Not My Cup of Tea

Being old and married sucks sometimes. I'm only including married in this post because I refuse to blame the following story just on being old.


I'm at Starbucks, having ridden there on my pretty pink cruiser (see previous blog post). My hair is down and comved for once (in writer mode its usually up in a sweaty pony tale secured by a scrunchie I found at the gym). I have make up on and my clothes all match. I am thinking I look almost cute today.

I order a Venti Black Iced Tea Unsweetened (would it kill Starbucks to just make small, medium, and large?). I get my tea, pull out my copy of On The Road, and find a small table near a lovely window. Life is good.

The whole time this is going on I'm very aware of a man watching me. He is short, round, and totally not my type. Ugh, I think. Happy to not be in the dating world. I don't make eye contact with him but I can feel his gaze on me.

Finally, he stands and comes to my table.

"Uh-oh," I think, ready to whip out my ring finger. "He is going to ask me out."

"Excuse me, ma'am," he says. (by the way fellas, never try to seduce a woman by using the word ma'am in your intro). "I couldn't help noticing that you are drinking tea. Is that correct?"

I nod, looking down at my cup to show him that I still had plenty and he didn't need to worry about buying me another. My bladder would give out long before I finished this one. I give him a  moment to digest this then reply,"yes, yes I am."

"What kind of tea is it?"

"Just plain black tea."

He pulled a chair from an adjoining table and sat across from me, leaning in on his arms. "I'm a tea lover, too."

"Really?" was all I could come up with. I wasn't used to being propositioned in such a way. Not in a Starbucks during the daytime when people were still sober.

"Yes,' he answered, "And I would love to treat you to a cup."

I lifted my left hand to show him my ring. "I'm so sorry. It's very flattering but..."

He scratched his head. "Your husband doesn't like tea?"

"Oh yes, yes he does. But I'm not sure he'd like it if I drank tea with you." I needed to make this clear to him before he assumed I was one of them Desperate Housewife types. "My husband and I have an exclusive tea-drinking relationship."

"I'm sorry," he said, rising. "I think there's been a mistake. I sell tea." He pulled out a business card that read: Georgio - Tea Importer. His office was two blocks away. "I thought you might want to try some really good shit. This Starbucks crap is way too diluted. One sip of my tea and you won't need to sleep for three days. Look me up if you change your mind."

With that he handed me his card and walked away.

I was sure that every eye in Starbucks was on me, laughing. I had been dissed by the Tea Bag Man.

From now on, I decided, I'm wearing nothing but sweats out of the house. Great, big, baggy ones with holes in the knees.  At least then I won't assume that men are hitting on me.

And it will be a pleasant surprise if they do.

Off The Rack

It's a beautiful day in Portland. The sun is shining. And my allergies are finally under control.

I decide I'm going to break out the bike and ride it  to a coffee shop, spending my morning sipping tea and reading, a luxury I haven't had for months.

Somehow, we had lost my old bike chain so hubby got me a new one. I realize the first hurdle to getting said bike ride done was getting chain set up. Its one of those cute combination ones where you can 'program' in your own number. Mines 1111 by the way, in case you ever want to borrow my bike.

Anyways...

I'm reading directions for this thing, and yes there are directions, and it says...and I'm not kidding here, that to properly lock my bike up I have to remove the front tire and put the lock through the back tire and whatever or whoever I want to chain it to (okay I made up the whoever part).

What the hell?

It never says what I'm supposed to do with said tire. Just remove it. That's all.

So, I'm supposed to go the coffee shop, order tea and read my book, while holding a bike tire in my lap?

Or is there a tire day care I don't know about, one that charges an hourly rate to care for it while I enjoy my Starbucks experience? If not, maybe there's a market for it.

Now, I'm feeling daunted. In my mind I'm a rules breaker, but in my heart I'm somewhat of a coward. What if I take the chance and DON"T remove the tire and then when I'm done with my coffee I come out and my bike is gone and I'm like damn, now I know why they said to remove the tire.

Another thought occurs to me...I didn't need to buy the chain after all. If I just removed the tire, and dismantled any other extraneous parts, no one's gonna steal it anyway. Because then it's just a piece of junk.

There is a lot of logistics that is involved in this whole ordeal. No wonder we are a lazy nation. It's way too much work to even start to get healthy.

The Witches of Dark Root (Excerpt)

Nine: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

What is it about our childhood that makes us want to run from it––and return to it––all in one breath? I had hated Dark Root in my teenage years, tried to escape from it like it was Alcatraz, yet now I was saddened because it no longer felt familiar and safe.

I had spent the night in Harvest Home, lulled into a deep sleep by the warmth of the blankets and the scent of lavender under my pillow, yet I tossed and turned all night with dreams of a past I had hoped to forget. I had been reunited with my sisters, the girls I had grown up with who were both my friends and my rivals. My body and mind were a jumble of emotions.

I was home. For better or worse.

There was one thing I was not ambivalent about––seeing my mother, Miss Sasha Shantay. The woman who had raised me, loved me, taught me, and brainwashed me.

I felt like a horrible human being for even thinking it, but I didn’t want to see her. I wasn’t ready. The thought left me with a chill that went deep into my bones.

I swallowed, scratching at an imaginary itch on my leg as I bumped along in the truck beside Eve and Shane. My sister stared straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts. I wanted to touch her hand, to show her that we were in this together, but we weren’t. Eve would deal with it better than me. She was floaty, breezy, whimsical, shallow. Bad couldn’t penetrate her, because there was nothing to penetrate. I was the one who sucked things in, letting them fester, holding on to them long after they should have been tossed away.

I recalled my conversation with Michael in the grocery store just a week ago.

I had told him that I ‘left Dark Root for a reason.’ Seven days ago I thought there were many reasons: because Ruth Anne had disappeared and nobody talked about her, because Merry had gotten married and not a soul objected, because Eve was going to leave at the first chance she got and I wanted to beat her to it.

But the truth was––and it was clear to me now, as we made our way back to Sister House––the truth was, I had run away from my mother.

My stomach sank as I wrestled with this revelation, braiding and unbraiding the ends of my hair until it was so gummy it held together by itself.

Who runs away from their mother?

Especially my mother, the beloved toast of the town, belle of the ball. People sought her out, flocked to her. I didn’t remember a day going by when we didn’t have a house full of visitors. There would be teas and brunches and salon style discussions. Sometimes we would be invited to join, dressed up like dolls, as Mother and her friends chatted about the weather, the economy, witchery, and their views on men.

“If you want to cast a love spell, all the power to you,” Mother would say, taking a sip from her teacup. “I will point you in the direction, but I won’t participate.”

While she invoked the craft for many reasons, love wasn’t on that list.

“Love is overrated,” she’d say. “Love makes you give up everything, and for what? To be an unappreciated, overworked house-frau, with no life of your own. Just look at what it did to poor Julia.” With that, she would point to the picture of Julia Benbridge, dressed all in black, which hung over our mantle.

“If you ask me,” Mother would continue. “She was much better off after that man passed. Then, and only then, was she free to pursue her real life. No ladies, love has no place in this world. Men are only good for one thing, and when that’s done, you need to move on...”

This didn’t dissuade Merry, who fell madly in love with Frank after just three dates, or Eve, who practiced love spells on her own, in the middle of the night. Pity none of the men she ever cast her spells on were worth the rat’s tails used for the invocations.

As for me, I wanted to believe in love. Despite Mother’s warnings, I had this sense that when your soul finds someone, that right someone, there is a magic created in the universe more powerful than any incantation.

**
The Witches of Dark Root is available at Amazon
Amazon Link

An Author Interview

Check out my author interview at the Awesomegang site. You can also click on the link for The Witches of Dark Root to learn even more about this book!

http://awesomegang.com/april-aasheim/

Goodreads Giveaway: The Witches of Dark Root (signed first edition)

In honor of my book launch for The Witches of Dark Root I am offering another Goodreads Giveaway! This time win a first edition (hot off the press before anyone else gets them) signed copy of the paperback. Of course, you can still buy the Kindle version too :)

Goodreads Giveaway starts June 6th. Four signed copies available.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Witches of Dark Root

by April Aasheim

Giveaway ends June 28, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

A Girl and Her Yankee Candles

It's 5:30 in the morning, a time which never should have been invented by the way, and I'm sitting with my laptop outside of Yankee Candle waiting for the salesgirls to show up.

I check my preferred customer coupon again. Frick. The store doesn't open until 8 AM, even for those of us who bleed Yankee.

The manager shows up, notes my position in line - okay I am the line - and gives me a frightened smile as she rushes inside, locking the door behind her. She's had candle stalkers before. And I'm sure she's heard of me.

I'm not sure when I got addicted to Yankees. Or even why. I remember passing one in the mall, and though I am not a huge shopper, I felt the irresistible urge to go inside. I think it was the banana cream pie scent that did it. While I'm not a huge shopper, I do love food. Especially junk food.

It was around Halloween and they had all these super cutsie skeleton candle holders and I found myself oohing and awing over every one. Plus, they had thousands, and I mean thousands of candles in every size, scent, and color. It was like being in a candy shop. It even smelled like a candy shop. Except you don't want to eat them. Trust me on this.

So, fast forward three years and I am an official addict. Every time I get a coupon in my email I pull my husband to the store and demand he help me pick out some scents. Not that it matters. He only goes for one scent, The Pink Sands, which he proudly burns in his man cave. He made a mistake once and bought the Pink Lady Slippers. I had loads of fun with that. But that's another story.

But what I really live for are these 'semi-annual' clearance sales. That's when they all go 75% off. I can fill a few closets with these in just a day or two of shopping. I also hide them under beds and in storage units. It's a sickness, and one my husband knows about, but doesn't 'really' know about. Some things in marriage should remain a mystery.

I burn the lavender-vanillas at nap time. If you ever want to sink into a very deep sleep and have these amazing macabre Alice in Wonderland type dreams, burn  vanilla-lavender. It's like a PCP trip without the legal repercussions.

I burn the pie scented candles in the kitchen. If I can't eat the pie I'm at least going to pretend like I have some baking. At times, it feels like I'm cheating on my diet. And for some reason it helps to satisfy my sweet tooth craving.

I burn the softer scents in the bathroom. You really don't want a strong scent in there. Another thing you should trust me on.

By now the ladies at Yankee know me, and know me well. I think there was even a picture of me up for a while with a 'Do Not Trim Wicks for This Woman' in the break room after an unfortunate incident I'd rather not mention. But it's all good now. That manager is gone and that means the incident never happened.

I'm counting down the minutes until the store opens. There are two ladies behind me now, with giant empty bags waiting to be filled. I bare my teeth at them in warning. First dibs, I say with my eyes, on all Pink Sands and Banana Cream Pies.

They bare theirs back. But I'm not threatened. If they were really that serious they would have been here earlier. Like me.

Sick of Being Sick Ramble

Oh, how I hate being sick. I really do. Mainly because I'm not good at it.

The thought of sitting down and doing nothing all day is exciting, but when it actually comes time for it, all I can think about are the things I'm missing out on.

Such as the sunshine I can see through the cracks of my curtains. The beam almost, but not quite, hitting my toe on the couch.

And I can hear people laughing. Having fun in the world. Without me.

I think this is what it must be like to be dead. But being dead is probably a bit better because then you don't know what you are missing out on. Unless, of course, you are a ghost. That would really suck. So to sum it up, being sick must be like being a ghost.

At any rate, I pulled my half-dead body up from the marathon of House Hunters International just to see what was going on in the world. In the online world of course. The real world is too brutal for me today with it's sunshine and happiness. The online world mirrors my mood more at the minute. At least on CNN.com. Funny enough, not much has changed.

Yep. I'm rambling. Waiting for husband to bring me soup. And maybe pie. Apples are healthy right, which aid in the healing process.

Super excited that The Witches of Dark Root is coming out this week. I've poured my soul into it. It's funny, as you read the last line of a book you've written, that feeling of awe that comes over you. I've given birth to something. The most popular kid in school? A monster? I will just have to wait and find out.

Hope you all are having a great week so far!

Cheers!

Excerpt from The Witches of Dark Root (released June, 2013)

Harvest Home, Dark Root, Oregon

October, 1995

 

“Maggie, wake up.” Merry jostled her sister, rousing her from her nap on the couch.

Maggie sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around. For a moment she forgot that she was in the living room of Harvest Home.

“Already?” Maggie asked, pushing herself onto elbows.

A loud chime coming from the grandfather clock confirmed that that it was midnight, time for the ritual. Maggie felt the chill from the open door and looked around for her sweater.

“We aren’t supposed to wear anything other than our robes tonight,” Merry cautioned, but helped Maggie into the sweater, anyways.

“Where’s Eve?” Maggie asked. If she was going to have to wander the woods in the middle of the night for some crazy ritual, then Eve better be up, too. Maggie saw her standing by the door, jumping up and down, not tired at all.

Miss Sasha and six of her friends emerged from the dining room, talking excitedly and exchanging knowing glances.

“You girls ready?” Miss Sasha asked. This was to be their first grown up moon chant and Miss Sasha could hardly contain herself. She noticed the sweater Maggie wore over her long blue robe and frowned but didn’t mention it.

Merry, Maggie, Eve, and Ruth Anne followed their mother and her friends into the night.

It was cold and the sisters shivered as they wound their way along an old dirt road shrouded by trees to a circular clearing, a half-mile away. The girls had played in the clearing many times during the day, but this was the first time they had seen it beneath the light of a full moon. The grass looked dewy and lush as the soft light fell upon each blade, but the trees that surrounded the meadow looked foreboding and ominous, as if their long, twisted boughs were ready to snatch the girls, if given the chance.

“What are we doing here again?” Maggie asked, as they made their way towards the center of the circle. “...And how long do we have to stay out?”

The adults moved to a point in the very center of the clearing and the girls positioned themselves a few dozen feet behind them.

Ruth Anne surveyed the area and sat, cross-legged, on the moist grass. “We are rooting out the evil spirits that are trying to infest Dark Root.” Her voice was as flat and informational as an encyclopedia entry.

She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a key-chain flashlight and a comic book and started reading.

“How do we do that?” Maggie asked, watching as the elders––five women and two men––linked raised hands towards the sky.

They began singing, a soft melodic chant that Maggie had heard before.

Merry answered, “Every fall, the Council of Seven places a protective spell around our town. It must be done before the second half of the year begins, on November 1st. It keeps out the dark energies and ensures that the circle is strong.”

Maggie hopped on one foot, and then the other, trying to find warmth in the chill of the night. “But why do we have to do it now?” she moaned. “When it’s so cold?”

Ruth Anne responded, never lifting her eyes from her book. “It’s the witching hour. According to legend, the hours between twelve and three AM are when all things magical, including witches, are at their most powerful.” She turned the page of her book and cracked a smile at one of the drawings. “...It’s too bad we can’t keep out the crazy.”

Maggie widened her eyes. “But if witches are the most powerful now, won’t the bad things be more powerful too?”

“I’m scared,” Eve said, jumping in place as the elders continued their chant. Eve liked magick, but only the lighter arts, and those that yielded her a reward.

Merry took Eve’s hand and kissed it, and Maggie latched onto Merry’s other hand.

“I’m scared, too,” Merry fibbed.

Merry wasn’t afraid of anything.

There was a long silence, followed by the heavy beat of a loud drum. Miss Sasha looked over her shoulder at her daughters, letting them know that it was almost their turn. They had been practicing the spell for weeks now, and Maggie hoped she wouldn’t forget the words.

Ruth Anne set down her comic book and the four girls clasped hands and waded towards the center of the circle.

Miss Sasha nodded and the girls began their incantation.

As the Witching Hour chimes

And the whole world sleeps and dreams

We join our hands in sisterhood

Staving back the darklings

The circle stands, its shape eternal

Though the darkness is still beckoning

Our light will ward back the infernal

And shield us from the doomsday reckoning

Maggie was still tired and stumbled on a few of the words, completely missing some of them; however, Merry spoke them as loud and clearly as she recited The Pledge of Allegiance at school. All the while, Eve played with her hair and hardly tried at all. For her part, Ruth Anne recited the words without emotion, anxious to get back to her comic book.

“Who wrote the spell?” Ruth Anne had asked their mother earlier that day while they were preparing. “It doesn’t sound right.”

“It doesn’t matter if it sounds right or not,” Miss Sasha had explained. “It’s the power of words––especially when spoken in numbers––that matters. When we stand together, no enemy would dare traverse the boundaries of Dark Root.”

Maggie caught a movement to her right. She thought she had seen a dark form take shape and then vanish. And then another. Were they coming or going? She couldn’t tell.

Had to Try

While flipping through the Comcast TV Guide I came across a show called Top Hooker. After I read the synopsis I turned to my husband.

Me: Hey honey. Look. There's a show called Top Hooker. Wanna watch?
Husband: Top hooker huh?
Me: Yep. Tell you what. I will watch this with you and then you can watch a chick flick with me. Sound fair?
Husband: Oh god no.
Me: Really? Why not?
Husband: If you are actually okay with me watching this show I'm sure it's a show I don't want to watch. I'm betting it's not really a show about a prostitute whose really good at her job.

Damn. Busted. It's a show about fishing. I really thought I had him there.

Enter to Win! Free!

Reminder: Goodreads giveaway for The Universe is a Very Big Place begins today, June 1st. Ends June 30th. Free to enter. Click link below.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Universe Is a Very Big Place

by April Aasheim

Giveaway ends June 30, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

When Spring Ryan leaves her carnival upbringing behind in search of a 'normal life' things start to get hilarious.

Does The Universe have a sense of humor?

This book is filled with quirky characters, zany predicaments, and lots of heart.

Stick Figure Family Values

 "Speed up," I tell my husband. We are closing in on a silver mini-van. I push the imaginary gas pedal from the passenger side, hinting that my husband is driving too slow. "We are going to lose them."

   He speeds up and soon we are neck and neck with the van, both cruising towards a red light. Bingo!

   As both vehicles idle at the light, I turn to check out the other driver. It's a round woman with too tight ringlets in her hair and a dour face. Her cheeks are flushed and her mascara is running. She looks pissed off. Maybe it's because we've been chasing her down for the last ten minutes. She doesn't look at me, even though I'm waving cheerfully out the window. She has two young children in the backseat, who appear to be arguing. As soon as the light turns green she hits the gas and speeds off.

   "Well, that was a disappointment," I tell my husband, who pulls into the McDonald's drive through for an ice cream cone.

   "It generally is," he agrees.

   What initiated our car chase was the stickers on the rear windshield of her mini-van.  It was a set of those cutsie, white, stick-figure families. There was daddy stick figure in a chef's hat. Mommy stick figure, a lean woman with a big smile and a briefcase. Two children's stick figures, one with pom-poms and one with a football. And Doggy stick figure, sitting obediently by an empty bowl.

   I had been desperate to find out if the people in the van matched their stick figure counterparts. But once again, I came up empty.

   "Why do you think people do that?" I asked my husband, who was driving with one hand and holding his ice cream with the other. "I mean, why lie about your life?"

   "Maybe they see things differently."

   "Maybe," I agreed. "Or maybe they just want to present an image to the world that isn't accurate. Maybe they think that if that's who they present themselves to be in fantasy-land, that's how people will perceive them in reality."

   "Maybe."

   I have chased down many stick figure families in the past year, desperately trying to reconcile the fun families on the window with the tired, unsmiling families that are usually in the car. During this time I've noticed a few things:

• Daddy stick figure is always first. Even though it's most likely mommy's car as she is usually the one driving.
• Mommy stick figure is always thin. And happy. There are no flawed figures or under eye circles in stick figure land.
• Kiddie stick figures are always playing sports. They are never fighting. None of them are wearing baggy pants or skirts three inches too short.
• Pet stick figures never do a no-no on the back windshield. It just doesn't happen.

   When I see vehicles with the friendly stick figure families I am immediately reminded of the parents who put the 'my kid's an honor student' bumper sticker on the back of their car. Sure, it's nice. But is it necessary? Does everyone need to know that my kid is better than your kid? And why do we feel this incessant need to advertise how swell our life is going

   I would love to see a more accurate representation of the world, such as:

• Mommy stick figure has a swollen belly and dark circles under her eyes from trying to work, get the kids to school, and still have time for daddy. She stares absently ahead from lack of sleep.
• Daddy stick figure comes with a remote control in one hand and a beer in the other.
• Kiddie stick figures are armed with Smart Phones and Ipods, and they sit on the other side of the windshield, ignoring everybody.
• Doggy stick figure begs for food while trying to mount the family stick figure cat.

   I thought about buying my own cutouts, just to place on my windshield for shock value. I was going to put a Mommy stick figure surrounded by seven Daddies. Every daddy would have a different role, attending to mommy's every need. In this scenario mommy's smile really would be warranted.

   But as I proceeded to pay for the stickers I chickened out. Who knows what someone with an inflated sense of morality and no sense of humor would do to my car? It's the same reason I won't put the fish with the little legs on my vehicle.

   For now, I'm content to just chase down these mini-van billboards hoping that someday, the image will mirror the reality. The first time I see all five members of the family, in their corresponding gear and with happy smiles pasted on their faces, I will shut up about the whole thing.

**
(Decal above available on Amazon)

Head Games

"I have an idea," I said to my husband last night after dinner. "Let's play a game."
"Yeah?" he asked, one eyebrow raised hopefully while the other managed to arch in an 'uh-oh' sort of way, unsure of the direction this game would take.
"Yes. Let's play: If you had to name the top things that drive you crazy about your spouse what would they be?"
"I'm out."
"Why?"
"Because this has train wreck written all over it. Remember the last game we played?"
"That was a fine game until you messed it up," I informed him. The game had been if you could sleep with one person again, who would it be? We were both supposed to write that person's name on a slip of paper and trade at the designated time. Of course, it was an unspoken rule that we would write each other's names on the papers, laugh, kiss, hug, agree, and have a beautiful evening. My husband of course, wrote the name of some woman I had heretofore never heard of, whose name began with the letter Y.
"You can't be serious!" I said, throwing the slip of paper at him. "You were supposed to write ME."
"How was I supposed to know that? I thought you wanted the truth."
"I did want the truth. So long as your truth matched my truth."
I spent the night in the guest room, dreaming of big breasted women named Yolanda.

"Okay," I agreed. "Maybe that wasn't the best game. Let's try this one. Please?"
My husband looked at me skeptically, then pushed his hands into his pocket. "Okay, fine."
"I'll go first," I said. I had a long list I wanted to get through. "I hate the way you throw your dirty socks almost into the bedroom hamper but they don't quite make it. They land, one right in front of the other, as if they are trying to walk their way to the hamper, but they just can't get up the speed." I crossed my arms and thought about it. Yes, that was a good start. "Your turn."
"Well," he asked, cocking his head uncertainly. "I hate the way there's writing stuff all over the house. Papers, laptops, research books, pens. But it's also what I love about you. So I guess I don't really hate it. There, I'm done."
"That's it? That's all you got?"
"Sorry, yes. You're up."
Now I was the one feeling like I was walking into a trap. But he was probably just testing the waters. I had to go for the big guns, get him to retaliate. "You scare the hell out of me when you drive. I have to close my eyes every time we merge."
"I've noticed."
"Doesn't that make you want to change the way you drive?"
"Not really."
"Well, does it bother you at all? I know a man's masculinity can be tied up with cars and such."
"Nope."
"Oh." I furrowed my brows, disappointed. I thought this would at least incite a conversation. He would tell me that he was sorry for the way he weaves through traffic like he's in an episode of COPS and promise to never do it again. But not a word of penance was uttered from his lips. "Your turn," I sighed, turning it back over to him.
"I only had the one pet peeve and you've heard it. I'm out."
"You're joking."
"No. I can't think of anything else you do that drives you nuts. You are just so adorable, scattering your things around the house like a little kitten."
"Okay, that's another thing that drives me crazy. The way you call me things like 'little kitten' or 'cute little mouse'. Or sad little puppy' You make me sound like I belong in a pet shop."
"Noted. No more animal metaphors. Got anything else?"
"Yes!" I then described the way he couldn't scramble eggs, turned up the volume way too high whenever Van Halen was playing on the radio, and never called my mother just to say 'hello'.
"All noted," he said, studying me, his face calm, serene, and amused. I was sure my face looked more like Yosemite Sam's. "Got all that out of your system?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, suddenly embarrassed. This had been my idea so why was I the one feeling bad?
"You know," I said, pouring him a diet coke, "I may not love the way you drive but I appreciate that you do it. I hate driving."
"I know, honey."
"And at least you get your socks kinda close to the hamper."
"I do my best."
"And don't lose the animal metaphors. They've kinda grown on me."
"Noted." He squeezed my hand. "You're a mess, you know?"
"I know," I said. "How come I don't drive you as crazy as you drive me?"
"Maybe I just love you more."
"Or maybe you're just getting better at playing my games than I am."

The Road Back from Costco

I was driving home from a Costco trip, kinda bummed because I had spent way too much money (as always). As I approached the last intersection before my house, I was stopped by a red light. Two men crossed in the crosswalk, both on bikes. I assumed by their dirty, bedraggled appearances that they were homeless. This assumption was further fueled by the collection of bottles and bins and bags they had taped and secured around their bikes.

The first man crossed, pedaling fast and hard, trying to make his way before the stop light changed and the rain that threatened dumped on him. The second man crossed, taking a more leisurely approach, peddling slower, his rosy face aimed towards the sun that was trying to peek out among the clouds.

I watched the second man. Although I have always had a soft spot for the homeless this was the first time I saw a man in this situation, not as he is now, but as he might have been years before. I imagined him as a twelve year old boy racing his bicycle down the road with his friends. Maybe they'd be delivering newspapers or perhaps trying to get to school before the first bell rang. His hair would be darker, his face would be cleaner, and there would be optimism in those blue eyes as he thought about the future ahead of him. This thought made me immeasurably happy because to me, he was no longer nameless or faceless. We had both shared a common historical thread; we had just wound up in different places.

I continued to watch. He smiled into the world; a beautiful beam of peace that preceded his slow peddling. I smiled too. He caught me. Normally, I would have turned my head, not wanting to make him feel like a spectacle. The lessons of my elders always play in my head, "don't stare, and don’t point." But this time was different. I just continued to watch, my head following his path, that trace of a smile sticking to my face. He seemed so happy and content, even though he had nothing and I had a carload full of Costco goods.

As he pulled out of my sight and onto the sidewalk he turned to me, saluted, and shouted something I couldn't hear. I rolled down my window, certain he would ask me for a dollar or tell me that I had blown a tire. Instead he said, "Thank you for that beautiful smile. It made my whole day." Then he tipped his worn hat to me and rolled away.

It's moments like this that put my life into perspective. How is it that we live on this planet full of people, yet continue to ignore those around us? Is it out of a desire to 'be nice' or out of defense? I will ponder this as I go about my day. And maybe I will smile at more people.

 

The Three Worst Things I've Seen on TV (This Week)

Now that I have finished the final draft of my novel I found myself with more free time than usual. So, I do what I always do when I have leisure time: I watch TV. Maybe it's been awhile since I've had some good TV time, but I couldn't help but notice that some of the programming (and commercials) have gotten really, really bad. Since I won't be doing any hardcore novel writing this summer, I thought I'd start a new column in my blog called: The Three Worst Things I've Seen on TV This Week. Here's your first installment. Enjoy!

3. A commercial for a penis vacuum.
I was watching a rerun of SNL on daytime TV when this came on. There was a smiling old man with a mustache trying to have sex with a woman who was just as old. He had a twinkle in his eye as he produced a penis suction tube for her approval. The woman beamed. With that, a wild night of old people sex had begun. I honestly thought this was a skit and I was waiting for the punch line (similar to SNL's Ooops I crapped my pants commercials). No. It was real. And, according to testimonials this thing will make you feel like you are eighteen again!

So, why am I horrified? Well, for starters its a tube. And there's suction. I'm thinking if a man is using it to get an erection why not just keep it there and finish the whole job?

Secondly, its portable. And men don't carry purses (as a general rule). Can you imagine opening up your boyfriend's consul to find this little gem?



Picture shown not actual pump advertised on TV

Finally, according to the commercials, most insurance companies cover it. Okay, I'm not a man. I will never know what it's like to not be able to 'get 'er done', but how is this a medical necessity? I could be wrong, like I said. I'm packing ovaries. But if the day ever comes when hubby can't do it on his own, I'm gonna use that opportunity to catch up on all the TV shows I've got DVR'd. You would think that women who've been married for forty years would welcome this kind of break.

And lastly, (yes I know lastly and finally are the same but so what) in this day when so many necessary things are NOT covered by insurance companies, I was surprised this made the, uh, cut.


4. Some ad for weight loss
These are always fun. If you haven't lost weight no matter what you've done before, try this new incredible weight loss secret for the low, low prices of...they never tell you. Sometimes they might give you their introductory fee, but usually you have to talk to one of the representatives who are standing by to find out what the cost really is. I'm guessing it's like buying a turkey; they charge you per pound.

What I found most compelling, and funny, about this ad (and forgive me, it was the middle of the night, I have no idea what company it was) is that not only is diet and exercise required in the small print that scrolled down the bottom of my TV, they added another little tidbit: compliance required.
Maybe it was my sleep deprived state but I kept staring at the screen wondering what sort of compliance they were referring to? My guess was that they lock you in the closet for three weeks and slice rice cakes under the door. When you emerge, voila, you are thin and beautiful. The  only other thing I could think of was that they forced you to wear an electric collar and whenever you took a bit of something you got shocked.

Either way, I'm not signing up.

1. Small Town Security

Note the location of the dog. Actual photo.

Someone, somewhere, made the executive decision to put this on the air. And probably thought it was a good idea. After seeing it spoofed on The Soup several times I gave it a go. Granted, my husband and I had just returned from a night on the town. I had been drinking wine. He was sober. We both TRIED to watch it, but it was too painful on the soul. The camera spent an entire 2 minutes focused on a lady who was either drugged up or constipated.
It should be funny.
But it wasn't.
It was about as entertaining as watching an oil spill cleanup.
Small Town Security boasts the most non-charismatic cast ever assembled. They should have called the show Purgatory, because that's where you feel like you've ended up. All the wine in the world couldn't have made it fun for me. But maybe I just caught them on a bad night.
At any rate it was so bad it's hard to even make fun of.
Yep. That's bad.

Enter to Win! Signed Copy of The Universe is a Very Big Place

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Universe Is a Very Big Place

by April Aasheim

Giveaway ends June 30, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Preview: The Witches of Dark Root

From my upcoming novel: The Witches of Dark Root (coming July, 2013)

       Sister House, by light of day, appeared despondent, like the face of a beautiful woman whose time had passed. But at night, especially beneath the light of a yellow moon, its fading beauty changed to a visage that was almost sinister; a small mountain of a house, obscuring and devouring the forest behind it, a forest that threatened to take it back. 
 

     One day, the trees seemed to say as they bobbed and dipped in the wind. One day that land will be ours again. Until then, we wait.

 

Trailer: The Witches of Dark Root

Copy of The Witches of Dark Root

First look at the trailer from my upcoming novel: The Witches of Dark Root
Coming July, 2013.

The Quest for Truth

     My stepdaughter asks me how the dinosaurs died? I look at her, wondering if I should tell her the truth.

     "Well," I begin, "some people think that dinosaurs were killed off by an asteroid."

     "What's an asteroid?"

     "It's like a giant rock from outer space."

     She accepts the explanation, but I wonder if I've scared her. "Don't worry," I say, "that happened a long, long time ago. We are safe."

     "It won't happen again?"

     I hate not being honest, but I tell her that I'm absolutely positive it won't happen again.

     She nods okay.

     As adults it's our job to protect children and to preserve their innocence. Sometimes that includes lying.

     We lie about the fun things: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy.

     We lie about reality: I'm not crying. I just got something in my eye.

     We lie about our uncertainty: There are no more asteroids. They died off with the dinosaurs.

     We lie about life: If you stay in school and work hard you will be able to do anything you want

     We lie about death: Goldie went to live with other dogs on a farm. He is very happy there.

     I'm starting to notice these things because she asks me the other day while I'm taking her to the potty if I will always tell her the truth? She's bright for her age and has figured out that adults are sometimes trying to pull the wool over her eyes, even if their intentions are good.

     I swallow, wondering how to answer. I could be really truthful and say 'yes, unless lying is for your protection or to keep your parents from getting upset.' Instead I respond simply,  "yes, I will always tell you the truth."

     "You promise?"

     "I promise."

     She uses her new found power right away. "What's in the boy's bathroom and why can't girls go in there?"

     "Um, potties are in the boy's bathroom and girls can't go in there because there's a 'no girls allowed' rule."

     "I know," she says impatiently. "But why?"

     She looks at me as if she's put me in check. I hedge. "What do you think?"

     "Well," she rolls her eyes to the side, "my friend says she knows."

     "Oh?"

     "Yes, she says its because the boy's bathroom is haunted and girls are more afraid of ghosts. Is that true?"

    As a step-mother my role is nebulous; I'm some kind of strange hybrid between parent and friend. I think about my options: It's not my place to tell her about the differences between boys and girls. It's also not my place to agree that the bathroom could be haunted.

     I kneel down beside her. "That's an interesting idea your friend has. What do you believe?"
    
     She puts a finger to her chin, considering. "Well, I want to believe the bathroom is haunted. That's just more fun."

     "It does sound more fun."

     "Then let's do it. Let's believe that together." She takes my hand and leads me back to her daddy who is waiting for us in our booth.

     "What did you ladies talk about?" my husband asks. My step-daughter and I share a secret smile.

     "Just girl talk," I say.

     "Yeah, girl talk," she echoes back.

     My step-daughter pulls out her dolls. The small doll begins asking the big doll questions: Why are some people mean? Are monsters real? Where does the tooth fairy live?

     The big doll replies, "what do you think?"

     And the small doll answers back, a long happy stream of consciousness. The small doll has lots of ideas about the world and the big doll listens.

    Someday, I may have to keep my promise to always tell the truth, but for now I think I'm safe. For now, I'll just be the one who has her examine the world. Through that, the truth will come.
    



    

Sexy Time with the TV

 
      I returned home one night to find my husband sitting in the living room, leaned in close to the TV. As I walked inside my husband quickly tapped a button on the remote and handed me the controller.

     "What are you doing?" I asked, suspicious.

     "Just turning it to one of the shows I know you like," he said, kissing me on the forehead before heading downstairs to his man cave.

     Before he could make it down the staircase I hit the LAST button on our remote. Just minutes before he had been viewing a show called The Wild Wives of Africa.
   
     "You perv!" I said, following him.

     "What? How am I a perv?"

     "The second I leave the house you're scanning the TV looking for something pervy to watch. I know you didn't watch The Wild Wives of Africa by mistake."

     "I'm not a perv and I didn't watch it."

     "No?"

     "No. It was horrible. Not nearly as good as the title. It's about cheetahs who protect their young. And it was on the Animal Planet network." He shuddered. "Not a wild woman in sight."

     I sighed and stomped upstairs.

     This wasn't the first time I had come home to find 'questionable' programming on our TV. Once I returned to see that he had been watching a movie called Passion in the Desert, a movie advertised as as a 'gripping and erotic tale of forbidden love'. I watched the movie for several minutes, confused because there were no women in the movie. Finally, I discovered the object of the protagonist's affection: a large, female lion.

     "Really?" I demanded. "You're watching movies about men who fall in love with lions?"

     "Is that what that was about? I got bored after thirty minutes of watching the guy run around the desert looking for water." I continued to stare at him, dumbfounded. "What can I say?" he added. "The title had promise." He then went on to inform me that Wild Things was a 'cinematic masterpiece' and Bodacious Babes Behind Bars a 'gripping documentary',  and, as luck would have it, both were on tonight.

    "Perhaps I'm being too hard on him," I thought, after several hours of not speaking to him. I mean, it could be worse. I was reminded of a friend whose computer was so infected with viruses after her husband's 'internet activities' that they had to throw the whole computer away and buy a new one. The worst I had ever seen on my own husband's monitor was a bikini clad picture of Pheobe Cates taken in the 1980's. Maybe things weren't so bad.

     Besides," he informed me one evening as we were flipping through channels, "sexy TV can be good for both people in the marriage." He found a channel airing the male gymnasts of the Summer Olympics because he knew I thought they were cute. He then dimmed the lights, lit some candles, and poured me a glass of wine. I almost laughed at the absurdity of what he thought I found sexy, but I shrugged, swilled down the wine, and thought 'what the hell?'


     Maybe I will never understand his desire to watch Wives in Thigh Highs, but I guess I don't need to. It's harmless, and fairly (fairly) innocent. Though I don't mind an occasional Channing Tatum flick, I don't schedule my life around them. I guess men are just more visual.
    
     Who am I to criticize anyway? I have my own version of 'sexy time,' it just happens to be found in the lines of a really good book.

     "What's that?" my husband asks, pointing to my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover.

     "Oh, just a book about the class struggles in England shortly after the first World War."

     "Uh-huh. Whose a perv now?" He pours me wine.

    "It's not perverted if it's a classic," I retort, taking the glass.

     "Exactly!" he replies, joining me on the couch and flipping on the TV. "And good timing on your epiphany. One of greatest classics of all time is about to start: Wild Things Two. We can watch it together and then you can read to me from your book."

     And we did; and a new tradition has been born.

Now That I'm Done with the Second Draft...

     I just finished writing the second draft of my 100,000 word novel. I mean just finished, as in today. The second draft is always harder to write, at least for me, when my creative mind has to take a vacation so that my analytic mind can get to work wringing out the kinks, working through plot holes, and making sure that the happily ever after is not only justified, but earned.

     It was a scary feeling typing out the final words: The End (for the second time) and my fingers hovered above the keys for a minute or two, not quite pushing the buttons. On my first draft those two words are freeing but on my second draft, they are downright frightening. The story line is really finished. Sure I can polish it up, but I will forever after be a visitor to this fictional world, no longer it’s god.

     After writing The End (for the second time) I put my laptop away and vowed not to write anything novel related for an entire week, a mental health holiday so to speak. I got as far as unplugging it before I panicked. An entire week? What was I going to do?

     The cool part of me that used to come out in my pre-novel writing days stepped forward, handing me a whole list of things to occupy my time: TV, video games, shopping, yoga class, or possibly even *gulp* read someone else’s novel. There were other things to do besides writing books, and I actually had the time to do them.

     But deep inside I was terrified. There was a lot of empty space between now and next Monday. The world had moved on while I was writing my book. I wasn’t sure I could catch up.

     I looked out the window. The sun was shining. It was spring. When did that happen?

     I could do this, I thought. There is a world out there and I can live in it again. And when I return I will clean up my prose, send the manuscript to my editor and figure what to do with my life next.
I’m guessing it will involve writing the first draft of another novel. And then the second.

**

(by April Aasheim...originally published at TIE http://networkedblogs.com/JYK0b)