NEVER FLICK THE FAMILY JEWELS

I realize I will probably lose all my male followers after they read this post.

DISCLAIMER ALERT FOR MEN: Reading this post may cause feelings of rage, sorrow, and desire for revenge against the writer. Please do not act on any of them.

I’m usually extremely in tune with the penis. We go waaaay back, you see, from the time I was 8, maybe 9, and me and the boy upstairs took nudie pictures of our privates with my Kodak Instamatic camera. The photos were developed, but there was a note attached to the envelope alerting my mother to “inappropriate content.”

Fast forward 35 years and to more penises than I care to recall. I understand that we women need to treat a penis gently. To listen to men describe their pride and joy though, you’d think one needed to treat it like a premature incubated chick, with a temperature-controlled climate and white kid gloves.

I know it hurts when men get hit there. I’ve seen them doubled over in pain. Girls are usually schooled in the art of handling the package, often from a man himself, and it’s a wonder we’re not frightened to go near it. Such importance, power, and domineering characteristics—we react to it like we do to celebrity lifestyles: we ooh and aah over them, but in reality, we have no concept of what it’s like to have one.

My 10 year old son adores his penis, although he doesn’t worship it yet, if you know what I mean. I try not to make his love of nudity a huge issue because I don’t want to give him a complex, but I will tell him to put the little General away when I’m in his room, hanging out. It’s enough that my son’s friends are always hanging out, I don’t need to see his dangling participle hanging, too.

He told me the other day, “My penis hurts.” The first thing that came to mind was to ask him whether it burned when he peed, except he’s too young for gonorrhea. My words in Prissy’s voice (Scarlett O’Hara’s maid), kept ringing in my ears: “I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout little boys’ penises.” I cursed my son’s father for not being around to discuss these boy things.

I asked my son if it hurt on the inside or the outside.

“All over,” he said.

“Okay, well…uh, have you been, er, maybe, aah, um, touching it too much?”

“No.”

“Did you bang it on something?”

“No.”

“Get hit with a ball?”

“No.”

“No one else has been touching it, have they?” I said, starting to panic. He looked at me like I had just asked him if he wanted a side of broccoli with his birthday cake.

“No!”

I had nothing else. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I told him.

Because of my thinking of his penis always in the third person, coupled with his constant waving it around like the American flag, I forget how fragile the wee little thing is. A few weeks later, when my son lost at a card game we were playing, he attacked me and all I saw was his crotch heading for my face. I should mention he wasn’t wearing any pants at the time. Or underwear. (Before anyone decides we must live in a freaky clothing-optional home, please know his entire lower half was covered by a blanket the whole time we were playing cards.)

So my son’s crotch was heading toward my face and I did something I have never done to any man or boy. I flicked it. Yes, I flicked his junk. His tenders. His privates. Flick. I immediately realized what I had done, and we both froze and stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide in horror. Then my son’s lip started to quiver, the tears came, and I felt like the worst mommy on the planet.

How could I have done that? The worst possible thing to do to a male and I had done it to my son. I had caused my son pain and he was crying. I felt worse than pond scum. I hugged him, rocked him, begged his forgiveness. I made sure I stressed how wrong I was to have done that, I had violated the unspoken rule between men and women, and I would never, ever do it again. Pinky swear.

I think I need to lay down some rules in my home. My son needs to have his goods covered at all times. I don’t want to see them, and I sure as hell don’t want them coming anywhere near my face. I don’t think that’s too unreasonable, do you?

HELL IF I KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A MAN

If you’ve read my blog for awhile you know I have to be both mother and father to my 10 year old boy. Often, I have expressed frustration over being at a total loss when it comes to teaching him how to be a man. But there’s no one else around to do the job, so that leaves me. I don’t claim to understand men; if I did, I’d probably be in a healthy relationship right now. Even though I write from my male character’s POV in my romances, who knows whether it’s really accurate? It may be, it may not be—ultimately, it’s a male mindset from a woman’s point of view.

Women are always complaining about how they want their men to be more emotional, more expressive and sensitive. I don’t want that. I’m already that. I sure as hell don’t need two of me blubbering over a romantic comedy. I need a man to be strong mentally, esp. in stressful or dangerous situations, and strong physically, as in they’re able to kick the ass of another man if needed.

I happen to be one of the least warm and fuzzy women on the planet. I don’t like talking about my feelings, and I sure as hell don’t want to discuss my feelings with a man. That’s what I have girlfriends for when I’m so inclined. I don’t need to know how you feel about me or where our relationship (if we have one) is going, because as far as I’m concerned actions speak louder than words. I’ve had boyfriends tell me they loved me while at the same time were screwing other women, so words don’t mean much to me.

Weakness in men makes me emotionally uncomfortable and frustrated. I know that comes across as harsh, but if you have a toothache and you’re writhing about in bed, asking for last rites to be delivered, well, in my eyes, your penis has just gotten smaller by about 3 inches. I’m pretty sure that unapologetic attitude comes from having gone through 16 hours of unanesthetized back labor, getting a cavity filled without Novocaine, and growing up with a mean, nasty father.

How does this all translate to my son? From the time he was little I was the kind of mom who, when he fell down and hurt himself, would coddle him for a few seconds, then send him on his way. (Suck it up, you’re a boy.) I don’t have a hellava lot of sympathy for him when he’s whiny with a head cold, but I’ll happily administer the Motrin and vitamin C. I don’t force him to talk when he doesn’t want to, or demand he give me a proper kiss (he gives me the top of his head to kiss). And from what I’ve seen, most people tend to act the same way with their boys, esp. dads. After all, we gotta teach our boys to be tough, right?

My son is extremely attached to me, definitely a mama’s boy, not real aggressive, slight in body, shy, anxious. These are not traits that bode well for a man, imo. Men should be confident, self-assured, outgoing, bold, shouldn’t they? In the words of my father, my son is “a weenie,” made worse by the fact that I’m a single mom.

I am embarrassed to admit I agreed with my father for a time, if only because I couldn’t get the kid out of my bed until he turned 10. He wasn’t tackling the crap out of others in football, hanging out with a pack of boys on the corner, setting off fireworks, or able to watch scary movies without becoming frightened. How in the world would he ever be able to assimilate into a society where the majority of boys are like this?

I’m reading a book called The Strong Sensitive Boy by Ted Zeff, and I realize now that my son isn’t a weenie, he’s sensitive, and trying to force him to be something he’s not will result in more harm than good. Example: I took my son to see a concert when he was 8. The Black Eyed Peas (who he loved at the time) opened for U2. He wanted to leave after the second U2 song because they were “too loud.” I was so disappointed in him. (It was U2, for God’s sake!) What I didn’t understand at the time was that he’s extremely sensitive to loud noises and I’ll never be able to change that.

It’s a shame that boys growing up in North America have a harder time of it when they’re sensitive, creative introverts—that is, until they grow up to become a famous musician or actor and the world worships them. Telling sensitive boys not to cry or forcing them to do activities they don’t feel comfortable doing will undoubtedly saddle them with huge intensive therapy bills later on in life.

Our western society thinks Bruce Willis in the Die Hard films or James Bond when they think of “real men,” or (shudder) Arnold Schwarzenegger. I don’t know about you, but I think I need to reevaluate my definition of masculinity. After all, I had to reevaluate my definition of a “real dog.” I wanted a Lab—strong, steady, reliable, but the weight limit in our complex dictated we set our sights more on little runt dogs. Well, that and my son insisting on a Chihuahua after seeing the movie, Beverly Hill Chihuahua. While the Chihuahua we ended up getting is certainly a miserable diva to the tenth degree, I’ve learned to be thankful for what we have, even if I have to grit my teeth the entire time

What’s your definition of masculinity? Do you think perceptions of men are changing?

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CATS AND DOGS

I took a social media workshop last week that covered Facebook, Twitter, Triberr, Blogs, and Newsletters. Today, I have a social media hangover. Today, I feel like this:

Today, I’m going to let other talented folks write my post for me. If you haven’t seen the YouTube video entitled “Cat-Friend vs. Dog-Friend,” YOU MUST! It’s by Fat Awesome Films. They’ve made 2 videos, so make sure you watch them both. The first one has had over ten million views. It’s funny, funny stuff.

Here’s one more video you have to see also perfectly illustrating the difference between cats and dogs. It’s taken with a phone, but make sure you stick it out until the very end.

Are you a cat person or a dog person?

THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX

Being the social media slut that I am, I’m on LinkedIn. But if you were to ask me what LinkedIn was, being the woefully inadequate social media slut that I am, I’d tell you to Google it. I do, however, appreciate the writerly discussions on LinkedIn, specifically about marketing, because imo, writers are the most clueless when it comes to marketing their own work.

Example: I manage social media for an insurance company. I can come up with numerous relevant Facebook posts for them like there’s no tomorrow. My own author page however, consists of sporadic postings involving photos of half-naked men, quotes I’ve sucked off of other writers, and inane comments like, “Am eating my son’s gummy bear vitamins to satisfy a desperate sugar craving.”

One author on LinkedIn started this discussion: “There are a gazillion people with books out there. How does one stand out?” Everyone regurgitates the same old crap about how to market one’s book. She wanted to hear original ideas, crazy ideas, ideas that were outside the box.

When I think outside the box on how to market my book, it almost always involves something deviant or sexual—like, Hmm, if I do something to get arrested, I can give a shout-out about my book while being taken away in handcuffs, or Hmm, I can make a sex tape and somehow incorporate the reciting of passages from my book.

Another author on LinkedIn suggested standing on the street while naked between two sandwich boards advertising her book, so I’m not the only twisted one thinking along those lines. The problem is any idea involving sex isn’t all that original. The other folks who responded wrote about the same tried and true tactics we’ve all heard over and over again: hard work, luck, book trailers, door-to-door fliers, signings, writing crappy fan fiction without any knowledge of basic grammar. (Okay, maybe not the last one.)

Think outside the box.

The problem with cats is they think too much inside the box:

They may attempt to venture outside the box:

But mostly they remain inside the box, thinking of ways to kill you in your sleep:

Casting Charlize Theron in Monster was thinking outside the box. Gilbert Gottfried reading Fifty Shades of Grey? Pure fucking gold, as well as also thinking outside the box. James Redfield sold over 80,000 copies of his self-published book, The Celestine Prophecy from the trunk of his Honda. John Grisham who wrote A Time to Kill? He traveled around the South selling that baby from the trunk of his car, too.

This concept of thinking outside the box consumed me all week. I’m an Aquarian. I’m supposed to be unconventional and original. It should come naturally for me to think outside the box.

Sometimes I succeed at thinking outside the box in other areas of my life. Because I can’t afford to go on vacation, I vacation through beer. Sampling beer from different countries allows me to visit places without ever having to be strip searched or robbed by gypsy children. Now when anyone asks me whether I’ve gone away lately, I can tell them Denmark, for example, adding, “And their Doppelbock really knocked me on my ass.” I consider that thinking outside the box.

lottsa beer

Since my first book, The Accidental Cougar is a romance between an older woman (41) and a younger man (25), I’m constantly wondering: Where does my target audience hang out? I’m a middle-aged woman, but the only place I hang out is the grocery store. I don’t really feel like standing outside the supermarket selling my book like the Girl Scouts’ sell their cookies.

So I went onto Facebook and searched “Cougar” sites and found one with thousands of followers. Now granted, most of the followers are probably men trolling for what they hope are horny, touch-starved cougars, but women over the age of 35 are invited to submit their photo for posting on the site. Special preference is given to those wearing this T-shirt:

I don’t know what you’re thinking, but singlewritermom thinks she should pole vault outside that box right onto that FB page. All I would need to do is put on my Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bra, aka Wishful Thinking Bra, aka Fooled You Bra, the Cougar T-shirt, some lipstick, and with a genuine smile, pose with my book. They’ll post it, all the cougar women will see it, buy my book, and I’ll be instantly catapulted to Amazon Bestsellerdom.

OR

I could take Dean Wesley Smith’s advice and stop wasting my time on social media, focusing instead on writing my next book.

What do you think?

IT’S ALL SO DAMN SUBJECTIVE

“SUBJECTIVE” is the word I hear most when discussing the publishing business, and writing in general. At first I really didn’t get what that meant. I figured if I wrote a great book, everyone would like it. (Stop laughing!) Agents always say, “Write the best book you can. If it’s good, it will find a home.” (What they don’t tell you is that home is usually your own. Which is where it stays. Forever.)

Here are some excerpts from various agent form rejection letters we all know and love:

“In my search for clients I wish to represent only the manuscripts with which I feel a real connection. Ultimately—and for purely SUBJECTIVE reasons—this query did not spark that kind of enthusiasm.” (Which we writers interpret to mean, “Your manuscript sucks.”)

“We mold our client list from the many submissions we receive every month, and the process is both SUBJECTIVE and based on the direction of this agency.” (Which we writers interpret to mean, “Your manuscript sucks.”)

“Please keep in mind that mine is a SUBJECTIVE business, and an idea or story one agent does not respond to may well be met with great enthusiasm by another…” (Which we writers interpret to mean, “Your manuscript sucks.”)

Book reviews are also SUBJECTIVE. The most obvious example being the thousands of reviews for Fifty Shades of Grey. The reviews range from “If Heaven exists, it would surely be wallpapered with the pages of this trilogy, so we can all read this masterpiece for eternity,” to “I wouldn’t wipe my dog’s ass with the pages of this crap.”

SUBJECTIVE. SUBJECTIVE. SUBJECTIVE.

What the hell does this word even mean?

Based on (or related to) attitudes, beliefs, or opinions, instead of on verifiable evidence or phenomenon. Contrasts with objective.—BusinessDictionary.com

Proceeding from or taking place in a person’s mind rather than the external world: a subjective decision.
Particular to a given person; personal: subjective experience.–thefreedictionary.com

Based on or influenced by personal feelings, tastes or opinions.—Dictionary.com

Do you see a pattern here? It means what floats one’s boat may not float another’s. What may be one person’s cocaine may be someone else’s bad LSD trip. One person’s kink may be another person’s therapy session.

Personally, I’ve found some of my female friends’ partners revolting. I pretty much think all of my ex-boyfriends’ wives are like, “Ugh.” To each his own, and even more so when it comes to writing.

I bought a book in Target a few months ago by a contemporary romance author I’ve wanted to check out for awhile. She’s been around a long time, has written a gazillion books, has beaucoup fan followers, and is a NYT bestselling author. And yet…

I picked up and put down this book so many times it took me forever to finish it. It wasn’t that this woman wasn’t a good writer; she was. But the heroine bothered me, because she was too adoring of the hero, so she came across (to me) as a sloppy puppy dog. There was too much conversation about feelings and too many internal monologues about feelings, which tend to bore me. I prefer more zingy dialogue. And there just wasn’t enough of a plotline to hold my interest.

But that’s simply my opinion. It wasn’t my cuppa. Hundreds upon hundreds of fans love her books, and loved this one, in particular. Does that mean it sucked because I wasn’t crazy about it? Of course not. It just means it wasn’t my cocaine.

If you were an agent, you’d want to sign someone who wrote a book that was your cocaine. Just like the person you marry should be your cocaine. And your passion should be your cocaine.

The next time you receive a rejection letter or a bad review, or get dumped by your lover, remember that damn word…no, not cocaine…SUBJECTIVE.

CRAPTASTIC TALENT

I discovered this very, very funny site a few weeks ago: http://crappypictures.com. Obviously, anything with “crappy” in the title is going to get my attention, and even more so when it involves crappy things having to do with parenting. Amber Dusick not only details the many hilariously crappy aspects of the whole parenting experience in her posts, she illustrates them with stick figures.

When I first found her, I could only read one of her archive posts a day. She’s almost too funny in that way that makes my head hurt. Whenever I encounter people who are way too talented for their own good, I’m often overcome by a seething jealousy that makes me want to hate that person. It’s easy to do when it’s someone famous like say, Gwyneth Paltrow, who not only can act well, but has a damn good voice to boot. Or Justin Timberlake, who found much success as a singer, and turns out to be not only a great actor, but a freakishly talented funnyman.

What’s up with that? Were they in line more than once when God was handing out talent? Are they luckier than most? Good karma? It’s just not fair that one person should have more than one outstanding talent in life. It’s like winning the lottery twice. There’s no need for it.

Anyway, back to Amber, who mind you, is also young and pretty. I tried to find something to dislike about her, I did. But sadly, I couldn’t. She’s humble, even when she’s promoting her new book—a feat not easy to pull off as all of us on Twitter can attest to. Usually, I can dislike someone based on the fact that they’re just. too. talented. I can’t stand feeling unworthy in the face of another person’s tremendous gifts. But alas, I cannot despise Amber, because she’s just so spot on with her observations and she makes me laugh out loud.

Here’s an example:
http://crappypictures.com/the-uppers-downers-of-parenting-or-coffee-wine/

If you found that funny, we could be friends. If you don’t find Amber funny at all, then you probably shouldn’t be reading my blog. You may be one of the people in an uproar over Amber’s new book. Seems these folks think if you’re not ecstatic, grateful, and Zenlike over every aspect of being a parent, you’re the equivalent of Mama Britney Spears.
http://now.msn.com/amber-dusicks-i-quit-parenting-comics-are-controvesial/

Who hasn’t secretly longed for their single + 1 cat days while waiting out their child’s tantrum?
Who hasn’t wished they could leaf through a magazine while sitting on the toilet without seeing tiny fingers poking under the bathroom door?
Who wishes the word “quickie” was used to describe a cleaning wipe instead of your sex life?

Come on, Society, have a sense of humor! Being a parent sucks. Sure, it’s rewarding and fulfilling at times, but those times aren’t usually acknowledged until your kid graduates with honors from Yale and is going on to medical school. Parenting isn’t fun, (unless endless laundry, homework, and constant defiance happen to be your thing), but to admit that doesn’t mean you love your kid any less (it just means you’re counting the days until they’re out of the house).

My son went to Knott’s Berry Farm yesterday from 8 am to 9 pm. I made love to my peace and quiet like a long-lost lover. But come 6 pm, I missed the little f**ker and I couldn’t wait for him to come home. However, the next morning when he was demanding breakfast and asking me to Google something online before I had even had my first cup of coffee (while mauling the Diva, and causing her to bark nonstop), I kinda wished another trip to Knott’s was on the agenda for him that day.

This was the comment I left regarding that MSN article: “Any parent who doesn’t secretly think any of this stuff or that their kid’s s**t doesn’t stink is either delusional, heavily medicated, or a Stepford.”

HE STILL BELIEVES

photo by Dan4th

 

My son still believes in the Easter bunny. And Santa. And the Tooth Fairy. He’s almost 11, so every year I wonder, will this be the year when all his “role models” will be exposed for who they really are?

He came to me the day before Easter and asked, “Mom, are you the one who hides my eggs?” I asked him what he believed. (Always answer a question with a question when you don’t have a good answer.) He thought about it for a moment. “I still believe in the Easter bunny,” he said.

Which meant I had to once again scurry to hide eggs in the dark that night when I walked the diva Chihuahua. Yes, my life would be easier if I didn’t have to pretend to be these larger-than-life figures. I wouldn’t have to sneak around stealthily hiding eggs and candy, or set my alarm to ensure I don’t fall asleep on Christmas eve before putting presents under the tree (one of my worst nightmares), or hold my breath while I rummage under my son’s pillow for his tiny tooth.

The look of sheer joy and delight on my son’s face when he wakes up to discover these surprises makes all the worry and lost sleep worth it. It’s okay that he woke me up at 6:45 on Easter Sunday and dragged me outside into the cold, damp morning to search for eggs with him. Walking behind him down our backyard path, watching him swing his colorful wicker Easter basket in his footie pajamas made me wish he could stay young and innocent forever.

Of course, after he consumed major amounts of chocolate and jellybeans he was so jacked-up and annoying, I couldn’t wait for his grandma to pick him up and take him away for the day. But during that morning hunt, I had as much fun as he did. I rue the day when he discovers Santa, the TF, and the Easter Bunny are just plain, old Mom.