Have you read Waiting For Spring?
Did you like it?
Do you have a digital video camera?
Would you like to appear in a new commercial trailer for the book, have fun while doing it, and garner worldwide fame*?
Simply shoot me over an email for details!
* Worldwide fame very unlikely.
Zoe Winters‘ story – called A Safer Life – has made it to the semi-final rounds in the Better Sex Erotic Fiction Contest after making it through the first round of voting back in November. I read it again this afternoon and dang! I’d forgotten just how hot it is.
Head on over and give her your vote.
* I’m still recovering from my soujourn to Migraineville. Unfortunately, I travel there quite frequently, but this week’s visit was my worst evah. The pain went away yesterday evening, but I’m still feeling a bit…ugh-y. Thanks for all of your comments of concern and support, as well as for your medicinal suggestions. I’ve got an appointment with my doctor next week, and Imitrex will be on the top o’ my Things To Discuss list.
* Next week I’ll be picking up an extra shift at the store, a graveyard shift. This is bad news for my sleep patterns, but good news for my blog readers, as I should start having more stories of local flavor to relate. (Second shift doesn’t seem to attract the same caliber of customers as third. Go figure.)
* Quite possibly the coolest part of living in my particular neck of the boonies of Maine is that I have access to WKIT 100.3 – Stephen King’s Rock n’ roll Station. Every Thursday night between 11-12 they air Homemade Jam, an hour of programming dedicated to local bands. Last night’s songs included “Slow Motion Michelle” by a guy named Joshua Madore. It is seriously the coolest song I’ve heard in a long time. You can hear it here (and buy it) along with his other stuff. This is the dude’s MySpace page. (I am not affiliated with the guy in any way. I just have a serious crush on his voice and predict that you will soon, too.)
* Superbowl Sunday is this weekend, which means it’s time for my annual Superbowl prediction. This year, my beloved Patriots aren’t in the show, and since I don’t really know a whole lot about the actual game of football other than that Tom Brady is hot – and since he didn’t play this year anyway – I’m forced to use my “Whose uniform is best?” method of prediction. So here goes:
Cardinals 829 – Steelers 2
Or something like that.
UPDATE: My friend, Crystal Lynn, says:
IT WILL BE THE STEELERS WHO WIN!!!!
WHY?????
If I stand out in a blizzard to cheer the team on at a rally, they had better darn well win!!!
Mayo Clinic definition of migraine:
A migraine can be disabling — with symptoms so severe, all you can think about is finding a dark, quiet place to lie down. Up to 17 percent of women and 6 percent of men have experienced a migraine.
In some cases, these painful headaches are preceded or accompanied by a sensory warning sign (aura), such as flashes of light, blind spots or tingling in your arm or leg. A migraine is also often accompanied by other signs and symptoms, such as nausea, vomiting, and extreme sensitivity to light and sound. Migraine pain can be excruciating and may incapacitate you for hours or even days.
Kel’s definition of migraine:
Satan let loose a particularly perverse band of demons from the dark recesses of hell with a rusty saw to slowly cut open my skull and shove ten pounds of shattered glass directly into my brain. I’ll be honest…it hurt so badly that I cried. A lot. That just made it hurt worse.
As a result, I did not make my usual Wednesday post over at Publishing Renaissance. The worst seems to be over, though, so hopefully soon. Maybe.
We’ll see…
And it’s not wordless. (You didn’t actually think I could do a post with no words, did you?)
Starring Kel’s cat, Hazel.
Last week, the store got a cardboard display of “magic gloves” and hats and other cold-weather accoutrements. This is the company’s logo:
Now, try to imagine that, two feet tall, on the back of the display. (Yes, my boss covered it.)
Since we’ve already delved into junior high school territory, here’s some additional selling points:
Anyone who’s been reading this blog for awhile, or who’s known me for more than a few months, knows what a big admirer I was (and still am) of Heath Ledger. Today, the one-year anniversary of his death, a brief tribute I wrote has been posted at the Movie Fanatic.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
It’s Wednesday, which means it’s my turn to pontificate over at Publishing Renaissance. This week you’ll find out why I think I’m just like Einstein, except with much better hair. (My fem-mullet back in the late 80’s doesn’t count.)
Last night was pretty rough at work. There’s a girl who comes in from time to time (I call her a girl, but she’s actually in her early twenties). Sometimes she’s by herself, sometimes with her boyfriend. He’s the kind of guy you know from instinct, from vibe, from that little itch in the back of your brain…whatever…is bad news. The kind of situation where you just know she’s being abused. Physically, emotionally, probably both. I know it’s happening. I was even brave enough once to ask her, when she was alone, if she needed some help. The number to a shelter, a cell phone to call a relative, a little cash to get somewhere safe. She denied anything was wrong, but she was lying. I knew it. She knew I knew it.
She came in last night, alone, to buy a bag of tobacco for her boyfriend so he could roll some cigarettes. She stood there silently for a moment, panicked. Because she couldn’t remember what kind he’d told her to get. We have three brands, and none of them looked familiar to her. She doesn’t smoke, so she really didn’t know one kind from another. I wanted to help her out, but I couldn’t. He’d never bought it when I was working, so I didn’t have the foggiest clue which brand he smokes. She finally decided on one, paid for it, and left the store. She was shaking.
The two of them came back a short while later. She was holding the bag of tobacco in her hands. He was gripping her arm. Tightly. He was pissed. She was still shaking.
You guessed it. She brought home the wrong kind of tobacco. It was the right brand, but it was full flavor. He recently changed to menthol.
He proceeded to inform me, and the two customers in the store, that his girlfriend was a fucking idiot. Because it doesn’t take a whole lot of fucking brains to remember what kind of tobacco your boyfriend sends you out for, does it? Or to remember that he’s recently switched back to menthol. And because of her stupidity, he’d had to leave the comfort of his home, after working hard all day, and fix her mistake himself. Because obviously she’s too stupid to be trusted to go to the store by herself. It meant that supper was gonna be late – not that she could cook worth shit anyway – and…
There’s a metal pole behind the counter. It’s got five long, sharp screws poking out of the top of it, in a lovely circle. It looks rather medieval. My boss made it for us to use for protection in case we’re ever in any harm. And what I wanted to do was to use it on this asshole. I wanted start with his big, fat, fucking mouth, paying particular attention to his teeth and tongue, then move right to his nuts and jab at those for awhile. I didn’t want to kill him, mind you. I just wanted to leave him in severe pain. Possibly with some permanent scarring and damage.
I didn’t, naturally. It’s okay to have those kinds of fantasies, but it’s not okay to act on them. I couldn’t verbally eviscerate the shithead, either. I’m not a psychologist, but it doesn’t take a degree to know that he’d just take that kind of humiliation out on the poor girl, too. I could tell the two customers – both of them women – were thinking the same thing. We were all thinking, too, that if he’s this abusive to her in public, what must she have to endure behind closed doors?
Finally I said, “Sir…this is my mistake. She asked me for menthol, but I gave her the wrong bag. I’m truly sorry.” Then I grabbed a bag of menthol tobacco from the shelf behind me and held it out to him. Gently. I even managed the apologetic, “Gee what a pinhead I am” smile I sometimes give customers when I’ve done them wrong.
The change in his manner was immediate and shocking. He almost syrupy with sweetness towards me. No problem, ma’am, that’s alright, ma’am, easy mistake to make, ma’am, no hard feelings, ma’am. The girl handed me the offensive bag of full flavor tobacco. She was still shaking. I offered the fucktard a free cup of coffee, by way of trying to make amends for my hideous mistake. Not necessary, ma’am. We’ll just be gettin’ home now.
To their late, shitty supper.
I harbor no illusions that this made any difference in how the rest of this girl’s night went. Or how her tomorrow is going to be. Or her next week, or her next month. But what could I do? What else could I do?
I’ll tell you what I did. I cried like a frigging baby the moment their car pulled out of the parking lot. Not the kind of crying you do when tears just sort of slip out, but actual sobbing. The kind that hurts your stomach and shoulders. The other women cried, too. It was kind of pathetic, really.
But what else could we do?
R.J. Keller 