The title of this blog is to be sung to The Doors song: Light My Fire

♪♪♪♪♪
Come on set my boobs on fire
♪♪♪♪

Okay, it’s never been a big secret with me. I sure won’t deny it. But I’m a bit, how should I put this, clumsy? Accident prone? Actually, in choir in high school, I was voted ‘most accident prone’.

I spilled my virgin daiquiri all over the table of a really nice restaurant at my prom dinner. I tripped on a walking tour right after the guide told me to watch my step. I sat down in a wading pool with my cell phone in my pocket, and didn’t realize it until my butt started to vibrate non-stop.

But I think my biggest ‘How the hell did I do that!’ moment came on Saturday. I was cleaning my room after 24 hours of taking care of a kid sick with the stomach flu, and decided a candle might help knock out the scent of Eau de Puke. I grabbed my pomegranate candle and my book of matches (these are those wood stick ones, not the papery ones).

Anyway, I strike the match, watch it flare, and then suddenly it’s gone. But where did it go? And then I saw it, the flash of flame. I look down and there between my breasts, in my bra, is the top half of the match. On instinct I just slapped at it with my shirt and put out the flame (this all happened in about 5 seconds).

I run to the bathroom (too much in shock to feel any pain) and check to see if I have burn marks. And that’s when I realize (literally like almost a minute later) the match is still in my bra, so I fish it out. Checking out the damage I realize I have two red marks, and part of my skin was black and burned away (am I making you sick yet?) like when you burn the edge of paper. Today it’s just pink and yellow gooey. (Ha bet that made you gag a bit).

So do you have a clumsy story? A ‘how the hell did I do that?’ story? And Laurie (AKA: Grammar Geek!) I know you do! I’m calling you out! Share, everyone, share! Make me feel like less of an idiot!

There I said it. I hate Mother’s Day. And it’s not just because my mom died of a brain tumor when I was seventeen, leaving me bereft and nostalgic every second Sunday in May. The thing is, that now that I’m a mother myself, have been one for, oh, three years now, I find the holiday a pain in the ass.

See, if one were to say, send me to the Ritz in my hometown of Half Moon Bay, complete with a round of spa treatments, bottomless Cosmopolitans and all the pasta I could consume, I’d be in heaven. However, that is not likely to happen. Instead I’m obligated to attend various functions for three days straight. Normally I like this sort of thing, but I have a book due in a few weeks, and any time I spend away from my computer right now is a certain kind of torture.

On Friday I’m obligated to attend my child’s school, joining one hundred other women as we sit on itsy-bitsy chairs while our preschoolers feed us spaghetti and meatballs that the little munchkins have made themselves. With their very own hands. Their little three-year old, nose-picking, dirt-grubbing, saliva-covered hands. Okay, it’s sweet. It really is. However, I’m on a deadline and any venture I make out of the house is time away from writing, which is bad. And, you see, if I go to my kid’s school, it means I have to do tedious things like shower, put on make-up and get dressed in something that won’t embarrass my rather prim three-year old. It’s a hassle. It takes time. I’d rather be writing.

On Saturday a bunch of my insane girlfriends have arranged a fun day of working out, bikini waxing and lunch. Lunch I can do. But who works out to celebrate many hours of pushing a child out of one’s velvet love canal? Working out is torture. Labor is torture. Ergo, maybe it’s better to celebrate the bloody event by, I don’t know, not exercising?

Lunch is good, but it also requires getting dressed and showering and you know, the whole routine. Torture. Why can’t they go out at night, to a bar? As God intended?

Sunday is Mother’s Day! I know I’ll wake up to my kid jumping on me at some ungodly hour, ordering me to fix him breakfast. I’ll get up only to remember that my own mother is dead and I can’t call her to wish her Happy Day. Instead I’ll spend the morning going about my usual chores and generally feeling sorry for myself.

Last year on Mother’s Day I had the bright idea of inviting twenty of my closest friends over with all of their children for a barbeque. That was fun! I spent the entire day cooking and cleaning and watching twelve children destroy my house. Good times. This year, on the actual day, I’m going to a friend’s for lunch, which should be fun except, in an attempt to lose a few pounds, I’m off food. And alcohol. So, come Sunday, I’ll be hungry and sober. And not writing.

So there you go. I’m a horrible person because I hate Mother’s Day. We need a bah humbug for this holiday. Any suggestions?

I was talking to my best friend this afternoon. She met with a group of people last night to discuss our twenty year high school reunion. I can’t believe it’s already upon us but yes indeed it is. Gah that is crazy.

Anyway we gossiped about people of our past and she caught me up with a few. Then she mentioned someone we’d known, actually hung out with waay back in the day before we realized what a LIAR she was. Well we’d always assumed a certain something (we’d heard the rumor) had happened to her once we graduated school and now there was the possibility that maybe that thing hadn’t happened after all.

And that is kinda HUGE. I don’t want to get into any details but all I can think is, “Man what a lie that all was!”

So did any of you lie when you were younger?

Of course as writers we make up stuff all the time. And I still tell the occasional white lie. But have you ever told a grand ol’ whopper of a lie, especially when you were a kid?

I told my fair share but I shall confess the BIG one. I was ten. I’d been moved around a lot for a few years and I started a new school a few months into the year. I didn’t know anyone. They knew nothing about me. So I told one girl I had seven brothers and sisters.

Mind you I was an only child at the time (my lone brother came almost two years later) and I wanted those siblings so bad! Eight is Enough was my favorite TV show! I made up all kinds of stories about my “family,” I even had names. (I remember one of them - one of my sister’s names was Lindsay.)

I was living the dream - a big house full of wonderful brothers and sisters! It was all crap. I finally had to confess my stories to my friend and if I remember correctly she told me she really didn’t believe me anyway. She was still my friend, though!

Of course I moved that summer and went to yet another school the next year. Stayed with those kids all through junior high and beyond too. In fact that’s the school where I met my bestest friend.

So come on. I confessed my wanna-be Eight is Enough lie. Share a childhood lie with me.

But first….it’s Brenda Novak auction time! The Naughty and Spice girls have donated a gift bag with lots of great goodies!

The shirt says: Get Nailed Because a hitman is a terrible thing to waste. Get it? Hitman….waste…hehehe. I know I’m easily amused.

I also did a couple different styles of t-shirts and you get to choose!

So anyway let’s talk about shorts because as you know (I know you knew) I have a short short coming out with Cobblestone Press on Friday. And I’m just thrilled that Ropers Rule is the very first Wicked!

I love doing shorts unfortunately I moved away from them because, well, there wasn’t much of a market. I actually started out writing shorts, then didn’t write for a few years, then wrote a few single titles, then met Sasha White who said, “You should try Black Lace!” I did and sold one to them for Sex on…Holiday, then our editor left, my next two shorts were rejected (bet you can’t guess what one of them was?! LOL) and I went back to writing longer work.

You’d think shorts would be easy, but they’re actually challenging…in their own way as challenging as writing longer works. You’ve got to give the reader an intriguing peek at a slice of your characters life, hot sex and a satisfying ending (with Wicked HEA’s aren’t necessary but aren’t against the rules either–it’s erotica after all). It can be really challenging because even in the framework of a short story, the sex has to fit, it has to be necessary, otherwise you’re just writing Penthouse Forum. On the other hand, short erotica gives me a chance to explore sexual topics I might not be willing to try in a longer format, and, to some extent, satisfy my curiosity (including but not limited to anal, threesomes, semi-public sex, and peaches which you won’t get to read about until August). I’m discovering I’ve got quite a voyeuristic/exhibitionist streak thingy going on. I’ve already started what I hope will be another Wicked and the hero, well he’s having a hell of a good time watching the heroine be a very bad girl (and so am I).

I came up with the idea for Ropers Rule because I’m shallow and wanted to ride write a cowboy. I quickly realized that if one cowboy is good, two is … heavenly.

Sooooooooo do you like shorts? Or do you prefer something longer? Who are some of your favorite short erotica authors? Leave a comment between now and Friday at 5 Central time. I’ll draw one winner to receive a copy of Ropers Rule and to let them name a character in a future Wicked.

So I’m a big fan of Gemma Halliday, especially since she’s so fabulous with the getting out and dating bit. And she always has the funniest stories about the men she meets. And I would think…how come she gets all the crazy guys and ends up with these fabulous stories??? Well, this weekend I think I realized there’s a lot more freaks in the pond than I realized. My little post isn’t quite as funny as hers, and it might even offend you (hell, I’m STILL offended!).

Here’s the set up. I have a friend visiting town and it’s a Friday night. We meet up with two more of my friends for a girls night out. Girls night meaning drinks and dinner at Applebee’s. But we did decide to sit in the bar. Cause we’re wild like that. Anyway, there was a bit of a commotion from a table of guys next to us when we sat down. And before we could even order, things were getting frisky. Well, one–an older mid-thirties guy–stared at us with kind of narrowed and appraising eyes. I thought he was a bit sexy and the quiet type. But another guy made it known he was after me in particular…

He was cute…red hair, fair in complexion, a butt load of tattoos. He was from Texas. How do I know this? Because he kept saying…I’m from Texas. These colors don’t run. I’m thinking, oh okay. He’s proud of being a Texan. All right. He yells out, “What’s your name.” And only wanted to know my name, not my friends. And kept talking about how hot I was. What a great smile I had. He offered to buy me a drink. I was stunned. Flattered. Terrified. But I thought of Gemma and how she can do this flirting thing, and so I’d try too. After prodding from my friends and his, I accepted the drink…and that’s when it went downhill.

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