Interpretation of the Toot... and What I'm Reading and Writing

What I'm Reading
As discussed in Wednesday's post, I'll be reading Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

Can't wait to see if I still have a crush on Calvin. If anyone wants to join in, I'm sure the Library has plenty of copies, and there's probably not a waiting list.

Want an extra reason for reading it? My favorite castaway Sawyer is reading it too. He has such good taste.

What I'm Writing:
Current WIP: 20,597 (up from 18,495 last week)

Redemption of Zupa's... almost

Remember my crazy day at Zupa's? Well, I tried Zupa's one more time, and there it was. Wi-fi. I didn't even have to plug in.

Everything looked rosy, until I filled my diet coke cup, and there were no bubbles. I'm now known as the girl who freaks out about every little stupid thing at Zupa's.

If Your Toot Could Speak, What Would it Say?
Yesterday, as Hubby was taking Kid C to Harry Potter camp, Kid C said he "tooted." He then proceeded to giggle.

Sam: "Yeah. That's funny, C."

Kid C: "You wanna know what it said?"

Sam: "What your toot said?"

Kid C nods.

Sam: "Okay, sure. What did it say?"

Kid C (in a high voice, the one he uses to imitate girls): "It said, 'When I get home, I wanna play the wii."

I asked Kid C about it when he got home from Harry Potter camp, and he confirmed the message he received from his nether regions.

Kid C: "Is that weird, Brodi?" (He hasn't called me Mom in over a year.)

me: " Is what weird?"

Kid C: "That my toot said that?"

I thought about it for a sec, and decided that this was going to be one of those magical moments of parenthood where the parent imparts little nuggets of wisdom that stick with the child for decades. Like telling your child exactly who the birds and the bees are and stuff like that.

So I looked at him, and said: "No. It's totally normal. How do you think I got the ideas for my book?"

Kid C: "Your toots spoke to you?"

me: "Yes. It must be a family trait."

Then, just to further enforce the parental guidance, I added: "Don't do drugs."

Heck, I just sent him to a camp that taught him there is such a thing as a magical wand and a sport called Quidditch. Who am I to say toots can't talk?

My Favorite Iron Chef Ingredient, and the Worst Song Dedication Ever

They're playing our song. Our venom-filled, gouge your eyeballs out, can't wait to spit on your grave, song.

Have you ever had a song dedicated to you? I have.

It was a magical moment that for the longest time has been lurking in the recesses of my mind, just waiting for the right instant to pop up and punch me in the kisser again.

So I’m in my car the other day, and this familiar song starts playing on the radio. I’m trying to figure out why it sounds so wrong, and yet so right. When it gets to the almost-chorus, it hits me. Below, taste the poison.

Words of the Almost-Chorus

Well, I don’t want to sing you guarantees
And I don’t want to cling to our use to be’s
So take your heart, take your soul
Just get yourself on out of here
Yeah, just take your hurt, take your pain
Just get yourself on out of here Yep.

That’s the song my on-again off-again college boyfriend “Bill” dedicated to me. (If you must know, it was during an “off-again” phase).

I know what you’re thinking. What did I possibly do to deserve such vitriol?

Looking back now, I can’t for the life of me remember the events leading up to the song. My brain gets a little squishy around the edges when it comes to things like memories. Ask Hubby. Whatever I did to deserve it, it must have been a doozy.

It kinda sucks that the only song I’ve ever had dedicated to me is a hate-song. But it doesn’t really really suck. In fact, I find myself snickering like Edward over it. Why is that? Maybe knowing that at some point in my life, someone hated me enough to dedicate a song to that hatred. It's so poetic. It's like the hate reached an ethereal level. I'm honored.

Just once, though, I want someone to dedicate some sort of Colbie Caillet, Jason Mraz song to me. Something about my body being a wonderland or something. I don’t know. I don’t really listen to that sort of stuff.

Anyone out there had a song dedicated to you? Do tell.

Preview of What I'm Reading Friday:

So, I finished "Everything is Fine" by Ann Dee Ellis, and now I am halfway through her earlier novel "This is What I Did." I'm actually dying to find out what it is, exactly, he did do. I should find out today.
But starting Friday, I will be resurrecting an important artifact from my childhood: my favorite book. I can thank (blame) it for making me the way I am today (kind of a dork.)

I haven't read it in at least 15 years, but I loved it as a kid, and I'm excited to see if it holds the same magic.

Since I'm a dork, I will leave you with this teaser quote (one that has stuck with me for years):

“Speaking of ways. . . there is such a thing as a tesseract.”

Can anyone name the book off the top of their head? Anyone care to read it with me? See if it stands the test of Time? Get it? Time?

I smell the wafting odors of a book club… Anyone else smell it? Anyone? Hmmmm. Maybe it’s just the Bangers and Mash I’m smelling.

Does Anyone Know How To Make Blood-Themed Hors d'oeuvres?

Things I did last week that I forgot to blog about:

1. I met famous bloggers (okay, just one) from across the country.

Shellie Kendrick came into town (she has a majorly popular blog and she lives in the South. Not Southern Utah. The SOUTH, y'all).

The first blog post I read of hers was called 4B's. Once I reached her hand-drawn diagram, I was hooked.

Anyway, we started reading each others' blogs, and then we started exchanging writing projects, and we realized we were M.F.E.O.

She came over to my house after my tennis workout one night, and I admit I was a little star struck. Maybe that's an excuse for why the first words out of my mouth were, "Nice to meet you. I have to take a quick shower. Not only do I stink, I sorta peed my pants a little when I tried to hit an overhead."

At her surprised expression, I further explained, "It's okay. I don't hug with my legs or anything."

Huh? Like not wrapping my legs around a person makes peeing my pants okay? Very weird, and not just a little bit awkward. She still stayed, and told me a "peeing pants" story of her own. See? Brothers from another Mother.

Below is a picture of us, combining our peeing pants stories in a plot to take over the world. You'll also notice an open can of TAB cola on the bar. Tab is hubby Sam's favorite drink, and when Shellie tried it and didn't puke, he was mucho impressed. So much so that we took a vote and offered Shellie the position of second wife in our house. Now, to get rid of her hubby Chad... Bueno!

2. My tennis partner and I won a tennis match.

It was an exciting match. You can tell by the faces of the crowd. Kid C is in the middle, threatening to gouge his eyeball out if we didn't finish the stupid match soon. Kid B is nearest the camera, losing brain cells.

Here's a picture of me about to hit a ball. I think it's funny, because in my head, I'm thinking about how I look all suave, and how it's all about the technique, and how any minute Rafa is going to call me up for some mixed doubles. But then, I see myself on film, and think, "That can't possibly be how I look. That's some old chubby woman suffering from constipation or something."

Seriously, take away the racket, and I might as well be in the ladies' room. If ya know what I mean. (She said as she twirled her porn star mustache and puffed her cigar. "If you know what I mean"? Who says that, besides old beer belly men with chest hair poking out their shirts, elbowing their friends and raising their eyebrows? C'mon, bro. Get it together.)

3. Book Club with Sydney Salter

There's nothing cooler than going to a book club where the author is among the guests.
Cousin D (okay, it's Debbie, from Cranberry Fries. I don't really think there's a need to protect her identity on this one... She's not exactly Cousin W or anything... I kid, Cousin W). Anyway, Debbie put together a bunch of cool chicas, including Sydney Salter, and we gabbed the night away about Sydney's book MY BIG NOSE AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS.

We talked embarrassing jobs, first crushes, natural bodily functions, and toe fungus. And then we ate. Because the mere mention of toe fungus makes me hungry.

Since a wedding cake plays a role in Sydney's book, Cousin Debbie, or Heather, or maybe Heidi, baked a two-tiered wedding cake. Sydney said it's good to have a food tie-in to the book. "What would your tie-in be?" she asked me.

"Ummm... blood," I answered.

Seriously? Blood, Brodi? I tried to think of a theme to my book, and blood was the first thing that came to my mind. The girls were really nice, saying they could come up with plenty of blood-themed food.

But even now, I can't really think of anything else. I'm trying to consider objects that come up in my book. Whisks? Rocks? Shaving Cream? Drink Coasters? Forks? The problem is every one of those objects (except one) lead to someone's gory death. So we're back to blood.

Maybe this would be a good time to serve the red Wine Frye?

So, how was y'all's weekend? (The preceding sentence incorporates my favorite incarnation of the word "y'all".)

What I'm Reading, What I'm Writing, and a Twitter Snafu

Housekeeping: Emptying Brodi's tiny brain for your Friday amusement

Reading: EVERYTHING IS FINE by Ann Dee Ellis.
Halfway through and loving it.

WIP: Word Count 18,495
To keep myself motivated on my next book - heretofore known as "Work In Progress" or "WIP" - I'm going to occasionally post my word count. (You can see how I already thwarted my intentions to stay motivated by using the word "occasionally".)

Anyway, the word count I'm aiming for is somewhere between 60,000 and 80,000. So by my calculations, I only have 142,987 words to go.

If anyone else is working on a book, and you want to join me in the word count challenge, (which, again, is totally arbitrary and non-binding) please feel free to leave your own word count in the comments. Together, we can kick our own butts.

Follower status: Holding strong at 59. Would any of you lurkers out there care to make it an even 60? Anyone? I like nice round numbers, and I have to admit to a slight fear of the Primes.

Twittersnafu

Sometimes when I tweet, the page crashes and I get this little thank you note:

Something is technically wrong.

Thanks for noticing—we're going to fix it up and have things back to normal soon.

Followed by this picture:

Ummm... Is this like one of those psychological Rorshach tests?

My first thought on seeing the picture is, "Darn Tootin' somethin's wrong. Something's very very wrong."

First off, the evil ninja robot's distended limbs can't possibly bring good tidings or anything. Plus one of his lobster claw hands is missing, so we know he is seriously P-O'd.

Because he lost a hand, and most likely suffered through a Freudian childhood involving an oedipal complex with his mother, he has decided the only way to make things right is to kill an innocent little bird.

With the help and guidance of the clouds above, he contructs a bomb that looks deceptively like an egg. You can only imagine what will happen after the incubation period.

So, yeah, I'd say something is "technically wrong." And morally wrong. And I'm pretty sure logistically wrong too.

When Twitter thanks me for noticing, and then shows me that picture, I can't help but wonder if I'm part of some weird global experiment to see if Twitter users are indeed smarter than a fifth grader.

I'm Sane. Everyone around me is Crazy. A Day with the Nuts at Zupa's.

Yesterday was sorta crappy. Funny now, but at the time, crappy.

It Didn’t Start Out Well…
Incident 1: Diaper “event” in Kid B’s crib. I won’t gross you out, but it involved premature removal of diaper.

Incident 2: Niece “washed” wii remote. In water.

Incident 3: Niece chewed up blue crayon and spit it on my carpet and shirt. It looked like someone had ingested blueberries and then barfed.

I love my niece. She is very creative in her destruction.

So, you can imagine I was looking forward to my escape to write in the afternoon.

The Afternoon Proved to be More of the Same

Zupa’s has a million “Wi-Fi Hotspot” signs, so I decided to try it out. And my day continued to suck.

So I order my food, and then try to log on to their wi-fi. But no networks are pulling up.

I go to the guy at the counter.

Me: “You have Wi-Fi, right?”

Him: “No, we don’t have that.”

Me (looking at signs all around restaurant): “You’ve got like ten signs saying you do.”

Him: “Oh, Wi-Fi. I thought you said ‘do you serve Wine Frye’.”

Me: “What the heck is Wine Frye?”

Him: “I don’t know. But I know we don’t serve it.”

I try logging on again while I start munching on my salad. It’s the “Nuts about Berries” salad. Only I soon realize there are no nuts on mine. And the nuts are my favorite part.

So I go up to another girl at the counter, this time presenting my salad plate.

Me: “Excuse me, maybe I’m just not seeing them, but I don’t think there are any nuts in this salad.”

Her: “Of course there are. It’s called Nuts about Berries.”

Me (slapping my forehead): “Yeah. I know. I meant, there are no nuts in my particular salad.”

Her: “So, you want more nuts?”

Me (remember my pet peeve about annoying word choices): “No. I don’t want more nuts. I want the original allotment of nuts that was somehow ignored in this particular nuts about berries salad.”

Her: “huh?”

Me: “Yes. More nuts please.”

Back to trying to get Wi-Fi

I pull up the Wi-fi available, and still nothing. So I ask the guy at the counter.

Me: “What’s the Wi-fi network called?”

Him: “Ummm… I don’t know. Zupas maybe?”

The manager comes over. Thank goodness the authorities have been called.

Manager: “We have a Wi-fi bar over there against the wall. You can plug into the Wi-fi.”

Me after a loud sigh: “Plug in? Do you even know what Wi-fi stands for?”

Her: “Yeah. Internet.”

Me (smiling widely): “Great. Thank you.”

Seriously, is 3 o’clock in the afternoon happy hour at Zupas?

Aliens: I Believe, and an Awkward 4th of July in Small Town America

Belief in Alien Life Forms Status: Off the charts.

I'm the one in the middle.

I made an interesting discovery at a family dinner over the 4th of July weekend: The majority of Sam's extended family believes in the existence of extraterrestrials. Aliens.

One of them even had a close encounter of the 3rd kind. (What does that even mean, the "3rd kind"? If humans are the first kind, who is the second?) Anyway, when this family member was a teen, she babysat for "them". And "they" showed her their spaceship in the sky.

Below is their family portrait. I don't know why she thought they were aliens.
I'm all for aliens. I mean, my YA book ECHO is about aliens. Sorta. Hot aliens.

So, what about you out in blogosphere-ville? Do you believe in aliens? If so, what do they look like? Have you ever encountered one? (Please keep your stories on the PG-13 level. Teen readers, ya know.) And Kenny from NY, I'm not talking about any encounters you've had while under the influence of dentist gas.

HAPPY B-DAY AMERICA!

We went up to our condo in Midway, Utah, on the 4th. I love the small-town-ness of this small town.

In their main street square, they were holding 4 corners of music. The only problem is that in a small town, there aren't enough fans to sustain 4 separate stations of music.

So we plopped ourselves down on the grass in front of a guy who played the guitar. After one song, he thanked us for coming to listen to him, and said that no one was there before.

I immediately thought, "Oh crap. We're stuck here all night."

Thankfully, the guy was rather talented. So it wasn't too bad. But when it was time to leave, Sam stuck his finger down our three-year old's throat and made him puke. We were able to apologize profusely, and sneak away.

It was the only way to go without appearing rude, right? Right?

We didn't participate in the fireworks. We're doing that tonight. Besides, we live in a desert, and I was told not to by this guy...

"Torchy the Tool"

And I always listen to a talking surface-to-air missile, with a string hanging off his bum, holding a lit torch, sporting a maniacal smile and looking as if he needs to go pottie.

I heard that Smokey the Bear felt threatened by Torchy the Tool, and so he had him taken out. Now Smokey's slogan is "Don't play with matches, and don't mess around with Smokey the Bear."

The Darn Potty-Training Stickers Don't Work
Speaking of Kid B, and our original intention of potty-training him over the holiday weekend, I have come to the following conclusion:

Why potty-train ever? If I had it my way, everyone would wear diapers all the time. Even the adults. Most likely, we're just gonna end up in diapers again anyway at some point in our lives, so why mess with the stench of inevitability?

Someone gave me these fun stickers that are supposed to help...
They didn't work. I stuck them all over kid B, hundreds of them, and yet he remained un-potty-trained.

Kid B has been taking off his own diapers, and bringing them to us. So I propose that instead of potty-training him, we just teach him how to put a clean one on. He's halfway there. He could be the only kid in preschool who changes his own diapers. Teachers will be fighting to have him in their class. They'll create special awards just for him.

To tell the truth, we tried to talk ourselves into it, but anytime you start the morning wondering, "Should I try to potty-train today?" without a doubt the answer will always be, "Nah."

Someone on my facebook mentioned that bribery works wonders. So I told Sam to feel free to bribe me to potty-train the boy. I'm thinking a gift certificate for new Kindle books, or something like that.

Wait, he meant bribe the kid? Whatever for? Reward him for doing something nature always intended? That's just plain silly.

I told my niece there should be people for this. Like a business. Leave your kid with them for the weekend, they'll do the dirty work.

And now, I've probably spent more time blogging about the stupid thing than it would have taken to just train little B. But our house is clean.

So, how was your fourth? And are you in the market for a fun bribe?

In the Event of a Zombie Attack... Get Lost in the Forest of Hands and Teeth

There's a theme to my life lately, and it seems to be about Zombies.

1. Sam gave me this t-shirt for our anniversary.

"In the event of a Zombie Attack, remember to sever the head."

2. Sam also gave me a Kindle, and the first book I downloaded was The Forest of Hands and Teeth.

Anyone read it? It's a post-apocalyptic zombie romance. Music to my ear. Just the left one.Anyway, the book and the Kindle sucked me in like a fat kid in Wonka's chocolate river.

I showed the Kindle to everyone and bragged about how the screen looks exactly like a book page. Like I invented it or something.

This is how I hold it when I read it.

One little bratty kid said, "That's a lot of money to spend on a computer that's designed to look like a piece of paper."

To which I replied, "You are obviously not open to the Wonka magic. Haven't you ever been sucked up a chocolate drain?"

He shook his head.

Me: "And you never will."

Him: "Ooooh, I'm so scaaaaared."

Me: "Of not getting sucked up a chocolate drain?"

Him: "Is that a threat?"

Me: "Ummm... Who's on First?"

Lesson learned: never get into a fight of the wits with an eight year old.

3. In non-zombie news...

BeDazzle Me
There's just one down side to doing all my clothes shopping at Costco; the fashion there is hit and miss and I'm not hip enough to know the difference.

Costco: the Fashion Capitol of Brodi's World

So, you know how like five years ago, people started wearing old school print tee shirts? Did they? I don't know. Maybe. Anyway, in my effort to de-black my wardrobe, I bought a yellow tee shirt with some sort of design on the front.

It wasn't until I stepped outside that I realized I glittered like Edward at the beach. The shirt had a million little rhinestones on it. Then I remembered that the last time I even heard the word "rhinestone" was in the 80's, usually in reference to country music, and so this couldn't be good.

To make matters worse, my younger son B has excema, and all day yesterday he would follow me around, rubbing up against my shirt. To itch his scratch. Especially on his head. Every time he walked away, there'd be a little pile of dead skin on the floor.

On top of it all, the rhinestones are in the shape of a giant bird, flapping it's wings. When I put it on, it looked like a blind bald eagle flew head first into my chest, and upon collision instantly turned sparkly as he gave up the ghost.

See what happens when you try to de-black your wardrobe? You end up with a national emblem, looking like he's hanging onto your funbags for dear life.

Today is my writing marathon, and I plan to write 2 billion words. What are y'all doin' for the fourth? I think I shall take Friday off from blogging, because Kid B needs to be potty trained. There's no better way to celebrate the birth of our country than to cover it in pee. So, you're all off the hook. Unless you have any good potty training advice.

To end with the zombie theme, enjoy the following Plants vs. Zombies music video. Give it a few tries. It will grow on you. Like a fungus. Of course, I was on Nyquill when I watched it.