Cover Girl!

Those of you who have lived as long as I have, no doubt remember Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and their Top 40 hit, Cover of the Rolling Stone.  For those of you who don’t, the chorus goes something like this:

Rollin’ Stone 
Wanna see my picture on the cover (Stone) 
Wanna buy five copies for my mother! (Yes)

(Stone) Wanna see my smilin’ face 
on the cover of the Rollin’ Stone 
(That’s a very, very good idea) 

So, last month, when my publicist called and told me my mug would be gracing the cover of Christian Fiction On-line Magazine for the launch of my latest book: Beyond the Storm, I dropped an email to my hubby with the news that I could scratch ‘cover girl’ off the old bucket list.

Carolyn to Hubby

SUBJECT:  Finally made the cover of the Rollin’ Stone!

I got the October of Christian Fiction On-line Magazine!  Gonna buy five copies for my mother!  Wanna see my smilin’ face on the cover!

Hubby to Carolyn

SUBJECT:  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?

The Rolling Stone?!  Seriously?  I knew this is the best book you’ve ever written, but the Rolling Freaking Stone??!

It’s really nice when your family believes in you.  But talk about gullible.

Carolyn

http://christianfictiononlinemagazine.com/home.html

Goodbye cruel world…

It only takes one complete lunatic to make the entire group look bad.  My kids tell me this all the time.  “Mom.  You’re making us look bad.”

But alas, I’m not talking about me.  I’m talking about Harold-This-Is-It-Camping. 

What? Me worry?

 

Being a born again Christian, I’m eagerly waiting for the rapture because the idea of dying has never been all that appealing.  My youngest daughter is the queen of surveys.  “Mom, if you were going to die, would you rather be frozen to death, or burned to death?”  “Uh…hmmm, I…uhhh…is there another choice?”   “Mom, if you took off all your clothes and slept outside naked, would it kill you?”  Depends if the neighbors mistook me for Sasquatch and shot me, I guess.  “Mom, what snake would you rather have kill you, a king cobra or a rattler?” 

Can ya see why having Jesus take me outta here and plant me in a garden for a feast is more attractive?

Annnyway, if today is the day, cool.  I won’t have to defrost the refrigerator because it will be lying under a pile of rubble and will take care of itself.

Unfortunately, Mr. Camping’s theology resembles nothing I ever learned in Sunday school and, since New Zeland was still standing as of 6pm (their time), I’m gonna go don the Playtex gloves and tackle the kitchen.  Pity.  One of my children was hopeful about getting out of geometry finals.  Tough luck, kid.

The one good thing to come out of all this fear-mongering is that it made me stop and think about how short this life is.  How precious every moment.  Right now, my teenagers are in our backyard tossing horseshoes in a patch of rare spring sunshine.  Think I’m going to skip the cleaning and go whup some kids at horseshoes.  Loser cleans the kitchen.

Carolyn

Toohotmamas Celebrate Mother’s Day!

Wendy may be menopausal, but she can still swang her thang!        Carolyn

Toohotmamas Celebrate Mother’s Day!, posted with vodpod

Lost on LOST

"I'm sick of you guys calling me the Old Dude!"

   For those of you who have seen the TV show, LOST, you know there is this character called John Locke.  I always thought of him as Mr. Clean’s dad.  He’s the elder-statesman of the show, cool, edgy, more than a tad creepy.

He gets referred to a lot as “the old dude”-or-“the elderly guy”-or- “the senior citizen”.  This was fine with me, cuz he’s, you know, bald and he’s kind of got moobs (man-boobs).  More than a few wrinkles.  Before he shaved his head, he sported this really bad-comb over.

So, imagine my surprise, not to mention horror, when Mr. John Locke, elder-statesman of LOST announces his birth year on one episode.  Whu?!  Huh?!  He’s… MY AGE!  NOOOO!  Does this mean I’m not…GASP… young?!  What?!  I was still envisioning myself in the age bracket of say, Jin, or maybe Sawyer.  I wasn’t delusional enough to align myself with Clare, but thought she might be a younger sister?  Uh, no.  The actress who plays Clare could be my daughter.   The guy who plays the hunky Sawyer could be my son.  Suddenly, I’m feeling all Oedipal and slimy.

Not that John Locke isn’t attractive.  He’s got a beautiful smile and he’s very hunky for a…a…uh, senior citizen.  But I was sort of seeing him as a father figure.  My father.

Crrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaap.

Carolyn 

THE GIRL WITH THE SEXUAL TATTOO—Part three in a jealous harangue

Had any "Drunken Chicken" lately?

 

Yeah, sure, probably another reason I’m not on the “LIST” (said with a snarky, envious, mocking tone) (besides being a non-cussing hack) (and ignorant of the proper uses of parentheses), is that I won’t do explicit or erotic sex…er…in books.  And let’s face it.  In order to break new ground in this arena, my hero would have to fall for a chicken.  Not natural.  And, as our reader(s) know(s), I don’t use offensive verbiage  (unless my hero is seriously threatened, and then only sparingly–see the DDH bomb in my last post). 

 Plus, if I stick to the old adage “write what you know” my love scenes would have to include sweat socks.  

 Whatever happened to the good old days of escapism?  Now all anyone seems to care about in their literature is realism.  Bah.  I get plenty of realism, just driving down the road.  (People really don’t seem to enjoy being cut off by a harried, menopausal mini-van driver and are very ‘real’ about expressing themselves).   

Wendy and I are always blathering about how we wish the entertainment world was still Frank Capra-land.  Mayberry.  Mitford.  And not constantly dripping with blood and demons and other such ”realism”.  Excuse my French, but Fooie on realism.  I long for Lucy and Ethel.  For humor that’s not centered on the crotch for once.  For good guys who are not named Lucifer.  For a world where being a hero includes being there, staying there and taking the trash out to the can and not taking out trash, buying it a drink and having sex with it.  

 So.  To review.  Not on NYT Best-seller list because:   Won’t swear.  No explicit (or poultry inclusive) love scenes.  Find taking out the garbage erotic.   (And, of course, don’t understand proper parenthetical usage). 

 (Carolyn)

THE GIRL WITH THE CURSED TATTOO—Part two in a jealous harangue

Okay, another reason I probably have yet to appear on the NYT Best-Seller list–aside from not having a book out in several years because of my protracted maternity leave–is that I was taught that it’s not lady-like to swear.  Shows a certain lack of class.  Even for my heroes.  Not that my heroes don’t drop the F-bomb left and right.  I happen to think “Fooie” is a perfectly acceptable adverb and shows that my heroes are tough enough to sling slang that might sound silly on a lesser man.  My sons wield the “DDH” bomb (doo-doo head) liberally on the playground and they have yet to be bullied.  I think it’s not what you say, but how you say it. 

And, if you disagree, Fooie on you, Booger-ball.  Stings, huh?

 Carolyn

THE GIRL WITH THE DEAD TATTOO

I just finished reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson.  Have you heard of this book?  If not, you live under a rock. 

Anyway, I’m always a day late and a dollar short with my plots, it seems, for  I could not believe my eyes.  I just wrote a book exactly like it!  Well, okay, there were some variations.  My hero was a cat.  And I didn’t do that whole computer hacking subplot, although there was some hairball hacking at one pivotal point.  Another difference is how my cat didn’t, you know, cat around with the astounding frequency and variety of Stieg’s randy characters.

 But come on!  Why 27 bazillion books in print?  Why #1 on the best seller list?  Why not us, WENDY?  I’ll tell you why!  We’re ALIVE, that’s why.  (That, and I’m just returning to my writing career after a rather protracted maternity leave, but that’s beside the point).  Apparently, now days, it really helps to hit the lists and get those movie deals if you’re dead.  Yeah.  I’m talking about you, J.R.R. Tolkien.

Sadly, Stieg Larsson died of heart failure at the tender young age of 50, before he ever had a chance to enjoy his amazing success.  Or…did he?  Hmmm.  Let’s see.  What would be his cut of 100 gogillion dollars be?  Even if it was only 6 %, we’re talking 6 gogillion dollars, give or take.  Certainly enough to retire on.

 So Wendy, I’m seriously thinking about staging my death in an effort to give my career a much-needed boost.  (Don’t worry.  I’ll still help with the blog).  Others have successfully done it.  Remember D.B. Cooper?  I’d never heard of him before he “died”.  And how many of you out there have seen Elvis at Wal-Mart?  Yes?  I thought so.  I’m not certain yet, how I want to “go”.  I’m sure my hubby would cheerfully help.  My teenagers, too.  I see the dollar signs in their eyes when I’m particularly menopausal.

 I’ll keep you posted from the ‘great-beyond’ at Wal-Mart.

Carolyn

Bathroom Humor, Part Duex-Duex

Planning a trip to Europe? Thank heavens you stumbled upon this blog! Before you go, you really need to consider a couple of handy tips my husband and I discovered that will help make your visit a more pleasant experience.

Take going to the bathroom for example. Did you know that you have to PAY for the privilege? Um hmm .50 Euros. That’s nearly a dollar American, down the toilet.

Unfortunately, we didn’t remember until we were in ‘crisis-mode’ so to speak.  Of course, we were waaay out of town, strolling through a picturesque German neighborhood, admiring the quaint architecture when my hubby felt a sudden need to find a McPoo. (Apparently, this is what European tourists call McDonalds, because its got free restrooms). I was miffed as his bowel functions were messing with my holiday but, since the matter seemed to be fairly pressing, we turned around and headed back toward town.

Whatever he was suffering from must have been contagious because I was also suddenly afflicted and we both picked up speed. Okay. Where is a McDonalds when you need one? There is one on every bleeping corner of the universe, unless you’re desperate. Luckily, there was a sign at the train station. W.C. (No, Wendy, this does not stand for Wendy and Carolyn, although at first I thought they’d heard of us over there. It stands for Water Closet).

Europeans have the audacity to keep these things locked until you have .50 Euro to plug into the door. Of course, we didn’t. I had a dollar. We hot-footed it over to a nearby bakery, waving our Euro and shouting “WC ! WC!” at the poor girl behind the counter. There was an elderly woman (a year or so older than me) at the counter, pointing at baked goods and jabbering in German. I don’t speakie the lingie, but clearly she couldn’t decide. And the girl behind the counter couldn’t open the register to make change, until she decided. My husband and I jogged in place while she deliberated. FOREVER. Sticky buns? Non-sticky buns. (I will refrain from the obvious pun). Finally, the elderly woman made her decision, the girl behind the counter flung our change at us and we were off to the WC.

There was only one open.

“Let’s share!” I screamed at my husband and we crowded into the WC (saved .50 Euro while we were at it, I might add). Luckily for us, the honeymoon was over decades ago. He let me go first (would George Clooney be so magnanimous, Wendy?) bless his heart. During his turn, I decided that I had to go again.

Eventually, there was an impatient knock at the door. “Occupied!” I strove to sound jaunty. There was some disgruntled talk outside the door. “Hurry,” I urged the hubby, during his second go round. “I think they think we’re in here…doing it!” “They wouldn’t if they could smell it,” he grunted.

Once we were both blessedly empty, we flung open the door and bolted. Behind us, more disgruntled (this time semi-nauseated) German talk. I’m nearly positive the words “Ugly American” were bandied about.

The British penny is sometimes referred to as a ‘p’. So, it may help to remember this handy saying: A ‘p’ to pee and two ‘p’ to poo.

Good luck, sojourner.

Carolyn

Why is that? An Andy Rooney-esque Ramble

I love the way Andy Rooney from 60 Minutes says, “Why is that?”

Why is that?

I’ve been wondering that myself, lately.  For example, why is it, when I’m in line at the grocery store, the lady ahead of me always chooses at least one item with no pricing info available in the entire universe?  And, why, after holding up the line for and ungodly amount of time, does she wait until she hears the grand total before she reaches for her purse and begins to fumble for her checkbook?  Don’t ya just love it when they stand there and balance their checkbook, mumbling stuff like, “Let’s see… carry the two…no, wait, why is my checkbook not balancing?” 

Why is that?

Why is it, when the milk is sitting out on the counter and I ask all five of my children, “Who left the milk out?” they all say (in unison) “Not me.”  Weird.  The dog must have grown opposable thumbs and dragged the milk out of the fridge, poured himself a bowl of cereal and forgotten to put the milk back.  I wonder why the dog uses every last drop of ketchup and puts the bottle back in the fridge?  Why is that?

Why is it that the second I sit down on the potty, the phone rings?  Why is it that we have one dozen wireless phone in our house, but when the phone rings, we can never find one?  When I ask the kids, “Hey, who put the phone in the refrigerator?” they all say (in unison) “Not me!”

Why is that? 

Tick,tick,tick,tick,tick,

Carolyn

Oh No!

One hot mama: The pre-breakfast routine.

 

Don’t you just love those bizarre celebrity death hoaxes?  Johnny Depp dies in freak skate board accident.  Miley Cyrus eaten by sharks.  Plastic surgery kills Kardashian sisters.  

 These goofy rumors got me to thinking that a lot of you out there are probably wondering what happened to Wendy.  The hotter of the two mamas.  No, contrary to the wild urban legends circulating Hollywood, she has not been kidnapped by terrorists.  Unless you count the PTA.  

 No, Wendy is simply busy.  Too busy to blog.   

 Why?  Because—like me—she cannot seem to bring herself to say ‘No’.   

 Why do we fear the word, No?  Hmm.  In my case?  I’m terrified I might miss out on the fun.  Couple that with my people pleasing tendencies and suddenly, I find myself in the process of making a Pioneer Costume.  For myself.  Yes.  Fitting that in before I pack my two fifth graders and me for a three day school Oregon Trail camping trip.  Couldn’t say no to their adorable doe-eyed faces, begging me to participate in all that chaperoning excitement. Neither could I say ‘No’ to the week long Marine Studies extravaganza with my middle school daughter’s class at the coast.  Thankfully I’ll have time to pack during the ten minutes I’ll be home between trips.    

     Bought the supplies I’ll need during the week I took off to get the kids back and forth to their fifty mile round-trip piano recitals.  Luckily, my husband was able to take time off work that week to get my son to his baseball games in other cities, since I don’t have a sewing machine in my car.  Yet.  As soon as they get one that plugs into the cigarette lighter, I will.   

     Fortunately, my computer has super good battery life, as my eldest daughter somehow talked me into serving as the Community Coordinator for her high school’s social network.  This way, I won’t be bored on those endless seconds I’ll have between building a Pirate set for Vacation Bible School and hosting the Spanish Club luncheon.  Thank heavens I was able to wriggle out of sewing 70 canvas field study bags—never admit you can sew—so that I can attend a college reunion, a baby shower, a writer’s meeting, enjoy TWO talent shows, THREE  plays starring my kids, and host out of town company.  

     All of this is, of course, on top of keeping a 7 person/2 dog household under some semblance of control.  I’m thinking about getting one of those digital voice recorders so that I can write novels while I’m grocery shopping, working out, paying bills, chauffering the kids, grooming the dogs, mowing the lawn and bathing.  

    Double-tasking?  For slacker weenies.  I’m coining the phrase Quad-tasking.  Why else would God have given us two hands and two feet?  

Carolyn

Saw II… Husband -vs- Power Tool. Oh yes, there will be blood.

I have not seen this movie.  There is something about the cover of this DVD that just makes my skin crawl.  It used to be in the display facing the front door of our local Hollywood Video store.  Gross.  I would always skip past that section.

This? Nuthin. You should see my hubby’s fingers

Anyway, this last Saturday, my hubby, Matt, was puttering in the garage.  He’s a regular Tim-The-Toolman-Taylor.  Every now and again, he’ll smash his thumb with a hammer and curse a blue streak, but that’s about it.

Little did I know, his luck was about to run out.  Notice how I’m clueing you in on the terror to come?  In the writing business, we call that “foreshadowing”.  Cool, huh?  (Insert scary horror film music here).   So, anyway, I was inside, pretending to write, but really napping (shhh), when our daughter comes screaming into our bedroom, “DAD’S HURT HIMSELF! COME QUICK!” 

 

I don’t remember getting out of bed.  I think I levitated to my feet, hit the floor once and was downstairs before I’d opened my eyes.  I’d just completed a course in CPR/First Aid and thought I was all Greg House.  Nope.  Couldn’t remember a dang thing.  Two chest compressions and 30 breaths?  uh… that can’t be right…  Stumbled out to the driveway and found my husband staring dazedly at his hand.  Blood everywhere.  The tip of his finger still in the garage I guess.

 

I shout at the kids to get my purse and my shoes.  My daughter, still screaming, throws her father’s giant clown slippers at me.  Other daughters gather towels and begin to boil water.  The sons are bawling.  The husband wanders back into the garage to…uh, who knows.  Look for his finger?  I’m in the car gunning the engine, yelling at him to get in or get left behind.  Once I’m strapped in, I’m either Starsky or Hutch, whichever one took the corners on two wheels.  My husband asks, “Hey, are you all right?”   Okay, shouldn’t that be my line?  I should have paid more attention to the “comforting the victim” portion of my CPR training.  Shouting “Shut up and let ME do the driving!” is hardly compassionate.

 

You know, I had no idea that while I’d been sleeping, my hair and make up had become so…attractive.  Couple this with the clown slippers?  Yeah.  I go screaming into the ER, “MY HUSBAND HAS CUT HIS FINGER OFF!”  They had the nerve to look bored.  Apparently, they see oh-so-attractive middle-aged clown people like myself dragging some bone-head like my husband in every single day.  In fact, you out there, reading this?  Odds are, you’re missing a digit.  I am shocked at how many people have come to me with missing finger stories.  I go to church with one lady who has THREE people in her immediate family, who are missing one or more fingers.  Hello?  Like maybe they ought to think about being, oh, I don’t know…CAREFUL?

 

Anyway, I’m not impressed with this movie poster any more.  Really, it’s nothing but a bad manicure.  I’ve seen worse.  Oh, yeah.  A lot worse.

Carolyn

Toohotmama’s “Cool-Chick” Award

     IDA ROCKS!

Ida Hayes-Green Graduates High School at 99!

 

Ida Hayes-Green finally got her high school diploma, one month before her 99^th birthday,  just last week.    

She’s been very busy with all the attention, but when that dies down, Toohotmama’s intend to contact her for an interview.  Enquiring minds want to know what colleges she’s targeting.     

Dudette!  What’s your major?  And we’ve got some serious advice about dorm life.  Stay away from the all you can eat ice-cream machine.  They’re not kidding about the whole ‘Freshman 10′.  And unless you’re into drunken, one night stands, avoid the Frat parties.  On the subject of Dead-week… Okay.  We won’t go there.  

Waiting until Finals to cram might work, especially for those of us with short-term memory loss, so what the heck.  Give it a try.  Beyond that, enjoy.  These next four years will fly by and before you know it?  You’re 103.  Congratulations, Ida Hayes-Green!  You’re our hero and one Hot Mama!    

You Are Only Old Once!

Hey, Wendy!   First the Delany sisters and now this!  Clearly, the best writers are old writers!

I was just reading Green Eggs and Ham with my 6-year-old son, and some questions came up about Dr. Seuss.  So, we Googled him. I did not know that Theodore Geisel’s (aka: Dr. Seuss) career as the writer we know and love began after he was 50 years old!  Yes, he did write before he was 50.  But the whole Green Eggs and Ham phenom happened later.

 Apparently, in May 1954, (he was born in 1904) Life magazine published a report on illiteracy among school children, which concluded that children were not learning to read because their books were boring.  And so, an editor at Houghton Mifflin compiled a list of 348 words he felt were important for first-graders to recognize and asked Geisel to cut the list to 250 words and write a book using only those words.  The editor challenged Geisel to “bring back a book children can’t put down.”   And Cat in the Hat was born.

In 2000, Publishers Weekly compiled a list of the best-selling children’s books of all time; of the top 100 hardcover books, 16 were written by Geisel, including Green Eggs and Ham, at number 4, The Cat in the Hat at number 9, and One Fish Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish at number 13.

Another interesting tidbit?  He did not win the Caldecott –or–the Newbery Medal.

Just goes to show you.  You can be old.  You can be a loser.  But you can still have a whippin’ good career as a writer.

Carolyn

The World’s Oldest Author, and it ain’t me!

Wendy!

Number one son just brought home the Guinness Book of World Records and yes!!  There is hope for our careers!!

Apparently, Louise Delany and her sister, Elizabeth Delany published their second book, The Delany Sisters’ Book of Everyday Wisdom’  back in 1994, when she was just 105 years old.  I don’t know about you, but this puts a HUGE gust of wind in my sails.  I’m not even half her age yet.  You know, we outta think about doing a book together one day, in say…50 or 60 years.  Yeah, sure, we’d be all done with menopause, so we’d have to think up some new thing to gripe…er, offer wisdom about, but I say let’s go for it!

I’m gonna go to Amazon now, and see if I can get ahold of a copy of their book.  It’s my new holy grail.

Carolyn