Green's Hill-Amy Lane's Home - News

Friday, July 31, 2015

So, uhm, that was weird.

Yeah, you may have noticed, I had a tantrum yesterday and the whole world tuned in to watch.

I'm not ashamed of the tantrum per se-- sort of wishing it was better edited, and that I'd invited some beta readers into my venting quite honestly-- but I stand by what I said yesterday: Dismissing romance literature is a convenient way of dismissing women's literature, and, in fact, dismissing all of the ways in which women interact with the world. We're not equals until things that are feminine are not equated with things that are weak, stupid, or inconsequential. The fact that the fine writing in romance literature has been written off by people who enjoy sticking cattle prods up their asses just to feel the clench is a way of making romance readers and writers feel small.  We owe it to ourselves not to put up with that shit-- no matter what the romance sub genre-- because that's dismissing the values and priorities of over half the human race.

It is, in fact, a rather subversive way of allowing the ancient puckered white men to rule us with derision as well as with their draconian misogynistic politics.  If we buy into the idea that romance is bad because it's a woman's priority, we also buy into the idea that women's minds are weaker because they can't write decent literature, and thus they can't make their own decisions, and hey, hello, attacks on Planned Parenthood and women's health are already acrid in the political climate.

Misogyny is in a casual sneer, in the desire to make women hide the things they love, secreting them under dust covers like a dead canary in a tin box.

So, uh, no. Not ashamed of my tantrum--but sort of exhausted like a hiccupy baby and ready to get back to writing.

I'd like to thank you all-- everybody-- who responded in a positive way. I mean, romance writers and readers are incredibly strong people, and I'm not surprised, but your support and kudos were overwhelming.

Thank you.

Wear your covers proudly, folks-- the literature you love is worthy.

And now, back to a SMOKIN' sex scene between two guys who can barely figure out which tab goes into which slot. I love them so.

Romance and Misogyny--Why We Let Ourselves be Shamed

Men read my books.

You heard me. MEN READ MY BOOKS.

"Yes," you might say, "but, you know…"  *whispers*  "they're gay men."

So?  They are men. Some of them are ex-law enforcement, some of them are teachers. Some of them are accountants--but they are men. They enjoy seeing people they can identify with in my stories, and they read them without shame.  To say that gay men reading my books is different than straight men reading my books is to imply that gay men aren't real men and gay people aren't real people, and I think we just fought a bloody civil rights battle to prove that this just ain't fuckin' so.

So, real men read my books.

My books are romance.  Not porn. Not erotica. Romance.

I've written entire articles on why my books aren't porn-- I take exception to that, and not because I frown on porn, (own lots!) but because romance serves an entire other function, and we'll get to that in a moment.  Let's just be clear-- my books are romance, and men read them, and so do women. 

Women are probably 70% of my audience.

They also enjoy seeing people they can identify with in my stories. When Deep of the Sound was released, I got letters from mothers who had to deal with their mentally disabled children, and daughters who watched their parents suffer through Alzheimer's.  I've gotten letters from people who embraced Naef and his deep woundings about his appearance and letters from people who watched Mackey rise from a shitty apartment building and triumphed in ways that they felt all too deeply.

My books are romance books and women and men enjoy them.

I don't write smut, I write character driven stories which also have (often complex)  plots in which the romantic elements are the strongest part of the narrative.  

In some ways I'm lucky.

Maybe it's because I have two men on the cover and men read my books, but I don't have to put up with any of the crap that the M/F romance writers put up with.  Yeah, sure, I lost my job because my DO was made up of homophobic assholes who were so afraid of the gay that they couldn't actually bother to read what they tried to prosecute me for, but, by golly, they took that gay shit seriously, didn't they?

See, when I was just writing "trashy vampire romance" and there was a girl doing most of the narration, that wasn't serious-- that was just, you know, housewife porn. I mean, even I used that term, before I gained a backbone and some self-esteem and started sticking up for the people who read my fiction by sticking up for myself.  But it was laughable, right? I mean the men in my department certainly got a laugh out of it--oh, yeah, I remember that, crystal fucking clear.

So yes-- I have to put up with homophobic bigoted fuckheads doing their homophobic bigoted fuckheaded dumbassery, the kind where they put both thumbs up their sphincters and pretend they don't like that shit, but I knew about that going in. You have to face those morons down or the world won't change, right?

But I had forgotten about the other bigoted fuckheads, the ones I used to put up with in the staff room, the ones who used to seriously make my life hell with their baseless hatred.  I mean, I remember sobbing once, uncontrollably, not able to catch my breath, because I couldn't figure out why they should hate me so badly for having an opinion. I had to leave that job before I realized that yes--it really was because I was female.  I'd managed to consign those bigoted fuckheads to that long ago staffroom, convince myself that they really did just exist right there, in my memories of feeling helpless and angry and sick, right up until the NPR thing happened.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am thrilled to be on that list. I mean, it almost made up for not getting the RITA, because, I mean… *flails*  Have you SEEN that list?

Look at those names?  Look at them!

Those are some awesome kickass writers there, and some awesome kickass women.

And then, down in the comments, there is some awesome, terrifying ignorance about who writes romance and who reads romance, and I have to tell you, I get that same helpless sick rage reading those comments that I felt walking into my staff room when my department head was doing a satiric reading of Wounded in front of twenty people, while the teacher's wife who brought the book sat, tearful and embarrassed, and begging me to forgive her for even bringing the book to show me that she'd read it.

Yes, those men think romance is ridiculous. They think it's sad, for fat housewives, and that if they had intelligence at all these women would read real literature, and wasn't it just like a woman to think books like this were important enough to make a list about when really, we all know why women read romance, it's so they can get off, and Jesus, why should a woman be proud of that.

Immature, emotionally stunted, limp-dicked fuckers.

And also terribly undereducated about the nature of romance.

I mean, hello-- taught English Lit here. Remember? King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table? Gawain and the Green Knight? Pride and Prejudice, Romeo and Juliet, The Importance of Being Ernest, The Scarlet Letter, The Tempest, The Great Gatsby, Farewell to Arms and holy shit do I really need to go on?

Yes, those books are considered romances.  Well, sometimes they weren't successful romances, but still-- they were genre fiction when they were written.  When Eleanor of Aquitane brought that shit over from France, it was a big furry deal, right? Suddenly Kings weren't just interested in being kings, they also had friends and lovers and flaws and goals and such, right?  I've said multiple times that the thing that differentiated romantic literature from epic literature was the addition of a personal agenda to the hero's repertoire. He went from being "A Hero" with no other personality to "A Hero" and "A Husband" and "A Friend", etc.  As our society got more complex, the romantic hero got more complex, and as our genres got more specialized, well, we started to phase that sad ending right the hell out, but let's not fool ourselves.  Any of those stories in which someone with social heft tried to have a personal life while wielding said heft is a romance.

The genre today has a few more rules to it-- a happy ever after being one--but that doesn't change the fact that a hero and a heroine trying to live an important life and forge a relationship in a chaotic rule is the heart of the story.  And it's a really fucking important heart!  If we're not reading romance, what are we reading? Murder mystery?  Okay then-- who are our victims?  ARen't they people trying to live that core of happiness that you find in a romance novel?  Are we reading fantasy?  Well, without the sexual element, a whole lot of fantasy revolves around the happiness of the people in power, and yes, my friends, that's romance. Are we reading epic science fiction?  Oh, yes, well, then we are reading on a scope too large to give a shit about the tiny little people copulating in the middle of that planet about to be destroyed, except, hey! Wait a minute! Aren't those people the core of the tragedy, even times a billion?  Are we reading political intrigue, upon which the fate of millions of people depends on the love and political maneuverings of fallible human beings?

Are we reading "literary fiction" in which sex and romance play an important part, but hey, we fuck up the ending so we don't have to get grouped into the hated "romance genre"?  And seriously, who are we kidding when we do that? I've written several books with a less than ideal ending, and I'll fight to the death for the right to call those books romance.  Just because the person dies at the end doesn't mean that his romantic adventures, his personal growth, his impact upon the people he loved has no meaning. In fact, a meaningful emotional life is the hallmark of romance. Romance says, "Yes, love is important! Whether it's one love of a million lovers, the love of kings or the love of the peasants that the kings destroy, these emotional dramas matter.  OUR EMOTIONAL DRAMAS MATTER!"

But nobody says that.

Women apologize for reading it.  "Heh heh… just a guilty pleasure.  Uh-huh. You know. Escapism, that's all."

They hide the covers. "You know, so embarrassing, to have human beings looking beautiful and occupied doing something sexual and healthy and hopefully happy. I mean, if there was blood or missing limbs that would be one thing, but no, can't celebrate happy couples in public, that implies I'm weak in the head."

Men sneer at it.  "Housewife porn, heh heh heh, let the little women read it, gets 'em all revved up for us, right?"

Romance is 20% of the publishing industry-- more if you count things like, hey, romantic fantasy and romantic suspense and detective fiction with a romantic subplot.  It is written primarily by women, and the companies that publish it are run primarily by women.  Not entirely-- there are real men out there who are not ashamed, but yes. There are smart, business savvy women out there who love this genre and make a living writing and editing and publishing and promoting it.

We need to stand up for it.

Yeah, sure, I write gay romance, and gay men are my readers and I treasure the holy hell out of them--and they, in turn, stand up for the women who read this genre too.

But het romance was here first, and there are writers out there of poetry and power who celebrate the individual love story with all of the formidable talent and mastery of the language at their disposal.  I remember those sick, hurt, angry moments in my staff room, and wonder if my self-concept would be bigger, or better, if at any time I'd said, "Look, you ignorant bastards, I am writing in a genre that has its roots in every story we teach. Your mockery is no different than the kids' complaint that 'It's too hard to read! It doesn't pertain to me!'-- the fact is, the kids are reluctant to put their minds to anything more involved than comic books because language is not accessible, and you are reluctant to to wrap your teeny tiny pea brains around a world view that doesn't have a penis."

I mean, I remember trying to point that out.

I remember getting laughed down.

Well, my staff room was mostly men--and not all of them were admirable men, and I was one of the few women who hadn't gone running for the other high school just as soon as the spot opened up because I wanted to prove that I was tougher than they were.

I was only one voice in that room.

But I'm not only one voice in this. 20% of the publishing industry-- we have louder, stronger voices together than I did alone.  We need to stand up for one another. Romance writers--male and female-- are poets and visionaries who believe that the human heart is a thing of complexity and beauty.

The people who try to shame us about that need to look at their own hearts, and see why they would hate a thing that celebrates the individual with such passion.

Is it because it's mostly women doing the celebrating?

Hah! These people claim to be smart-- they claim to be intellectuals.

The truth here-- the plain truth-- is that they have never learned to read.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Bitter Taffy

First of all-- I'm back! Yay! Got McDonalds for the kids this morning and took the dogs-- huzzah!!!  Also, for those of you who know about the little gold-wrapped chocolate RITA statuettes, I have a confession to make. I stole some of the leftover ones at my table and fed them to my kids. Zoomboy was excited-- he got to eat the head. Squish got to eat the boobs and the book (her words!), and Chicken ate the pedestal. Big T was not sure what the big deal was about--by the time I got the point of "chocolate Oscar" across, the RITAs were history. Well, you know, you take too long to catch the irony train, you're going to miss the party at the station.

Anyway-- second of all-- I was going to wake up and celebrate Bitter Taffy first thing, but then I found out about THIS, and had to celebrate that FIRST. It's not everyday you make NPR's list of top 100 romances, and that's the truth!  *does happy dance*  I'm there with some amazing people-- and I'm helping to rep my genre, and I'm just so damned thrilled.

So there's that!

But now I can celebrate Bitter Taffy-- and YES there is some celebration!

Bitter Taffy is the sequel to Candy Man-- it's Rico's story, and yes, it is solid gold happy!

I haven't done my post on yellow yet-- but it's coming.

Most of you have figured out that yellow is my happy-- my playful, my fluff.

That doesn't mean I don't have some serious stuff here-- Rico got his heart broken, and his family situation isn't perfect, and he's making a new life for himself--but it means that, unlike my orange, you're never going to doubt, not really, that there's happy at the end of this rainbow.

And they're going to enjoy the happy slide down all the madness into the giant pool of fluffy joy at the bottom.

I mean yes-- I do like tackling the weighty stuff. You've seen it. But ye gods, do I love to laugh. I think mankind is a quirky, ridiculous, awesome, kind, amazing animal, and I love looking at that too.

So enjoy my happy yellow-- my Amy Lane Lite.  Enjoy Bitter Taffy, and the sequel, Lollipop.  Sometimes reading is meant to take us away-- I know I'm happy writing these, and I hope you're taken away to some happy when you read!

Bitter Taffy

Rico Gonzalves-Macias didn't expect to fall in love during his internship in New York—and he didn’t expect the boss’s son to out them both and get him fired either. When he returns to Sacramento stunned and heartbroken, he finds his cousin, Adam, and Adam's boyfriend, Finn, haven't just been house-sitting—they've made his once sterile apartment into a home.

When Adam gets him a job interview with the adorable, magnetic, practically perfect Derek Huston, Rico feels especially out of his depth. Derek makes it no secret that he wants Rico, but Rico is just starting to figure out that he’s a beginner at the really important stuff and doesn’t want to jump into anything with both feet. 

Derek is a both-feet kind of guy. But he’s also made mistakes of his own and doesn’t want to pressure Rico into anything. Together they work to find a compromise between instant attraction and long-lasting love, and while they’re working, Rico gets a primer in why family isn’t always a bad idea. He needs to believe Derek can be his family before Derek’s formidable patience runs out—because even a practically perfect boyfriend is capable of being hurt.

Buy at Amazon

Buy at ARe

Buy at DSP

Monday, July 27, 2015

Homeward Bound!

So, tomorrow is a travel day, and you won't hear much from me.

Today was a series of quick errands--starting with Grand Central Station to fix Mate's phone-- and after that, some walking around, some failed stores, and some good conversation with Damon.

And some takeout in the hotel, and some television, and some sleeping.

And some of both of us looking at each other over meals, and saying, "You know what? We miss the kids. We miss the stupid dogs. We miss our jobs and we miss home."

Lucky me, I get to go back tomorrow, but Mate is going to visit family and then coming back on Thursday.

I'm so glad for him-- usually when I come home, he's there waiting for me.  This time, I get to wait for him.

And then we'll both be back home.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

Wait… I didn't win?

No-- no I didn't.

And in spite of my daughter's attempts to cheer me up with Leonardio diCaprio .gifs -- I'm fine.  (The Leo diCaprio thing was hilarious by the way.)

Seriously-- when Damon Suede heard who won, he was like, "Oh, honey-- I had no idea that's who you were up against."  Tessa Dare won-- the incomparable Tessa Dare--and if she hadn't won, well, Elizabeth Hoyt was right after her.

Yeah, folks-- I was playing with giants. I'm pleased to have not been squashed like Bambi.

And since I wasn't basing my entire notion of self-worth on the award (but I admit the nomination did give that a bit of a bump!) I could enjoy the fineness of the night.

Sarah, my editor, looks astounding, and my Mate and I look pretty good--and he was there, by my side the entire time.

I mean… my Mate was there the entire time.

Don't I write love stories? Isn't the purpose of love stories to show that two people in love are worth any number of worldly recognition?

It is to me.

Today, Mate and I went to see the Statue of Liberty and then to see a play. (Hand of  God-- hilarious and terrible and painful and thought provoking.)

I was a little tired and a little quiet, because hey, it was a big week!  But I was with my Mate, and we were having a good time.

And I am still in love.  And I'm pretty sure he is too.  And one successful love story trumps a minor loss of worldly recognition.

It's been a wonderful trip.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Such Great Heights...

The reception was held on
the 43rd floor. This is me,
looking from such great heights.
The thing about the nomination that I did not expect, was that it really was like winning the statue.

I honestly don't expect to hear my name called tomorrow.

I stood in a room today of amazing, beautiful, some shy, some self-assured, brilliant, practical, dreamy women, and had an enormous epiphany of "I'm not worthy."

Or maybe it was more, "Oh dear heavens, they are ALL worthy!"

Or maybe it was, "I'm a teeny little star in the sky-- but look! I'm a twinkling damned star!"

Heidi Cullinan, Lynda Aicher and I--the three M/M writers
who were nominated in different categories for the RITA.
Our grand "cabal of 3" as Heidi called it :-)
I don't know. I know a lot of people have congratulated me in the last three days, and every time they do, I feel like there's someone else behind me.

I also know that I got to congratulate Sonali Dev today, who wrote A Bollywood Affair, and I told her that when I taught high school many of my East Indian students would say, "But there's nothing in the library for me."  Even though I no longer taught school, I was so glad there was something in the library for them, something award winning and happy.

Mate and I went out to dinner after the reception.
He loves this place: "Great food, good music, and
they're playing Cartoon Network in the background."
I love Mate.
Tonight, I was walking through lobby-con, and I saw Sonali again-- I had Mate by my side, and I introduced him, and she glowed at me. "My husband is coming tomorrow, and my best friend flew down from Chicago tonight. Isn't that insane?  I have already won!"

And right there I found my RITA equilibrium.

My best friend may be here for me in spirit, but my Mate is here, and I have people in my corner. Just like Sonali, I have already won.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Mate takes Manhattan

Okay-- I saw great things today, and talked to great people as always, but, as you have all probably noticed, my heart lies with my family, and my Mate.

So, Mate flew in to see me wear the pretty dress (which he brought!) and to sit with me at the RITA's, and you know what? Everybody who met him thought he was the world's best spouse. I could have told them that, but something about having him show up and hang out in the Marriott overlooking Times Square did all my talking for me.

So he arrived, Rayna and I took him across the street to Junior's, and then I took him on a walk. We saw Times Square proper, Broadway, and Rockefeller Center--and he was charmed.

Tired, but charmed.

So yes-- writing business was done and great conversations were had-- but I'm going to leave you with Mate.

Best. Mate. Ever.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

NY 1

(Thanks Rayna!)
So, I got in yesterday, and it's funny-- I assumed I'd be getting in around one and then I'd have the rest of the day. Sure I'd be tired, yeah, but so? I've been tired before.

A. My red-eye flight was NOT non-stop, so, for the record, waking up at 3 am my time to change planes was THE. WORST.

B. My stomach was all messed up-- I did not eat during the layover, and I did not eat when I got off the plane.

C. Which meant that, when the shuttle took 3 1/2 hours to get me from the airport to Times Square, by the time I got here, I hadn't eaten in 17 hours.

I was chalk white, near tears, and loopy as a fuckin' goose.

Lovely Poppy
Poppy, bless her (and looking gorgeous today in her signature colors! <3 and="" arrived="" at="" by="" check="" concierge="" could="" done="" eat.="" elisabeth="" ever="" face="" food="" for="" gracious="" had="" i="" in.="" in="" look="" me="" meet="" my="" one="" p="" park="" poppy="" roommate="" she="" staab="" stuff="" the="" time="" to="" took="" waiting="" was="" we="">
Small breakfast!
I've got to tell you, we went downstairs for a bit-- I honestly can't remember why-- and when we came back up it was 8 p.m..

And I was so tired from the flight and the blood sugar crash that I went to bed and slept until six in the morning.  Yeah, I woke up to text people-- including Mate to say I couldn't talk--but I was just wrecked. Between the flight and the blood sugar, I flat out couldn't deal, and fighting sleep was not gonna be a thing.

Rayna & Elisabeth
But that was okay-- I woke up this morning, bright and chipper, and Elizabeth, Rayna and I made plans to go see the memorial. It was a lovely day for it, not too hot, and by the time we'd finished talking about our 9/11 memories, we weren't up to the museum.  We went to find a bathroom and a cold drink instead, and ended up in Barnes & Nobles, where Elisabeth and I made a fatal mistake:
Pretty, solemn day

We snacked.

As in, we ate a small item, not quite a meal, and decided to eat later.

Not reckoning on the book signing that started at 5:30.  (The book signing was exciting btw-- I got a RITA Flag-- and Rayna made me a meme!)

So, we were okay going IN to the book signing, but by the time we got OUT, we were starving.

(Kate and Heidi
Which is how we ended up at Junior's, with Kate MacMurray and Rayna Vause, and huge appetites.
Thanks, Volunteer

And afterwards, we went to hang at the bar ;-)

So, good couple of days-- tomorrow, I go to some classes, talk to some folks, and hopefully have a really good time.

I know that today was pretty damned awesome.

Monday, July 20, 2015

I'll take blind panic for $500...

Okay, so a month ago, I picked out my dress for the RITA ceremony online.

It took me weeks. 

I mean weeks. I was trying to match my editor's dress (which is stunning, because she is stunning) and trying to pick something that didn't make me too… uhm… large.

And I thought I found a dress.

It wasn't going to arrive for a month-- but I could deal with that-- it would arrive the week before I left, and I'd be good.

As you could probably guess by my last post, not only did it not arrive, but thank you, PayPal, the order was CANCELLED, and I was fucked. 

I know that the last time I went to the national RWA conference, I was, well, a little intimidated by how well, uh, everybody dressed.  Yes, I said it. I felt like a big, tank-wearing, capri-sporting slob. So, yesterday, as I hauled my family through the 102 degree heat, I had a revelation. Btw--don't ask how we all ended up going-- I think it had to do with the Minion movie and trying to catch the early show, and somehow there came a point where Mate and I both screamed FOOD in tandem, and well, five different stores for me and a new pair of shoes for Mate and kids who were SO ready to be bribed with fro-yo, and that's all she wrote.

But back to my revelation.

Yes, I was freaked out by omg wtf am I going to wear, and holy HELL how did I get all these clothes and not know if I could wear them or not, and JESUS do I even look good in them?  Also-- the purple paisley thing from two RT's ago seems to have dropped off the fucking continental divide. I'm not even sure if it looked as good as I thought it did, but I have to admit: I miss it. There, I said it. I miss that fucking dress/tunic, even if it's just to say, "No, you body-odor-sucking polyester nightmare, I have moved beyond you now so piss off!"

And… the revelation.

I'm not just freaked out by going back to RT as the tank-top wearing, capri-pants sporting, M/M chip-on-my-shoulder nightmare that I'm sure I was two years ago.

I'm freaked out because one of the things that I almost lost (but didn't-- thank you Mate!) was a little teeny pewter pin, that's just so lovely I can almost cry.  It's my RITA pin, and it goes on my lanyard, and it says to everybody, "See this person you've never heard of, with the book that would get run over by a tractor trailer in most book pitches and then killed with fire?  She's a RITA nominee!"

Oh, holy God.

I'm going to be a princess.

Now see, I've spent my entire adult life absolutely sure that I did not get to be the princess. I mean, I never even imagined being the runner up princess. I was always the servant girl who helped the princess get her shoes and her prince and got to celebrate in the riches of the kingdom.

Being prepared to be the servant girl, I have to admit:  I don't have the shoes to be the princess.

There, I've said it. There is no dress I can wear, no shoes I can buy, no hair product I can invest in that will make me live up to being the princess.  Since Mum first put cloth diapers on my bum, I have been knocking shit over with my ass and then doing the touch-your-toes-look-at-my-keester stretch to pick them up.

I have no finesse, no party wit, and no elegance, grace or style.

And unless the expedited shipping that I paid an embarrassing amount of money for pans out, I'm going to have a dress I've already worn, and have already packed again because I am taking no chances.

So, you'd think I'd still be in a blind panic, right?  Because my dress is arriving tomorrow and I'm getting on a plane at 12:05 am?

But something happened yesterday as I nearly came unglued.  (Mate kept asking if I cried on all the sales clerks in the Sacramento area as they told me that no large-sized fashion stores in the area  carried evening wear in July, and I had to admit that yes, yes I had. And one woman offered me a summer dress with a cardigan, and I, who once wore a muumuu as evening wear because it was all I had, almost ripped her face off.)

I made that revelation, had that epiphany that no dress/make-up/hair-dye whatever was going to make me any different than the woman who types stories in her disastrous kitchen with dogs jumping on her knees, and calmed the fuck down.

Of course, a lovely text convo with first Mary and then Damon helped me pull my shit back in a sack, but in order to calm down enough to even ask them how to calm down, I had to remember something really important.

And I can't remember what it was now, because yes.

I'm still in a blind panic.

Oh, wait!

Yes. My kids thought that pin was damned cute-- they did. But they didn't think it made me any less liable for dinner, or any less horrible for making them stay home from San Diego while they were forced to babysit, or any less of a deserter for leaving them for a week.

I can do my best professionally and personally, but every princess is still the serving girl in the kitchen the next morning.

It's what princesses do best.

Friday, July 17, 2015

Good News/Bad News

Squish and I show off our pretty nails.
Good News: I have my confidence building mani/pedi accomplished!

Bad News: In a confidence destroying move by fate, my dress will not be delivered in time, and I need to go shopping tomorrow.

Good News: The kids and I had a big day today, filled with swimming, mani/pedis, purchasing of hair dye, and a little surreptitious yarn purchasing.

Bad News: I tired myself out-- and I'm already late on a deadline.

Good News: I managed to put off getting a pedicure for my son by asking him if he was ready to have pink toenails.

Bad News: He figured out that there were OTHER colors we can paint his toes, and I think I don't get off the hook next time.  Poor pedicurist.  He's got big, bony feet, too.

Good News:  It's been 100 degrees here, and not above.

Bad News: I think our outside refrigerator is broken. Crap.

Good News: We bought a tiny pool for our small dogs!

Bad News: They think we bought it to torture them.

Good News: I did laundry today.

Bad News: I should have done way the hell more.

Good News: Knitting was accomplished.

Bad News: Still haven't used up the yarn!

Good News: I leave for New York in three days!

Bad News: I leave for New York in three days!

Aw, fuck it-- I can't weigh it all on scales. I'm gonna do some laundry, do some shopping, take kids to see Minions and hope for the best.

Then I'll panic. Cause, you know. Three goddamned days.