You Know It’s Spring When the Birds Won’t Shut the Fuck Up

 For this blogpost ONLY, I’m gonna go work first, family second, because, hey, that’s TALKER up there, the anthology, with all three of the stories in it, and it’s going to be out in PAPERBACK in May, and… on Gods.  They’re beautiful.  That’s Tate and Brian, and the skimpy Sacrament Skyline, and pain and redemption and a Happy Ever After that is so hard-earned it makes me cry.

It seems to have made a lot of you cry too.

I’m so happy.  I just really am.  Something about having that book, in your hand, in paper.  I believe in e-books, but yeah.  Paper.  Makes a difference!

And Country Mouse!  Now, if you’ve pre-ordered from Riptide, it should be on your e-readers sometime this weekend (WOOT!) and if you’re waiting for amazon.com or ARe, it should be out Monday–and yeah.  I’m a little psyched–and a little anxious, like I am for all my new releases.  But this one, my first co-write–dudes.  I guess my biggest fear is that everyone’s gonna wonder what the elegant and stylish Aleksandr is doing slumming with the frumpy, house-wifey Amy.  My other biggest fear is that Aleks will ask himself the same question, because I WANNA WRITE THE SEQUEL!

*bounces*  Shall we do the prayer?  Shall we?  Because I think I need it.  I do.  Okay, everyone– repeat after me:

Holy Goddess, Merciful God, LET IT NOT SUCK!  Canyagimmehallelujia?  Iknewyoucouldamen!

 And this one is coming!  I’m going to say this again–this has the original very short stories incorporated into a WHOLE DANG NOVEL. Like, if you subtracted the short story contact, it would still be novel length!  Thought I should make that clear– some people seem to think they’ve already read Jace and Quent– but if they haven’t read this, they’ve only read Quent–and only a little bit of him, because he’s got more to share:-)  Gambling Men— preorder when you can:-)

And one more thing– the Dreamspinner Daily Dose is available for pre-sale.  Now, I’ve got a story in this one– Do-over, and I’m sort of proud of it, even though it’s really short.  For one thing, I’d just finished Chase and Sidecar and Mourning Heaven, and when I contemplated this story, I had this grim, dark vision of a man pissing away his life on drugs and one night stands and getting a chance for a do-over with the man he should have hooked up with way back when.  And then my angst-dragon whimpered from abuse and overwork, and my snarky-smart-assed dragon bit my head and said, “Hey, bitch!  I wanna fuckin’ turn!”  And Do-over became snarky and adorable, and, well, basically what I’ve been calling Code Blue.  So, think of it this way.  I’ve got stories like Bewitched by Bella’s Brother and If I Must and Winter Courtship and Country Mouse and Gambling Men which are essentially low-angst (I won’t say NO angst) and lots of sweetness and hotness and romance.  Those are my Code Blue stories.  Then I have Chase in Shadow and The Locker Room and Talker, which are Code Red stories.  So when you think about the little gem of Do-over, think of it as more like Code TURQUOISE, and then set yourself up to enjoy:-)

And that’s business for the moment– and yeah, business is good.  But the home front has some stories to tell as well.

Let’s start with T.

Big T is my angel of mercy when I go grocery shopping during the week, because he’s usually home when I get home with a car full of grocery, and he’s good at refrigerator Tetris, so we can fit it all in the refrigerator.  So the other day, he was helping me with, well, a fuckton of groceries, and he eyed the pile on the kitchen floor grimly.

“I thought you were just supposed to get milk?” He said, looking at me with narrow eyes.

“Well yeah,” I replied.  “But I was just…”

He shook his head (a lot like his father, if he knew it) and said, “You walk into the store, say, ‘Oh, it’s milk!’, and turn around and go home!'”

I was giggling too much to defend my honor.  It was really masterfully done in a house that thrives on sarcasm, and mama was proud!

And move on to Zoomboy.

The other day, Zoomboy got out of the bathtub and I went down the hall to put his sister in.  I came back, and Zoomboy was standing up in the living room.  He was naked.

“Zoomboy, put some clothes on!”

He looked up from his Top Ramen and grinned, then put it down in a rush and ran away.  Mate, Chicken, and T all watched his bare ass disappearing down the hall with faintly guilty eyes.

“He was naked?”  Mate asked, like he didn’t notice, and I nodded.

“Yeah.  Naked.”

Chicken started giggling.  “We didn’t even notice!”

Big T said, “I didn’t wander around naked–“

“When you were thirteen,” I snapped.  “You stopped when you were twelve!”

Zoomboy came back with his clothes on and picked up his Ramen and Mate and I didn’t stop giggling for half an hour.

And Squish–

Squish’s big accomplishment is reading books on Monet, DaVinci, Michelangelo, Matisse, Renoir, and other masters of the art world and deciding who she wants to be like.

Mary Cassatt.

She’s going to be magnificent.

And Chicken and Mate?

Well,  see, the thing is, her cat Gordy has allergies.  Every year, he spends a month being allergic to his own skin and trying to gnaw a hole through it.  We get him prednezone, a steroid, and he gets over his neurotic cat self, and gets better.

Now we’ve all seen those, “How to give a cat a pill,” spams– and they’re still funny because they’re hella true.  Giving a cat a pill is an exercise in futility.  Giving a cat a syringe full of steroids, orally?  Don’t get me started.  But we get better as we give the steroids–more practiced, firmer with Chicken’s neurotic cat, whatever.  Anyway.

The birds have been out and about– they wake us in the morning, make us wish we were gun-toting folks, that sort of thing.  So the other night, Mate was giving Gordy his big syringe of steroids, and he hit the target.  Literally, full dosage, right down the gullet.  About an hour later, cat is freaking the fuck out.  SOMETHING under the blanket has his attention.

“Oh, Gordy!  Did we find a toy!”  I coo, thinking it’s cute as hell.  Mate, who doesn’t need corrective lenses, starts calling Chicken.

“Chicken!  Get out here and deal with your cat!”

“What?  He’s playing with a blanket!”

“Now pick up the blanket,” he says patiently.

“Oh look,” she says, not freaked out, “it’s a bird!”

“Oh FUCK!” I say, obviously freaked out, “IT’S A FUCKING BIRD!”

So the cat grabs the bird, runs out of the house (because the back door’s open because it’s getting warmer at night, and THEN, runs back in, dead bird still in mouth as he zooms around the house.

“Close the fucking door!” Chicken hollers as he goes outside again, and we do, and don’t even admonish her for her profanity, because really, who can blame her?

Anyway, Gordie’s ‘roid rage rampage was not over that night, because he came back in later with a moth the size of his head, body tucked in his mouth proudly, wings literally WHIRRING as the poor bug tried to get the holy fuck out of there.  We have no idea if the bug survived or not, but Gordie went outside and continued to terrorize wildlife before coming in to sleep off the hangover.

This morning, Steve came running into the room and stood up, paws on headboard, to look out the window and let out that wistful chatter-bark that is a signal of wistful bloodlust in your average lazy-as-hall feline.  Poor Steve–she’s got the heart of a house cat with no roid rage to fuel her inner jaguar.

Thank the Goddess, cause who needs another fucking zombie bird!