After attending a friend’s Bar Mitzvah, Tanner came home chock full of wild stories of crazy chair dances and professional DJs and AWESOMELY delicious food and, oh yeah, how much freaking MONEY his friend scored when he turned thirteen. Because money is a BIG DEAL. I mean, think! That is a WHOLE LOT of Pokemon! Am I right? Huh? Am I right?

Tanner’s sisters were (to put it mildly) super impressed, all “Nuh-uh! NUH-UH!” and “No FAIR!” And Alli? I can only imagine she’s been giving the matter of Bar Mitzvah’s tons of thought, as evidenced by a recent conversation.

Alli had been sitting in my room with me as I read, an unusual, pensive moodiness about her. Suddenly, she broke the silence. “You know, if Tanner were Jewish,” she said conversationally, “he’d be totally rich right now.”

Tanner overheard. “I know, right?” he replied.

Alli shrugged a little “Well That’s That” kind of shrug and lapsed back into her broody silence.

I looked at my youngest daughter with my “Really? That’s That?” kind of look, but she didn’t notice. She was lost in her thoughts, her brows deeply furrowed behind her glasses. And those thoughts? Those she was lost in? Were some seriously mercenary thoughts, it turns out.

“We need our own coming of age ceremony!” she burst out a few moments later.

Tanner perked up at that. Because, hello? Money? And professional DJs?! And chair dancing?! And MONEY?!

Noticing Tanner’s interest, Alli began to expatiate on her totally BRILLIANT idea. “We could call it a… a… a Har Litzfah!” she said, her eyes dreamy and distant, “And we would… um… tell jokes instead of reading scriptures! And people would give us MONEY for being FUNNY! Because HAR Litzvah?! Like har har har?!” She clapped her hands, reveling in her brilliance.

And I was all, “Ooooh! Pun SNAP!” and there was a giving and receiving of high-fives all around.

In other news, that inappropriate-yet-impossible-to-resist punning thing? Totally genetic.

(Har Litzfah. Good Lord.)

DWM Clan 2010

Cat: “Guuuuull-iiiii… crap.”

Honestly. Damn that wild hair that compelled me to give my daughter the stupid Klutz Encyclopedia of Immaturity for Christmas. Damn it to hell!

Also, heh.

First of all, RUDE. I was a joy as a child. My teachers all said so. I’ll bet. I’m pretty sure. Probably. I mean, I was friendly, yo? With all the conversation-making and storytelling? And super helpful, too, especially when we had substitutes. They didn’t even need their lesson plans with me around, I tell you what. I mean, I was more than happy to point out all the class rules and procedures and not a bit shy to correct any divergance from The Way Things Should Be. I was just THAT helpful. The subs all thought so. I’ll bet. Probably.

Second of all, I momentarily forgot what I was talking about.

So… the curse. Right. Rewind to Sunday night when my kiddos insisted I watch (i.e., forced me to sit through) some random show about these real-life kid ghost hunters– whose legitimacy I totally call into question, by the way. I mean, what parent is all, “Sure, honey! You can stay out ALL NIGHT at that reportedly haunted hotel with a few of your friends and some super expensive night vision equipment, web cams, EMF devices, flux capacitors… Go on! Scoot!” Hey, I’m just saying the premise is flawed, is all.

Anyway, toward the end of the show, the token scaredy-cat girl was all, “Oh my gosh! I was literally scared to death!” and I grinned to myself because I AM just that much of an English geek.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one enjoying a bit of a laugh at the expense of the silly, scaredy-cat girl, who, quite frankly, should rethink her career choice because ghosts and haunted places? They’re SCARY, okay? That’s kind of the point. THINK about it. I’m only saying.

But I digress.

Before I could use this moment as a Teaching Opportunity (I think we’ve established my inherent geekiness, so shut it), I heard giggles. A smothered chuckle. Then, “Well, not literally,” my 13-year-old son drawled.

“I know, right?!” agreed my 11-year-old daughter in her I Scoff At Your Supreme Ignorance voice.

My 10-year-old daughter, perhaps for my benefit, added scornfully, “Because she’s still ALIVE?!” She turned toward me. “Right, Momma?”

Struck as I was by the astonishing degree to which my English Geekiness has rubbed off on my kiddos, I could only nod. She, apparently assured by my arrested expression that she had indeed got the joke, turned back toward the TV.

I couldn’t contain a small snort of laughter and a rueful shake of the head as it struck me that, by golly, my mother’s curse? Totally upon me. And you know what?

I’m not even a little sorry.

Okay, as my choices of foreign punctuation are limited on my iPhone… Ich werde Deutsch jetzt sprechen! Or something!

Darn. My choices of conversational German phrases are even more limited than my iPhone’s foreign punctuation options, so FINE. I will stick with stupid English for now. Under protest! Because it’s STUPID.

I had a point earlier. I’d better start anew.

Oh! Yes. With the afreshness of blogging. Blog Skillz 101. I’m so totally focused now. See, I’m out of practice. You know, with the blogging? It used to be that I would see something, or hear a noise, or eat a yummy pastry of some sort, and BOOM! Blog idea! But the blogging senses? When they are neglected? Underused? Cast aside, if you will? They get rusty.

I know, right?! I totally thought it would be like riding a bike, you know? Just hop back on and pedal like crazy, and VROOOM! Off you go! A blur of blonde pigtails and pink pedal pushers, with sparkly iridescent ribbons dancing in the sunlight as they stream from the handlebars…

You know, like that.

But NO. It has to be DIFFICULT. Like, what do I write about? Why aren’t those moments jumping out at me? The blog moments? The ones that practically scream, “Blog me! Good LORD, what are you waiting for?!” and I’m like, “Okay! I will! Shut up now!” and they are all, “Fine!” and I’m like, “Fine!” and then we kiss and make up because, honestly, it’s silly to fight with those moments because they are only trying to HELP.

So I am going to have to consciously LOOK for those moments and practice BLOG writing (as opposed to the OTHER type of writing I do all day long, which, incidentally, is one of the main factors contributing to my blogging slackage… just so’s you know).

So, yeah. Basic Blog Skillz 101. If anyone has any suggestions for curriculum, please let me know. Except if you’re going to say AI recaps because WE ARE NOT SPEAKING. And I don’t have cable, but that is secondary to the We Broke Up thing. I might be amenable to Chuck recaps, though, because DUDE. The TWoP Chuck recaps? Suck. I know, right? It’s a major disappointment in my life. Right up there with the fact that I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier. AND I didn’t get accepted into the Evil League of Evil. HUGE disappointment there, obviously.

But I’ve registered for the class and I’m a totally quick study– and a bit of a kiss-ass, truth be told– so I should be fine! It should be fine.

Right?

Right?

Right?!

So… now all I need is a few days of vacation and a freaking CLUE as to where I can find my mighty mojo o’ bloggerificness–which appears to be missing, yo?–and we’ll be good to go!

*sigh*

Whither has thou gone, mighty mojo? Whither?

Also, do you know what is an inherently funny word? Freckle. Right? Am I right? Honestly. When someone says “freckle” I just laugh and laugh…

Finally, you know that thing you do sometimes when you are all alone at night and you hear noises and maybe– perhaps!– get a little freaked out, and your heart begins racing at three times the rate of your normal cardiac cycle, so you grab a bat and you tiptoe from room to room throwing open closet and bathroom doors while letting loose with an ear-splitting “AAAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEGH!” and totally swinging that bat with all you’ve got? Because adrenaline is POWERFUL and you could probably do some DAMAGE if someone was actually behind said closet and bathroom door(s)? Also, it is good aerobic exercise? You know, that thing?

No?

Me neither. Tachycardia is nobody’s friend.

Dear Lady of Questionable Humor Who was Recently Burned by Twitter Tweets:

I’m sorry that because of something you wrote in your Twitter stream you had to suffer the indignity of having the police come and check on you and your children. I worry all the time that one of my neighbors will call the police or child protective services because I have a daughter that has the most HORRIFYING, piercing yell—I kid you not—and she has absolutely no qualms about shrieking at the top of her lungs for longer than one would believe is humanly possible if her older brother so much as looks at her wrong. Which he does. A LOT. To have the cops come because someone heard her screaming and thought someone was hurting her would be embarrassing and horrible and scary and did I mention TOTALLY EMBARRASSING?! I’ve tried to explain to her that there are “Good Samaritans” out there who could potentially call the police because they can hear her screaming, but she’s a child… and when it comes right down to it, it’s an impulse control issue and all we can do is work on it. That said, I’d be pissed if someone DID call the authorities, especially without talking to me first, but I would totally understand why. While I’d rather be approached first, I really wouldn’t expect a neighbor to come to my door and ask, “Excuse me, are you abusing your child in there?” Nah. Not many people would be brave enough to take that risk. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying.

That said…

I’m American. I don’t watch Fox news (I don’t watch any network news, actually). I do watch “Bones” and “House,” though, and they are on Fox so sometimes I see news commercials during the breaks, but I don’t think that should count because I am usually getting snacks and such, or spending quality time with my husband and children. And I live in the DC Metro area, which is technically “The South” if you go by the Mason-Dixon line, which I totally don’t because that line of demarcation is ancient HISTORY. But dude. Honestly. If you use Twitter, you have no expectation of privacy, unless you protect your updates. And frankly, I don’t know you from Adam, but after reading back through several of your Tweets, I know more about your battles with bipolar disorder, your strained relationship with your husband, and your discontent with your co-workers (and boss) than I think is entirely necessary. WAY more. Good LORD with the TMI, woman! But I have the ability to, you know, NOT follow you. Or read your blog. Which is cool. If I don’t appreciate your brand of humor, so what, right? In the big scheme of things, it don’t mattah. We don’t know each other. We’ll likely never meet, even if I do ever travel to Canada. It’s a big place. Whatever. My good opinion is nothing to you.

So please don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for emotional honesty. I’m all for snark. I’m all for cutting jokes and whatnot. And I get that you want to Keep It Real. Awesome. Go on and get down with your bad self. You have that right. You have the right to ask all of Twitter if it would be okay to smother your screaming child. Even if you are TOTALLY kidding! Ha ha! I get it. You’re like Michael Scott. You hope to someday live in a world where a person could tell a hilarious Child Abuse joke. I hear you. But sadly, that is not our world. Yet. (Fingers crossed!)

So all the Twitter Tweeters who read your “questionable” Tweet (and the others before it) have the right-—and some “Good Samaritans” would say the responsibility-—to think—perhaps!—that someone ought to make sure that you are not REALLY going to smother your child to get her to be quiet and go to sleep. Because mothers ACTUALLY DO THAT. A commenter confessed that she Tweeted that she wanted to flush her child down the toilet, and asked if that Tweet should have sent alarm bells going in the Twitterdom, too. Well, no, actually, it shouldn’t. Why should it? Because mothers CAN’T ACTUALLY DO THAT. Unless there is some super secret child-flushable toilet out there that only she knows of, but even I cannot willingly suspend disbelief on that one, and I watched ALL SEVEN seasons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I know, right?) Nor can you sell your child on eBay. Believe me. I’ve tried.

Wait! That was a joke.

You know, the image of the young mother Rowena smothering her three-year-old daughter in “Mary Jane Harper Cried Last Night” is STILL burned into my memory, and that came out in the 70s. THE 70s! I had nightmares! Didn’t want to sleep with a pillow anymore! Even though my momma was always super nice to me! But still! Hate Susan Dey to this… er, day! So there you go. You have willingly put yourself out there as a parent struggling through mental illness and the challenges of raising a family. So when you say something extreme, like “I want to kill my children,” this will lead to extreme reactions and/or responses. It will. You must have known that when you wrote it. Weren’t you trying to be shocking? Otherwise, a simple “My daughter won’t go to bed and she is driving me CRAAAZY…” would have sufficed. Extreme comments like yours set off alarm bells. They just do. And you can’t control the reaction you’ll get from readers who may not know you very well. Or, you know, at all. If you can’t understand that then maybe you shouldn’t be blogging. Or Twittering. At all. At least not in such a public forum.

Because sure, you have the right to Keep It Real and eschew “bullshit and fake honesty” in your own way. But if your exercise of that right in the public forum—where, again, people who see it may not (and most likely do not) know you personally—results in unintended negative consequences, then it is as Mark Twain wrote– that free speech “ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.”

Perhaps instead of complaining that concerned readers should take the time to read back over your past posts and Tweets and figure out for themselves that you were just making a twisted sort of emotionally honest joke, perhaps you could ask yourself to take a few moments before you post something that you know is shocking or questionable and ask yourself if it may be taken in the wrong spirit by other parents or people who just don’t get your brand of humor. Like, “Hey, if I announced to a random crowd at the mall that I wanted to kill my children or asked passerbyers at the grocery store if it would be okay to smother my screaming child, would that raise alarm bells?” If the answer is yes, then there you go. Instant filter. Problem solved. I’m just suggesting that self-censorship is necessary if you aren’t keen on serious backlash for hasty or controversial content you put out there for anyone to read. Unless you WANT a reaction, of course, in which case, just keep on keeping on.

It’s like I tell my children who have inherited my control freak gene:  “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” To me, that principle extends to how we present ourselves and who we let into our little space in the blog world. You may not be able to control what other people take away from your writing, but you can control how you present your thoughts and feelings. Raw honesty does not have to be shocking or vulgar. It just has to be real.

Again, I am so sorry you had to suffer the indignity of cops coming by to check on you and your family. I mean that sincerely. That must have sucked SO MUCH.

That’s all I have to say about that. I will now carry on living my life.

Do you follow?

So we were sitting down, having a nice little chat, when my dad leaned over my mother to ask if it would be difficult to get into DC to visit some places.

I asked, “Where do you want to go?” while mentally conjuring the Metro transit rail map.

“Well, I wanted to go to the Smithsonian…” he began.

Ah. See, there is a common misconception out there in the aether that the Smithsonian is one particular building in DC. This is not, in fact, the case. Let’s see…. you’ve got the more well-known Natural History Museum (check out the Hope Diamond!), the Air and Space Museum (ooooh! IMAX and Planetarium!), the National Portrait Gallery (don’t step too close to some of the exhibits… the sensors are freaking sensitive) and let’s not forget the National Zoo (Giant Pandas! Giant Pandas!). Then, of course, you’ve got your American Indian Museum, African Art Museum, your Postal Museum… and quite few more that I am much too lazy to look up, so there.

It’s evil I know, all show-offy and whatnot, but of course I asked, “Which one?”, and blinked innocently at the confused look on my dad’s face.

To his credit, I think he must have remembered my lecture on the Great Smithsonian Conundrum (yes! I’m a horrible geek! duh!) because he was only fazed for a moment.

“I wanted to see–”

And then it happened. The finishing each other’s sentences thing. (See? I’m focused! HA!)

My mom leaned over and butted in– er, interrupted– I mean, lovingly finished his thought, “Oh! He wants to go see the Aerosmith Museum!”

I blinked again, but this time in confusion. “The Aero…Smith… what?”

There was one of those pauses where it is completely silent except for the almost perceptible sound of cogs whirring and twirling in the collective brains of those assembled. As my dad and I began to snicker, my mom blurted out, “Oh! Air and Space! Air and Space!”

But it was too late. Oh, yes. Much too late.

My dad grinned. “Yeah, hon, I really wanted to hit that rock and roll museum… see all that rock star memorabilia?”

“Oh, sure! I’ll tell you how to get there! Just walk this waaaaaaay! talk this waaaay!”

My mom, adopting her patented I Totally Meant To Say That blasé attitude, was all, “Oh, you knew what I meant!” And just in case that wasn’t enough to save face, she quickly added, “Although an Aerosmith Museum would be pretty cool, come to think of it…”

My dad and I gave her a hard time of it for a few more minutes, after which I assured my father that I would make sure he got to see the Air and Space Museum.

Then I launched into my Smithsonian Conundrum spiel one more time for good measure, naturally.

Aaaaaaand now you know me better. You see? I can’t help how I am. It’s like the magnet my parents had on their refrigerator as I was growing up:

“Insanity is hereditary. I get it from my children.”

Wait… Hey!

Aaaaaand now I’ve gone all Theodor Seuss Geisel on your ass– er, bootays. How incredibly lame.

I need a vacation.

That being said, I have a story. It’s a good one. It involves six impatiently eager children, six gaily wrapped presents, one tinsel-covered Christmas tree, and a dream. Oh, and Uncle Ron. We can’t forget him. This story spans years and years and has recently come to a rather interesting conclusion. Or beginning. I don’t know…

When I gather the thoughts I’ve thunk, the keys I will plunk.

Oh, dear lord. I’m LAAAAAAAAAME.

Until I get my blog on, feel free to click over to TechnoGeekery for my latest shows:

TechnoGeekery Show #29: What the Widget?!

*TechnoGeekery Show #30: Send Videos…One Click!

Seriously. What the widget?! Did anyone ELSE know a person with Safari and Leopard could DO this?! SWEET.

* Plus, to prove people watch, I need your videos now! Send whatever you want, except porn ain’t allowed! (Hey, that sounds like a song…)

And, hey… did I mention the singing? Yep. I composed some original tunes and debuted them on my vidcast. I know, right? Sweet.

What can I say? I am ALL about the giving this holiday season. And my analogizin’ skillz coupled with the guitarin’ and singin’ and whatnot? Well, that’s just my little gift to you.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Oh. No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

NaNoWriMo, baby.

Honestly. Who knew that it was possible to be TOO thin? Well, apparently this is the case, if one slips the word “spread” before the “too thin” part. GOSH. Someone could have TOLD me!

In other news, TechnoGeekery Show #10: Scrapbooking… Taking it Techno, is now up at TechnoGeekery.com. Check it out! Digi-scrap is FUN! For the whole FAAAAAMILY!

So, without further ado… the DWM Clan unleashes their mad lip-syncing skillz on an unsuspecting public with…

Apologize by Timbaland fea. One Republic.

Yeah, baby. Sit back and enjoy. We’re taking it Old School.

Um, I don’t know what that means, really, the Old School thing, but… cool!

“Hey, Dad! Mom!” Alli suddenly piped up from the backseat. “That boy in the car next to us? He just waved at me gleefully!”

Tanner and Hannah snickered from the backseat.

“Did you say… ‘gleefully’?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice from breaking with the trill of laughter bubbling inside of me.

“Yeah! Look! He’s all waving at me gleefully!”

TGIM and I exchanged looks brimming with laughter.

“Yep. She’s your daughter,” he said.

*********

Conversation while watching Never Been Kissed, a movie throughout which Drew Barrymore’s character corrects the grammar of everyone around her:

After being asked where she was the night before, Drew’s character (Josie) answered, “Oh, I must have forgot.”

“‘Forgotten’,” Tanner quickly corrected, more to himself than anyone else. “She should have said, ‘I must have forgotten.’”

Silence. Then… “Very nice! High fives and kudos, my English geek son!” I gushed, near-bursting with motherly pride

With a half-proud, half-embarrassed grin, Tanner slapped my outstretched hand.

“NICE,” I repeated, shaking my head in admiration, before settling back to enjoy the rest of the movie.

Thus, my novel snappet, part deux:

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice deep and melodic. “I’m Finn.”

I stared at the sinewy pale hand he offered me—long fingers and firm, milky white skin (well, he’s obviously not a surfer, I surmised somewhat inanely)—and thought how unfair it was that even his hand was gorgeous. I was also strangely pleased that he hadn’t opted for the fist bump or the “‘Sup” with accompanying nod, like other boys I knew. He went for the handshake. A boy after my own heart. Still, I hesitated, and that is when I realized that his hand was actually shaking. It was subtle, barely noticeable. If I hadn’t been staring at his hand so closely, I probably would not have even noticed.

I looked at him, a slight quirk in one eyebrow and a question in my eyes. If anyone was supposed to be nervous, I thought the small, seemingly defenseless girl with the strange boy in her car would be the one allowed that honor. He stared back at me, no longer smiling, his eyes wide. Apprehensive, with a touch of defiance. His whole body seemed tensed up, every muscle tight. Except for the slight tremor in his hand, he looked as still and as immoveable as stone.

With a small, nervous laugh, I took Finn’s hand in mine. “I’m Juliet,” I said, and gave his hand one small shake. I remember my surprise that—even though it was unusually muggy for early November—as soon as his hand touched mine, all the hair on my body bristled as the air in the car grew warmer, literally crackling with static electricity. I also remember that as soon as I touched his hand, his body jolted as if shocked. Although it hardly seemed possible, his eyebrows flew even higher, almost disappearing into his hairline, and I swear all the blood drained from his face, evaporated, in an instant.

But as I tried to end the handshake and pull my hand from his grip, his fingers held me fast, his vice-like grip not giving an inch.

“Hey,” I started, but stopped before I finished the thought. I was too interested in his reaction to do more than just stare, my mouth hanging open like an idiot.

He didn’t say a word, seemed incapable of speaking, actually. Then, after a moment of staring down at our hands as if they were on fire, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, then opened them again and looked at me with the most radiant light gleaming in his eyes. Then, without letting go of my hand, reached out his other hand and brushed his fingers gently down my cheekbone, stopping at my jaw.

Okay, I knew this was weird. Very weird. If any other boy would have tried this, he’d have several broken fingers and be in serious danger of never fathering a child. But I was frozen. And I didn’t care.

I started slightly the moment his fingers first touched my cheek, but the look on his face held me fast. He appeared to be awestruck, which didn’t make any sense. His fingers were chilly, but warm and staticky all at the same time, and where he had touched, my skin burned. What is going on here? I wondered as his fingers traveled under my chin and back up the other side of my face, leaving a trail of tingling skin. I closed my eyes and gulped.

“Who are you?” I finally managed to squeak out. Lovely, Moss. Way to sound authoritative.

He let his hand drop and smiled back at me, his eyes bright and amused. “I already told you,” he said, “I’m Finn.”

I felt foolish. But he was confusing me, with his smiles and… well, the touching. “Okay, then, Finn,” I said, with extra emphasis on his name, “how about you give me back my hand now?”

“Sorry.” His grin told me he wasn’t really. He released my hand slowly, letting his fingers trail across my palm.

I shivered. Was it fear? Excitement?

He continued to stare at me. I fidgeted, unsure of what to do next. Introduce myself? Scream for help? Grab his gorgeous face and kiss him? I groaned inwardly. Oh, man, what is wrong with me?

Finally, after what felt like hours—but was probably no more than a few minutes—he spoke again. “The question is,” he said, quirking one black eyebrow, “who are you?”

Honestly. Why are the prettiest ones always the dumbest?

“I already told you,” I said slowly, as if introducing a new concept to a two-year-old. “Me?” I pointed to myself, “Juliet. You,” I poked him in the chest, “Finn.”

He smirked. “I know who you are, Juliet Moss.”

I rolled my eyes. “Then why did you ask?” I asked with an exaggerated air of patience, struggling to hold back a smile. I couldn’t understand it, but I was much more comfortable than I would have thought I’d be with a strange, beautiful, possibly psychotic boy sitting in my car.

“I suppose what I should have asked is,” here he paused and tilted his head thoughtfully, “what are you?”

“What am I?”

He nodded. And darned if he didn’t look as if he expected me to answer.

“What am I?” I repeated, my voice rising on the last word. I mean, the nerve. “Well, last time I checked I was a seventeen-year-old girl with a rude, freakish boy sitting in my car.” I paused. “Uninvited, I might add.”

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, a slight frown drawing his strange eyebrows closer together.

It was completely illogical, but I didn’t. Not yet. “No, you can stay,” I said, keeping my voice as nonchalant as possible. I shrugged and added, “Whatever.”

“Gee, thanks,” he replied, grinning. He tore his eyes away from mine for a moment, and his gaze quickly swept the parking lot again.

“Hey, wait,” I said, suddenly remembering the company he had been keeping earlier, “weren’t you with Becca and her posse? So where are they?” I glanced around the parking lot, too, but we were still alone. “How’d you get here?” I asked, my eyes narrowing—I hoped—menacingly.

He looked at me as if he were trying to figure out something. I stared back, struggling to appear more confident than I felt. Finally he nodded, as if he had come to some sort of decision. “I walked. It’s not that far from where the guys are surfing.”

For the first time I really noticed his clothing. Where was his wetsuit? He was dressed in pale, faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt, not exactly beach wear. I looked down at his feet—where instead of the flip-flops or canvas shoes, he had on athletic shoes—and noticed they didn’t have a speck of sand on them. I frowned. “You walked?”

He looked guilty, but only for a split second. “I wasn’t in the mood to surf,” he said defensively, but offered no more explanation. “And then I saw you here and I wanted to come by and make sure you were okay, you know, after that fall you took in the hall today and everything.” He cringed. “That looked like it hurt.”

“Yeah, about that. Thanks for helping me. The whole staring stupidly and the not helping me pick up my books thing? You’re my hero.”

He had the grace to look shamefaced. “I was just surprised. I don’t have beautiful girls tripping over me in the halls very often, you know.”

I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks, and I laughed shakily to cover my embarrassment. “Nice save,” I brushed a stray piece of hair out of my face self-consciously. “I mean, that didn’t sound like a line at all,” I said in a tone that I hoped conveyed a perfect blend of irony and cynicism.

A sudden shrill ringing made both of us jump. I dragged my gaze away from Finn for a moment to grab my purse and fish out my cell phone. I rolled my eyes at Finn after a quick glance at my caller ID.

“I have to take this,” I said apologetically.

Finn opened his mouth to say something, but I shushed him and held up my finger to indicate I’d be just a minute. I turned my back to him and flipped open the phone.

“Not now, Lucy,” I hissed before she could say a word.

“But—”

“It’s kind of a bad time. I’ll call you back.”

“Juliet Moss, don’t you dare hang—”

I clicked the phone shut. Illogical or not, I was embarrassingly eager to resume my conversation with the mysterious Finn. I dropped my phone into my purse and turned around. “Now back to you lame excuses…” I started, but instead of the mystery boy I expected to see, there was only an empty seat. I quickly scanned the parking lot and beach, but it was no use.

He was gone.

So, that was my seventeenth birthday. And nothing says “happy birthday” like vandalism, mysterious gifts from beyond the grave, and being held hostage in you own car by strange (albeit beautiful) boys.

During the short drive home from the beach, I replayed the encounter with Finn over and over in my head. My reaction to him confused me. I was inexplicably drawn to him, and that scared me more than I cared to admit, even to myself. He was beautiful, yes, but there were moments in the car when the late afternoon sunlight hit his face just right—illuminating dark, slanted eyebrows over eyes so deeply blue the hue was almost lost in darkness—when he looked, well, downright devilish. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something very strange about that boy, something not quite right. Something dangerous.

It’s later now—almost midnight—and I have moved from my cozy spot in the window seat to the snuggly warmth of my bed. I have just returned from a foraging excursion to the kitchen. In my excitement to record every moment of this day for posterity, I forgot to eat and my stomach wouldn’t shut up about it. And the apple and lukewarm cola on my dresser? Not particularly appetizing at ten to midnight. I wonder if this is what they mean by “suffering for my art”?

Lucy and the boys returned from their respective evenings out about twenty minutes ago. Lucy and Perry went straight to their bedrooms within minutes of straggling in, but I can still hear Dean and Janie going at it out on the porch. Which, gross. At times like this I can’t help but curse Dad for moving us into Joan’s house, which comes fully equipped with a wraparound porch and a creaking porch swing—unfortunately situated directly under my window—where horny teenagers with seriously impressive stamina could lose themselves in the shadows.

Honestly. I don’t think it is at all appropriate that Perry—or any of us, for that matter—be exposed to the whispering, the occasional low moans, and the rhythmic squeaking of the swing, drifting in though my window from the darkened porch below. Plus, how is a person supposed to get any sleep with… all that going on? That’s all I’m saying.

There. I just yelled, “Get a room, you two!” By the outraged huffing and the muttered curses I’m hearing now, I think they got the message.

Blessed silence.

Goodness. I am weary, y’all. Weary, I tell you. I have no energy for original thought today. None. Nada. Zilch. My mind? Blown by the idiocy.

So that is all I have to say about that. Instead, because of my weariness, I shall simply post another snippet from my novel. Okay, it’s a bit more than a snippet. What does that make it, then?… A snappet?

Plus, I’m going to try out my new (to me) “Read the rest of this entry…” link feature. So, yay me!

With no further ado, I present to you… a snappet of my novel in progress:

It took me all of ten minutes spent sifting through my favorite DVD’s to decide I didn’t want to waste the rest of the evening watching a movie all by my lonesome. I grabbed my keys and headed out to my car.

I drove aimlessly for over an hour. The houses—striking and inviting individually— began to blend together, identities lost in the sameness dictated by homeowner association bylaws. No garage doors left open, no cars parked on the street, no lawns with grass more than two inches high. I wondered vaguely if I should be frightened by the Stepford Wifeyness of it all, but I had too much on my mind to be amused by my own dumb attempts at humor.

I honestly had no plans to head for the ocean. I certainly didn’t want to see Becca or Dean or any of that crew, but somehow I ended up at the edge of our local beach, staring out at the seemingly endless miles of rippling green and blue. I had unofficially designated this particular section of the beach as my own private sanctuary. It was usually deserted; the imposing rocks and gravelly sand didn’t exactly provide an inviting venue for surf and sun.

I parked in the furthest space from the lot entrance and set my emergency break. I took my keys out of the ignition and dropped them into my purse, slowly unrolled my window—just a crack—then reclined my seat and closed my eyes.

Even with the window cracked, there was a sultry oppressiveness in the air, but I basked in the warmth, feeling momentarily peaceful in my quiet globe of heat. It reminded me of when, at six years old, I would spend hours lazing in one of the elaborate blanket forts I used to erect in our living room. Oh, how my mother hated those forts. Where I saw a magical fortress of solitude–however stuffy–she saw three rumpled beds she had to remake.

Mom.

I struggled to banish the sudden ache I felt by concentrating on the rhythmic lapping of the waves surging to shore, dashing against rocks and rolling over sand, before pulling away again. For a few moments, nothing but the steady surge of waves and the gentle thump of my heartbeat interrupted the stillness of the haze-hushed afternoon.

It couldn’t last, of course. I felt uneasy. I couldn’t pinpoint the source of the problem, but something seemed off. I mean, unless I had merely imagined the voice—which, the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that was the case—there was a distinct possibility that my mother was alive. Shouldn’t I be elated? Shout for joy? Put on some happy tunes and dance the night away? Happy freaking birthday, right?

Yet, when I thought about the sudden chill I had felt earlier when I heard the movement in the kitchen, my apprehension increased. Paranoia, I told myself. Of course I freaked out. Strange noises? Big, empty house? It’s a given. Chill yourself.

But still, a ripple of anxiety nagged at me.

Did my mother leave the necklace? If so, why? Where did she go? Why didn’t she stay and talk to me? Why, why, why, why—

I must have dozed off. The next thing I remember, a sharp rap on the passenger-side window nearly put me through the roof.

“Mom?” I croaked, my eyes fluttering open. I quickly turned toward the window… and froze. Sapphire eyes on a pale, curious face peered in at me through the window.

Everything—breath, sound, time, everything—stood still for just a second. I honestly think my heart stopped beating for a moment… then it beat a hearty ba-bump, setting everything in motion again.

It wasn’t fair. Power locks hadn’t even been invented in the sixties. Me and my stupid Mustang obsession. Why couldn’t I have a nice Audi like everybody else?

The boy was staring down at me, his eyes wide, full of… something. Was it confusion? Wonder? As I scrunched back in my seat, as far away from him as possible, I quickly brainstormed several different ways to defend myself. Is he mental? I wondered as I studied his face, my fingers slowly inching towards my purse (I always carry pepper spray and a tazer—a gal’s got to be prepared). Looking back, that may have been a bit unfair. I mean, he didn’t actually look deranged or anything. I blame his eyebrows. Dark, thick, and slanted upwards at the ends, they gave him an unusual, satyric look. Dangerous.

A thrill of genuine fear ran through me as our eyes locked, each of us trying to gauge what the other was going to do. I tensed, ready to spring into action if he so much as moved a muscle. The heaviness that had been pressing on me, on my heart, since the reappearance of my mom’s necklace, had lifted, replaced with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Kicking ass and taking names, that I could do. Honestly, Mr. Reed certainly couldn’t get mad at me for defending myself, now could he?

I watched as the boy’s eyes, deep and troubled under those strange brows, darted around the parking lot. What, was he making sure the coast was clear? When I almost giggled at my unintentional pun, I realized that perhaps I needed to take this whole situation a bit more seriously.

And then I recognized him. He was the boy from the hall—and Becca’s car. The dark-haired mystery boy. Well, that’s just great, I thought. I wasn’t ready for them yet. Honestly, all I needed was Becca and Janie sauntering up to my car with Dean and Kyler trailing behind, gunning for another round of Kick Juliet While She’s Down. That would really make my birthday complete. I wondered if Dean would join in this time, or if he’d just pretend to be Switzerland again.

Instinctively, however, I knew we were alone.

“Hey, I know you,” I rasped out, my breathy voice surprising me. As I cleared my throat, I thought, “I know you”? Really, Juliet? Lame. Incredibly lame. What was wrong with me today? Trying to regain my composure, I added, “And stop staring at me like that.”

He continued to stare at me. Didn’t even blink. I’m not going to lie, he was freaking me out. Especially with those eyebrows arching up at me, all gothic and whatnot. Seriously. He could give Heathcliff a run for his money. (Ms. L would no doubt be impressed with this literary reference. She’d probably be rethinking that whole “You never pay attention, Juliet Moss” comment right about now.)

I realized I was holding tight to the steering wheel, using every ounce of strength I possessed to calm my heart, which was beating so fiercely I worried it would break right through my ribcage. I was on an adrenaline overdose, but something kept me from crying out. Not that it mattered if I did, seeing as nobody was around to hear me. Nice going, moron. Park away from the crowd. Might as well just hang a sign on the bumper saying, “Welcome, weirdos! Attack me!”

Then, before I could move or scream, he wrenched the passenger-side door open and slipped inside, dropping into the seat next to me with a sigh, apparently satisfied he and I were safe from any prying eyes.

As I watched him pull the door shut and turn toward me, on some level I knew I should have been afraid, screaming, scrambling to get out off the car before he pulled a knife or a gun and carjacked me, then killed me and stuffed my battered, bleeding body in the trunk of my car, where I would be discovered a week later in the deserted lot behind a Seven Eleven after the stench of my rotting corpse alerted passing motorists to my tragically deceased whereabouts. Instead, I stared at him with wide, startled eyes. In my defense, I just couldn’t help myself. He was so… pretty. Dangerously pretty.

Yes. Me? Shallow. Deal with it.

Seriously, he could have been a serial killer, but I’ll be damned if I could tear my eyes away from his. I held my breath as his deep blue eyes bored into mine, intense and questioning… Good lord almighty, I thought, he is totally going to kill me dead and I wonder if my hair is as tangly and hideous as I think it is and, wow, how gorgeous are those thick, black eyelashes against his pale skin?

“Did I say you could sit there?” I managed to say. It came out much less intimidating than I intended, so I glared at him for emphasis.

Then he smiled. Hand to God, he smiled, flashed a set of beautiful white teeth my way.

It was like all the air came back into my lungs at once—whoosh!—and I gasped.

Of course, I knew all about boys and their pearly-white flashy smiles, so I wasn’t about to be taken in by this weirdo, no matter how attractively his coal black hair swept across his forehead or how appealingly his eyebrows framed his eyes or how well his plain white t-shirt seemed to fit across his chest. I mean, he just up and jumped right into my car. All beautiful and whatnot. And smelling of the ocean. That was weird, right?

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice deep and melodic. “I’m Finn.”