Of course, being sick has its disadvantages. The first disadvantage is that, well, you feel sick with a whole mix of miserable, awful, weak, achy, coughing, hacking, chilly, feverish, nausea sprinkled right on top. Yeah, being sick, really blows.

But, there some advantages as well.  My most favorite advantage—naps. Lots of naps. You can never underestimate the value of a sweet, mid-day nap. Now, when you’re not sick and decide to lay down and take a little nap, people tend to question it. You’re just being lazy. Children feel it is their duty to be loud and obnoxious, “Mom, mom, mommy, mom,” (See the Stewie Clip below. One of my favorites). But when you’re sick—real sick with proof (gotta have proof, like vomit or a high fever)—people say things such as, “Go lay down. Just rest” and kids tend to be miraculously quiet, tip-toeing around the house because they sense the seriousness of the situation. Such bliss—if only I was well enough to completely enjoy it.

Another advantage of being sick, you get to sit in bed all day with your laptop and no one, not even your spouse, questions the amount of hours you spend on Twitter and reading blogs. It’s like being handed a free pass. It’s awesome. No one says, “Isn’t there something else you could be doing right now? Like laundry or something?” Because, no. No there isn’t. You’re sick. This is all you can do and nothing more.

Lastly, no one expects me to write an intelligent blog post. I’m sick. It’s a given that my blog post will be full of weirdness and ramblings. I’m on drugs. Lots of drugs. So it will be what it will be, no pressure to impress or say something of meaning. I’m sick. Again, another free pass. I could start spouting political mumbo jumbo, or I could post a clip from The Sound of Music and no one would think it weird, because I’m sick. It would sort of be expected.

I promise will write something more fascinating and useful on Wednesday. Unless, of course, I’m still sick. And if so, I’ll just put up a cartoon or something.

Now, I’m off to take my uninterrupted nap and sip some cider for my sore throat. Then I will wake up and watch the first season of Alias, because 1) I’ve never seen it before and 2) because I’m sick and so I can.

I am participating in the “Nifty Fifty Blogfest” held by Tizzy Potts  in celebration of reaching the fifty followers milestone (Yay, Tizzy!). She’s actually closer to 100 followers now, which is outstanding—cute girl, cute blog, what’s not to like? (Go check it out).  

As part of the contest, I have to write a blog post based on the theme FIFTY.  And as you all know by now, I’m a sucker for a good blogfest. It’s an addiction and I just can’t help myself.

I could write a poem, if I wanna. But I don’t. My poetry skills are sufficiently lacking (check out my Join Site poem over there----> ). I could write a short scene, if I wanna. But I don’t. I’m far too winded for such a task. I could write about a fiftieth birthday or anniversary or about 50 people kind of thing or about my 50 favorite things. But instead I chose to allow to go the way of YouTube and see what interesting things I could find.

Enjoy.

My nine-year-old son for his last birthday received an onslaught of Nerf weapons—all sizes, all shapes.

He hardly plays with them.  His birthday, just as a note, was last October. They normally just gather dust.

But as I sat at my trusty pink laptop last night, scanning Twitter and searching blogs (because that’s what I do instead of write novels now days), he decided to pull out the Nerf guns and spongy darts. Then he decided to involve his younger sister in a game called, “You’re a zombie/ No I’m not.”

It kind of went something like this:

The boy: “You’re a zombie.”

The girl: “No I’m not.”

The boy: “Come on, please. Just chase me around and try to bite me.”

The girl: “I’m not playing”

The boy: “I’m still going to shoot you, so just do it.”

The girl: “Why do I have to be the zombie?”

The boy: “Because I have the guns and you don’t.”

Girl moans her frustration (much like a zombie, hmmm). “Can I really bite you?” (This is the part in which a good parent, an observant parent, would have stepped in and put an end to the game. Sadly, I’m not a good parent. I’m just so-so).

I didn’t hear too much more conversation going on as the game got under way. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, running around, up and down the stairs, the dog chasing after them while Nerf darts littered the house. They seemed to be having a good time. A real good time.

That should have been a clue right there as well. (Again, a more observant parent should have raised a brow. These two children don’t tend to play well with one another. Not for long anyway.)

Next thing I know . . .

The scream.

“She bit me! Mommmmmm, SHE BIT ME!”

Yep, the girl sunk her teeth into the boy. Now, playing the devil’s advocate here, I did hear the boy say, “Chase me and bite me.” (See above transcript of thus said game).  So in her defense, he was kind of asking for it.

Me: “You shouldn’t have bit your brother.”

The girl: “But I’m a zombie. Zombie’s bite.”

Me: “I know. But you’re not really a zombie and so you should’ve just pretended to bite. Like this,” (I go on to demonstrate how a fake bite should be by fake biting her arm).  

The girl: “Then I don’t want to play.”

She’s a stubborn lass. She really is. But I get her point. She has two older brothers who terrorize her on a daily basis. I had a brother (have, he’s still around) growing up and given a free pass to bite him, I probably would’ve. I would’ve sunk my teeth into him and made him cry and beg for mercy (You don’t know my brother. Don’t judge me).

But now was the time for me to step up and be “Super Mom” and instill some kind of moral-like wisdom and advice on my dear daughter. “Don’t bite your brother,” I said.

The girl: “Why?”

Me: “Because I said so.” Sorry, that’s all I had. Moral-like wisdom is not my strength.

Off she went, the problem solved. (Just to clarify, the boy sustained no visible injuries. Lots of salvia, but no blood or teeth marks).

A while later, these little zombie hunters of mine came creeping into my room, Nerf guns tucked into elastic waist bands of their pants, a clear see-through rifle shoved down the back of my son’s shirt, both of their hands clutching mini Nerf pistols, and proceeded to pelt me with sponge bullets. They had reconciled their differences and found a new target—me.

“Get her!” The boy yelled. “Get the zombie queen!”

A queen? I could get used to that—even if it is queen of the zombies. (Dang! That would be an awesome Twitter name @zombiequeen . . . Dang! Just checked. It’s taken. I’m gonna go follow that person).

So I played my part and chased after them. They jumped on the sofa and called it their “free zone” to which I replied, “There is no free zone. Zombies don’t know what that means.”

They squealed in delight as I blew raspberries on their necks and bellies and tickled them all over.

A fun, yet disturbing kind of game, right? I know what you’re thinking. I do.

Here’s the thing—I’m writing a zombie western romance. All three of my kids know that.  Do I read it to them? No. Do they watch zombie movies? Heavens no. Do they know about zombies? Apparently, a little too much.

But it isn’t all my fault, folks. Scooby-Doo has them. Even Barbie (YES, Barbie) has them. Zombies are everywhere.

Was this my best mothering moment? Probably not. But I can tell you, playing a pretend zombie game with my children probably won’t be the worst thing I do to them either. I’m a so-so kind a mom, so I’m sure I’ll screw them up in a completely different way.

I told a lie. I did. But I was told to, if that makes it any better.  It was all a part of the Crusader Challenge #1
(see post on 2/18/2011).

THE TRUTHS:

-Scratch until I bleed: Truth

-Talk in my sleep: Truth

-Walk in my sleep: Truth

-Dressed up as Bugs Bunny: Truth

-Friend named Amy dressed as an angel: Truth

-Father collects ducks/birds: Truth. He has several wooden ducks on display. Various sizes.

-Mother does collect thimbles and blown glass: Truth

-Peanut butter and mustard sandwiches: Truth (Weird I know, but I prefer the mustard to jelly).

-Snorkel in Hawaii: Truth (I’m going back this April. Can’t wait)

THE LIE:

I do NOT collect vintage purses or costume jewelry. I do own some, what I inherited from my grandmother when she passed, but otherwise I’m not a collector—just sentimental. The one thing that makes me less weird is actually the lie. How about that? Good guesses everybody. Well done.

Now on to Stephen King, the really good stuff.

“I believe the first draft of a book — even a long one — should take no more than three months…Any longer and — for me, at least — the story begins to take on an odd foreign feel, like a dispatch from the Romanian Department of Public Affairs, or something broadcast on high-band shortwave during a period of severe sunspot activity.” –Excerpt from On Writing, by Stephen King

I tend to agree. The first draft shouldn’t take more than a few months to write. That’s good solid advice there. But (tossing out a big BUT here), sometimes it does take longer. Why?

This is my problem: I can start a novel fine enough. I don’t tend to have too much trouble finding my beginning point. I can even build the story to the climax portion of my novel (near 50-60K), tossing in twists and turns here and there. No problem.

It’s the gosh darn ending that kills me every time. It’s all the wrapping it up, tying the loose ends together, and filling in the plot holes that just about makes me pull my hair out. I’m horrible at endings. I think they tend to sound corny and contrived. I hate that.

So I started my last WIP (The zombie western romance—not in that order. No one wants to be romantic with a zombie. That's weird.) this past November during the National Novel Writing Month and got heck of a start going. I now sit at 77K and all that’s left to do is wrap it up and finish the sucker.

But I can’t. I worry the ending I have thought out in my head (I’m not a plotter) isn’t good enough. So I stall. I’m at the end of my fourth month, and by Stephen King’s rules, I should have been done with my first draft by now. I actually should’ve been done last month. But I’m not. I’m also starting to feel a disconnect with my characters, a “something broadcast on high-band shortwave during a period of severe sunspot activity”.

I get it. I do. I screwed up.

Now I’m blogging instead of writing and the divide between me and my characters is becoming larger and larger with each passing day.

Realistically, is writing a first draft in three months doable? Well, I checked out a website with a post called: How long should it take to write a novel? By Scott Marlowe and the graph/figure he uses to break down the process is excellent. For instance, if you wrote one word every single day it would take you exactly 273.97 years to complete your novel. Now that’s just crazy. No one would do that—you would die before you completed it. But now let’s take a look at something realistic. What would you think of writing 1,000 words a day? That’s not too bad, right? That’s doable. So how long would it take then? Just a little over three months. Three months! Just like Stephen King said. Man, that guy’s smart.

So why does it take some of us years then to finish the first draft of a novel?  Mr. Marlowe suggests several things ranging from procrastination, to life getting in the way, sometimes we write ourselves into dead ends, or we starting the editing process while in the midst of writing. I want to toss out an excuse myself—fear. Fear of writing it wrong. I have Plan A for an ending. If it doesn’t work, if my Ideal Reader, Diana, says it’s horrible, I have no Plan B. Na-da.

So tonight, after my kiddos are tucked into bed, sleeping peacefully, I’m going to write about zombies. I’m going to fight through the fear and try and kick out this next chapter by the end of this week (I only have two chapters left). That is my goal. That is my plan. I'm going to fill that red bar up there at the top.

Or maybe I'll just go to bed. Who knows? I'm awful. Just plain awful. I know.

So how about you? How long does it take you to write you your first draft?

“So Angela,” you ask. “What have you been writing lately?”

I swallow hard. “Blogs. Just blogs.”

“What have you been reading? Any good books to recommend?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. No books. But I can point you in the direction of some really good blogs to read. What do you wanna know? Need to learn grammar? I’ve got a blog for that. Need to learn how to make a spud gun? I’ve got a blog for that. Need to laugh until you pee? I’ve got a blog for that too.”

Yep. It’s all about the blogging right now. Writing them. Reading them. I’m completely consumed. Obsessive really. I’ve become a stalker. It’s super sad.

“Oh, I think I left a comment yesterday on her/his blog. But their post today is really good. I’ll just wait and come back tomorrow. I don’t want them to think I’m weird or anything. Because I’m not. I’m totally not weird. I’ll just space out my comments. Every other day. Yeah. That’s good.”

I think it’s because I’ve finally figured out how this blogging thing works. I mean, I’ve been blogging for a little over a year now with a scattering of followers, writing whatever I felt in the mood to write. Super casual about the whole thing. A tra-la-la kind of attitude.  I didn’t even know how Twitter worked (still figuring out all the #, @ lingo <--that looks like I'm swearing but I'm not. Those are real signs people use, though I have no idea why). Really, it wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that I figured out how to place a followers/join site button on my blog.  Didn’t have one. Had no idea who was reading, if anyone was reading at all. I was completely blasé about the whole thing. I called it my “journal”.

And then BAM!

The Rach Writes Crusade.

Holy Monoly! Did you know there’s a whole writer/blogger community out there? Like kazillions of awesome fiction writers with blogs who write super cool stuff? People who know EVERYTHING?

My eyes were opened like a little girl given a brand new pony, or a child in a candy shop, or a writer told to go on a writers retreat. It was that fantastical.

I’m hooked. I’ve even (per Rachel) organized the blogs I follow in my Google Reader into folders. Yes folders. (Even as I write Google Reader, I want to go check my Google Reader to make sure I haven’t missed a thing. Who updated? I need to know. I like saying Google Reader).

It’s CRAZY! Super insane. I get that.

Yet, super fun too.

Thus the battle continues. 

So if you’re looking for a crazy writing chick to come stalk your blog and leave incredibly long comments (I’m working on that. I’m gonna try and keep them short and sweet. I just can’t seem to help myself) just let me know.

Just realize, once I have your blog info, I’m yours FOREVER.

*Note: I only blog Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Today is Tuesday. What the heck?

**Double Note: Diana, I know I need to work on my rough draft of Wanted:Dead or Undead. I know. I promise I will do it later. I just have a  . . . couple of . . . things I have . . . to do first.

Horror and guts just ain’t my thing. I don’t tend to read much of it and I sure as heck don’t write it.

“But what about the zombies, Angela? You can’t possibly write a zombie western romance without some horror and guts?”

Okay, you caught me. Maybe I do write an itty-bitty amount of horror and guts, but NOTHING like Stephen King. That’s a ball field I’m just not comfortable playing on—I’m at T-ball level, and he’s playing pro. And I’m okay with that.  I’m comfortable where I am.

So why in the world would I say that Stephen King’s book “On Writing” is about the best gosh darn book about writing that you can get your hands on, especially since I don’t tend to read his fiction work? Because it is. It’s the best I’ve ever come across. I had actually borrowed it from a writing buddy of mine and after reading it, I decided to purchase my own. I HAD to have it. Yes, people it’s that good. I highly recommend you read it, regardless of the horror aspect behind King’s name. No matter your genre, pick it up and give it a good once over. But if I were a betting kinda girl, I’d say you’ll read it several times.

In his book, Stephen King talks about having an “Ideal Reader” or that one specific person you most want to impress with your work. Now, don’t confuse this with your whole intended audience (though you should probably have that in mind as well), but instead, it’s that one special somebody in your life who you know is going to tell you like it is and give you the feedback you need (or in my case, crave). It’s that one person who will let you know when you have a big ol’ nasty piece of green broccoli stuck in your teeth so you don’t look like a complete fool.

For Mr. King, his “Ideal Reader” (I.R.) is his wife, Tabitha. “Someone—I can’t remember who, for the life of me—once wrote that all novels are really letters aimed at one person. As it happens, I believe this. I think that every novelist has a single ideal reader; that at various points during the composition of a story, the writer is thinking, “I wonder what he/she will think when he/she reads this part?”.” (From On Writing)

Think the idea of an I.R. is weird? Mr. King also goes on to explain how even Mr. Alfred Hitchcock had an I.R. as well, his wife, Alma, who helped catch a mighty big flaw in the movie production of Psycho—Janet Leigh swallows when she’s supposed to be dead. Pretty good catch, huh? Talk about broccoli in the teeth.

Now, the trend in this blog seems to be that spouses make for a very good I.R. So you would naturally assume that my I.R. would be my wonderful husband.

Well, you’d be wrong. Real wrong.

 If cynical old men were my target, then yes, he’d be perfect. But as it goes, that’s not my intended audience at all. Also, his overall “Debbie Downer” attitude is not a good fit for me when it comes to my writing process. I love him, but I don’t want him reading my stuff. Besides, whenever I happen to slipup (having a momentary brain cramp) and ask him his opinion on a plot idea I might have, his answers are usually so ridiculous it causes me physical pains (headaches). Okay, he’s not that bad, but I’m telling ya, it ain’t good either. It’s much better having him as an oblivious cheerleader in the background. He can root for me without reading anything I’ve written—just where I want him. 

My I.R. is my good friend and writing gal-pal, Diana. She’s not afraid to tell me that horizontal stripes make me look fat—and I LOVE it (in the literary sense).  If my characters are flat, she’ll tell me. If my plot twists don’t twist, she’ll call me out on it.

All I know, is that if she didn’t laugh at dialogue that needed laughed at or cringe at a particularly awful scene that was cringe worthy, then I need to go back to the drawing board. Her knowledge and input is as valuable to me as gold. No joke.

There have been several times in which I sent off a chapter of my WIP, thinking I did a pretty good job, *Pats self on the back,*only to have it sent back to me with a preface that says, “Please don’t hate me, but . . .”

Do my feelings get hurt? Yep. Sure I do—but for only a moment. Once I stop and take a look at what she’s saying, I realize that she’s right (Darn you, Diana!). She’s usually 100% correct. Whenever I go back and rework it, I find it’s so much better than the first time.

I have my beta readers. I have my critique group. I wouldn’t know what to do without them and their valuable (very valuable) input. But it is Diana that I makes me do as Stephen King and “. . . wonder what she’ll think when she reads this part.”

Diana is my quality control. She won’t let me make a fool of myself and send out a query letter or manuscript with broccoli in its teeth. She's got my back.

Do you have an Ideal Reader? Tell me all about them. Give 'em a shoutout.

 Crusader Challenge #1 (check out Rach Writes to play along): In 300 words or less, tell us:  one secret, one lie, one interesting quirk, one annoying habit, one of your best character traits, and one of your favorite things in the whole world. The post can be in any format, including poetry (for those poets among us), but must include the random words, “bloviate,” “fuliguline,” “rabbit,” and “blade”. Finish your post with something along the lines of, “I may have revealed something about me that isn’t strictly true, can you guess what it is?”

I didn’t realize how freaky of a person I was until I completed this task. But the sad thing is, any other answers would just make things worse. I read it to my husband and he said, “Yeah, that about sums you up all right.”

Great.

So here goes. It is what it is (and just as a note of clarification, I promise I’m a good and decent person):

If I itch, I will scratch until I bleed. The trigger that says, “STOP” is missing in me, disappeared eight years ago around the time of my daughter’s birth. I trim my nails (per my dermatologist) to keep the ten tiny blades in check. Annoying? Heck yeah. Just ask my husband.

“Just don’t scratch,” he says.

“It doesn’t work that way,” I say.

I tend to bloviate in my sleep, and I night walk too. I can hold full conversations, and I’ve been known to make it halfway down the hall before waking up. Scary? Heck yeah. Just ask my husband.

“Where are you going?”

“Not . . . sure . . .” I crawl back into bed.

When I was four, I dressed up as Bugs Bunny for Halloween (you know, the rascally rabbit that Elmer Fudd hated?) but I really wanted to be a princess instead. I think my mom got a deal on the costume. My mother has pictures of me with my friend Amy who is a beautiful angel—halo and all. I was jealous. I thought I looked like a boy.

My father is a fuliguline collector and displays his collection over his mantle. My mother collects thimbles and blown glass figures. I, given no other choice because collecting is my genes, collect vintage purses and costume jewelry. I loved my grandmother’s clutches and clip on earrings, so I started buying my own. I don’t use them. But I have them. I just love the 50’s.

I love peanut butter and mustard sandwiches with vinegar salt chips on the side (try it, you’ll like it), snorkeling in blue Hawaiian waters, escaping into a good book, and making people belly laugh. Ask anyone who knows me. It’s all true.

Except, maybe not. I may have revealed something about me that isn’t strictly true, can you guess what it is?

Hi. My name is Angela Scott and I’m a blogfest addict.

Hello, Angela.

It’s true. I have an unhealthy desire (more like obsession) to enter each and every blogfest I find. I can’t help it. It’s just kind of happened. It started with me signing up for one small one—a first line blogfest. Then it snowballed into another—first paragraph blogfest. Then it moved to mystery clues and 100 word sentences, and now, here I am, signed up for four more—ALL AT ONE TIME.

I wish I could blame it on genetics, but my parents aren’t even sure what a blog is:

“A blog? That’s nice, dear”—pat on the head—“Nice you have a hobby. Good for you. Can you hand me my spectacles? The ones on the gold chain, dear? Ahh, you’re such a nice girl. Take from my side of the family, you do.”

My parents aren’t really that old. And they don’t sound like Yoda either. (Notice last sentence. Not sure what happened there).

Blogfest Signs to watch for:

1)      A plethora of blogfest buttons on the side bar. (Me)

2)      A follower of dozens and dozens of AMAZING blogs (Me)

3)      Checks Twitter every . . . Okay, I’m back I had to go check . . . wait, I’m not going to tell you where I’ve been.

4)      Denial and excuses. (I don’t do this).

So why am I obsessed? Perhaps the better question is: Why aren’t you? (Add music that makes me look smart and tricky here. Dun, dun, dunnnnn!).

Blogfests are brilliant! They unite the masses, allowing folks from around the world to participate in games that will bond us as a people. How do they do that, you ask? By making us get to know one another. Whoa. That’s deep. I truly believe, that it will be by blogfesting that the world will someday find the peace it desires, and that wars and rumors of wars will cease. Mark my words. It’s gonna happen. Celebrity singers will gather to record a single called, “Give blogfest a chance.” And guess who will be first in line to buy that record (Yes, record. Vinyl all the way,baby)?  You guessed it—me *points to self* 

This is the direction blogfests are heading. So, unless you want to be left behind, you better jump on board. Again, I quote the Black Eyed Peas, because they have a way of saying the words my heart wishes to convey, “I’m so 3008, you’re so 2000 and late.” You don’t want to be 2000 and late. Join the blogfests. Invest in world peace. Someday, I hope to host one of my own. Wow. I can’t believe I just said that—that’s the power of the blogfest, baby.

So today, I present to you my Bernard Pivot’s Famous Questionnaire Blogfest Entry:

1)      What is your favorite word? Right now it’s iPhone (just got one and it’s Fab-U-lous)

2)      What is my least favorite word? Kidney Stone (I know it’s two, but it’s one concept)

3)      What turns you on creatively, spiritually, or emotionally? Music inspires me in all three cases. Every kind of music depending on my mood, or the scene I need to write.

4)      What turns you off? Farts

5)      What is you favorite curse word? Oh, boy this could get in trouble. I'm a Utahn. So, I only say things like Shoot and poop. But if you get me really angry, I've been known to drop a Gosh Darnit and Son of a Gun.

6)      What sound or noise do I love? “Honey, you sit. I’ll make dinner.”

7)      What sound or noise do I hate? “Honey, what’s for dinner?” (but farts is a close second)

8)      What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Painter/Artist (of course it would all be abstract art because I have no artistic talent whatsoever. I’d probably just finger paint large canvases. Art is in the eye of the beholder, right?).

9)      What profession would you not like to do? The person who gives pedicures (see previous blog post. I really HATE feet. Really. Their nasty).

10)      If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “Hey, it’s Angela, everybody! She made it after all.”

Are you a blogfest addict? Wanna be? Check out my sidebar.

Wow! My blog is award worthy. How about that, folks? And not is it any old dumb award but it’s the “Stylish Blog Award.” That’s a cool award to receive by one of my writing peers.

I’ve got me some style—real style, baby. I have an award that says so.

Is my blog super cool looking? Stylish? “So 3008 and not so 2000 and late.” (That’s a Blackeyed Peas quote, in case you’re so 2000 and late). Nah. My blog doesn’t have flash and pizzazz. Ohhh, I do have a bit of flash and pizzazz on my “Got Zombies?” tab—just a bit. But I don’t think that would have made me super stylish. Zombie Sounds = Stylish Award? I don’t think so.

So that leaves me to believe it’s my ultra-stylish personality *winks and flashes my pearly white teeth* which earned me a badge to put on my blog. My first and hopefully not my last. I’ve had award envy for quite some time now. I’d visit other blogs, see their pretty little award badges and think, “Wow. Their cool. Their super cool,” and wished to be just like them. No one wants to be uncool. Uncool just isn’t cool, no matter how you spin it.

So I’ve got me a badge, a badge that says I’m cool and stylish (I like saying that word). But now, to receive it, I must share 7 things about myself with you (that is one of the stipulations for receiving the award and I want this award soooo bad).

1)      I have a bucket list and I will share one thing from it with you. I want to go to Hershey, Pennsylvania to a chocolate spa. Can you imagine being dipped in chocolate? Yum, chocolate. If you can’t then you’re no true lover of chocolate, my friend.

2)      I can’t stand feet. I hate feet. Baby feet are cute and for some weird reason I want to put them in my mouth and bite them, but big kid feet and adult feet, especially men feet, give me the heebie-creepies. I just gave myself the chills writing this. Don’t touch my feet and don’t touch me with your feet or I will scream. This is a truth. I really will scream. I’m not kidding.

3)      I’m lactose-intolerant but that doesn’t keep me from eating ice cream. I love ice cream.

4)      I have a dog named Zoey, who thinks she’s a person (see how I used “who” instead of “that” because she’d be offended) and I have a bird named Merlin that thinks he’s a dog. No joke. He loves his head scratched.

5)      I used to play the clarinet and can toot a few songs from the past. See why I need a cool Stylish blog award? Clarinet players aren’t cool.

6)      If I were to be on a reality show, I’d pick “Pimp my Ride.” My minivan has over 210,000 miles on it and it just keeps going and going and going. So sad, I know. I need to sell a book. Fingers crossed. Maybe I can get me a minivan with only 199,000 miles on it. That would be sweet.

7)      I’ve lived in Utah all my life and have never once been skiing. It looks scary. The ski lift especially. Dangerous. I could fall off. With my luck, I’m pretty sure I would. 

So thanks Heather for the award. I will pass it along to some other deserving blogs who could use an award as well. I appreciate you thinking of me.

* For bloggers I sent this award to, you are to do the following in order to accept the award (just like I did):
1.) Thank and link back to the person who gave the award
2.) State 7 things about yourself
3.) Pass the award to 15 (or however many you feel deserve it) recently discovered bloggers