Live Free or Die

Live free or die is the state motto of New Hampshire. My husband and I (and our dog, of course) moved here at the end of July, and I'm still discovering new and quirky things about the area that differentiate it from other places I've lived. We're enjoying it here so far and are cautiously waiting for our first New England winter. There are lots of things that I find awesome, weird, funny, or otherwise interesting about my new home, and I thought I'd share some of those with you.

Welcome to New Hampshire...

 

Pretty!

... where grocery stores close at 9pm during the week and 7pm on Sunday. What? I'm used to at least one 24-hour grocer nearby!

... where autumn is freaking gorgeous. There are trees everywhere, and they burst into the most glorious colors.

... where Dunkin' Donuts is king. This is true of New England in general, apparently. I grew up with Dunkin' on a much less intense level, so it's not that they were completely new to me. But it's practically a religion here. Cream and sugar in your coffee is "regular" here, whereas if you ask for it that way somewhere else, like in New York, as my husband recently discovered, they might look at you like you're nuts.

... where drivers don't know how to merge or yield. Yes, this is a sweeping generalization, but it has held up in my experiences so far. Many merge points around here are also much shorter than I'm used to. But they're twice as wide, meaning you can practically drive right next to the car you need to merge behind for a good 200 feet before you really need to merge. So it evens out, right? Granted, I've only been driving for three and a half years, and all of that in Pennsylvania, so perhaps my experience is different than most. I've also been told this experience is unique to my particular area, but I've seen it in some of my cross-state drives as well. 

... where the accent makes me giggle. I lived in Pittsburgh (PA, I've learned to stipulate, as there is also a Pittsburgh, NH!) for three years and that accent made me smile. I got used to it, though. Pittsburghese is sort of a midwestern and southern mash-up of accents, and the vernacular can be interesting, too. Growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, I'm accustomed to a bit of twang, so maybe that's why Pittsburgh's dialect didn't feel quite as foreign. But the New England accent is something that I'm not sure will ever not make me laugh inside. Not because I'm making fun of it, but just because it's such a peculiarity to my ear. I suppose to a lot of people here, I'm the one with the accent.

"Hampton Beach, New Hampshire 2004"

... where the beaches sparkle, the water is freezing, and seaweed is unavoidable. We arrived in late July and within two weeks we made sure to hit the beach. Technically we went to Maine and Massachusetts and didn't get a chance to visit the NH coastline before it got too cold. But I'm fairly certain this observation will hold up when we get to test it next summer. The sand sparkles like I've never seen before. I'm guessing it's because of the quartz and other mineral content, but I have no idea. I just know it's freaking awesome. The water is colder than I'm used to, but still refreshing. It's clear to a greater depth than I ever encountered in my mid-Atlantic beach-going experience, and it doesn't taste quite as salty. No, I'm not drinking it, but it's difficult not to taste it while swimming in the ocean. New England beaches have climbed to the top of my favorites list, despite the need to fish out bits of seaweed from unmentionable places afterward...

... where you can buy beer at Wal-Mart! This may not seem so strange to some, unless you've lived in Pennsylvania or another place with bizarre liquor laws. After needing to practically jump through hoops in PA to be able to buy a six-pack of beer, it was a shock to the system to see it all over the place in stores here.

... where the speed limit is just a suggestion. I'll admit to having a bit of a lead foot, so I love to see the 65 mph speed limit on stretches of highway near me. Usually that means I'm doing 70. And yet people still speed past me quite often. And when it drops down to 55 mph after that exit? Nah, the flow of traffic is still going 70. When we first moved, we had movers to bring boxes off the truck and into our apartment. They were super nice guys and talked to us about the area and asked about my husband's job (which is the reason we moved) and gave us a word of caution about police being sticklers for the speed limit in his experience. Sadly, I think his experience may have been more a symptom of driving while brown, as I've seen many police cars monitoring traffic who don't seem to bat an eye at everyone traveling at least 5 mph above the posted limit. They do pull people over, but I wonder just how fast you have to be going or how erratically you have to be driving for them to actually stop you. I don't think I'll try to find out, though.

... where everyone is SO. FREAKING. NICE. There are nice people everywhere, of course, but I've never
encountered so much genuine friendliness in other places. Perhaps it has to do with it being a smaller city? I don't know. I live in the largest city in the state, but when you look at population density, it's the smallest place I've ever lived with the exception of perhaps my hometown. When we explored downtown, we stopped in the tiny little visitor's center to grab some brochures and the woman there talked to us at length about the area and welcomed us several times before we went on our way. Even in the grocery store, if I mentioned I was new to the area, people went out of their way to welcome me and ask about where I was from and how I liked the area. Today I had a physical with a new primary care physician and went for blood work immediately after and even there they were all smiling, friendly, welcoming, and enthusiastic. Having worked in retail for many years, I think I've learned the difference between genuine personality and a customer service facade (which isn't necessarily a bad thing to have perfected, of course). Everyone has been wonderfully genuine and authentic, and I've never felt like anyone was putting on a good show for the sake of their job.

"Old Man of the Mountain 4-26-03"

So thanks, New Hampshire, for being so dang cool. As an introvert, the abundance of friendliness can make me feel a little awkward and uncomfortable at times (I'm like OMG somebody is TALKING to me!) but at the same time it can be a blessing in disguise because it takes the pressure off me to be the one to initiate conversation in new social environments, like the choir I joined as soon as I got here. I don't know how long we'll be here, but I will certainly enjoy every moment of it! Now, bring on the snow! I mean... er... be gentle with me, Old Man Winter!

Tell me something quirky about where you live!

Round Robin Blogvel: Bloom, Chapter 4

Do you remember The Skeleton Key from last year? It was a Round Robin Blogvel (traveling blog novel) co-written by various authors, engineered by the awesome Michelle over at Greenwoman. (Click the tab at the top of this page to revisit The Skeleton Key.) Well, she's done it again! This summer's Round Robin Blogvel is called Bloom, and you can get the full table of contents here and follow along from the beginning. Chapter 3 was at Writer, Writer, Pants on Fire, and Chapter 5 will be up next week at Report From a Fugitive.

Chapter Four

I lift the wad of toilet paper and peek at the cut on my palm. The tissue is spotted with red and gold, like some sort of bizarre Mardi Gras favor.

“Has it stopped bleeding?” Gran asks.

“I think so.” Specks of dried blood cling to the torn edges of skin. They flake away like gold foil when I brush at them. A little too rough, though, and the cut opens up again on one end, deep red blood pushing to the surface in a tiny bead. 

Maybe we imagined the gold. Me and Gran both. Could we have imagined the metallic rivulet dripping from the cut? 

Doubtful. And anyway, I can't ignore the evidence on the tissue balled up in my fist.

Gran stands before me, her already-wrinkled brow creased even deeper in concentration. Her lips move slightly as though she's reciting a prayer, though she's never been particularly religious.

“Gran?”

She doesn't blink, but her gaze shifts to the ceiling and the metallic roots and vines that continue to invade the house from my bedroom above. And she keeps silently whispering. I wish I could read lips.

“We can take some of the leaves and sell the gold for cash. It'll be more than enough to fix up the house.” The waver in my voice belies my confidence. How would we explain the mysterious plants to a contractor? This stupid metal flower is going to destroy the house my parents grew up in, and it's all my fault. Hot tears sting my eyes. Gran is still whispering. “We can rebuild it. Or just buy a new house if we have to. There's enough gold to—”

“What? No, child.” She snaps out of her trance and picks up her sweater from the armchair. She always has a sweater, even on the hottest summer days. “Show me where they came from. I need to see.”

We head for the back door.

“I found them the other day, just off the trail. Near where it splits before the stream. Have you seen this before?” I look to her for answers, but she's silent. “They grow so fast. The second time I went they—”

I stop. The second time I went, there was someone close behind. I can't take Gran into the woods. It's not safe. It could've been a dog I heard in the woods. Or the wind. Or even just my imagination. But something in the back of my mind is telling me it isn't safe to go back there. Not with Gran, who won't be able to run if we need to.

“Why don't you just look at the ones up in my room? It's all the same stuff.”

“I've seen those. Now let's go. Why are you just standing there?” She turns to me with a steely gaze. I can almost see a glint of bronze in her eyes, like the mysterious metallic plants. “I must see them where they live. You know as well as I do that plants behave differently in the wild.”

I may as well have sprouted my own roots, planted as I am to my spot on the floor. I don't know why, or how, but I know it's not safe for Gran out there.

“I have pictures! I took a lot of pictures when I was out there.” Jamie likes to make fun of me for taking my camera everywhere. I'll never let his teasing bother me again now that my obsessive camera-hauling means I don't have to put Gran in danger.

“Well go on, get your camera then.” She swishes me along with her sweater. “Hurry.”

The urgency in her voice scares me. Like she knows more than I do. I dash upstairs and grab my camera, then take the stairs two at a time on the way back down, narrowly avoiding tripping and breaking my neck. Weird metal flowers turning trees to gold and invading my bedroom, but it'll be the freaking plain oak stairs that do me in if I’m not careful.

Slow down, Jessica! My mom was constantly scolding me that way as a child. I haven't heard her voice in a while, though.

I thrust the camera into Gran's hands and show her the button to push to scroll through the 127 pictures I took the other day. She's quiet as she looks. She's always quiet, but man is she really quiet today. It's unnerving. I pace the floor in front of her. After a moment, she places the camera on the table by the back door.

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asks.

“I—I don't think so. I didn't tell anyone. What is it? Do you know what they are?”

“No. Not exactly.” She takes my hands in hers.

“We should make Jamie come home. I bet he could help us figure this out.” I suppose being an evil genius would come in handy at a time like this. He'd probably figure out a way to grow and harvest the gold plants for money. We'd be rich.

“No.” She squeezes my hands. “No. You cannot tell your brother about this, do you hear me?”

“But if anyone can—” The strength of her grip makes me falter.

“Do you understand me, Jessica?”

“Gran, you're hurting me.” The cut on my palm has opened the whole way, and warm sticky blood seeps from it, coating my hand and my grandmother's fingertips. It burns.

“He cannot know of this. Tell me you understand!”

“Okay, okay. I understand! Please, let go...” We both look down at our hands simultaneously.

This time there's no imagining it. I’m bleeding again, but it's not blood. At least it doesn't look like blood. It shimmers. Liquid gold. Gran lets go of my hand and stumbles back toward the staircase, her eyes wide and mouth open in a surprised O. Instead of dripping to the floor, my blood – or whatever it is – flows the other way, up her fingers. It seems to evaporate the farther it flows, as though it's seeping into her skin.

She sits with a thud on the stairs and looks from her hand, to me, and back again. When the last of the liquid disappears, Gran's hand drops to her lap and she slumps backward.

“Gran?” I approach slowly. What was that? What just happened? “Gran... can you hear me?”

I drop to my knees beside her, but she still doesn't move. She's so still, like she's...

“Gran!” I shake her shoulders, but no response. Her head rolls to the side and her wide eyes meet mine. Except they aren't brown anymore. They're gold. Moving, swirling gold. What have I done?

My hear nearly explodes from my chest when I hear the raspy breath pass through her lips. Once. Then again. She's breathing! But what am I supposed to do now?

“Jess.”

I whirl around at the sound of my name to see a woman standing in the doorway.

“Mom?”

#Scintilla Day 11: 23 Pieces of Me

This is the last day for Scintilla, so let me just take a moment to say thanks to everyone who has read and commented, and I do hope you'll pop in from time to time. I've read some great posts by immensely interesting people and will certainly be reading those blogs in the future.

I wasn't terribly inspired by the prompt options for today, so I'm going all the way back to Day 1 to do the other prompt from that day: Who are you? It's always a difficult and complicated question for me, and each time I answer it, I think the picture painted is a little different than last time. I was also inspired by this brilliant list of 23 combo post from another Scintilla participant, so I've decided to tell you who I am in a list.

1. I'm sensitive. Not in the derogatory sense. (Oh, she's just sensitive.) Not in the psychic sense, either. But I'm attuned to moods and can sense when those around me are unhappy, or when there's tension between people. I don't usually let it affect my own behavior, but sometimes I'd rather avoid you than listen to another complaint about anything. Sometimes I just need a break from other people's negativity.
2. Compliments make me uncomfortable. Praise for my skills, accomplishments, or other things I've done are easier for me to accept than compliments on how I look.
3. I love to laugh.
4. I'm a nice girl. But...
5. There's a snark monster living in my head. I try to keep her chained, but she slips out now and then.
6. I love dirty talk. I don't mean in the bedroom. Or maybe I do. You'll just have to guess on that one. But I mean I find it hilarious when men try to "clean it up" for my sake, or apologize to me for the sexual comments made to the other men in the room while in my presence. Hello. If they could see inside my head... I write erotica, for cryin' out loud. I'm not a prude. In fact, sex and sexuality - the emotion and psychology of it - fascinates me, and if you ask the right questions, I'll talk to you all day about it.
7. I'm a writer.
8. I am an introvert.
9. I'm shy.
10. I prefer beer over wine, and mojitos over everything.
11. I think jello is fantastic.
12. I'm a half Puerto Rican girl born in Jersey, raised on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, living in Pennsylvania, longing for the ocean.
13. I love to eat. Thanks to #12, a husband who went to culinary school, and a love for food in general, my tastes vary widely. I love scrapple, even though I know what it's made of. I'll sit around picking crabs for hours. And I would seriously kill for some mofongo with pork right about now. My comfort food of choice is ground beef with rice and beans.The weirdest thing (according to other people) besides scrapple that I love to eat is Ritz crackers topped with sharp cheddar and orange marmalade.
14. I'm childfree.
15. I get immense satisfaction from seeing people I love succeed, even when they succeed at things in which I still only aspire.
16. I spend way too much time playing Facebook games, games on my phone (Scramble with Friends! Draw Something!), chatting on Twitter, and otherwise being unproductive. But you'll never hear me complain about not getting stuff done or achieving what I want because I know if I don't, it's my own lazy ass fault.
17. I have clown feet. Size 11 EXTRA wide. I love looking at shoes, but loathe attempting to buy any.
18. I talk to my dog as if she were a person and can fully comprehend what I'm saying. (She totally can, by the way.)
19. I'm smart. People have said that to me in a way that I felt was demeaning. But dammit, I'm smart! And that's a good thing.
20. I love fashion and sewing. I made the corset and skirt I wore when I got married. It pains me to pay full price (and even sale price) for clothes from the store because I know what a rip-off a lot of it is.
21. I'm not the jealous type.
22. I'm not afraid of silence.
23. I am love. I don't say this to be overly dramatic or romantic or deep. But the more I think about it (and I've been thinking about it) the more I realize that love is the defining feature of my life, and who I am. More than any one idea of god or spirituality, I've always believed in love. I love easily, and completely. I probably love you and you don't even realize it. I love when I know the possibility for hurt is high. I love when that hurt subsides. I don't take back love once it's given, though I may change how I express it. I love platonically, and romantically, and a whole lot in between. From my every day interactions to the people I call friends to the fiction I write, my life is an exploration of the spectrum of love.

#Scintilla Day 9: Body Conscious, a Conversation

Finally current with Scintilla posts! Prompt for today: Talk about the ways in which your body is awesome.

Okay, let's see. My body. Is. Awesome?

Oh come on, you aren't going to bring everyone down with some kind of negative body image talk, are you?

No. I'm a realist when it comes to my body, both the flaws and features. I'm just trying to figure out what to talk about. How to frame it.

Well, what's your favorite thing about your body?

I really like my hair.

Your hair is not your body.

It's attached.

*hands on hips*

I've always liked my eyes.

Better, I guess. Still not very body though.

Very "body"? What does that even mean?

I don't know. Don't you think it should be something a little more sensuous? You know, all that stuff about curves and soft and inviting and womanly...

Bah. Boring. I certainly don't sit around thinking of myself that way. Besides, I have lots of "soft curves" in places I wish I didn't! Haha!

I thought you weren't going to do the negative body image stuff?

I'm not! It's the truth. And I'm well aware it's the truth. It's not negative body image when it's true. I'm laughing at  myself. Not everyone can do that, you know. It takes security and confidence to be able to laugh at yourself.

No, it takes not believing you're attractive to be able to laugh at yourself.

Not true. Maybe I think I'm really damn fabulous and just don't want less awesome people to feel bad if they hear me boasting about it.

Do you think you're really damn fabulous?

Eh. Not most of the time. But that doesn't mean I think poorly of myself or my body, either.

Okay, okay, whatever. I know what we should do. We should--

We?

Yeah. Me. You. Us.

Are you really referring to yourself in the third person?

No, I'm referring to your self in the third person. Anyway, you're the one having a conversation with yourself. Who are you to judge?

Touche.

Anyway. You should do like a sexy, suggestive kind of thing about your favorite body part. Or parts. Like your lips. You have nice lips.

Aww. Thank you.

You're welcome. Stop interrupting us. Where were we...? Oh yeah. Sort of like an "is this fiction or not?" kind post. About your lips or whatever. You know, the bottom one is nice and full, and it's kinda sexy when  you slick on that strawberry margarita lip gloss and pout a little bit and--

I don't pout.

Sure you do.

I do not. I don't frown, so I don't pout either. I smile. All the time. I think people think I'm a little strange sometimes because I always smile.

What? Shut up, they do not. And you do too pout. You know, a little sexy pout. Pout. Lips. Lip gloss. Red. Eyes looking up through your curly hair that you like, and maybe a wink, and a man should be so lucky to have that mouth--

Holy whoa! Stop right there. This is not going to be about sex.

*snort* Please. Everything is about sex with you, Ms. I Write Erotica and Find Innuendo in Everything.

Whatever. Why should it be about sex, just because it asks about how my body is awesome? Just because I'm a woman? And the only reason my body can be awesome is in a sexual context? For the pleasure of a man? Screw that! My body can be sexual on its own, but it doesn't have to be sexual. And it's not going to be about how awesome my body is because it has the potential to bear children, because it'll never do that, either. My worth is not related to my sexual organs and what they can do. Just because I have breasts and--

Okay, okay! My lord you have been reading too many feminist blogs lately.

What, I couldn't have formed my opinions on my own, they had to come from somewhere else? Why? Because I'm a woman? You can't gaslight me into submission and... oh. Okay, maybe you have a point.

Of course I do. I'm you.

Again, touche. You make some good points.

Of course I do. I'm you.

So what the hell am I supposed to write?

I dunno. I've got sex on the brain. You left those poor characters hanging right before a steamy scene in the short story you started weeks ago, you know. You should really finish that.

I know, but what am I supposed to write now, for Scintilla?

Write the truth. Isn't that supposed to be what it's all about?

The truth is that my body is not perfect, but it does what I need it do. Sexually or otherwise. *wink*

See, I knew you couldn't resist a sexual joke or comment.

Busted.

----------------------------------------------------

 ^^^THIS^^^ is why my brain is the reason my body is awesome. It never fails to amuse, enlighten, and entertain me. Sexually or otherwise. *wink*

In Which I Swoon Against My Will

All of my ridiculous Christmas song posts so far have been about older songs. Today I'm looking at a more contemporary song. To be honest, this is a seriously guilty pleasure. I adore this song. I don't want to like it, but I do! In fact, this song makes me all melty inside. You know, like some old school Boyz II Men ballads or something, except it's.... come a little closer so I can whisper. I don't want everyone to hear. It's... *NSYNC.

Oh yes, dear readers. The boyish Justin Timberlake, the dreadlocked Chris Kirkpatrick, clean-cut Lance Bass, manly Joey Fatone, and silky-voiced JC Chasez. And yes, I knew all their names without having to look it up. My guilty pleasure Christmas song is Under My Tree, from their 1998 Christmas album, Home For Christmas. Before I analyze the lyrics, let's just listen:

Ah, the late nineties' boy band sound! The bad fashion! The frosted hair! What's not to love?

At first listen, it's a sweet, if cheesy, song that would make any pre-teen girl scream with glee. But let's look a little closer at the lyrics to see the unexpected sexiness - as well as the outright goofiness - that make me love this song so much.

It's that time of year
Christmas is here
Everybody's back together again
Spreading the joy,
Spreading good cheer
Toasting to another year's end
So thankful for,
All of our friends
When the party is over,
The night's just begun (oh hello... does this mean what I think it means?)
I promise the best part
Is yet to come
Slow dance together,
Two become one (yes, this is exactly what I thought it meant! *NSYNC, you naughty boys)
That's what we've waited all day for

No one else but me and you
Nothing I would rather do
Then hold you all through the night
Under my tree (aww, here comes the first swoon!) Bring along the mistletoe
Keep the music nice and low
I'll show you how good it could be. (oh my, did it just get a little warm in here?) I wish that Santa could be here to see (who knew the big guy liked to watch? That's kinky)
It's beautiful
Under my tree

The fire's aglow
We've got Nat King Cole
Singing us a song from his heart
Sleigh bells and snow
Makes us feel close
To the stars
When carols are sung and
The fire has died
The embers still burns with the love in our eyes (CHEESE ALERT! And yet... I bet you just swooned, didn't you?) We cherish the moment
We savor the night
That's what we've waited all day for

No one else but me and you
Nothing I would rather do
Then hold you all through the night
Under my tree
Bring along the mistletoe
Keep the music nice and low
I'll show you how good it could be.
I wish that Santa could be here to see
It's beautiful
Under my tree

No one but me
No one but you
See rendez-vous (under my tree)
No one but me
No one but you

When the party is over,
The night's just begun
I promise the best part
Is yet to come
We slow dance together,
Two become one
That's what we've waited all day for (Yep, can't you just feel that anticipation, like you have indeed been waiting all day?)

No one else but me and you
Nothing I would rather do
Then hold you all through the night
Under my tree (under my tree) (cue another swoon!)

Bring along the mistletoe
Keep the music nice and low
I'll show you how good it could be. (Oh yeah, show me how good it could be... Uh, I mean... yeah...)
I wish that Santa could be here to see
I wish that Santa could be here to see (Well... does Santa really have to watch?)

No one else but me and you
Nothing I would rather do
Then make all your dreams come true
Under my tree
Such a cozy rendez-vous
Just relax enjoy the view
I'll show you how could it could be.
I wish that Santa could be here to see
It's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful under my tree (Aww... and the final swoon!)
It's that time of year
Christmas is here
It's that time of year
Christmas is here
Full of love and good cheer.

So that's my ridiculous song guilty pleasure. What's yours?

I hope you've had fun looking at some silly Christmas songs with me over the past couple weeks. Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Skating - Is That What Kids Call it These Days?

As my last installation in the ridiculous Christmas lyrics series showed, sometimes the meaning of a song can change when taken out of the social context in which it was originally penned. Certain words take on new connotations over time, which can make for some comical interpretation. There's this one song at work that everyone just hates. It's annoying. But it makes me laugh because of what was obviously not intentional innuendo. It's called I Wanna Go Skating with Willie. Yes, you read that right.  I assume the writer used the name Willie because it played off the other lyrics of "will he" and "willy-nilly", but considering the modern slang usage of willy, it just makes it sound comically obscene.

Unfortunately there is no YouTube video for this song, and I couldn't find anywhere to direct you to listen to it for free, except for places like Spotify, where you need be logged into an account to listen. So here's a Spotify link for it (Patti Page – I Want To Go Skating With Willie) , or you can search for it on Lastfm or any of those other places. Here are the lyrics:

I wanna go skating with Willie
Cause Willie is such a good skate
I wanna go skating with Willie
But will Willie ask for a date?

(Willie's a good skate, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?)

That Willie's got me willy-nilly
My poor heart is ready to break
I would like to go skating with Willie, but will he?
Cause Willie is such a good skate

(Did you snort a little at willy-nilly? I know I did.)

We'd go gliding, sliding
Over the slippery ice

(Gliding and sliding, eh? I guess Willie understands the importance of lube.)

We'd go sliding, gliding
Gee, but that Willie is nice

(She really likes her Willie.... *wink*)

We'd go gliding, sliding
Gosh, but that Willie is great
I would like to go skating with Willie, but will he?
Cause Willie is such a good skate.

(Willie must really know how to use his, uh, well, you know.)

We'd go gliding, sliding
Over the slippery ice
We'd go sliding, gliding
Gee, but that Willie is nice
We'd go gliding, sliding
Gosh, but that WIllie is great
I would like to go skating with Willie, but will he?
Cause Willie is such a good skate
Cause Willie is such a good skate.

Please, if you're on Spotify, click the link above and have a listen, or find this song elsewhere on the internet. If you think the lyrics are hilariously awful, just wait til you hear it with the music.

Next time, I'll be talking about a modern Christmas song that I'm ashamed to say makes me swoon a little.

The Date Rape Song: It's All About Context

Let me start with a disclaimer: you should read this post with tongue firmly planted in cheek. I don't believe this is actually the meaning of this song, and neither should you.

Baby It's Cold Outside is one of my favorite Christmasy songs. I love the back and forth structure, and it's just a cute little song. However, when you've been hearing it over and over again for two months (and it's still not even Christmas yet), you start to read a little more into the lyrics than perhaps you should.

The song was written by Frank Loesser in the 30s (not the 40s as the video states). We're talking 75 years ago. It's all about context here. Lyrics that made perfect sense back then feel a little different today. Take a listen:

Cute, right? Well, let's see...

It's clear when the song starts that she's saying she should go, and he's saying please stay. Here are the lyrics, with my comments in bold.

 I really can't stay 
But baby, it's cold outside
I've got to go 'way 
But baby, it's cold outside
This evening has been 
Been hoping that you'd drop in
So very nice 
I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice

He really doesn't want her to go, does he?


 My mother will start to worry 
Beautiful, what's your hurry?
And father will be pacing the floor 
Listen to the fireplace roar
So really I'd better scurry 
Beautiful, please don't hurry
Well, maybe just a half a drink more 
Put some records on while I pour


She said NO, buddy, okay? Don't press your luck! And chica, don't let a man sweet-talk you with all that beautiful stuff into doing something you don't want to.

The neighbors might think 
But, baby it's bad out there    Yeah, we get it. The weather's bad. She's still trying to leave.
Say, what's in this drink?    ROOFIE!
No cabs to be had out there
I wish I knew how
Your eyes are like starlight now
To break the spell    WTF did you put in my drink... I feel funny...
I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell     No running away now...

I ought to say no, no, no sir    So say it! Don't let him bully you.
Mind if I move in closer?    What part of 'I really should go' would make you think that?
At least I'm gonna say that I tried
What's the sense of hurting my pride?    WHAT? Is this like the old-time equivalent of "If you loved me, you'd do it"?
I really can't stay
Oh baby, don't hold out   Don't hold out, PUT OUT!
Ah, but it's cold outside    No, don't succumb to his pressure!
Baby, it's cold outside    

I simply must go
But baby, it's cold outside
The answer is no    You tell him!
But baby, it's cold outside
The welcome has been
How lucky that you dropped in     (Cue maniacal laughter and evil hand-rub)
So nice and warm
Look out the window at that storm

My sister will be suspicious
Gosh, your lips look delicious
My brother will be there at the door
Waves upon a tropical shore
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious    In other words: People will be looking for me, you creep!
Gosh your lips are delicious     He just kissed her... even after her all her protests
Well maybe just a cigarette more    Where's your backbone??
Never such a blizzard before 

I got to get home
But baby, you'd freeze out there
Say, lend me your comb
It's up to your knees out there
You've really been grand    Has he, really? Sounds more like he's been a jerk.
I'm thrilled when you touch my hand
Why don't you see
How can you do this thing to me?    By 'this thing' I assume he means be such a tease.
There's bound to be talk tomorrow
Think of my lifelong sorrow
At least there will be plenty implied
If you caught pneumonia and died   WHAT?! This could be either another attempt to guilt her into staying, or a thinly veiled threat, as in, if you leave, you might "catch  pneumonia and die"
I really can't stay
Get over that hold out    He's gonna get what he wants
(Together:) Ah, but it's cold outside     

So, you see how a girl could misinterpret this little ditty as being an account of date rape, right?

Oh, and if you're really dimwitted enough to think this song is actually about date rape, please take a look at this.

In the next installment, I'll take a look at another very old song that makes me giggle with its unintended sexual innuendo.

Totaled Up and Bagged: Ridiculous Christmas Lyrics

We've been playing Christmas music at my day job since... wait for it... November 1st. So I've had a lot of time to listen to and analyze a lot of lyrics. Instead of giggling to myself at work over some of the stupidity and/or unintended sexual innuendo in these Christmas songs, I thought I'd bring the joy to you, my dear readers. However, before I could even write my first post, a friend and fellow writer posted a brilliant note to Facebook picking apart the lyrics to a Dan Fogelberg song that I've always found annoying. His comments made me laugh, so I asked if I could post it here for you all, and he obliged (thanks, Ty!)

Give a nice Jello World welcome to Ty Unglebower, a freelance writer and actor who is just Too XYZ to conform to a typical nine-to-five kind of existence. And he loves power ballads. Can you say awesome? Check out his blog for more of his thoughts, and follow him on Twitter (@TyUnglebower).

----------------------------------------------

Allow me here and now to lambaste, ridicule, mock, and overall hate that most holy of Christmas tunes…Dan Fogleberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne.” (Great homonym, huh?)

For the uninitiated, this ditty has nothing to do with Christmas, save for the events taking place on a snowy December 24. Beyond this, it has no holiday connections whatsoever. The lyrics are garbage, and the tune is so wispy and whiny that you can do nothing with it. You cannot slow dance to it, or make out to it or anything. Listen for it this holiday season on ANY wall to wall Christmas station. You are bound to hear it sooner or later.

And now, join me, as I follow Dan, assisted by his actual lyrics, on his chance encounter with a former lover, whilst at the supermarket. Here we go…

Met my old lover in the grocery store,
The snow was falling Christmas Eve.
I stole behind her in the frozen foods,
and I touched her on the sleeve.

For starters, who the hell opts to go to the grocery store on Christmas Eve? Even if I ever had to, (which I seriously doubt), few things would make the already hated chore of grocery shopping worse than running into an ex-lover. I may not be able to avoid it, but I sure as hell would not call attention to myself.

Either way, who “steals” behind somebody? What kind of creepy bullshit is that?

Also, the term “frozen foods” is extraordinarily unsuited for just about any song, a ballad in particular. (Which, in theory, this is.) I am not saying it would never be appropriate, but any song that would meld these words successfully into its story arc should not posses the pretense that this song does. Moving on…

She didn't recognize the face at first,
but then her eyes flew open wide.
She went to hug me and she spilled her purse,
And we laughed until we cried.

I’ve laughed until I have “cried”, that is to say, had tears in my eyes, three, possibly four times in my whole life, including childhood. Point being, it doesn’t happen often, and while I grant that different things tickle different people, what sort of sheltered existence do these two people have to be living to find transcendental hilarity about a spilled purse?


We took her groceries to the checkout stand,
The food was totaled up and bagged.
We stood there lost in our embarrassment,
As the conversation dragged.

If this were any other song, “frozen foods” would be the worst lyric in the piece. But Fogleberg tops himself with what has to be the only such reference in ANY song ever, by singing the phrase, “totaled up and bagged”.

Lost in embarrassment as the conversation dragged…that’s generally, when I say, “nice to see you, goodbye.” Or in this case, I suppose I would add, “Merry Christmas.” Either way, I’d leave. Why push an already awkward moment? But do they leave it at that? No…

We went to have ourselves a drink or two,
But couldn't find an open bar.
We bought a six-pack at the liquor store,
And we drank it in her car.

Couldn’t find an open bar on Christmas Eve. You don’t say.

But no problem…you can drink a 6 pack IN HER CAR! Where is the missing verse describing the two of them being hauled off and booked for public consumption?

If I were actually dating this girl, that would feel a bit tacky to me. Even worse when it’s an ex…

Then the first of what seems like 90 recitals of the chorus…

We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to now.
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness,
But neither one knew how.

If spending time with your ex in her car at the parking lot of a liquor store in the snow on Christmas Eve away from your family while throwing back a few doesn’t get you past the emptiness, nothing will.

And by the way, how fucking ridiculous would it be to lift up a beer can, or any drink for that matter, and utter the words... "To innocence!"

She said she'd married her an architect,
Who kept her warm and safe and dry,
She would have liked to say she loved the man,
But she didn't like to lie.

So you’re keeping her away from her family as well?

And sweetheart, get a backbone and leave if you don’t care for hubby…there are other places to stay dry. Perhaps it’s shit like this that forces her to drink…

I said the years had been a friend to her,
and that her eyes were still as blue.
But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I
saw, doubt or gratitude.

It’s doubt, if she’s got any taste. But then again, she’s sharing a 6 pack in a parking lot with Dan Fogleberg, so all bets are probably off.

Also, what a hatchet job Fogleberg did with the rhythm on this verse! Even if you know the song, you’ll choke on this verse. And why keep it? The message of this verse was so profound he couldn’t part with it?

She said she saw me in the record stores,
and that I must be doing well.
I said the audience was heavenly,
but the traveling was hell.

I quote verse two of this same song…”she didn’t recognize the face at first”.

But if she knew your face from the record store, why didn’t she recognize you at first?

A slightly altered chorus follows…


We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to now.
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness,
But neither one knew how.

We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to time.
Reliving in our eloquence,
Another 'auld lang syne'.....

Please, PLEASE tell me that any reference to “eloquence” as it pertains to these two jokers is very much tongue in cheek. If I had to choose 1,000 words to describe this song, “eloquent” would not even make the list…

The beer was empty and our tongues were tired,
And running out of things to say.
She gave a kiss to me as I got out,
and I watched her drive away.

Just for a moment I was back at school,
and felt that old familiar pain.
And as I turned to make my way back home,
the snow turned into..........rain.

The finale.

To begin with, “beer” cannot be empty. A can can be empty of beer. Or a beer can can be empty. But beer itself is not empty. I’d forgive it as poetic license, if Fogleberg hadn’t pushed the boundaries of the English language about 14 times in this song already by this point. Or if there were any proof he was a poet.

Also, hard to believe you ran out of things to say, when there is no indication at all that either one of you said a damn thing of substance in the first place.

So she kissed you and you get out. Hey, babe, how about at least a ride back to the grocery store where he left his car?! Not that it matters; he appears to be walking home, not back to the grocery store anyway.

And Danny boy, nice way to treat the woman you loved so much; let her down three beers at least, and drive away as the snow turns into rain. Nothing dangerous there.

Not to mention the fact that he left the grocery store without getting whatever the hell he went in there for in the first place. Less surprising is the complete lack of any entourage on the part of Fogleberg at what was supposedly the height of his popularity. (When nobody, I suppose, could get “Leader of the Band” out of their heads.) Says something that even then, he was alone and void of human contact, except for a chance meeting with an ex.

Ironically, he describes his life as being nearly as vapid, aimless and pathetic as the song itself turns out to be.

I love Christmas Spirit…

Chapter 9 of The Skeleton Key, a Round Robin Blogvel

I missed a bit of a milestone recently... My last blog post was the big 100! And what did I post about? Panties. :-\ Whoops. But I have a fantastic post number 101 for you today with chapter nine of the Round Robin Blogvel! AND... stay tuned later this week for a special contest!

Back to the Round Robin Blogvel - what on earth is it, you ask? It's a traveling blog novel started by the funny and talented Michelle Simkins. She started us off with a killer first chapter, and it has been progressing each week with a new chapter from a different blogger! If you're following along, make sure you're caught up! Chapter eight was posted last week by Jennifer Merritt at The Demeter Diaries, and the next post will be next Monday at Laura's Universe. Click the Round Robin Blogvel tab at the top of the page for a full list (with links!) of previous chapters.

Without further ado, I present to you Chapter Nine of The Skeleton Key!

---------------------------------------

Fear seizes my heart for a beat. I look around, searching for whoever could be setting off the magical metal detector. How am I supposed to know? I don't see any obvious ghouls or goblins. Then again, if I've learned anything today, it's that monsters don't always look monstrous.

The person in front of me in line moves to the side after paying, and the cashier looks at me. I look at the still-thrumming hummer, then at the food. I was dumped into the middle of this inter-species war against my will, and I've seen things I’m still not sure are real. Whether to eat or follow the hummer's signal really shouldn't be a question worth debating. And yet it is.

Dammit! The food smells so good. I'd kill for just one noodle. Damn the vampires and prophetesses and Nerbils and the rest of the creatures. I smile at the clerk, ducking my head sheepishly as I step out of line. And damn Ax for dragging me here and leaving me alone! I could use that broad, muscular chest to lean on right now... I mean – damn!

The hummer buzzes more loudly now, drawing my thoughts back to my predicament. What do I do? Do I take it out? It looks a little weird, and I don't want to draw attention to myself. But as I walk away from the food cart with one hand buried in my purse, fingers wrapped around the hummer to feel any changes in the vibration, I feel a little ridiculous. How creepy must I look, walking around with my hand shoved into my mysteriously buzzing bag? Like I’m hiding some freaky sex toy. It is called a hummer, after all.

I try to walk at a normal pace, which is hard to do when you have no clue where you're going. After stopping, turning, and starting again three times, the hummer's signal intensifies and stays steady. I keep walking, searching the people and buildings for a sign. But what sign? Ax and I obviously need some time together for hummer instruction.

The thought stops me in my tracks and I laugh out loud, unable to help myself. A few people turn to look at me, the crazy laughing girl with one hand permanently stuck inside her vibrating purse. Before my traitorous body can fully react to the thought of me, Ax, and a hummer, the signal stops. Gone. Sayonara.

The smooth metal is hot in my hand, but I don't dare take it out to look at it. It feels like it's permanently attached to my palm, I've been gripping it so hard.

Bzzt.

The signal flickers through again, for only a second. I turn around, looking back the way I came. Where in the hell am I? I was so focused on following the signal that I didn't pay attention to street signs or landmarks – not that I could've recognized any of them anyway, but still.

Bzzzzt.

Another brief signal. Or maybe I’m imagining it? When I was in college, I kept my cell phone in my pocket on vibrate so Ashley and I could text back and forth. Sometimes I got phantom vibrations against my hip when I didn't have my phone there.

Bzzt. Bzzzzzzzz.

Nope. Not a phantom sensation. But no way do I want to follow it any more. I need to find my way back to Ax's condo. Somehow. Hummer be damned. I walk slowly, unsure of which direction I’m heading, and try desperately to ignore the staccato buzzing in my palm.

Let it go, genius! But I can't. An irrational fear has my fingers clamped around the ancient device, like its random vibrations are pointing me home. A few hours ago I would've been glad to be rid of Ax forever, but now he's the only person – dragon – I want to see. At least if he was here I'd know I'm safe. And he could tell me how the hell to use this damn thing. I don't suppose they bothered to write instruction manuals back in the 1800s.

Heartbeat. Footsteps. Buzz. Buzz. Heart beats faster. Feet move faster. Buzz. BUZZ! I’m a walking symphony of terror. If I drop to my knees in the street and yell Ax's name, will he magically find me? I'll never see the people around me again (I hope), so what do I care if they think I’m a raving lunatic? I feel like a raving lunatic.

Turning into a deserted alleyway – because my feet are following the hummer's signals despite my brain's admonitions about every horror movie we've ever seen – I smack into a brick wall and let out a sissy-girl shriek. The brick wall puts its arms around me and the scream dies in my throat.

“Ax!”

“Rebecca, what are you doing?”

“I—me? What?” There are no coherent thoughts in my brain at the moment. Just a mix of joy and subsiding fear.

“I got back and your sister was hysterical, crying that you'd left here there hours ago and she didn't know where you were.” He smooths my hair back from my face, but doesn't loosen his grip on me. His voice is stern, verging on angry, but I can hear the smooth edge of genuine concern in there. “Where have you been? Are you okay?”

“I was just—I didn't mean—it was this thing!” I pull my hand from my purse and thrust it toward his face. My fingers are still clamped firmly – and painfully – around the hummer. “Oh my god!”

The skin is blistered and red, stuck to the metal in places, and steaming every so slightly. My stomach turns, partially because I still haven't eaten, and partially because it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it probably should, and that freaks me out.

“What happened?” Ax's eyes are wide.

“I don't know. I swear.”

He pulls me farther into the alley without a word, away from the prying eyes of anyone passing by on the main sidewalk, and draws me into his chest again. I feel the heat and know what's coming.

I’m beginning to get used to traveling by fire. The heat is nice, in a way. Ax swooshes us back to his condo and manages to separate me and the hummer without much pain. A little magical salve, and my hand is almost back to normal after fifteen minutes.

Now we're sitting on giant pillows on the living room floor, with steaming mugs of tea, trying to figure out what happened. Ashley is asleep in the guest room – Ax had sedated her before he left because she was so hysterical.

“You shouldn't have been able to do that,” he says, boring into me with those red-gold eyes.

“Do what?” I hadn't done anything. Not on purpose, anyway. I'd explained everything that happened, but it still didn't make any sense to me. And he's sure taking his sweet time explaining what he thought happened.

“I think, in your fear, you manipulated the hummer's magic to find my signal.” A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. I can't decide if it's adorable or irritating. I nearly burnt my hand to a crisp, after all. Not really a laughing matter. He presses a finger to my forehead. “There is magic in there, somewhere.”

Me? Magical? Does that mean I’m a monster?

Listen to me! Yesterday I would've laughed in someone's face if they said I possessed magic powers. Today the only thing I wonder is if it makes me a big bad monster. Although not all monsters are bad.

Ax still stares at me with those eyes that threaten to boil the blood in my veins in the most delicious way.

Big, yes. Not bad.

“You know, that hummer is almost two hundred years old. And you nearly managed to ruin it,” he said.

Oh, right! Leave it to the stupid mortal girl to screw things up! I react before I register the smirk on his face, but by then it's too late. I can't put the scalding tea back in the cup.

“Oh god, Ax! Did I hurt you?” I kneel beside him and use the bottom of my shirt to mop his face. I guess it takes more than a cup of tea to scald a dragon. But I doubt he still wants me for a mate now. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.”

He tosses his head back and laughs. And laughs. Oh god, does he laugh. The sound echoes in the room, bright and yet deep, like a perfectly tuned brass ensemble. If I wasn't right there, seeing it for myself, I never would've thought he could be so joyous. Dragons are always so doom and gloom in the movies. Nothing like this. And I've never seen a dragon with a dimple like that.

Did I not notice it before, or has he just never smiled like this before? A gorgeous little dimple puckers his left cheek. It's small, but it softens the chiseled lines of his face. He looks so damn... cute! There's no other word for it. Impulsively, I lean forward and press my lips to his cheek, right to his dimple. His laughter softens to the tinkling of wind chimes, but it reverberates inside my chest, filling me with a gentle hum that spreads to the top of my head and the tips of my toes.

Is this what he meant when he said I hum?

Ax turns his face so our lips nearly touch, but he doesn't kiss me. His breath is hot against my lips. What I wouldn't give to be consumed by that fire. The vibrations in my chest begin to subside, but I don't want them to stop.

“Ax?”

His eyelashes flutter and when he looks into my eyes, I see his are mostly red now. The gold is but a thin ring around his pupils. I nip gently at his lower lip.

“Ax.” I straddle his lap and he wraps his arms around me. “Hum for me.”

He kisses me with the force of a Mack truck, and I return the urgency. His lips are hot against mine, and everywhere his hands touch – my face, my arms, sliding up under my shirt now – my skin comes alive with the flame of desire. I bury my hands in his hair and hold tight. It's definitely coming from him, the humming. But it's not a sound so much as a sensation. Pressed together cheek to cheek, chest to chest, I can feel every very male, very human part of him against me. And yet his energy fills me until we hum together and I can't tell where he ends and I begin.

An ear-splitting scream slices through our cocoon of heat and I nearly fall backward.

“What did you do to her?” Ashley stands before us, wide-eyed and trembling, as if Ax had just devoured me before her eyes.

He and I are both still fully clothed, but I feel exposed and embarrassed nonetheless. Ax looks a little drunk, and blinks as though to clear his vision. I feel a little drunk, like my head is perched precariously on top of the rest of my body and may fall off at any moment.

“Ash, what are you--” I see it at the same time Ax does.

He grabs my arm and turns it this way and that. The silver-blue iridescence is beautiful. Almost beautiful enough to distract me from the fact that between my wrist and my elbow, I've sprouted scales.

Everything You Wanted to Know About My Panties... Sort Of

Simmer down now, class, it's not as racy as it sounds. This is yet another meme, this time thought up by the delightfully deviant Michelle Simkins, although if you believe her story, it was all Twitter peer pressure that made her do it. Something about goats and panties... We all knew it was bound to happen one of these days :-P

So Michelle tagged Suzanne, and Suzanne tagged me. So here we go!

What do you call your panties/underwear/undergarments? Do you have any commonly used nicknames for them?
Pantaloons! Just kidding. I just call them panties or underwear (under there!) Nothing fancy.

Have you ever had that supposedly common dream of being in a crowded place in only your underwear?
No, I don't think so. I've had dreams where I was inexplicably topless, but that's it. And I haven't had any of those types of insecurity dreams in a long time.

What is the worst thing you can think of to make panties out of?
Hair clippings. Hair splinters, anyone?? Yikes.

If you were a pair of panties, what color would you be, and WHY?
I would be lime green, because it is awesomesauce. Best. Color. Ever. For ANYTHING.

Have you ever thrown your panties/underwear at a rock star or other celebrity? If so, which one(s)? If not, which one(s) WOULD you throw your panties/underwear at, given the opportunity?
I have never thrown my panties at anyone. The only time I want my panties being thrown is if Dr. Spencer Reid (Matthew Gray Gubler) is tossing them back to me after a steamy night of geek loving.

I mean, c'mon... Those boyish good looks. The suggestive way his double action revolver juts from his hip like that... Oh, sorry, what? Where was I...


You’re out of clean panties. What do you do?
Wash some? Seems like the smart thing to do...


Are you old enough to remember Underoos? If so, did you have any? Which ones?
I do know what they are, but I never had any.

If you could have any message printed on your panties, what would it be?
SLOW DOWN ;-)

How many bloggers does it take to put panties on a goat?
Four - Two to wrangle the goat, one to slip the panties on, and one to blog and tweet about it.


Tag Four People and tell them why you are being so cruel to them.

1. Dawn Sparrow because she's one of my crazy AQC/Twitter friends who has so far been spared from this silly panty meme.

2. T.L. Tyson because I think she's fun and awesome and needs to be introduced to the Twitter #goatposse

3. Darke Conteur because she needs to take time to do this so that I'll have time to catch up to her on the short story publications (yeah, right lol)

4. Kacimari because she's another AQCer who should get in on the fun! (UPDATE: Riley Redgate tagged Kacimari with the meme yesterday... so instead of me thinking of someone else to tag, she just gets to be extra special tagged!)

So go forth and answer the panty meme questions, and tag four more bloggers!

(As a side note, please read this hilarious response to the evil goat panty meme for a load of laughs.)

And that, my dear readers, is the end of the memes. I swear. Next person to tag me in a meme will be shot on sight. Or forced to put panties on a goat. I haven't decided.

Bring on the Memes!

I was tagged in two separate memes circulating around the blogs of my writing buddies, so I figured I should play along. This first one comes to you courtesy of Dean, who recently guest posted here about time management. You can read his meme answers here. Now I'm going to be a total party-pooper and not do the tagging thing at the end of this (I know, boo, hiss, groan, I'm soooo lame haha) because 1. I feel like 8 people is a lot, and 2. I'm willing to bet everything I can think to tag has already been tagged. But feel free to copy the questions if you want to continue the meme-tagging! You can copy the tagging questions from Dean's post. Without further ado, bring on the memes!

If you could go back in time and relive one moment, what would it be?

Hmmm, this is a difficult one. I guess I would say my wedding, which is a lot of moments rolled into one day. It went by so fast, that I'd love to go back and experience it again.

If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?

I don't think I'd change anything. Every experience I've had, good or bad, has helped shape me into who I am today, and I wouldn't change that. I've learned from the bad stuff, so I can't regret them. That said, I'll pick a tiny thing: my senior year in high school I was seriously crushing on this freshman guy, but I never did much about it. So if I could change that, I'd go back and say "Hey, I really like you." It probably wouldn't affect much of my future (although you know what they say about a butterfly flapping its wings...) but it would've made another nice little memory of that time.

What movie/tv character do you most resemble in personality?

I honestly don't know. This might be a better question for someone else to answer about me. I always loved Daria, though. I think we're kind of alike in certain ways.

If you could push one person off a cliff and get away with it, who would it be?

The man who decided that the soap dish thingy should be in the middle of the wall in the shower, where the soap is constantly getting wet, instead of on the far wall, away from the spray. Didn't he realize that by putting the soap dish there, he all but guaranteed premature soap dissolve? Sheesh.

Name one habit you want to change in yourself.

I tend to be a bit indecisive, especially when faced with a multitude of choices. Sometimes it's good that I take my time before making a choice, but sometimes I really just need to get over myself and pick something already. Like when I'm out to dinner. Stick me in a restaurant with an extensive menu (it really doesn't even have to be that extensive) and watch me sweat lol.

Describe yourself in one word.

Easygoing

Describe the person who named you in this meme in one word.

Sweetheart!

Why do you blog? Answer in one sentence.

"I write in order to find out what I know" - Patricia Hampl

Who am I tagging?

Nobody! Because I'm a party pooper. I usually don't even participate in these types of things (but how could I turn down a nice guy like Dean?) Seriously, like those email chain memes and stuff. The buck most definitely stops with me. Sorry :-P But I have another meme coming up that I may tag a few people for, so stay tuned!

Meme The Second:

Are you hot?

Totally. It's like 80 degrees in here right now. :-P

Upload a picture or wall paper you are using at the moment.

I don't have any wallpaper on my computer, so here's the most recent pic I took with my phone.

When was the last time you ate chicken meat?

Umm... I think it was about a week and a half ago? I had it on a salad.

The Song(s) you listened to recently?

Già il sole dal Gange, Nel cor più non mi sento, Come raggio di sol, and a few other Italian arias. I want to audition for a choir, so I'm trying to pick a song for the audition (refer to the indecisiveness I mentioned above lol)

What were you thinking as you were doing this?

That I really wish Blogger would stop messing with the font and formatting and just do what I want already and stop making me go into the html to fix stuff!

Do you have nicknames?

Jen, J.Lo, and jello

Noirotica: A Subgenre Mashup!

This is an entry for Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge. This week's prompt was a sub-genre mash-up where we had to choose two sub-genres from his list and mash 'em up into a thousand words or less of flash fiction fabulosity. Thanks to Michelle Simkins and Suzanne Payne who read the first draft of this story. I made some changes (and got it within the word limit, woo hoo!) Still not sure if it's very noir, but I tried! Without further ado, I am pleased to present you my "noirotica" story, Lady Dick.

Moonlight is diffused by the fog outside the window, casting a silvery glow over the chair where he sits. I see what Shelly must've seen in him. But despite the handsome face, there's a meanness behind his eyes, even as he grins up at me now. They match his name, those eyes.

Dan Ire's ads make him seem more like a hitman than a private investigator. Call Dan – he's your Ire for hire! I want to laugh at how pathetic he is. But Dan thinks he loves me. He “loved” Shelly, too. At least Shelly thought so, until she showed up at my office with a black eye and busted lip.

Dan doesn’t know he and I are in the same business. Lady Dick. No better than Ire for Hire, but I don't advertise that way. That’s the nickname some of my cop buddies gave me when I left the force. Sometimes the law doesn't know what's best. 

Dan thinks I'm a lonely widow who needs him to track down money stolen by my dead husband's business partner. Flash a little cleavage, smear on some trashy red lipstick, and Dan Ire will bend over backward to take your case. He's also bent me over a few times since he took the case. Can't say I didn't like it. The man's got stamina.

I sit atop the desk in front of him, sipping the watered-down whiskey from the bottle reserved for clients. I know damn well there's another bottle in the bottom drawer that he keeps for himself. Cheap bastard.

“Like I said,” I uncross my legs and rest one foot on his thigh, “I can't pay the rest of your fee yet. I'm sorry.”

“I don't feel right asking for it, seeing as I didn't find anything.” He talks to my leg, his eyes fixed on the lace top of my stocking. A black garter disappears under the hem of my coat. He licks his lips and looks up. “Let me keep looking. Just a couple weeks.

And then charge me for the extra effort. Scumbag. I put on my best pout.

“I guess by then I'd have the money, if I pick up some extra shifts at work.”

He loves a damsel in distress.

“Baby, I wouldn't dream of taking your money.”

Besides the $5000 I paid up front. I drain the rest of the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down.

“I know how to pay you back.”

“The money isn't--” He stops when I start unbuttoning my jacket.

These past few weeks I let him think that every time we fell into bed, or I let him shove me up against a building in some seedy back alley and cop a good feel, it was because he was so fucking irresistible and I couldn't help myself, but it was all business. I hadn't expected the sex to be so damn good.

With the last button undone, the coat slips off my shoulders. There's nothing underneath but stockings and a garter belt.

“Christ, Mags.” He shifts in the chair. That bulge in his trousers must be getting uncomfortable. He can't take his eyes off my thighs and their eventual destination. I know he can see how aroused I am.

Despite my hatred, he gets me hotter than blacktop in July.

The hardwood floor will probably bruise me, but I kneel anyway.

“There's a blanket--”

I put a stop to his worry with a kiss. His concern for me was superficial at best until this past week. I was a fucktoy and a source of income, until suddenly I wasn't. I bite his bottom lip.

“Ow! Mags, that--”

I silence that, too, with my hand in his pants. So easily I shut him up. He'll only love me until suddenly he doesn't anymore, and then what? Then it's bruises and broken bones, like Shelly. Or worse.

Freed from his trousers, his cock beckons me, thick, unflagging. I love to make it yield.

He loves the slow movement of my tongue.

“Oh Maggie.” He leans back as I slide him past my lips, over my tongue, to the back of my throat. “Ah, fuck.”

He loves to see my red lipstick smeared up and down his shaft. I hate how much I like seeing it there, too.

Dan thinks he's a man's man – wife-beater, unscrupulous businessman, and all-around sonofabitch. Yet my tongue reduces him to a soft, panting heap. I could overlook all that when the job was over if he'd just keep making my toes curl for hours on end.

But that all changed when I found the videos. The same man who thinks he loves me takes deprave to a whole new level. The thought nearly makes me choke, but I don't.

He loves how I can take him without gagging. He fits just so.

I hate myself for loving how he feels inside me. Do I hate him more?

“Oh Maggie. God yes, Maggie.”

I hate the begging way he says my name. I want to scream at him to be a real man and fuck me, not some girl on a tape who looks like she's barely in high school.

I stand without warning. He's had enough. I've had enough.

“Mags, what in the hell!”

“Ssh. Just wait.”

He settles back into the chair again. I reach into my purse on the desk.

Shelly hired me to find something she could use to drag his name through the mud. I found it. But he doesn't deserve to get up from the dirt, and sometimes the law doesn't know what's best.

I turn and sink a bullet into his forehead before his eyes even focus on the gun.

Then I slip my coat on, pull the belt tight,and steal away into the night mist.