on his face.

“What?” I asked.

He nodded toward the truck. “I just saw a butt.”

I squinted through the windshield. “A butt like someone’s throwing cigarettes during fire season or a butt like – oh my God, my eyes!”

And there it was, a big, white, hairy butt, appearing in the window briefly and then disappearing, then reappearing again, then disappearing in a rhythm that left little question what was transpiring in the cab of that truck. We had stumbled upon someone’s romantic interlude.

Well, as romantic as you can be in the cab of a dusty truck on a sweltering afternoon with the windows cracked and five strangers standing outside discussing methods for removing cheat-grass from a cat’s ear.

Not wanting her pre-teen daughter scarred for life by the sight of the butt pressed against the window, mom quickly herded her away while our friend stayed behind and Pythagoras and I continued chatting.

“Right up here is where the dog found the dead squirrel last week,” Pythagoras announced as the truck swayed gently.

“Couldn’t believe how fast he ate that squirrel,” I agreed, trying not to notice the butt was picking up speed. “Ate the fur and bones and maggots and everything.”

Several minutes passed and the truck stopped rocking. The butt vanished, and the windows rolled up.

We were all relieved.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not one to judge those who enjoy an amorous moment in a motor vehicle. I’m also not one of those romance authors who’ll tell you everything should be beautiful and tender and choreographed like a naked ballet.

But seriously? Must the thrusting continue with five strangers discussing carrion three feet away?

Eventually, our friend trudged back to his house while Pythagoras and I headed the other way toward ours.

“Think it was a couple teenagers, or an older guy having an affair?” I asked.

Pythagoras considered that. “Teenagers. There was a dirt bike in back.”

“I might've seen some gray butt hair,” I countered. “Maybe it's an older guy. Maybe the dirt bike belongs to his kid. He’s sneaking around on his wife and his marriage is already strained because he lost his job at the lumber mill and he’s pawning the bike so he can spring for a cheap motel room the next time he wants to bump uglies with his mistress.”

Pythagoras looked at me. “Please tell me the love scenes in your books are more romantic than that.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

So what do you think? Teenagers or frisky adults? And where is the line between a fun afternoon romp and a disgusting image that shouldn’t be inflicted on the eyeballs of others?

Speaking of which, anyone know where I can get my retinas bleached?

Things in my garage that sound dirty but probably aren't

Yesterday, I went out to the garage to find...actually, I have no idea what I was looking for. It's the garage, so the odds of me ever finding what I'm after are the same as the odds I'll give up romance writing in favor of drafting texts on quantum harmonic oscillators.

Sometimes I like to just walk out there and stare at the shelves while scowling because that's what I see Pythagoras do from time to time (after which he stalks off to Home Depot to buy something else to set on the shelves and scowl at).

So there I was, staring and scowling, when I noticed that nearly everything on these shelves sounds dirty. Don't believe me? Consider the evidence:

I wasn't aware I had a stripper in my garage, let alone America's #1 stripper. I feel so fortunate.

Spray lubricant? Because sometimes the tube or the bottle just isn't quick enough?

You know, I think I just won't touch this one.

And here I was naively trusting Pythagoras' vasectomy to keep me safe, and all along we've had miracle impregnator on the premises? 

I don't know about you, but I'm pleased to know my wood finish penetrates. Not so happy about the staining, however.

So there are just a few things in my garage that sound dirty but probably aren't. Do you have similar products lying around your house? I challenge you to look at them in a new (and preferably demented) light.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go rifle through the bathroom drawers. There's gotta be something good in there.

Why there’s purple underwear drying on my porch

I died last night.

Wait – I mean I dyed last night.

If you’re female and you’re in possession of boobies, you’re aware that white bras get dingy fast. Even before the elastic is shot and the underwire is stabbing you between the ribs, white bras can take on the hue of a dishrag that’s been tied to the ankle of a mule for three days.

If you’re the sort of person who doesn’t care about such things, I envy you. Really, I do.

Alas, I’ve been neurotic about my undergarments for as long as I’ve been wearing them. Not only must they be pretty and presentable, but bras and underwear must match. Always. You know that moment when you’re changing from one bra to another, and for the briefest moment, you’re wearing red panties and a black bra?

I hate that moment. I hate it more than fingernails on a chalkboard.

My friend Larie believes this is a form of mental illness, and she’s probably right. Nevertheless, I recently reached a point where – despite my most gentle laundering efforts – several beloved white unmentionables had turned an unfortunate shade of pale gray.

This was not acceptable.

I went out and bought a packet of purple dye, rounded up the assortment of grayish underthings, and got to work.

Pythagoras found me on the front porch using a kitchen spoon to stir a bucket of hot purple water.

“Do I want to know what you’re doing?” he asked.

“Probably not,” I admitted, “but I’m hoping you’ll appreciate the end result.”

All this effort to turn something old into something with a little more pizzazz – it’s a bit like what writers do every day.

Though I like to think my romantic comedies are quirky and unique, I’m pretty much just telling the same story every romance author tells – boy meets girl, they encounter some obstacles, they fall in love, and live happily ever after. Having my characters play strip-Battleship on a dysfunctional pirate ship doesn’t change the fact that the story itself has been told before.

I’m OK with that. There’s a lot of pressure on authors these days to come up with something “high concept,” something new and special that’s never been done before. But there really are no new stories. There are just unique ways of telling the old ones. Mastering the ability to do that is a big part of honing your craft as a writer.

Do you do anything special to transform your dingy gray story ideas into sassy purple panties? Or if you aren’t a writer, do you know where I might be able to get help for my hang-up with the matching underwear?

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the purple underthings turned out lovely. There are a few funny spots where the elastic turned a different shade than the rest of the fabric, but the overall effect is quite fetching.

I emerged from the closet this morning to find Pythagoras trying to use X-ray vision to see through my clothes.

“Are you wearing the purple stuff?” he asked.

I gave him a coy smile. “A lady never tells.”

“Right. So are you wearing the purple stuff?”

Let's get it on: overcoming performance anxiety

There are some authors who dread writing love scenes. I am not one of them.

Big shocker, I know.

I seldom give them much thought beforehand, and when I do, I regard them like a good crème brûlée – something to anticipate near the end of a meal.

From the start of LET IT BREATHE, I knew I’d do something a bit different. I don’t mean that in the handcuffs-and-tub-of-mayonnaise way. Without giving too much away, I’ll say these characters have a history, and the final love scene isn’t their first. There’s some significance in how things unfold, a little more to it than, “we’ve overcome obstacles, and speaking of coming…”

That said, I don’t like assigning too much deep meaning to a love scene. It’s a pet peeve of mine as a reader. At the top of my list of things I could never write is a heroine who’s sexually naïve until the big, manly hero arrives and brings meaning to her life by showing her how to batter-dip the corndog. While many authors use that device and many readers enjoy it, it makes me want to scrub my brain with steel wool.

So now that I’ve yammered on for five paragraphs about the final love scene in LET IT BREATHE, I’ve illustrated the problem I had yesterday when I sat down to write it:

It’s been built up too much.

That’s a line from a well-known movie (can anyone name it?) and one Pythagoras and I quote whenever we’ve discussed something to the point that we no longer wish to do it.

I can’t be the first writer who’s stalled out on the brink of a climactic (snicker) scene, so maybe these tips will prove handy for others who’ll come (snicker) after me:

Set the mood. It’s crucial for all scenes, but for love scenes especially. I got lucky yesterday when Pandora.com kindly hit me over the head with a song that was the perfect vibe for the scene. I promptly downloaded it and set it to repeat.

Give yourself a deadline. Some writers don’t work as well under pressure, but I had to force myself into action yesterday. I saw a couple authors kicking off a #1k1hr on Twitter, and invited myself to join. At the end of my hour, I had 1,500 words and the motivation I needed to keep going for another hour.

Get lubed up. Though I’ve touted the benefits of occasionally sipping an adult beverage to get creative juices flowing, I don’t drink when I’m writing a love scene. I like to stay sharp so I don’t miss the little nuances and gestures important in a scene like that, but I made an exception yesterday and poured a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Like magic, I loosened right up.

I know when I open the document later this morning, it won’t be perfect. I have a sneaking suspicion I gave my hero three hands and the ability to lick the heroine’s neck from three feet away, but I did get words on the page. Editing is a lot easier than staring at a blank screen two days in a row.

So that’s how I got over the hump (snicker). What do you do? Have you encountered a situation where a scene has been built up too much? What do you do?

The special way I used my pen(is)

So who wants to take a guess what I did with this yesterday?

OK, stop guessing now. And stop staring at it. Really, knock it off.

Here is what I did with my very special penis pen.

That's right, I signed my three-book contract with Sourcebooks, Inc. Four copies of it, 15 pages each, packed full of sentences like:

The benefit of the Author’s warranties and indemnities shall extend to any person, firm or corporation against whom any such claim, demand or suit is asserted or instituted by reason of the publication, sale or distribution of the Works as if such representations and warranties were originally made to such third parties.

Incidentally, I'm going to find a way to use that line in the next love scene I write.

In all seriousness, you probably assumed I signed that thing ages ago, right? After all, it's been almost exactly four months since I announced the sale.

But that's not how publishing works. This is one of many reasons people tell you over and over "don't quit your day job."

And that's certainly not to say anyone screwed up or dragged his or her feet. On the contrary, my amazing agent, Michelle Wolfson, and equally amazing editor, Deb Werksman, have both done an incredible job hammering out the details and thinking of things I would never in a million years dream up. Like who pays for it if a pterodactyl eats all the copies of my debut novel before it can be shipped to bookstores? I'm pretty sure there's a clause in my contract that covers it.

This is why I'm endlessly grateful to have such smart, talented people in my court. I didn't actually realize what a superstar Deb is in romance writer circles until I went to my first RWA meeting and my new chapter-mates gasped, "Deb Werksman is your editor?" with same tone they'd use to ask if Angelina Jolie is my best friend (FYI, she totally is).

And I don't have to tell you how much Michelle rocks. Having her fighting for me and my books every step of the way makes me weep with gratitude that she's my agent.

And also that I'll never have to face her in a cage match.

So there you have it. The contracts are signed, they're going in the mail today, and apparently there's some mysterious object called an advance check that might make its way to me sometime in the coming months.

Rumor has it they might actually be PAYING me to do this.

Oh, and I have a penis pen.

Does life get any better?

How sex, bike rides & writing are the same

A friend of mine suffers from low libido.

(If you’re new to this blog, you’re nodding smugly and saying to yourself, “sure, sure – a friend. Right.” If you already know me, I’m sorry you choked on your coffee just then).

Eager to make her husband understand her feelings, my friend offered him the following analogy:

You know how you feel about going for a bike ride, honey? It always sounds like more effort than it’s worth, and you have to change clothes and get all sweaty and it just sounds a lot easier to sit on the couch instead. Of course, once we actually go for the bike ride, you usually end up enjoying it, and thinking “why don’t we do that more often?"

That’s pretty much how she sees sex.

I laughed for a good week when she told me that, and then asked her to write all my future novels because really, I can’t top that.

I can relate though. Not to the sex part, and not even to the bike ride (though I don’t generally do both at once – the seat is just too small).

There have been several times in recent weeks where I’ve found myself looking at writing that way. I know I like it. I know it’ll feel good once I get going, and even better at the end.

But the thought of trudging into the other room, stripping off my clothes, and exerting all that effort just sounds so cumbersome at times.

It isn’t always like that, and certainly there are moments where I’m hurling myself at the computer in an urgent frenzy, murmuring words of passion as I stroke the keyboard with desperate yearning.

But there are moments I think there’s a fortune to be made in the author’s equivalent of Viagra.

It helps to think of the bike ride (OK, I’d rather think of the sex, but I’m trying to be PC here). I sweet-talk myself into doing it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll have a good time once I get going. I’ve loved it before, I’ve loved it the majority of the time, and if I just push myself past the “I don’t wanna” stage, it won’t be long before I'm saying, “oh yeah, baby!”

Do any of you deal with this? I’m not talking about your sex lives (though I guess you can share that if you want to). I’m talking about writing, or really any task that requires an exercise in self-motivation. What tricks do you use to prompt yourself to get naked and sweaty (metaphorically speaking)?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve piqued my own curiosity. I’ve gotta go see if there’s some way to pull off that naked bike ride thing with a laptop on the handlebars.

Things that sound dirty but aren't

It snowed on Saturday.

Not a lot, but enough to convince us that when the sun broke a few hours later, we’d better hit the hiking trail fast if we wanted to do so without the aid of snowshoes.

You might think being surrounded by fresh air and beautiful scenery would lead to a lot of meaningful pondering about my current manuscript.

This is me pondering meaningfully.

You’d be only partly right.

As is often the case, every phrase Pythagoras and I uttered managed to come out sounding dirty.

Think I’m kidding? Here are a few gems from our Saturday hike:

• “It’s too narrow to ride abreast” (me complaining about mountain bikers riding side-by-side on the trail).
• “They’re cavity nesters – that’s why the box is like that” (Pythagoras explaining the nesting habits of wood ducks and the homes built for them by Forest Service crews).
• “Get your nose out of that hole!” (me scolding the dog for chasing a ground squirrel)
• “I hope they’re planning to trim the bushes” (Pythagoras remarking on the overgrown foliage along the trail)
• Pythagoras: I’m worried the lava rock is really hard on her paws. Me: You said "hard-on."
• “Are you coming?”(me to a dawdling Pythagoras).

On the bright side, there is actually some element of this in my current manuscript, so all is not lost.

How about you? Did anything about your weekend leave you giggling like a middle schooler? Please share in the comments.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get off the internet and start working on the manuscript.

I said "get off."