We’ll take a cup of kindness yet…

Happy 2016! As always, I like to start the New Year off with a thank you to everyone who participated in Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive (you know who you are). Over the years, we’ve been able to help him raise more than $10,000 for people around the world… one farm animal at a time. In the past we donated honey bees and ducks, but this time I mixed it up a bit and purchased part of a goat. I’m hopeful it was the sweet part (like the big eyes, soft ears and warm heart). If not, then I apologize in advance that it ate your bed and shit on your roof (or vice-versa). And yes, that really happens. I’m from Appalachia, I know these things.

As for New Year’s resolutions, I think I’m going to pass this time around. They never seem to work for me. In fact, I would argue that they have the opposite effect. Honestly, when I make them, it’s like I go out of my way to find things to do simply to avoid what I’m actually supposed to be doing. THAT’S RIGHT WORLD, SUCK IT! NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO DO. NOT EVEN ME!

Note to self: Update your will. Your passive-aggressive unwillingness to run means that you will probably stroke out and die at forty-five. Worse yet, because you refuse to commit to a regular writing schedule, your readers won’t even know you’re dead. They’ll think it’s “just been a while” since you posted something to mkromd.

With that, I’m off to plan this year’s ski trip; and, wait for it, instead of heading out West or back East, we’re going to stay in the Mid-West. That’s right, TB and I have been cordially invited to Mount Bohemia in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They had her at “extreme skiing just south of Canada” and me at “you have to sleep in a yert.” Like Marx said, “To each what they need. From each what they can provide.” Besides, I ask you… how bad could it be? Lots of people have group slept… in a tent… on the side of a mountain… that’s covered in four feet of snow.

We're like urban sherpas... She's welcome.  

Talk to you later (unless I don’t because I died, which could happen because I refuse to get on a treadmill or because Bigfoot is real and attacked us/stole our beer. In said case, find my phone. I promise you there will be photos. THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE). 

Oh, Christmas tree *sigh*

So, I have good news, and I have bad news. The bad news is that, last night, our Christmas tree fell over. The good news is that, as I was screaming, “MAN DOWN,” my batshit-crazy dog saw sticks everywhere and thought she’d died and gone to Nirvana. On second thought, since only good girls go to heaven, that bitch is going to Valhalla … but not for long; because, when she’s in – she wants out, and when she’s out – she wants in.

Anyway, as we cleaned ornaments and water off the floor, I thought about the note I leave for people who baby-sit her when we’re gone, and I wondered what I would write to Vikings if they had to keep her for forever. This is that letter (from her):

Dear Olaf, Olaf, Olaf, Erik, Olaf and Steve,

Thank you so, so, so much for taking care of me. I really appreciate it and you. I also wanted to share some important information about myself, so you will still love me at the end of this date. First, I’m a strong, independent, single female, who likes to take slow bike rides in the morning, long walks in the woods at night, and snuggle all weekend long. I have long, shiny, black hair and am shallow, so feel free to tell me how pretty I am. We’ll get along better that way. What else?

My turn-ons include shoes, bacon, belly-rubs, cat poop and tennis balls. They are literally my favorite things EVER! Turn-offs include vacuum cleaners, groomers and fuzzy socks. They genuinely terrify me and make me very, very, very bitey. My doctor says that’s normal, but I don’t know if he can be trusted. He’s knuckle-busted me with a thermometer more than once, the bastard.

Also worth mentioning, I’m SUPER flexible, so please don’t feel like you need to wake up early on my account. I mean, you might, because I snore and fart in my sleep, but – other than that – easy peasy lemon squeezy. Really, I’ll eat breakfast and dinner when you do; and, while I love table food, please don’t let me have it – not even if I beg, steal or demand it . . . all of which is quite likely to happen during our time together.

About the whole Ragnarök thing, I say “Cry havoc, and let slip the me of war”. . . on one condition: On the boat ride there and back, I will need to keep my head out the window and into the wind the entire time. Seriously, don’t fuck me on this. I need to smell EVERYTHING. I call it my canine spidey-sense, and it’s how I have kept everyone around me alive for all of these years. They’re welcome. And finally, I feel like I should warn you that . . . if you die on the battlefield . . . I will stop, drop and roll in you. No offense. It’s just my grieving process. I do, however, promise not to eat you . . . unless you didn't feed me breakfast before we left the longhouse. In said case, be glad you won't be alive to see what I do to your body. It will make Beowulf look like something out of Disney.

Sincerely,

Your new best friend, the Dawg

Alas, this post isn’t about my batshit-crazy beast. It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how it works . . .

Each December, http://blog.nathanbransford.com sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each tweet or comment you post below (until the first week of January 2016), I'll donate 50 cents on your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the sixth year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

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Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog, someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this­ - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about mosques, then you probably know the following:

1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.

2. In many Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of your feet is like giving them the finger.

3. Either one of these things can be offensive. Done together, there’s no question. It’s just plain rude.  

I now know that too.

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? Wow, me neither!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor . . . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you later. 

Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you

The title of this month's post is a tribute to Elvis Costello for three reasons:

1. It's Elvis Costello, do you really need a reason other than that? If so, we cannot be friends.

2. This summer, DB and I saw him in concert with the Imposters, and it was the best show we've ever seen, together OR individually. No contest.

3. He just released his memoir, Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink, which is already packed in my suitcase for this weekend's trip to Pennsylvania (because my nephew is getting married).

And, since we're talking about matrimony and Appalachia, I've decided to post a chapter from my magnum opus (she says sarcastically) that discusses both. Also, to my writing group, who, "Stood by me in the middle of Chapter Three," I know you think it's bad juju to share this since it hasn't been published; but, seeing as this story is also about the Blues, maybe Albert King is right, "If it weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all." With that...

Chapter 35: It’s a good day for the Blues. 

Not only is that one of the greatest songs ever written, Malford Milligan, Storyville’s soulful, sage, lead singer is right, “Sometimes you fly so high, you can’t find a place to land,” but still ... “It’s a good day for the Blues.” Well, I get it. Though I’m the recipient of countless, huge blessings, when I’m stressed, even a little, like I was while planning DB's and my wedding in 2011, I have a tendency to snark at people about any and everything. And frankly, it’s unacceptable. In fact, on that same trip home, at my nephew’s party, my mom was so exasperated that she called me on it and said, “Do you think we created language as a species to accommodate your inner need to whine? If so, do you suppose Mother Nature gave me feet to walk away from you while you do it?”

I ask you, in all honesty, do you understand how I became this person? Do you?

Cynicism notwithstanding, the worst part of that conversation is that she’s right. On second thought, the worst part is that she had our entire family jump on the bandwagon. And I don’t mean my brothers and sister with whom I actually will fight. I mean her cousins and aunts: women in their 70s, 80s and 90s. People you simply can’t debate, and not just because they’re deaf or because your mother will kill you for being disrespectful. Women you can’t bitch in front of because they actually have reasons to complain and still don’t do it. Women who have buried children and partners, witnessed more than one war, and fought for the right to vote, the right to fair pay, and the right to live their lives as they see fit. Women who did all of it admirably ... grateful for the things they had ... not devastated over the things they lost.

So, when they tell you that you’re missing out on the happiest times of your life, you listen. After all, like Woody Allen once said, “Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering, and it’s all over much too soon.” The trick is to find people to share that desolation with, especially the big moments, which is why a few years ago, DB went to Pennsylvania with me for a wedding.

Just so we’re all on the same page, unless you’re a local, nuptials in Appalachia are like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Because, not only are the Blue Ridge mountains home to the world’s best Bluegrass music, they’re also a Mecca for mullets and preachers who handle snakes, all of which you’re likely to experience if you’re there for a special occasion.

Don’t get me wrong. Where I grew up is honestly one of the most beautiful landscapes on Earth. So much so that the natives say they only inbreed to, “keep outsiders from coming in and ruining it.” But, like everything in life, it has its pros and cons. Pro: Mountain people definitely know how to party. I’ve actually attended receptions where the bar served homemade moonshine then handed the empty jugs over to the band so the music could start. Con: After too much moonshine, I’ve played the jug ... on stage ... and there’s a fine line between being so drunk that you go blind versus being just drunk enough that you’re willing blow “whoo whoo ... whoo whoo” into a bottle while a large bearded stranger in overalls sings, “Billie Jean is not my lover.” Sadly, while you may be tempted to believe that’s hyperbole, it’s not. Nor is the fact that it didn’t just happen to me in Pennsylvania. It also happened to me in Mississippi at a barbeque festival. Though I remember neither incident, I’ve been told I’m a natural.

You know, it’s sad that Storyville broke up in 2000. I feel like we could have made really beautiful music together.

Note: Dear Mr. Milligan, on the off-chance a snowball landed in hell and you’re reading this, please call me. I’m totally available for your reunion tour, and (spoiler alert) I also play the spoons.  

La Isla Bonita

Like most of the posts this year, let me start by apologizing for dropping the blogging ball. I always mean to write more, but life has a funny way of interfering with those plans, and by that I mean, “Why does crazy shit always happen to me?” Allow me to elucidate… 

Last month my step-daughter, her mom and I went to Isla Mujeres for vacation. When we were planning the trip, I asked my husband if it was odd that his current wife and ex-wife were taking his daughter to Mexico, and he said, “Nope. In fact, I think it speaks volumes for me that I have such great taste in women.” And, since he made it all about him (instead of the fact that his ex and I are good people who became good friends because we act like grown adults), I replied, “Yup. And, just think… if you and I don’t make it, odds are we’ll like your third wife, too.” I’m kidding. I love that man with all of my heart. He’s not getting out of this marriage alive, and I think a very real part of him knows that. 

Anyway, I’m pleased to report that a great time was had by all, including the day we went paddleboarding. Turns out, the only thing I know how to surf is the Internet. My step-daughter, on the other hand, looked magnificent: think Pocahontas standing on a large paddleboard… perfectly posed… with the beach at her back... steering majestically through the waves and into the sunset. Me? I had to lay down on the fucking thing and hold on for dear life, and not because I got caught in one of the Gulf’s infamous eddies; but, because I had spent the earlier part of that afternoon working my way through the resort’s bar menu. It’s a little vacation tradition I like to call “Hakuna some vodka.” 

At any rate, if you’re looking for a perfect place to unwind for four days, Isla Mujeres is it! It’s this beautiful little island off the coast of Cancun. Only don’t lose your Customs and Immigration documents like I did, especially if you’re carrying a hand-painted Day of the Dead skull in your carry-on as you try to leave the country. Yes. Really. Somehow, I left my form in our hotel room and had to purchase an official replacement at the airport… which meant the numbers didn’t match… which was a red flag already… compounded by the fact that TSA scanned my purse… and saw the outline of a head. Thankfully, however, because it was ceramic, I dodged the body cavity search… this time. But not for lack of trying. That’s right, when they asked, “Is there anything else in your bag that could cause alarm?” I actually said, “Just a few bowls.” Upon seeing the globally-recognizable look of “Fucking really?” on the guy’s face, I realized what I’d said and attempted to over-explain by screaming, “OH MY GOD! NOT LIKE THAT! ARTISAN BOWLS MADE FROM ADOBE, SEA GRASS AND PORCELAIN, I swear! Please do NOT get out latex gloves.” Thank God the guy was bi-lingual (and could translate stupid PERFECTLY). Otherwise, I fear my purchases AND my dignity would have stayed in Mexico.

With that, I'm off to work on edits to my book. Talk to you later.

Ain’t no mountain high enough...

Three kids, two women, one minivan, no haters, and that’s where this story begins… kind of. First, let me apologize for dropping the blogging ball… yet again. Between the trip to Appalachia for my mom’s birthday in March, the ski trip out West with TB and her kids in April, and my beautiful step-daughter wrapping up her Freshman year of college in May, life has been insane, which, for us, seems to be par for the course. Seriously, I no longer think I’m going crazy with everything on my plate, I think I am crazy. I just go sane from time-to-time. You’re welcome.

At any rate, Winter Park was AWESOME… for the most part. Stay with me here, I swear I’ll try to bring it full circle. The skiing was incredible. We hit almost every mountain (except Cirque) until Vasquez Ridge hit my nephew right back. True story: We were off the beaten path in some powder stashes, when TB’s son took a jump, landed it, and went head over ass over snowboard. We initially thought it was nothing, since he was coherent and mobile. It wasn’t until he screamed and collapsed that we realized something was clearly amiss. After getting him down the hill to the medic station, we learned that he had damaged his ureter (the tube from your kidney to your bladder) and had to be ambulanced to Denver.

I’m pleased to report that he’s absolutely fine. In fact, he was back on the slopes just hours after he was discharged, which only proves my point that seventeen year olds not only believe they’re invincible, they actually are. Not kidding, at forty-three, I’ve injured myself yawning and decided to stay in bed simply to avoid further bodily harm. Like they say, “An ounce of prevention is probably why I have several pounds of ass that I can’t get rid of.”

Anyway, while TB was in the hospital in Denver, I had the other two kids at Winter Park. In other words, I needed to make a contingency plan to get them back to the Mid-West, should she need to stay in Colorado with her oldest. Now, before I say anything else, let me say this, “HUGE SHOUT OUT TO ENTERPRISE RENT-A-CAR IN AURORA, CO. You have a customer for life.” Why? Not only were they super friendly when we picked up the car on the way to Winter Park; they were beyond cool when I called and explained what happened and why I might need another vehicle. Not only did I get the same guy who helped us the first time, he totally remembered us. I shit you not, that sweet twenty-something college kid said, “Yeah, the lesbians! Three kids, two women, one minivan, no haters. Of course I can help you out. That sucks about your son. I hope he’s OK.” All I could say was, “Thanks, man! Book it on my wife’s account.” Turns out we didn’t need it, but it’s better to be prepared for an emergency that never happens, than not be prepared for one that does.

Later that night, when we knew everything was OK, I told TB what happened. After ten minutes of laughing until we cried, she said, “You know, I wish we were lesbians, just so we could piss off homophobes.” Now, frankly speaking, I think the moral here is three-fold: One, hate is not a family value. Two, don’t surround yourself with people who think it is. Three, if you’re going to pass yourself off as someone’s wife, you better know her birthday, last four digits of her Social Security number and height. However, if they ask you for her weight, lie. That way the person on the other end of the phone knows your relationship is legit. #EnterpriseIsForLovers, #StraightButNotNarrow, #IhaveNoIdeaHowHashtagsWork

Talk to you later.

Mary J. Blige said it best, "No more drama."

This month, in honor of International Women’s Day, #DearMe is encouraging women to reach out (and back) to our younger selves with some good advice. With that…

Dear fifteen year old mkromd – Do not get that perm. Contrary to what you think, it will not change your life. In fact, it will cause more problems than it solves, and your family will photographically document all of them.

Dear twenty year old mkromd – Spoiler alert, you do not go to law school, and that’s OK, because you eventually learn that Woody Allen was right, yet again: The problem with attorney jokes is that lawyers don’t think they’re funny, and no one else thinks they’re jokes.

Dear twenty-five year old mkromd – Listen to me, this is the ONLY YEAR OF YOUR LIFE THAT YOU WILL ROCK A BATHING SUIT. Go put one on now, and wear it all day, every day until your next birthday; but don’t take photos, just in case you’re wrong... In my older self’s defense, you make loads of bad choices at this age. Inventing selfies could be one of them.

Dear thirty year old mkromd – Well done you, you learn that, “Everything matches black, especially black,” and your wardrobe is forever changed. This simple fact alone helps you dodge the whole, “Pink is the new black” bullet of 2001. Because, note to self, color of any kind makes you look like the Easter Bunny on acid. If you don’t believe me, just look at pictures of the fifteen year old you ... the one with the perm. She's wearing pastels. Seriously, God should have smited her on the way to her first day of high school for that look. That he didn't kind-of makes me believe he owes an apology to the 24,000 people he killed for complaining about their bread (Numbers 21:4-9). Also, clearly you haven't yet repressed the eight years of theology you had in grade school.

Dear thirty-five year old mkromd – This is the hardest year of your life. Your entire world gets shattered, and it may not make you stronger, but it doesn’t kill you either. Also, fuck him. You are not perfect, but you are not your flaws, and anyone who treats you like you are, doesn’t deserve you. You have played that game long enough; and, to quote the late, great Nora Ephron, “It’s time to be the heroine of your life, not the victim.” PS: Really, fuck him. And, not to spoil the ending, but everything ends up OK, even if you don’t believe me right now.

Dear forty year old mkromd – You learn a simple truth that you should have learned decades ago, “Very few people let the truth get in the way of a good story.” With that, two things: One, be grateful that you spent four decades on this planet and only had to learn that now. Two, take your mother’s advice, “Don’t jump off the high road. Even if they aren’t better than that, you are.”

And finally, from my forty-three year old self to my older self – I don’t know how any of it ultimately plays out, but I hope it makes for one hell of a good laugh. And now, I’m off to Appalachia for my mom’s birthday, then Winter Park for our annual ski trip. I mean really, how bad could it be? Talk to you later.

Black diamonds are a girl’s best friend

That’s right, this year’s ski trip is planned, and the winner is Winter Park. Unfortunately though, that means the loser is me, since Mary Jane is going to KICK.MY.ASS. This is a mountain whose motto is, “No Pain. No Jane.” And they mean it. With an elevation of 11,700 feet and a 1,766-foot vertical drop, she hits like a girl… on the Women's US Olympic boxing team.

However, before I can tell you the rest of the story, I feel the need to explain something first: The term vertical drop refers to the distance between the summit and the base, measured straight down. And, while 1,766 feet doesn’t sound all that intimidating, trust me on this one–it is. Sixty percent of Mary Jane is expert terrain. In other words, there will be bumps, trees, grade and stupidity… but not necessarily in that order.

At any rate, I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I’m going to survive this, I need to bring my A-game, which is just funny. Because, if you know me, then you know that I didn’t even have an A-game when I skied competitively in high school and college. At best I was a B minus... graded on a curve. At forty-three, now I just bring my F-game, as in “What the F was I thinking?”

That being said, I’m not going to lie, I’m crazy excited (with the emphasis on excited not crazy). I’ve never done Winter Park, but TB has, and she loves it. Me? I love the fact that Mary Jane is named after the local mining camp madam who bought the land in the late 1800s. And, just so we’re all on the same page, I’m not judging. Like I told TB, “If you had to pick between your dignity and your own mountain, what would you call the resort?” Exactly.

With that, I’m off to work out. Talk to you later.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year…

When people everywhere “leave the poor choices of their past behind and look forward to the future.” Only, unlike Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, I’m not talking about Fashion Week. I’m talking about New Year’s resolutions. That said, statistically speaking, I probably won’t keep the ones I’ve made, so you really shouldn’t listen to me—especially since there’s actually a betting pool about how quickly I’ll fold on some of them; which, quite frankly, doesn’t even make sense. It’s not like anyone would know anyway; because, honestly, unless I trip and smack my face on a treadmill, no one wants to hear about my workouts. But I digress.

The point is that, thanks to your comments, mkromd has purchased a bag of ducks for Heifer (and, no autocorrect, I really did mean to type bag of ducks, but well played on your part). Furthermore, seeing as how I need all of the help I can get, I also bought Kanye West and Kim Kardashian prayer candles, which (God help me) I love almost as much as those two love themselves. Almost.

Also available, “HOLY CANDLES, Batman” and Lionel Ritchie in case it’s Him you’re looking for. I should warn you though, I don’t think modern idolatry works. No matter how many Kurt Cobain and John Lennon candles I light, Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus have yet to be raptured. On the up note, at least it’s not the end of the world (but I bet there's a Michael Stipe candle just in case).

In any event, happy 2015, and thanks again for helping Heifer. Talk to you later.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.

But if that runs out, I’ll happily drink red. Also, I’m sorry for being incommunicado. For the last six months, I’ve been working on my book with the most amazing editor ever (you know who you are). Oh, and I wrote a children’s book, which is a crazy-ass story in-and-of-itself (why and how I wrote it, not what I wrote). Though, in the spirit of full disclosure, if you were to read both projects, you wouldn’t believe they came from the same person. In other words, I love being bipolar. It’s awful.

I’m kidding. I’m not bipolar; but, if I were, I’d be fifty fucking shades of it with no safe word. The truth is that I just needed a break from working on the same manuscript for so long. That being said, this post isn’t about either one of my books. It’s not even about a biPolar Express kid’s book for the holidays. It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how it works . . .

Each December, http://blog.nathanbransford.com sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each tweet or comment you post below (until the first week of January 2015), I'll donate 25 cents on your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the fifth year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

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Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog, someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this­ - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about mosques, then you probably know the following:

1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.

2. In many Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of your feet is like giving them the finger.

3. Either one of these things is offensive.

4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.

I now know that too.

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? Wow, me neither!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor . . . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you later.

P.S. (A Toad Retrospective)

In 1992, when I was a college student at the University of Wyoming, I went to see Toad the Wet Sprocket in concert. They’re still an awesome band; but, if you’ve never heard of them and are wondering what the hell their name means, they took it from the Monty Python skit, Rock Notes, where Eric Idle plays a journalist who delivers the best music news report ever, "Rex Stardust, lead electric triangle with Toad the Wet Sprocket, has had to have an elbow removed following their recent successful worldwide tour of Finland. Flamboyant ambidextrous Rex apparently fell off the back of a motorcycle. "Fell off the back of a motorcyclist, most likely," quipped ace drummer, Jumbo McClooney, upon hearing of the accident. Plans are now afoot for a major tour of Iceland."

Anyway, in 1999, the band released a compilation album, P.S. A Toad Retrospective; however, today's story isn’t about Toad the Wet Sprocket OR Monty Python. It’s actually about toads. To be specific, it’s about our toads. That’s right, they’re back; and, in their honor, here is last year’s, “Frog and Toad are Friends.”

PS (no pun intended): Sorry for recycling content again, but this may truly be one of my favorite mkromd posts ever. Also, I promise something new next time. Since getting back from Spain, I've been working on the book, and I'm ridiculously excited. Things are finally looking up, so keep your fingers crossed for me. And, finally, with that . . .

Frog and Toad are Friends

I love our house. It sits on an acre of woods with a stream behind it; and, on any given night, you can watch fireflies while listening to the owls and frogs. Likewise, on any given day, you’re bound to see rabbits and cardinals, as well as the occasional sandhill crane, heron or turkey if you’re lucky. Lately though, our yard and patio have been covered with toads… hundreds of tiny, baby toads.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. For some reason, I like eating breakfast outside. I do, and every day I pour a glass of orange juice, make a bowl of oatmeal, grab a cup of coffee and a tennis ball, then sit on the steps and play with the dog while trying to wake up. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll be the first person to admit that I’m not a morning person. I’m barely an afternoon one, so when I saw my entire patio hopping, I said to myself, “Self, if you’re still dreaming, please turn this oatmeal into the world’s biggest doughnut right NOW.” When that didn’t happen and the disappointment subsided, I became so intrigued that I needed to know what the hell was going on.

And that’s when I saw them… dozens upon dozens of adorable, little toadlets… everywhere… which immediately made me think of the book of Exodus… which immediately made me want to fall to my knees and scream, “I knew I should have let God’s people go!!!” But I didn’t. Given that I started running again and my poor neighbors have endured enough these days, I went inside and got DB instead.

Now, for the record, I love and adore my husband immeasurably. Not only is he warm and brilliant, but he has this charming, Buddhisty innocence that makes me want to be a better person. And, as we stood there, watching the baby toads, we saw two of them climb onto the patio together. One was curious and brave and determined to blissfully bound and rebound on any and everything around it. The other stood at the edge and watched him like, “What are you doing? Do you NOT see those two giant humanoids staring at us? Come back.” then furiously hopped over to him, all-the-while thinking, “ARGH… Really?! I swear to God, if someone picks me up, I will pee all over them. That's right. They will be covered in warts and toad stools if I plan it right.”

And in that moment, I was immediately reminded of the children’s book, Frog and Toad are Friends, and I’m Toad. I’m cynical and I’m gun shy and I’ve been on enough patios to know that it can all go horribly wrong in ways that you can’t even predict. And DB is Frog. He’s that friendly, fearless, calm being who believes the world isn’t a terrible place. Sure, it’s big and bad things happen, but it’s more exciting than it is awful and if you don’t hop out of the grass, you’ll never experience the splendor. Also, at the risk of setting the bar low, I want to be that kind of amphibian, but I’m not. I cannot rally that kind of optimism anymore, which is ironic when you consider that, throughout my life, I kissed a lot of frogs who didn’t turn into princes (at least not mine), then fell in love with a prince who also happens to be a Frog.

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain

I apologize for dropping the blogging ball, but I swear… this time I have a good reason. In June, my beautiful step-daughter graduated from high school; and, because she got into one of the top forty universities in the country (yes, really), her grandmother took her to Spain to celebrate.

When they asked me if I’d like to join them, all I could say was, “You had me at hola.” DB on the other hand said, “Nope. My daughter, my wife and my mother are the three most important women in my life, and I’d like to keep it that way. Have fun without me.” You laugh, but I have to admit that his argument has merit… especially since my favorite mythical creature is the happy bitch in tampon commercials.

Anyway, while building our itinerary:

• My step-daughter, who eventually wants to study in Spain, said, “I’d like to see Madrid and Barcelona.”
• My mother-in-law, who is an artist, said, “I’d like to do the Museo del Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum and the Reina Sofía."
• I, as an academically-trained Anthropologist, wanted to experience Spain’s religious culture and history, and by that I mean churches, soccer and the Inquisition (which no expected me to say; but, then again, no one expects the Inquisition).

In any case, I’m pleased to report that a good time was had by all.

• Madrid and Barcelona are truly beautiful.
• The collections at all three museums, combined with the Sagrada Familia and Park Güell, are beyond description.
• The churches are magnificent. Seriously, if I were a writer for Fodor’s, Lonely Planet or Zagat’s, I’d give all of them four stars: Great bread; disappointing wine selection. All jokes aside, the only reason they didn’t get five stars was because every single one of them charged admission. I understand cathedrals but churches?

As for futbol, I was crushed. Given that Spain had won the 2010 World Cup, I had such high hopes. Not only did I brag that Espana would kick EVERYONE’S ASS and that I would be there to see it happen, I bought my jersey before they lost to the Netherlands (five to one). Had I waited ninety minutes, not only would I have NOT paid full price, I could have gotten it for free from ANY Spaniard I’d met on the street. People were literally throwing their shirts away. When we got back to the hotel and I asked the front desk clerk, “What the hell happened on the field today?” He said, “Tonight Spain is nothing but pain with an S.”

Because I felt like he felt that I was mercilessly interrogating him, I felt badly. Girl Scout’s honor, that’s the only reason I did a lobby rendition of Monty Python’s, “NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency.... Our *three* weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.... Our *four*...no... *Amongst* our weapons.... Amongst our weaponry...are such elements as fear, surprise.... I'll come in again.”

You know, I think the Bard was right, 'All the world really is a stage.' With that, talk to you later.

Our house is a very, very, very fine house

It's funny that the second album by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Déjà Vu, has the song Our House. I say that for two reasons. One, because this week's story is actually last year's Mother's Day post. Two, because I'm heading home to Appalachia to see my mom and celebrate it with her. In a way, I feel like recycling content is cheating; however, in my defense, I almost never do it. Besides, more than that, I firmly believe George Carlin was right, "Déjà vu is way better than vujà dé . . . the feeling you've never been anywhere before."

Bad Company
For the last two weeks, I've had the flu, and - when I'm sick, I have a tendency to whine, sleep, and read. In other words, it's not all that different from when I'm healthy. At any rate, the other night, after finishing my book, I ended up reading Rolling Stone's, "100 Greatest Singers" and saw that Paul Rodgers from Bad Company came in at number fifty-five. Though they don't need my approval, I must admit - it was a good pick. After all, when Jim Morrison (number 47) died, the Doors wanted him and - more impressively, after Freddie Mercury died, Rodgers toured with Queen. For the record (no pun intended), Freddie Mercury was number eighteen on Rolling Stone's list.

Now, if you think Paul Rodgers can't bring it, I challenge you to listen to him sing, "I Want it All." Keep in mind that Freddie never performed it live because he was so sick. If you want to hear him, you have to listen to the album, and - if you've never heard it, go do it now. That said, if you listen to it and hear a man ravaged by AIDS instead of an artist's sheer will power and ability to accomplish perfection regardless of his circumstances, you're dead to me.

But I digress, the point is that only a handful of days ago, my mother went into congestive heart failure again. By the time I got the call, she had already been stabilized and was lucid. In fact, I was lucky enough to talk to her shortly thereafter. Like every good mom she said, "You're sick. Please don't drive or fly home while you have the flu. You'll never get better. Besides, if you walk through the door, I'll be convinced that I'm dying and no one wants to tell me."

You laugh, but when my dad was diagnosed with liver cancer, he told the doctors and all of us that he didn't want to hear the details. He knew it was fatal but he didn't want to know how long he had. He didn't want to be told what to expect. He wanted his life to be on his terms, including what he did, how he felt, and when he died... not according to some self-fulfilling prophesy that a team of doctors handed to him. For the record (again no pun intended), it worked. A headache remained a headache, a stomach ache remained a stomach ache, a muscle spasm remained a muscle spasm - not a symptom that the end was near or an omen of terrible things to come.

Like my mom, he was adamant that I not come home when I couldn't. Instead, we talked on the phone several times a week and wrote long, rambling letters to one-another, much like the non-sequiturs that I blog about… and music. We talked a lot about music. As a professional Jazz pianist for more than fifty years he was fortunate enough to meet, watch, and jam with a lot of pretty relevant musicians. Plus, he just knew a lot about music.

Anyway, when I talked to my mom and mentioned that DB is playing in a band again, I was blown away by how much she knew about Blues. She’s a CPA with an MBA who was an Executive all of her life. This is a woman who admits that she voted for Nixon and may have actually missed the Sixties. Seriously. Upon hearing the shock in my voice, she said, “Honey, I spent almost as many nights watching your father play piano as he spent playing.”

You know, I simply never thought about it.

At any rate, given that she dropped a bomb on me, I felt obligated to share my day with her, including the fact that during lunch, my straight, hot friend admitted that he stripped his way through college. Yes. Really. And that’s when I told my WASP mother that I’d missed my calling. I should have been a DJ at a male strip club, because – honestly – if the movie Magic Mike has taught us anything, it’s this... unlike men who prefer their strippers with no clothes or plot, women want their dancers to emote and I want to give that to them. I have no desire to see men pull-off their pants. I want to see them pull-off stripping to Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler or Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson. Think about it:

• Cost of a drink at a strip club - Seven dollars
• Cost of a lap dance - One dollar
• Watching some pompous, fully-waxed, twenty-five year old guy's face as Amazing Grace comes over the speakers and he has to drop it like it's hot - Priceless

There really are certain things that money can't buy.

After she told me she’d miss me because she was certain that I was going to Hell, we laughed ourselves into a coughing frenzy. Given that I only had the flu but she was recovering from congestive heart failure, I was certain that this would kill her and that my siblings would kill me because of it. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Instead, I get the opportunity to spend another Mother's Day with her. That's right. I'm going home to Appalachia. I might be bad company but I’m a good daughter.

Besides, even if it weren't a holiday to celebrate the incredible job she's done raising us, I'd want to see her. Like my father, she’s my hero. Even from a hospital bed, she could laugh and she could make me laugh. I guess that, while the exuberant cry of youth may be, "I Want It All and I Want it Now," the wisdom and temperance of age gives you a different perspective: who you are when it's hard is who you really are and what you do with the time you have is totally your choice. To quote Dylan Thomas, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” It worked for Freddie Mercury... It worked for my dad... Clearly it works for my mother and I hope to God that it works for me.

Talk to you later.

Do these skis make my ass look fast?

Sorry for the month-long blogging hiatus. Life has been crazy, not in an I-use-Crayola-markers-for-makeup kind of way, but crazy nonetheless. Thankfully however, I’m blessed with great friends who know exactly when to stage an intervention. Enter this year’s ski trip; but, as always, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

Growing up, I was lucky enough to spend my summers in Virginia horse country at my Aunt and Uncle’s house. And, while it’s true that I never learned to ride, I did learn that my grandmother raised her daughters who raised their daughters the right way: Never rely on a husband or a trust fund, because you never know when either one might run out. Don’t get me wrong, I wish I could have been a trophy wife with a drinking problem. It just wasn’t in the cards. I love doughnuts, I hate doctors, and I’m a complete misanthrope. Other than that, I’d have fucking nailed it.

In any case, the point is that, like everyone in that part of the world, my cousins had horses and rode competitively. They did dressage, but some of their friends did cross-country and show jumping, and some of them did all three, which is also known as eventing. If you’ve never seen it, you should. It’s basically the equestrian world’s equivalent of a triathlon. Personally, I can’t figure out how they do it. I can barely master a horse that eats quarters instead of hay and goes in circles… electronically. But I love the idea of riding, especially three-day eventing because they actually say things like, “my comfort zone is crotch height.” Yes, really. It allows them to use their bodies as human tape measures when gauging a jump.

Now, just to make sure we’re on the same page, God help all of us if I ever decide to take up that sport; because, at forty-two, I’m pretty sure boob height is rapidly approaching crotch height, and no one wants to have that conversation with me, especially at a competition sponsored by Rolex. Seriously. You should simply trust me when I tell you that would be out of everyone’s comfort zone, particularly since I’m not above using hand gestures if I feel like there’s ambiguity and my safety is on the line.

Anyway, I also love that eventers will tell you they do it, “three ways in three days.” Otherwise stated, they do one event each day: dressage, cross-country and show jumping. So what does all of that have to do with this post? Well, nothing and everything, so stay with me. We’re almost there.

You see, every year I take a ski trip out west; and this time, since it was just TB and me, we decided to get multi-mountain passes for Keystone, Arapahoe Basin and Breckenridge. The idea was to hit Keystone’s Outback and do some tree skiing on day one, head over to A Basin on day two for Pallavicini, one of Colorado’s steepest runs, and then wrap up with a day of moguls off the South Side of Peak 10 at Breck. Three days. Three ways: Trees, pitch and bumps.

Honestly though, for two women in their forties, I would tell you that we held our own… OK, that's a lie. TB held her own because she stills run marathons. Given that I only run my mouth and errands, on the last day, my legs were simply shot. But, because I'm an idiot, I agreed to head over to Peak 9, which has extremely tight ungroomed mogul runs, and it was a mistake.

So, there we are... on a run called Devil’s Crotch… and I’m looking more like something from Rosemary’s Baby than Warren Miller… when I hear TB say, “Stop fighting the mountain and start working with it.” Which, in her defense, is very Zen; but, in my defense, may not be altogether accurate… because I feel like I’d be a biter and a hair-puller in a fight (I have no empirical evidence to support this theory, but I’m pretty sure I’m right)... and I decide, “You know what, I’ll do it.” So I sit into it… and I’m hauling… and it feels really good… until I hit the biggest mogul of my life… and it hits me right back.

I *might* have peed myself, but I’m not really sure, since I don’t actually know how long I laid there, but I can tell you this: When you come to, and your ass is near your armpit, you’re not only out of your comfort zone in any sport, you’re out of your league. On the up-note, when I got home and called my mother to tell her about the trip, she said, “At least the only thing that died was your dignity.”

Talk to you later.

You’ve Got Mail

Have you ever said to yourself, “Self, where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?” Well, I have. In fact, I had that very moment today. You see, of late, life has been insane. I’m crazy-swamped at work all day, busy querying agents each night, and–in between–I’m trying to schedule a ski-trip out West. In other words, at the risk of putting my balls in your face, it’s a lot to juggle. Seriously.

Be that as it may, let me say this: I’m not complaining. I love my job and I love my boss; and, in this market, not everyone can say that. Furthermore, although trying to get published has only produced more evidence that God clearly hates me, at least the manuscript is finished. As for heading to Colorado to ski, I understand that’s a first world problem. It’s like bitching because you only got one packet of barbeque sauce for your twenty piece McNuggets. I get it. I do. However, disclaimer disclaimed, I have something to say to Yahoo Mail, which I’ve been using to contact said agents, and here it is, "Dear Ymail - Given that I’d like to become a real writer one day, I’ll try to provide grammatically correct feedback about your Conversation “feature.” Ready? Off is the general direction in which I would like it to fuck. Not kidding. Sincerely - mkromd"

But, before I can tell you why Yahoo so justifiably deserves my wrath, I have to tell you this part of the story first . . .  Since the holidays, I’ve spent easily a hundred hours researching literary agents who handle humorous memoirs/narrative nonfiction work (specifically geared towards women) and are willing to take on new writers. I even found a select handful who specialize in female bloggers looking for book deals. If you don’t believe how long all of that took me, just ask the NSA. They can totally verify my digital whereabouts. Note: Dear National Security Agency, thank you for backing me up. Also, while you may have read thousands upon thousands of texts between my sister and me, I’m not whiny or needy. She likes hearing every minute detail of my life. It makes her feel important (she’s welcome). And though her replies say things like, “Did you HAVE to send me a disgusting pic of your toe? It’s a spider bite. You’re not going to die, so stop freaking out.” When I saw her face-to-face, she hugged me and said, “I’m glad you reached out for help. As a woman with a degree in Biology and a mother of all boys, I was the most logical person to contact. Besides, I wanted to be there for you. Even mom was worried it would spread and you could lose your whole leg.”

Anyway, I digress. The point is that, using the criteria above, I created a list of ten agents and worked with an editor to craft the query letter and mini-proposal. Then I began submitting my work, and it was a mistake. Today I found out that Yahoo decided to “tag” every email with a similar Subject line (e.g. Query for your review), assume it was one conversation (regardless of the recipient), and combine them into one threaded discussion, so every agent can see exactly who I’ve contacted and what I said. Yes, really. It’s like Gossip Girl, the Mid-Life Crisis episode, with a splash of American Horror Story thrown in to mix things up a bit.

In any case, on the off-chance that a snowball landed in hell and one of those agents is visiting my blog (despite her better judgment), I sincerely apologize for the chaos and deeply appreciate your interest. I realize you may feel like you weren’t special, but I assure you that’s not the case. Hours upon hours went into finding you; and, like Herman Cain once said, “It’s true there were a lot of other women, but think of how many I didn’t bother.” Given that I just quoted him to help my case, perhaps hell really did just freeze over. That’s OK, I’ll ski that, too. Speaking of, I’m off to plan our trip out West. I mean really, how bad could it be?

Talk to you later.

Every day I write the book . . .

Happy 2014. With that, I have two things to share. First of all, I’m pleased to report that mkromd raised sixty dollars for Nathan Bransford’s annual Hooray for Heifer drive. Many thanks to those of you who posted comments (once or several times), joined my blog (you know who you are) or simply visited my karma ran over my dogma (the more the merrier). It was genuinely most appreciated.

Also, as always, we donated bees; because, let’s face it, the world needs them. If their job were left to people like me, everything on this planet would die. I’m not kidding. One could argue that I’m (literally) the Grim Reaper of gardening. Personally, however, I like to think of myself as a horticultural hospice worker, easing the transition, so plants can go to God without fear. They’re welcome.

Secondly, the manuscript is done, as in stick-a-fork-in-it-DONE. Since I’ve been asked to write a guest post about the experience, I won’t share too much here, only that I simply had no idea how hard it would be. All jokes aside, at each point, I thought the next phase would be easier and it never was. It was like Sisyphus, minus the cardio. Seriously, first you have to decide what to write. Then you have to write it. Then you have to muster the courage to submit it to an editor for style, flow, voice and grammar. If that doesn’t sound intimidating, keep in mind these are people who have absolutely no problem whatsoever letting you know the difference between, “you’re shit and your shit.” And the worst part is this: that’s their professional opinion, so it’s accurate. 

In any case, if you can survive making those edits and still have a sense of humor, you move into the next stage: the query letter and mini-proposal. Or, as I like to refer to this process, “shock and awe.” Not because of how fabulous it is, but because your writing takes ANOTHER pounding. You basically have to disregard everything you’ve learned from your writing coach, peer reviewers and editor. Then create a business proposal so agents and publishers are willing to look at the first fifty pages of your book, which have to be good enough to make them want to read the rest of it. It’s like a dysfunctional game of Chutes and Ladders with a pinch of Monopoly thrown in, “Your book didn’t get picked, go back to Start and do not collect $200 or a bottle of tequila on your way there.”

Anyway, as promised, when the guest post is released, I’ll share a link to it. In the meantime, thank you again for supporting Heifer. Talk to you later.

I wonder as I wander

I apologize for dropping the blogging ball lately. However, at the risk of blaming the victim, I swear I have a good reason. I’m still working on the Editor’s changes to my manuscript. And, while it’s true I got the edits in July, I had absolutely no idea how hard this process would be. But that’s the bad news. The good news is this: She likes it. In other words, if the journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step, I have my shoes on and tied, so wish me luck.

That being said, this post isn’t about my book. It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how it works . . . Every year, http://blog.nathanbransford.com sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each comment that you post below (until the first week of January 2014), I'll donate 25 cents on your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the fourth year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

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Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog, someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about Islam, then you probably know the following:
1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.
2. In most Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of your feet is like giving them the finger.
3. Either one of these things is offensive.
4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.

I now know that too.

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? Wow, me neither!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor . . . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you next week.