Marie Force's Bandit Booty

OOPS! Can't forget to announce the winners from Marie Force's guest blog on Monday! All those things we can't, or prefer NOT to do.

So without further adieu, I'll let Marie announce her winners!

Karen Olson gets a copy of Line of Scrimmage because we each had a tow rope-astrophy on a ski slope and that makes us friends for life. Never, ever let go... Because if you do, you might prove to be a human domino who takes out the whole row behind you... I'm just saying... Don't let go!
Lunatic Cafe gets Love at First Flight because I love her screen name and she's as much of a freak show flier as I am, so she NEEDS this book about a couple who form a bond on an airplane!

ALL RIGHT! Winners, please email Marie at marie AT marieforce DOT com to claim your prizes.

OUR CATURDAY POSTS!

To see our post for Caturday, titled: "Dante: The Lion King", just click on Dante's picture to the immediate left of this post. It will take you to Dante's own purrsonal blog.

Also, we have a new feature titled "An Ariel View of the LOLSpot" about a brand new kitty-blogger. To get there, just click on the LOL Icon, second from the top on the left to go to the LOLSpot.

I Hear the Naked Rain

I had an ugly night's sleep.

On/off, on/off, on/off! Finally my eyes open for good at 9:00am. I should be sitting in one of the classrooms in the Roach Motel by now. Fuck FEGS. I had an appointment with Dr. A. today and I wasn't going to miss it for their shit. He is my savior, my friend. I miss him when I don't make one of my appointments to see him. That says a lot if you think about it.

I turn around and plant my face into the pillows. When I awaken it's 10:30am, nearly time for me to split. I jump up and get ready, and get online, finding nothing. I head downstairs. On my way out of the elevator I am brushed aside by a unit of five police officers along with Slick O and two white lab coated men. They were intense and commanded the elevator immediately. I was glad to slip out and down the long hall. Someone was in deep shit. Outside, in front of the building were two squad cars and an ambulance with Bellevue on it's side. The roof lights were going off on the three vehicles. A crowd of people were beginning to congregate. This was time for me to leave.

I struck off downtown, marching, listening to my walkman. The day was humid but not muggy. The sun, obscured by a few dark clouds but would peep through every so often. The dark clouds brought moments of rain, which caused me to duck under a store awning for a few minutes. Otherwise, it was a decent day for walking. Within an hour I had walked from my door on 98th street on the Westside to 59th street on the Eastside.

Before long, I had walked all the way to Dr. A's. office on 40th street. I was wringing with sweat but not tired at all. Dr. A. was pleased. Well, my checkup went well, but he tells me that, concerning my MRI, he does not want them to use the contrasting dye in my bloodstream because it will cause my kidneys to fail. Kidneys which are already weak from years of living on the streets. Yes people, being homeless can cause irreparable damage to your organs.

That was good news. That's what all the shenanigans was about when I went there swinging balls and all. I thanked Dr. A. He gave me my doctor's note, and I split, this time taking the train home. I know now that I can do the amazing, which is walk all the way home from midtown. I decide that I'm going to do this once a week.

Upon coming home I go through my mailbox. One is a letter that I have been waiting for from the Medicaid office. Today is the last day that I have to pick an HMO or they will pick one for me. The paperwork just came in today. The second envelope was from WESCARE. Remember what I said in a previous post: "This higher power will pass my case on to HRA who will contact me, by letter or in person when I do come in, somehow. This letter, lets say, will have the THREAT, the MOTIVATION. My benefits will be in jeopardy." Well, lets read this letter:

From, Ms. Robot: "Dear WEHAIR participant, You have been scheduled for a mandatory appointment to meet with you case manager on August 4th. Please note that if you do not attend this appointment your case will be in danger of being closed by HRA and WECARE. This action could stop you from continuing to receive your benefits...."

Hmmmm, here we go. The party has started and the dance music is playing. Time for me to hit the dance floor August 4th. Till then, FUCK THEM. I'm not going in. I'm taking a vacation from their crap. Simple as that. They'll resort either to an action or a threat. Either one I'm ready for. How strange, that just a little pause, which is two days from their antics, is worth all of the shit that they put me through. Incredible. I think tomorrow I'm going to schedule a fair hearing because this could go South in a heap a speed. I want to have all my options open when that does happen.

I get upstairs, hop behind my computer and try to blog but my eyes get heavy and my thinking cloudy. It is nap time. I take a quick hour nap and I'm back at it, typing away like a storm on my system. I attempt to choose an HMO today. I call in and find their offices closed. What does that mean? Do they choose one for me while their customer service is closed? Am I fucked, because the wrong choice could cause me to lose all of my doctors in a heartbeat. This will be interesting to see and hear.

When it rains on you it fucking pours.

I don't have an umbrella, but I don't need one. I've taken quite a lot from life. This is nothing new.

Shitmotherfuckergoddamn!

Hobobob

Have a fun weekend

My lovely readers, what are you doing this weekend? Alex and I are watching this chilling documentary and going free kayaking in the Hudson River. (It's awesome and not that scary.) Meanwhile, here are some great posts from around the web this week...

Vintage biology charts.

Oooh, fabulous wedding fans.

This photo is making me rethink long dresses.

What a lovely pregnancy portrait.

Love that Alan Dye's mac-n-cheese recipe calls for drinking Champagne while cooking.

Nice summer view.

A sweet mirror for your purse, and simple dresses.

Gorgeous business cards.

Floating camping. I don't get it...but I like it!

My summer wish list now includes everything in this ebay vintage shop.

Mmmm, this sandwich and this ice-cream.

Bloggers' book recommendations.

Splish splash, what a fun way to spend a weekend.

Thumbs up to silly happiness.

My favorite summer memory.

Also, three videos:

Funny People opens this weekend.

Mattress dominoes!

Humming along to this pretty song...

Have a great weekend, my darlings, and thank you for being so sweet, as always. xoxo

(Photos by Harpy)

Whoopie pies

My dolls, have you ever had a whoopie pie? At a party on Wednesday, my friend Allen walked up, held out an odd black-and-white cookie, and said, "Take a bite!" At first, I wasn't sure, but it turned out to be the most delicious, chocolate-y, marshmallow-y treat.

P.S. The NYTimes says whoopie pies are the new cupcake. Good to know!

The Pit of Despair

by Susan Sey

I wouldn't feel right about leading anybody on, so I'm going to say right up front that this is not a Princess Bride blog. Sorry, fans.

In spite of the title, there will be no ROUSes (Rodents of Unusal Size), no Six Fingered Men, & no love in the Fire Swamp. There will also be no more rhyming, & I mean it. (Though I will give props & bonus points to the first person to successfully finish off that quote. It's my mom's favorite.)

No, the Pit of Despair I'm talking about (hereafter referred to as the PoD) is a writerly phenomenon. It's not an underground torture chamber, exactly, though there are similarities. It's more a state of mind.

A realization.

A moment of clarity.

It's the place you end up when you must reconcile three ugly realities:

1) You have reached the limits of your talent.

Seriously. You have taken every workshop, tried every technique, read every craft book & worked your tail off. You have dug deep, you have summoned up your courage & honesty, & you have put your heart on the page. On lots of pages. Maybe a book or two (or three or four) worth of pages.

2) You have put your work out there.

You've queried every editor, every agent. You're written a kick-ass query letter, your synopsis rocks. You've endured the sound & fury of the contest circuit, & flung yourself on the mercy of every person even remotely interested in critiquing you. You've even (saints preserve you) pitched in person. Maybe you have an agent. Or even a contract. But you're doing the work. You're out there.

3) It isn't enough.

Your contest scores blow. Or maybe they don't. Maybe you're winning contests, but not getting requests from editors. Or maybe you are. Maybe you're getting full requests, but getting form rejections that get your name wrong. Or maybe that agent you sweated blood for just blew you off. Or maybe your long awaited publication date just got pushed back. Again. Or maybe book two on your contract just got shredded by your editor & you're pretty sure you only had one decent book in you.

Welcome to the PoD.

Good news, though. You're in good company. Hell, you're in great company. NYT best-selling company. And how do I (not remotely a NYT best-seller) know this?

Easy. I heard Janet Evanovich speak at the RWA conference a few weeks ago. And of course, she told us her Call Story. Now keep in mind, it's been something like 15 years & several millions of dollars since she got The Call. But between the part where she wrote & failed & wrote & failed for ten years, & the part where her husband & son tracked her down at a roller rink so they could tell her her editor had called--her editor!--she had to stop.

She got choked up & had to stop to collect herself so she could go on. Fifteen years after the fact, fifteen years in which presumably she's gained a certain amount of confidence in her talent, she still remembered so vividly what it was like to live in the PoD--and how it felt to be so miraculously released--it could move her to tears. I don't think there was a person in the audience who wasn't moved by that. Or inspired.

I know I was. Because while I don't have the faintest clue what it must feel like to see your name on the NYT best-seller list, I sure as hell know what it feels like to reach the limits of your talent, & see that big gap between where it ends & your dream begins. I know what the PoD feels like, & I know what it feels like to live there long enough to write a book or two. Or three. Or four.

So when I find myself in total despair (like when I read anything by SEP or Kristin Higgins & realize I will never write anything that witty or charming), I like to reframe things. Because what if the PoD isn't a death sentence? What if it's a prerequisite? Because here's something I know:

Maybe not everybody who lives in the PoD winds up on the NYT best-seller list. But every single writer who hits the NYT list has lived in the PoD. They all served their time.

And if they can go on to own the list, why can't we?

So, tell us. Spent any time in the PoD lately? What--or who--pulls you out when you fall in? Share!

Winners in the Lair!

posted by Jo Robertson

The winners of Brenda Novak's fan pack, the first three books in her Last Stand series, go to

Laurie and Maureen!

Congratulations, ladies! Please send your snail mail addy to jo.lewisrobertson@yahoo.com and I'll forward the addresses to Brenda.

And the winners of Delilah Dawson's books go to

Janga and Pink Peony!

Send your snail mail information to jo (dot) lewisrobertson (at) yahoo (dot) com.

Thanks for commenting both days, everyone! And thanks to our guests Brenda Novak and Delilah Dawson for their generosity.

DASHING DYLAN!

Dylan was out and about in the front yard today. He did his rounds of the neighbour's porch -- and then fell prey to the call of the squirrel (when the squirrel should actually BE the prey). There's been so many pictures of the squirrels lately though, that I didn't want to involve them in another post right now.

So, these pictures just show Dylan "on the alert" here, there and efurrywhere in the front yard. He did give chase a couple of times, and I think he's the fastest of all the 3-Ds.

However, Dylan in his quest was posing very nicely for me, so I managed to get some very instinctive shots of him (his instinct, not mine!) -- he definitely looks like a wildcat on the prowl.

Dylan is dashing in both senses of the word -- he is quite fleet of foot as he dashes about his domain, and he is also quite the handsome, adventurous fellow -- so dashing in both spirit and looks.

And dash it all -- I just realized I use a dash all too frequently when writing -- Dash that darn dash!

P.S. There are twelve new additions to the LOLSpot, titled "Encore, Encore!". To get there, just click on the LOL Icon, second from the top on the left to check them out.

Through the Intestinal Tract

Well, I'm certain I'm in the deep shit now.

I just didn't go in today. Yep. I just didn't bother going in. It was a tangle of will for me though. I got up, had my morning coffee, jumped behind my computer, and struggled with the plan to waste another day at the Vocational Center.

It seems as if all of my strength for going back there has finally been sapped. Maybe it's my social anxiety kicking in, maybe it's just laziness. I don't know what the fuck it is. I'm just not motivated to go in. I know what's the next remedial action from these bunch of fuckers will be. When I say 'fuckers' I mean the 'formers', the 'creators' of this entire madness, not just FEGS. These FUCKERS will MAKE the motivation.

How will they do that? Simple. They'll make it sound and feel like I've committed some grave crime not coming in with documentation. They'll have no other power to do anything than what HRA has told them, which is send my case to a higher power. This higher power will not be reachable by any means. This higher power will pass my case on to HRA who will contact me, by letter or in person when I do come in, somehow. This letter, lets say, will have the THREAT, the MOTIVATION. My benefits will be in jeopardy. I've been either cut, or will be cut, which will leave me no choice but to schedule a Fair Hearing to reverse the judgment, and you remember how much fun a fair hearing is. This is the punishment.

Voila! Instant motivation for me to come into the Roach Motel. I wonder just how far down this intestinal tract I'll have to go. Shit, with my luck I'll be extruded out of the anus...having my benefits completely cut for a period of time. Most likely a month. That's as long as my medicines will hold out. Fuck me. It can even become worse...six months.

Why am I placing myself to be subjected to all this shit? Because I JUST CAN'T GO INTO THAT FUCKING PLACE!!! I'd rather the excitement of running around for a fair hearing more than just sitting around and dying! At least I'm going to new places, seeing new people, working on paperwork from home, get a month off from these bitches. At least my dick gets hard from the excitement of it all, damn it don't get hard for anything else. But my point is that it beats that fucking black hole.

Plus, I love bucking the system. I'm hitting them with so many doctor notes and technician forms that it must seem like a blizzard to these mother- fuckers. They'll need snow shoes to work through all the shit shoveled at them. Screw them. I hope they lose sleep going through all of my notes and comparing them to days to see if I have proper documentation. Fuck them.

What do you want from me, brain surgery? I'm a hardheaded fuck. I can get downright adamant at times. It's just my makeup. So what am I going to do for the rest of the day? Work on the handbook and write to you that's what. I'll make my funky observations and cry that my life couldn't be any better. Or cheer that it is.

It's a flip of a coin isn't it? In the streets or out of the streets. Good health or bad health. Right things or wrong things. Fuck or impotent. It's just a flip of a coin. There really isn't anything you can do is there? Life is 70% luck. That's why if we worry and try to protect our meager 30% we'll get nowhere. That's why I'm not shitting on myself over these FUCKERS. They can kiss my ass. Whatever they do to me will be the flip of a coin. I'm thinking of what I can do to them next. What kind of pure DEVILMENT. I'm determined to be a problem.

I think of all the poor souls standing in front of that damned building. I see why they are there now. Since they have to be there their only act of defiance is to stand in front of the doorway. Yeah, that is their way of fighting a huge machine that turns gears packed with dirt, dust and jet black oil. But the gears turn slowly, and within this turning I play.

Fuck these losers. I spent the entire afternoon sending out my resume. I just blanketed the area. Even went for jobs that I was under qualified for. Fuck, I can learn as good as the next man. It is indeed a blessing that I have the Internet in my room. I can get online at anytime and churn these resumes out all day long, all night long, if there were the job opportunities. There just aren't enough of them. Which means that they are swamped with resumes, and if they are swamped, they can easily overlook mine. I'll be a lowly fleck of dust in a sandstorm.

I was talking to a close friend of mine and she brought out something that I never thought of while I've been bitching so much...that there are a lot of things to find joy in, and most of all, my fucking ass is alive. That's one thing that the Roach Motel, FEGS, HRA, Fair Hearing, Unemployment and the FUCKERS can't take away from me, the fucking joy of living. And if they can then all this shit won't mean a wood chip in a hurricane.

And that goes for all the little people that try to take my joy. You're still too little for me to give you much notice. I have real problems. I'm worrying about keeping my ass off the streets.

I am alive. And I can look at the beauty of the world and dream of my red-head in a bikini. And I swear, if I get my hands on her, I'm going to FUCK the shit out of her, I swear to GOD!

That's my word.

Hobobob

Emerson Made

I'm loving Emerson Made's new handmade linen-and-cotton flower brooches. Aren't they gorgeous?

The Hovey sisters

Porter and Hollister Hovey are two of the most amazing people I've ever met. They're warm, funny and ooze style. Well, today the Hovey sisters' Williamsburg apartment is featured in the New York Times. Isn't it fabulous?! Congratulations, Hoveys!
(Photo by Michael Weschler/NYT)