Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

Reusable bags, coupons, and a checklist all ready to go in tax-free New Hampshire leads to a successful trip. The last day of July yields Christmas shopping victories and piles of money saved. Add in fun family members and delicious food? Unforgettable. A perfect way to close out the month. 

Combs and oils for the long black beard  Bushy and unbrushed Gently pull through Gingerly massaging his folicals From cheek roots and chin roots to tip Lovely raven locks of  Beard hair Snarl free and curly Affixing tiny Purple velvet bows At the ends of Two teensy braids Edward Wearing fine things quite well

Lanky person strolling by. Legs that look like Rocket Pops, in long and linen  bellbottoms. Stand out so boldly; bright blue, winter white, and ruby red. Late July  brings sadness  and convention. Terror day by day. There's relief to be distracted by long popsicle pants. Appreciate the unexpected.  Endearing and simple. A quick forget, a short reprise, from chaos and fire.

Please welcome the first-ever guest author to my blog; my godmother, aunt, and friend, Donna Crowe! Donna is a screenwriter and blogger; follow her at;  www.MsToyWhisperer.Wordpress.com & @MsToyWhisperer on Twitter. Orange You Glad You Asked? I didn’t realize I was passionate about fruit until I learned my niece wasn’t. Fruit is naturally packaged and often, ready-to-eat. Just polish an apple to enjoy every snapping juicy bite, peel a banana for an instant breakfast or rinse a few grapes for a polyphenol-rich snack. This oldest niece, Melissa, recently visited one summer night. I offered her some fresh pineapple chunks, leftover from morning breakfast. I learned she didn’t like pineapples - or watermelon. Bananas weren’t a particular favorite either. I was surprised they were all dislikes since she has a healthy diet, appreciates vegan food, and doesn’t eat sweets. Bing! Melissa finally settled in with a few cherries instead. She did also mention her love for peaches. If they are p

I love orange. Orange; cats, candy, and seltzer are my jam. Oh, and add marmalade to that mix. Hand me an appropriately prepared and arranged orange slice on the side of my large platter of scrambled eggs? Fabulous! Just don't let it touch the eggs themselves.  Orange cakes, cookies, funky sneakers, and blush? Hell yeah. Want me to peel an orange? Oh, honey. With all of today's modern conveniences where I can more or less get whatever food I want at any time, why, oh why, would I eat an orange?  Time and patience (and texture) are critical factors in this neurodivergent/autism spectrum persons eating habits. If I have to make my meal or snack, you better believe it's microwave city or whatever can be unwrapped the fastest.  An orange comes in the most frustrating packaging! And why does it have a belly button? Gross! And why is the skin full of divets? And, oh yeah, if you want to save yourself an hour, don't bring up pith.  You've been forewarned, I bring up pith.

I guess I liked fictitious you. Well, I know I did. I loved you even. My college essay, the work that got me accepted to college was about you. Gah, not you, the  character  you played.  I wanted to be you and wear your clothes. I'd have given  anything to be your friend  or sister. Couldn't I  have been the best friend who lived next door on the other side of your grey mansion with the gorgeous, bright red door? I would've been the very best guest and confidant, anything. Your whole world was everything  mine was not.  I wanted your kind father who  never yelled. The uncles who were happy in having their worlds revolve around you. You had all the answers  and were the  perfect daughter, student, sister, friend, role model. You had everything  and more. Seeing you, actual you, is disappointing.  Not for the reasons  people would think. What I can never forgive  and never get over, what I have lost in you, is how you were  the very best  girl, woman, female but now you happi

I've cast the movie version of my novel in my head. I see the sets, the clothes, the director. I see it all so clearly. It feels scary and fun and free and ridiculous and wonderful to dream this dream.

Is how I've felt post 30. I've thrown my back out from sneezing. I had back inflammation so bad I couldn't walk. I got norovirus once, good times. When, occasionally, I don't feel like a fossil, it's a real treat.  At the pool with my nanny kid, a life guard started chatting with us. She asked,  "So what college do you go to?" Score! 

My book took 4 months to write, I 'finished' it last June.  I'm STILL editing it and picking it apart. I'm 17 months in.  After finishing my book I had to learn how and who to query. I spent hours, so many freaking hours, trying to figure out how to query and market. While I was trying to build my website and Twitter. While getting rejected constantly. While having a job and 8 pets. I gave up querying in late winter due to mental health.  By chance/luck/magic/who knows what, I found some people who seem interested. Things are progressing. I am cautiously ecstatic. They are lovely and make me feel seen and I badly, desperately, want to work with them. There are many steps. There are many questions. There is still tweaking and editing to do.  I think and write and hope and yearn and doubt and convince at all hours of the day and night. I want this so badly. I'm willing to do the work. I will make this happen. I will see this through.  ...All the while I have to put on

Scared's like a clock, always ticking  on and on. It doesn't matter what hand; slow like hours,  quicker like minutes, fastest in seconds. Doesn't stop. How it always is, internally and eternal. Tick. Tick tick. Tickticktick. Spiraling storm of hands, loose hands. Watches and grandfathers; tick. Fear. It's always fear, sure as one is after twelve.  Choking, stepping. Beating, tickticktick.

Or maybe more? How do you measure the ticks till your dreams? Maybe dreams.  Anxious, hopeful. Scared, unsure. Begging, pleading, but to whom? Your head, a god? The universe perhaps. Making changes, all day, every day. Casting a fictitious movie. Calming quaking breath. So much in the air, No air in my lungs. What is happening?  Do any of us know? So much that summer can't distract. Shining sun shines on  treading trepidation. But we, but I, can only go on, I suppose. 

I arrived home yesterday, after a very long day, to a massive loaf of homemade zucchini bread hanging from a bag on my front doorknob. It felt very Leave it to Beaver, very adorably old school. Such a sweet gesture from a very lovely neighbor.  It's the little things.

Rhys Darby live in Boston!! Got to see my pirate captain and polite menance tonight! What a fun and funny show. The OFMD was very, very represented. Lots of orange patterned shirts and pirate outfits. Loved it.  The show ended with "you people know that representation matters!" and yes, yes, yes!

It's 1991 and I sit at the absurdly  large computer. Neon, blinding screens and  Oregon Trail. The short, dumpy teacher with a fish-like name yells out, "Do you think you're on vacation!?  SIT UP!" I had dared to not sit properly, undiagnosed ND, ASD, ADHD, anxiety. I sit up straight.  I feel embarrassed and ashamed.  I think of this often, as my five-year-old self  attends a frigid and  lonely school.

I feel like I'm standing in a crowded room and screaming. Screeching in despair. Yelling my rage. It's ignored.  No one looks up. Nightmare of hell. How many times do I need to explode, blatantly stating, It's not, this is not, I'm not, Okay.

They threatened for hundreds of years. They said it would come. Centuries of thinly veiled hate have boiled to the surface. It's here. What now?

The monster separates from its host. We assume the host shall seek the monster again. One cannot survive without the other. Bound in stabbed-out eyes, sick closeness no one knows. The stenches, oh, the smells, assault the nose and breed in walls. Coiled around one another, ah, can you truly leave? Foul, foul. I see. I seethe. Both, no, three? Perhaps a trio. Disgust abounds and perhaps the bed too small. Such a complex, aim low.