KNEE THOSE ODDS IN THE GROIN...

Book Status: Received revision letter from Ted!

The letter can be summed up by these threefold comments/instructions:
1. Cut 5,000 words.
2. Add 5,000 different words.
3. Lane rocks the casbah.

Newt Status: Hints to Sam about the Mac Notebook seem to be working. Newt is threatening to take hostages if we go through with replacing him. So don't tell him. (Don't worry. He doesn't read my blog). How do we communicate you may wonder? Okay, okay. I'll admit it. I serenade him.

Normally, as New Year's eve approaches, I like to reflect (obsess) on all of the resolutions (impossible goals) I made last year, and assess (tear my hair out) how many were reached (big fat zero). Then I sit and ponder (wallow).

As much fun as that would be for me, as well as you, I have decided a blog may not be the venue in which to make others miserable. So instead, I present:

THE FIVE THINGS BRODI DID RIGHT IN 2008 (Taaaaa-Duuuhhhhhhh)

1. Signed with Sherpa Ted. (Of course he has to be number one. Have you not read my blog? But on that note, I promise he will only be listed once.)

2. Didn't fall off the organ at church.
I play the organ for my church, and in 2007, after what I'm assuming was a very thorough wax job (on the organ, not me) I actually slipped off the seat and fell INTO the organ. Like into the keys. 2008: I remained upright, on the bench.

3. Quit Diet Coke.
Yes, believe it. For two weeks during the summer, I didn't have a drop.

4. Channeled Lucy Honeychurch.
(Have any of you seen "A Room With a View"? Lucy Honeychurch plays one particular sonata on the piano in her little pensione in Italy. I've been looking for the sheet music for literally 15 years. Seriously. And last month, as I was patiently awaiting my revision notes, I FOUND IT! Thus bringing my madness full circle).

For 2009, I will begin the search for Lucy Honeychurch's corset, and in 2010, I plan to faint shortly after witnessing a knife fight.

5. Cured Pancreatic Cancer. Okay, okay, I really take absolutely no credit for that, and have nothing but gratitude for those responsible (Dr. Mulvihill and crew). If I could take any credit, it would have been number one on my accomplishments. But my dad beat the odds! He literally beat the odds! He grabbed those odds, and kneed them in the groin, and then hung them by their fingernails. For such a gentle man, it was truly a sight to behold.

2009: Here's hoping all of you will be able to knee your own odds in the groin! I know I will be kneeing mine!

CAPTAIN HAMMER SAVES THE ZIT BEARD

Newt Status: Unfortunately Sam disregarded my hints about getting me a Mac Notebook for Christmas, so I'm going to have to take drastic measures. Anyone know a good hitman/computer-whacker?

Diet Coke Status: Half-Empty (It's almost New Year's Eve, what did you expect? Half-full?)

So how do you exhibit stress?

Me, personally, I wear my stress on my face. I grow a pimple-tastic zit beard, and a herpe-licious cold sore mustache.

And then, to add insult to ugliness, I have this horrible affliction: anything and everything is pickable, and should be picked. At night, when normal people would be reading a book to wind down, or watching television, I'm picking my face. Seriously, the way I've been digging at my face lately, I'm surprised there's even a chin left.

Here's my simple Christmas Stress Equation:
Christmas+Wrapping Presents-Food Bloat/pythagorean theorem x (Square root of 8,500 family parties) + Avagadro's number - number of unwritten pages of next book = zitbeard.

So, the best ointment for a zit beard is Joss Whedon. Any fans of Joss out there? (Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Firefly? Serenity?)

Joss and his buddies produced an internet phenomenon called "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog." It's a sort of parody of superhero stories.

And this song below seriously had me blowing snot bubbles.

To set it up, the cheesy hero of the blog is "Captain Hammer", and he sings a song called "Everyone's a Hero" which is like saying no one's a hero. He's singing it at a ceremony commemorating the building of a new Homeless Shelter.

Seriously, an instant classic in our house. Watch it and let me know what you think. See if it helps your own personal zit-beards.



By the way, as I have done with previous ex-boyfriends, I was successful in making the Yuletide gay.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

I'm off to make the Yuletide Gay (It's harder than you would think), so have yourselves a Merry Little Christmas! Enjoy the Savage Chickens below.

I DEFY ANY OF YOU TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE!

Can you tell the difference between these two bottles? (One is for eye drops, the other is hair grease/gel).

I'll let you ponder that for a moment.

Do any of you have contacts? Not the networking kind, that would be good if you're trying to sell a novel, but more the kind you stick in your eye every day. So you can see the leaves on the trees.

I like to put a drop of solution in my contact before I put it in my eye. I like to have a buffer between the actual contact and my eyeball.

So, the other day, I put my left contact in. No problem. Then I put my right contact in, and was met with a searing, burning, acidic sting on my eyeball.

So I blink a few times, and think to myself, "That's weird. I must have slept on my eyeball wrong." Because that's how I think in the morning, when my brain has yet to turn on.

So I do my hair, and put my mascara on, and get going for the day. Shopping, errands, post office, etc. When I get home, Sam looks at my face with a quizzical expression.

S: "What's wrong with your face?"

me: "What do you mean?"

S: "It looks like you have an oil slick running down your cheek. Like a shiner. Did someone pull out the fisticuffs at the store?"

So I run into the bathroom, and look in the mirror, and Sam's right. I have a black oil slick running from my right eye down to my chin. And my actual eyeball has turned into a blood-red, swollen, gooey mess. WTH?

I reach up to touch the oil slick, and it feels greasy. Like I'm crying tears of black vaseline.

And suddenly it hits me. I look at the counter, and these two bottles are sitting side by side, looking, for all intents and purposes, like identical twins.

I mean, I actually put two drops of hair grease in my contact, and then shoved it into my eye. And then I left it there! And since hair grease is not readily absorbed by one's eyeball, it spent the morning oozing, and mixing with my mascara, and running down my face.

If I was going to get the two confused, why couldn't I have put eye-drops in my hair, instead of putting hair gel in my eyeball?

True to its word, however, I do have to admit that the hair gel did "Kick-up the shine and flatten the frizz" on my eyeball.

And yes, it does have the warning: "Keep Away from Eyes." Anyone else ever do something like this? Please? Anyone?

FOR A GOOD TIME... FIND YOURSELF SOME TWILIGHT VIRGINS!

Ted Status: He's alive and well!

Newt Status: Newt's threatening to contract a communicable disease if I continue ogling the Mac Notebook.

Have you read Twilight? Okay, dumb question, because I bet 99.9% of the people reading this blog have read it. I happen to be good friends with the two ladies who make up the 0.1% of the non-readers.

I went to see the movie "Twilight" with these two friends. Seriously, it was one of the funnest, funniest nights of my life lately. Below, I will attempt to recap our conversations throughout the entire show. Most of you know the obsession with all things Twilight, Edward, Bella, Jacob, so hopefully you will find the humor in this.

My two friends did have preconceived notions of the book: there was a vampire. His name was Edward. That's about it. Join me, on a tour of Twilight, with the virgins.

To protect the identities of Raina and Alissa, I'll call them Lucy and Ethel.

L&E: "Wow. Edward's hot."
me: "That's not Edward."
L&E:"Who is it?"
me: "Jacob."
L&E:"Who's Jacob?"
me: "He's a friend/Quiliute/shapeshifter/werewolf."
L&E: "Huh?"

L&E: "Okay, there's Edward. He's pretty cute."
me:"That's not Edward either. That's Mike."
L&E: "Oh. Does she end up with Mike?"
me: "No. Despite her numerous suitors, she never ends up with anybody except Edward."


L&E: "So that's Edward. What's up with the coif?"
me: "I think it's sort of like his trademark 'do."
L&E: "He looks good straight on, but there's something wrong with his profile."
me: "That's in the book. Stephenie Meyer was very specific about Edward's profile being his only flaw."
L&E: "Seriously?"
me: "No. Edward doesn't have flaws."


L&E: "Vampires climb trees?"
me: "Apparently."
L&E: "Is that in the book?"
me: "I don't think so. Neither is the phrase "Hang on, Spider Monkey"."






L&E: "Vampires read minds?"
me: "Not all of them. Just Edward."
L&E: "Why can't he read her mind?"
me: "Ummm, I'll tell you later."



L&E: "What's wrong with his skin?"
me: "It's the sun."
(Edward says it's the "skin of a killer").
L&E:"It doesn't look like the skin of a killer. It's sort of sparkly."
me: "Um, Yeah."

L&E: "Jasper's hot."
me: "I know. I totally agree."



L&E: "I thought they didn't eat people?"
me: "That's only the Cullens."
L&E: "Why is James only after Bella?"
me: "I don't know."
L&E: "Does it end happy?"
me: "It's Stephenie Meyer. It always ends happy."

L&E: "Seriously, does his hair ever calm down?"
me: "I think they have paid professionals to make sure that never happens."




L&E:"Does he turn her into a vampire?"
me: "Not right now."
L&E: "When?"
me: "After she becomes impregnated and bears their hybrid spawn."
L&E: "Huh? Vampires can have babies?"
me: "Oh, man."

Seriously, it was so much fun! So go out and find your own Twilight Virgins (they are hard to spot, trust me, and no, you can't borrow mine).

THIS CHRISTMAS MIGHT BE MY LAST? WHO SAYS THINGS LIKE THAT?

Book Status: It hasn't been a week yet, has it?

Newt Status: I'm trying to keep my eyes on my Newt, but I can't help ogling that sleek little silver Mac Notebook. You know, the one you can put in a manila envelope. Yummm... Sorry Newt!

Okay, so there's one Christmas Song that turns me into a completely different person. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."



Did you know the original lyrics went like this?
"Have yourself a merry little Christmas / It may be your last / Next year we may all be living in the past" and "Faithful friends who were dear to us / Will be near to us no more". (Cue the shooting star, and sing to yourself "The More You Know...")

It May be Your Last? Are you kidding me? Who wrote these lyrics?

Despite the happier version, I think this is the most saddest, most depressingest Christmas song ever. Literally, it triggers something inside my bitsy brain, and I become instantly alone. Like reeeeally alone. Like Sally, in When Harry Met Sally, when she and Harry aren't talking, and she's dragging her Christmas tree down the street, by herself, and the audience is remembering how great it used to be, how last year she had Harry to help her with the tree, and now she's dragging it. Alone. By herself. No life. No man. Nothing but pine needles in her wake.

This song was playing over the loudspeakers at Smith's Marketplace last night, where I was shopping. Alone. I instantly went outside and bought one of their live Christmas trees, and started dragging it, by myself, to my car. But have you ever tried to drag a Christmas tree by yourself in Utah?

First, the salesman tried to stop me.

Guy: "Wait, Ma'am! Let me call someone to help you!"

Me: "No thanks. I have to do this alone."

Guy: "But we have free delivery!"

Me (walking away dejectedly): "No thanks. I don't deserve free delivery. I don't even deserve a man."

A couple more shoppers tried to help me, but I waved them away.

Then, as I was crossing the parking lot, a woman with three kids offered to help me. And I wanted to say to her: "Are you serious? Can't you hear the song playing? How are you even upright in the face of such darkness?"

How come no one offered to help Sally? Is it a Utah thing?

Thankfully, the song was over before I reached my house, because if it had still been playing, my kids would have suddenly transformed into "the little orphan boys that were dropped on my doorstep for me to watch over, because I was alone, and had nothing better to do..."

If you think I'm bad now, just wait til New Years Eve, when all I can think about is everything I DIDN'T accomplish this year. And now it's over.

On a brighter note, it is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year." Not only is it the Holidays, but it's the time of year when I can store bottles of Diet Coke on my front porch, and they reach that most perfect frosty temperature so that when you open it, it becomes slightly slushy.


If you know where I live, you are more than welcome to stop by and take one. It is, after all, the season of giving. Just make sure you're not singing, or even humming, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

SPOILERS FOR THE SECOND BOOK... and Anyone Remember Units Clothing?

I always keep a notebook on my nightstand. Some of the best ideas seem to present themselves in the middle of the night, and the theory is that if I have a notebook handy, I don't have to fully wake up and turn on my computer.

Lately, however, my ideas have not been coming in the middle of the night, so my notebook remained empty. Or so I thought. The other day I grabbed the notebook to write something down, and found that I had four pages filled. In my handwriting. Creepy.

Then it hit me! What if the inspiration fairy wanted me to find these pages, and incorporate them in my next book. It's fate!

So, below, I present my brilliant middle of the night ideas for my next book... the sequel to ECHO. They are presented in their original form. I will translate in case you can't read my handwriting, and then at the bottom, I will attempt to put these stellar ideas into story form.

"I won't share my Pirate's Booty. Chicken Nuggets"

"Music Radiohead Creep. Addicted to Playstation. Units"

"Things we lie about. Shawn Colvin. Portugal. I thought you said Brazil."

(*Note* I had to cut this one in half, because apparently, in the middle of the night, I can swear like a sailor.)

"I must've broken my toe, unbeknownst to me. You can't break something unbeknownst? It's arthritis."

So, I'm thinking, if I'm reading my notes correctly, this story is about an arthritic girl (of course) whose special power is the ability to break her own bones, without her knowledge.

We know our heroine has some good taste (Radiohead's Creep) but she also has a nostalgic soft spot for UNITS clothing, so no fashion sense. (UNITS was a deplorable clothing line from the late eighties. If you haven't heard of it, look it up. Hilarious. Apparently, I even dream about that decade).

Geography is not her strong point, as she cannot tell the difference between Portugal and Brazil. She is also a compulsive liar.

I have no idea what Shawn Colvin has to do with any of this.

Story Climax: If you steal her Pirate's Booty, or her Chicken Nuggets, she will unleash a torrent of swear words, so appalling, so shocking, just hearing them will break your own bones. And trust me, the breakage will be very beknownst to you!

What do you think? Editors, publishers, please line up in an orderly fashion. You know who my agent is. (Sensei Ted). The bidding war will be conducted by him.

I'm not sure what scares me more. The truly crappy ideas that hit me in the middle of the night, or the fact that I've reached a point where I can write them down without waking up at all.

The sad part is, what if they were originally really good ideas, but they got lost in translation?