Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Black and White

Confession #1:

Labor Day is a stones throw away and I'm missing a pair of white pants. I own three pairs that currently fit my 50 something frame. One is a white, capri length, denim. The pockets help disguise my pancake flat ass but the fabric doesn't hug me and I either pull up the waist after every twist, bend or reach, or I strut a droopy butt.

The other two are exactly the same if it were not for the stains. They are made from a forgiving fabric that looks too tight when I put them on and too loose after the first fifteen minutes.

How do you lose a pair of pants? They're not at the dry cleaners. I didn't lend them to anyone. I don't remember coming home without pants.

Confession #2:

I am currently working on an article for The New York Times. It  doesn't mean they will accept it, but if I tell YOU I'm doing it, I'll follow through with it. I promise to edit it before I submit it.

It will be the first piece I've submitted on my own. It's a good story. It's a true story. It will make a few people squirm but that won't stop me. It never does. If anything, it motivates me.

Confession #3:

Burning Man started on Monday, August 27th and I'm not there. It would have been year 10 for me but I didn't want to jeopardize my health and the position of my noobs. Besides, I have too many restrictions - must wear a surgical bra, no biking, no lifting more than 5 pounds, no riding the flying pig or the penis seesaw, no bouncing, no climbing, no sliding, no falling, no dancing till dawn...

Confession #4:

My noobs have a mind of their own. My noobs fell. The right one went first. It fell all the way down to the lower lip of my ribcage. The left one is following. My doctors revisions didn't hold. I am discouraged. Now, instead of my next surgery being about getting nipples, I'm getting cadaver skin. It's either that or they start ripping muscle from my back or from my pancake flat ass.

None of this would be necessary if DICDOC didn't fuck up. This will make 5 surgeries in 6 months. I'm worried I'm getting addicted to the anesthesia. Or to bright lights. Or to the smell and stain of iodine.

Red Dance - Burning Man 2011 
Flaunt them while you've got them.

Confession #5:

I am afraid that if I skip a year at Burning Man I'll never go back. I'm afraid I'll miss something good - something big. I'm afraid not going will tame me.

I sold my ticket to Burning Man weeks ago and then the buyer changed her mind and cancelled her check.

Now I have a ticket, compromised noobs, and a relentless yearning to roll and suck in the dust. So... I'm going.

Mentally, I'm already there.

Live video from Black Rock City with BMIR radio in the background. 
Look for a Green Monkey with a big heart, swinging from something fun.

Stream videos at Ustream 


Tuesday, August 14, 2012


Alphie and Malachy McCourt

I am back from a memoir festival at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York. Omega is a spiritual retreat that provides workshops meant to enrich and deepen your sense of purpose and unleash your souls true potential. 

I walked in without expectations and was blown away by what I heard, what I learned, who I met, and what I wrote. I think we all felt this way - even the teachers.

I worried sharing might be involved, so I packed a safe piece that I tweaked and re-tweaked for more than three years. It's terrible how we writers (notice I just called myself a writer) second guess our words, our story, our gift.

When I walked into the classroom I spotted a familiar face - a talented writer I met at my last Omega workshop over two years ago. I was happy to see her but instantly knew I would not be able to recite my safe piece because I played that card, in her presence, at my last Omega Workshop. Damn, I am so stuck when it comes to my writing.

Not only had I forgotten to pack my "writing beads" - blessed, hand strung, rudraksha seeds, given to me by my dear friend, Aloha Steve - I now had no work to show-cast my brilliance.

Shoeless, the bottoms of my feet form sweat against the brittle, low pile carpet, and I curl my toes to air them out.

Somewhere between invigorating instruction and the witnessing of raw, human tragedy balanced with tearful triumph, I lost my inhibitions. You have no idea how good this feels. I am free to write. It doesn't matter that I rarely read books, or that I have little formal education after high school, or that no one I loved and admired ever acknowledged my gift. I have a story to tell. It is unique to me, and it is delicious.

Excerpts from my writing during and immediately following the Omega Memoir Festival. 
The scene begins shortly after my arrival.

I am drinking straight from the bottle when she walks in. And I am topless.

I hear the porch door open - hear the creek of flaccid floorboards. I stare at the knob and wait. I tell you it did not turn. The door flies open. And there I am - sucking straight from a bottle of gin.

I say gin because I recently heard a man say that gin is what country songs are steeped in. Gin will make you leave your wife, quit your job and kick your dog – and you should never kick your dog.

Okay, it wasn’t gin. It was wine. And not the good stuff. I was sucking on a $9.00 bottle of slightly chilled, California chardonnay.  Even so…

Her eyes popped. She was stuck on my mounds. My ridiculous, uneven, mounds –  500 cc silicone implants swaddled in torn muscle and taut skin.

I have no nipples. No areola. In its place are red, raw, seven inch scars. I’m proud of my scars. They comfort me. They prove to me that I am cancer free.

I wish I remembered to pack a glass. I wish I drank gin.

I put down my bottle, and put on a commanding stance. My Zen is gone.

This is not drunken vision. Yes, its true there are two beds here but I tell you, I paid for one. I reluctantly agreed to share a bathroom but NOT a bedroom. That is where I draw the line. It’s not that I am spoiled. True I brought my own pillow, my overstuffed down pillow, and my 700 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and my cashmere blanket - just incase the nights are cool. But I assure you, I am NOT spoiled.

I have proof of my single occupancy room. I have an email confirmation, which I cannot access due to the lack of internet service. I would call if only there was a phone in the room, or if I had cellular service. Instead, I parade down the beaten path in my very best, commanding stance.

I’d let her stay if only she wasn’t so pretty. And thin. And smartly dressed. Her breasts look real. Her hair, despite the humidity, is sleek and straight. Those are freshly pedicured toes. I can tell. And what size rock is that on her finger? It’s gaudy and tasteless and she really must go.

I am beat red by the time I reach guest services. I consider playing the pink card – the breast cancer card, but I’m not quite sure how that warrants a single occupancy room. I remember a friend telling me how, because of a recent staff infection, she is guaranteed a private room during hospital stays. I think about inheriting my friends staff infection, then decide its not worth the karma.

I stop short of stomping my feat. I don’t need to play the pink card, or the bitch card, or the contagious card. This situation, misconstrued as catastrophic in my vivid, vast, wild, imagination, is easily resolved. It is a mistake. A simple, human mistake.

I climbed the beaten path with an elongated stride. I am victorious. The room is mine.

She is waiting for me, sitting perfectly still on the edge of MY bed.

"They want to see you immediately," I tell her.

"Please inform the persons responsible for my luggage that I may or may-not be staying here," she asks, in a dismissive tone.

"Certainly," I assure her.

She turns to exit and misses the distinct, wink of my eye and the flip of my middle finger. I will tell no one, that's for certain. "Good riddance," I whisper.

Directly across from my room, is another room. Curiosity gets the best of me and I gingerly guide the tips of my fingers to the cusp of the nob and turn it. It is unlocked. Ever so slowly, I open the door and peak in.

This unoccupied room also has two single beds, two dressers, two lamps, one fan, and one sink. We are even.

A stack of exactly 10 waxed, Dixie cups form a silo in the center of a two drawer, cedar dresser that evenly divides the room. I wonder who decides how many cups to deal out. Is this a single occupancy stack of waxed Dixie cups or a double? Regardless, I will not drink my cheap wine from a waxed, Dixie cup. That, I cannot, will not, do.

Down the hallway from the adjacent bedrooms are two additional, closet sized rooms - one on the left and the other on the right. The left room has a toilet. And a window. And it is open.  The right room has a shower. And a window. And it closed. It's a good thing that its closed because the screen behind it is busted. The closed window show-casses a multitude of curled dead insects - burly black spiders, daddy longlegs, bee's, and ants.

Just outside the window, beyond the badly weathered back side of the cabin, are lush woodlands bustling with the sounds of rustling leaves, queer chirps, and lyrical whistles.

I'll bathe in my bedroom sink, I think.

Organic, vegan meals are served, buffet style, in the main dining hall from 6:00 to 7:15 pm. I am hungry but that gurgling sound is eclipsed by my worry of her return. And so, I suck straight from my bottle of slightly chilled chardonnay, and I wait.

After a comfortable amount of time passes, and the warmth of a wine buzz is achieved, I exit my room.

Dinner for me, is always the same - a heaping salad topped with feta cheese, hard boiled eggs and a dollop of hummus.

Class begins at 8:00 pm sharp.

"Please don't be in my class. Please, please, please don't be in my class," I chant as I climb the hillside from the dining hall to my classroom. What are the odds that this bitch of an almost roommate will be in my class?

I am sweaty and winded by the time I pull on the double french doors and I blame the added weight of my backpack stuffed with my 15 inch laptop, collapsable umbrella, flash light, bug spray, makeup bag, wallet, and water bottle.

I pick a comfortable spot in the back of the room and immediately recognize a familiar face - a women I met over two years ago while attending another writing workshop at Omega. I sprint towards here, stop short of hugging her, fearful she'll detect my lack of confidence.

The class begins.

I am captivated by the level of talent in this room. Acclaimed writers, actors, painters, storytellers, with their eyes wide and their minds pointed at me.

At first I am convinced I don't belong here but all that wilts away when my fellow writers - students sitting in the same chairs as me - share their work.

They write about what haunts them, what propels them, what they gnaw on in the lonely hours of a sleepless night. They cry. I cry. They laugh, we all laugh.

What surprises me the most is that I do not compare. I am not jealous. This is not a competion. This is so freeing. "We each have a unique story to tell," says Malachy McCourt. And I believe him.

By Saturday night I am half-way through my second bottle of luke warm chardonnay. I write late into the night without feeling lonely.

I've passed my almost roommate once or twice along the hillside that leads towards the cabins but we've both managed to look the other way.

I've never seen her in the dining hall. I'm convinced she doesn't eat. That would explain her sleek physique.

When Sunday morning comes, I wrestle the courage to read my short, 3 minute memoir to my classmates and teachers.

"Do it, just do it. Do what scares you Mom," my son, Kerry guides me from his all knowing place. I hear his words as clearly as if he were standing right beside me.

I stuff my backpack with the usual essentials, then decide my nerves demand one more bathroom break.

I enter the closet sized bathroom with a book from my new, favorite author - Andre Dubus. I flip the pages without reading a word and fantasize about his rugged good looks.

photo courtesy of On Writing

His head-shot does not do him justice. Not since the late 80's has a man wearing Levi's and cowboy boots, caught my fancy. I wonder about his hair - his full head of wavy, wet-look, chestnut brown, hair. Does he color it? I don't think so. Does he work out? Absofuckinglutely. His upper torso is broad and firm. I'm guessing there are 6 pack abs hiding under that baby blue, prima cotton, button down shirt. I can't believe he's my age. I bet his wife is blonde. He's electric - his words, his bravado, the way he commands a room. Even so, I miss half of what he's saying. I am focused on the hook of his thumbs in the front band of his well fitted, Levi's. Over and over again, I count his 8 dangling fingers - dangling right in front of where his male appendage hides. I strain to find an outline. Is he a left handed writer or a right handed writer?

I am startled by the unbolting sound of a now, wide open, bathroom door.

It is her. It is HER!!!

My almost roommate, dressed in a too-tight tank top and I-know-my-ass-looks-great-in-these-yoga pants, is glaring down at me in utter disgust.

"Close the door!" I shout. 
"Lock the door!" she retorts.

I manage to leave my embarrassment behind when I take the podium and read my 3 minute memoir. A story about the delicate circumstances surrounding my almost roommate.


"I think I did outrageous things so that I'd have something to write about," said Malachy McCourt at the closing of the Memoir Festival.

I think peculiar things happen to me so that I will have something to write about.

Either way, there is a delicious story brewing inside of me. And I am eager to begin.


Thank you Kathy and Andre, for looking me straight in the eye and saying, "You really should read it." 

Thanks to my fellow classmate who ended her 3 minute memoir with the word, "Delicious."

And special thanks to the team of talent that lead us through three, glorious, shame and fear fueled days: 

 Marta Szabo
Fred Poole 
Linda St. John 
Peter Birkenhead
Melissa Coleman 
Andre Dubus III 
Alphie McCourt 
Malachy McCourt 

Peter Birkenhead, Melissa Coleman, Andre Dubus, Fred Poole

More about the memoirists:

Malachy McCourt, an actor, singer, and raconteur, is as moving and entertaining in real life as he is in his many books, including the best-sellling, highly acclaimed memoir, A Monk Swimming. 

Alphie McCourt is author of A Long Stone's Throw. One of the famed McCourt brothers, he has written for the Washington Post, The Villager, the Limerick Leader, and Icons magazine.

Melissa Coleman is author of the New York Times best-selling memoir This Life is in Your Hands. She is a columnist for Maine and Maine Home and Design magazines. melissacoleman.com 

Andre Dubus III, author of the memoir Townie, is perhaps best known for his novel, House of Sand and Fog, a #1 New York Times best seller and an Oprah Book Club Selection. andredubus.com 

Peter Birkenhead, a stage and television actor, and author of the memoir, Gonville, is a contributor to Salon.com, Marie Claire, GQ, the Los Angeles Times, and the Chicago Tribune. peterbirkenhead.com

Linda St. John is an acclaimed artist and author of the memoir, Even Dogs Go Home to Die. She is the proprietor of D.L. Cerney, a gallery and shop in the East Village of Manhattan. dicerne.com

Information about the memoirists was taken from Omega Institute 2012 catalog. 

Yet another disclaimer: 
That last scene, the bathroom scene, is fiction. Except for the part about me fantasizing about Andre Dubus. I'm still fantasizing about him if you really must know. I also don't own a cashmere blanket and I forgot to pack my cotton sheets. There was not an ant in the window but I just wrote about ants so I wanted to add ants. So... technically speaking this is NOT a memoir. This is Creative Non-Fiction. Of course, if I let enough time pass, I will convince myself that things unfolded just the way I wrote them. 

Thursday, August 9, 2012

The Kettle Boils

I enter my kitchen at quarter past seven and glide barefoot across cool, travertine tiles. My goal is simple - make a pot of perfectly brewed coffee.

Because the packaging says DO NOT REFRIGERATE, I keep my coffee in a hand-painted, terra-cotta canister that rests an arms length away from my copper tea kettle. I love that kettle but it’s hard to keep clean.

I fill my lovely, copper kettle with cold, filtered water. I scoop 5 mounds of freshly ground coffee into a sleek, stainless steel, french press. I add a pinch or two of cinnamon. I wait for the kettle to boil.

Miss Phoebe, my spoiled, tuxedo cat, watches - just as she always does. Today, she is clearly annoyed. She meows and meows and rubs herself against me. I understand this, not so, cryptic message. Her yellow, egg-shaped bowl is empty. She wants HER food - tiny, morsels of catchow that wait for her each morning.

"It's that time of the year," I remind her. Steamy days, so wicked those pesky, little brown ants seek relief inside. You can't leave food out. Not even CAT food. If you do, those pesky, little brown ants will fester and flourish till mid October.

Miss Phoebe is accustomed to eating on demand and she's pissed, really pissed, because her yellow, egg-shaped bowl is empty. Not half full, but empty. And washed clean. No smells, no crumbs. Just shiny, clean yellow.

The kettle boils. I fill the french press three quarters of the way, then warm three quarters of a cup of skim milk in the microwave. I beat the warm milk with my nifty little, handheld frother - my favorite kitchen gadget.

The kitchen smells so good.

I pour my first cup of perfectly brewed coffee and stir in a teaspoon of brown, raw sugar. I top it off with several dollops of richly lathered milk.

It is delicious.

I sit on the cool kitchen tiles, sip my coffee, and toss treats - one by one - to Miss Phoebe. Sometimes I make her do tricks - "sit" "sit up" and "fetch." Mostly, I just let her have them. 

I'm hungry. I wait to see if the coffee fills me. When it doesn't, I open the cabinet in search of my harvest nut mix. I pop the plastic lid open, grab a handful and toss it into my mouth. I chew it slowly, hoping it will satisfy me.

It doesn't. I take another handful. Chew it slowly. Swallow.

I study my harvest nut mix, unsure if I want one...more... handful. 

There, diving between peanuts and raisins and almonds and walnuts are THOUSANDS of little brown ants!

I sprint to the kitchen sink, and spit out what’s left in my mouth.

I wash my mouth out with tap water. Rinse spit, rinse spit, over and over again.

I take a several deep, long breaths - try my best to calm the fuck down.

I go back to sipping my coffee. It is delicious.

My mind wanders... what if? what if?

I lunge for the terra-cotta canister, pull out the foiled pouch of coffee and half-eye its contents. It too is loaded with little brown ants.

The cat flits her tail – she is amused.

I am on my way to a Memoir Festival in Rhinebeck, New York. I will join the McCourt brothers, Malachy and Alphie, along with an eclectic group of published, and want-to-be published, memoirists.

No internet, or cell phone service. No meat and no wine, unless I pack a cooler.

I'm staying in a single, non-airconditioned room with a shared bath. I'm worried about the shared bath. I'm worried about little brown ants. And writing. And how frightening this all is. And how good it feels to do the things that frighten you.


To all of you who comment kindly on my writing, thank you for reminding me that, published or not, this is my gift.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


When I'm not blogging, I am a licensed Private Investigator - also known as, a PI, a Private Dick, a Dick for Hire.

No seriously, I am.
You don't believe me do you?

Well, lets put your judgement aside for the moment and focus on today's post...

Still perplexed by my recent excommunication from the INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP, I took it upon myself to do a bit of PRIVATE DICK WORK (or PDW as we professionals call it), and set out to investigate it's 259 group members.

Initially, I focused on the members first Wednesday of the month post for the month of August and discovered that 27 of them had omitted it all together.

I then reviewed the post activity of the 27 offenders over the past six months and discovered that 9 of them were repeat offenders.

Then I wondered about the other 232 members. Sure, they remembered to post on the first Wednesday in August, but what about March, April, May, June, and July?

I was SHOCKED by the results.

Out of the 232 members who remembered to post on the first Wednesday of August,
17 of them missed a post in the past 6 months,
3 had posted on the second Wednesday of the month,
and 1, crazy fuck did it on a Tuesday.

I then took a long look at the posts generated by the 259 members on days other than the first Wednesday of the month and realized that there was more going on here then simply purging insecurities.

All of the 259 members of the INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP had interactive, engaging qualities about them. They participated in Blog Hops, Blog Fests, and Blog Giveaways. They entered contests and accepted awards.

What this behavior has to do with writing is unclear to me, but even so, this is something I NEVER DO.


But first, promise me you won't [unfollow me] if you fall into any of these categories:

* I hate those cutesy, bobble-headed, blogger heading, cartoon characters meant to characterize the writer.

* If you are an insecure writer and you have a baby and write about it ALL THE TIME or even just sometimes, I can't read about it without gagging.

* I'm just not that into science fiction. There... I said it.

* If you've been published, I am jealous. Not just a little bit jealous. I'm steaming, toss a bunny into a boiling pot, jealous.

What if the real reason why I was tossed out of THE INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP is because of over-exposure? Me, the inner workings of my twisted mind, or worse, my outer shell debauchery - the graphic photo's chronicling my journey from sutures, swelling and bruising, to lopsided lumps, to perky noobs.

OHHHH..... I so, so, SO want to gain the love, attention, and acceptance of INSECURE WRITER'S everywhere. So much so that I've decided to host my very own, first ever...


You're excited about this, I can tell.

All you have to do is guess my favorite shade of GREEN.

For those of you wondering how many shades of green there are, Wikipedia boasts there are 64 pages of green that range from "Ao" to "Viridian."

However, not to freak you out but, Yahoo claims there are 32 million different shades, and therefor approximately 1 million shades of green.

And, if you Google search it, there are 3850000 answers to the question.

Did I just freak you out?

Okay, stay calm. Keep your eye on the prize.

The grand prize (are you ready) for guessing my favorite shade of GREEN is...(drum roll please) 

Not ONE, but TWO pairs of slightly used surgery socks!  

The pair on the left came from Memorial Sloan Kettering. The pair on the right came from Stamford Hospital. Sadly, Greenwich Hospital didn't give me any socks. Or if they did, they didn't let me take them home. Or maybe the bonus, scratched cornea they gave me, caused me to overlook them when I packed up my belongings.

REGARDLESS.... these shades of grey surgery socks can be YOURS!!! 

See, there is an up side to having four surgeries, in less than five months, in three different hospitals. If you're lucky enough to make it out alive, you get these socks.

Now YOU can have these socks without ever having to step into an operating room!

More about the socks...

The pair on the left are rough and scratchy on the outside but soft and fluffy on the inside. 
The pair on the right, despite the slip resistant design, are soft and fluffy on the outside and scratchy on the inside (this makes NO sense, right?).

See... not all surgery socks are alike. Now I'm wondering how many different types of surgery socks there are. And are they all grey? And if so, why?

But before we uncover that mystery, why not take a guess.

Good luck to everyone and may the best insecure writer/reader win!

xo, MOnkeyME


All stats compiled during the investigation of the members of THE INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP were compiled under the influence of bowls of wine and therefor may not accurately reflect their posts, the post counts (I suck at math), or the character of its members.

The content of this post is meant to be humorous and should not, in any way, be taken seriously. Except for my statement regarding bloggers writing about their baby's.

If none of this makes sense thats because you didn't read my last post titled, INSECURITY.

The title of this post has very little to do with the post itself but was designed to lure you in. And you fell for it.

Finally, by reading this post, you are hereby sworn under oath, not to turn me in for the following infraction:

I unscrambled the secret entry code and reinstated myself as a proud member of THE INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

IN security

OH.... no you didn't! How does this happen? Oh damn, I know how it happened. UGH... this is the worst, the absolute worst thing that can happen to a writer.

I've been kicked out of the INSECURE WRITER'S GROUP. 

This is as bad as it gets. I so deserve to be in this group. They didn't even warn me. They excommunicated me when I wasn't looking. Damn them! Damn me!

Oh... I've got a plan. I'll play the PINK CARD. Damn it, where did I put that pink card? I can't find it.

Okay, never mind, I'll beg...

Oh Dear Holy Father of Toad, Masterminds of, Puppeteers behind, the Insecure Writers Group... forgive me for I have sinned. I have forgotten to post on the first Wednesday of the month. I am flawed. I am not proud. Please give me a second chance. 

(flip side of a Gemini)

Did no one tell you I'm recovering from breast cancer? Have you not been reading MY blog? Did you not even bother to look at the pictures? I've got a whole section on it here - CATSTIR the other C word that rhymes with Dancer. And Sunday's post was my version of Show and Tell, or TMI. Did you miss the Monkey ME post too?

Okay, no worries. I forgive you. Shit happens. Let's move forward. Let's focus on getting me reinstated. I need that membership more than I need a pink ribbon. Do what you can and do it quick, ok?

In the meantime... I've hooked a new reader and she's reading a LOT of my posts. Thank you new reader (you know who you are). Her reading me has prompted me to read me and I'm convinced that most of what I write is CRAP. Okay, some of it is still okay, but a lot of it is CRAP (I love saying CRAP). What should I do about that? Keep writing, right?

In the process of me reading me, I was reminded of a fellow writer, a once upon a time follower, who would comment, kindly. I went back to her site and discovered she's even more brilliant now then she was then. And she's finished several books. And I'm still whimpering. Pathetic little monkey I am.

She drinks coffee in the morning and wine in the evening (I've been doing it all wrong). She writes humorous, romantic fiction (is there such a thing as humorous, romantic non-fiction?) She's adorable, in her sassy blonde do. And now, without further ado, let me introduce to you, Talli Roland.

Oh... I'm sorry. Did you think an interview would follow? I don't actually know her. I just read her. Thats the thing about some bloggers, the more you read them, the more you think you know them.

It's not like I think I have wine with her. Or share a kitten with her. I don't know where she lives, exactly. She won't tell me. I could stand on the streets of London and wait for her to drive by in her chartreuse, convertible mini-cooper, but THAT would be creepy, RIGHT? I can't decide.

OKAY... lets pretend I'm talking to her.

Hi Talli! Is that your real name? How many kittens do you have? Have you ever been asked to reset Big Ben? Do you love it in London? How often does it rain, really? Do the drapes match the carpet? Was that too personal? Did I cross another line? How do you know when to put the cup down and when to pick the glass up? Could you explain it to me, S L O W L Y. Are you mad at me for snagged your photo? Should I put it back? Love, MOnkeyME

I wonder if she'll respond.
I wonder if they'll let me back in the group.
I wonder if there really is a CAT OLYMPICS?

I can't get enough of Her Royal Highness. If you don't know her, or about Debra Who Seeks, you simply MUST seek her out. She's very witty and wise and whimsical and... (need more "W" words), whippersnappercal!  AND, she reads me. And, I read her too. And, so should you. Go do it. Do it now. Do it before the pole vaulting begins.

By the way...

Last night, after several bowls of wine, I did a front pike somersault and a full-twisting double dismount and landed right on my head. And STILL I remembered its the first Wednesday of the month. Time for my INSECURE WRITERS GROUP post.  A group I'm no longer part of....

Oh no, woe is XO, MonkeyME

Thank you google search, to photobucket, for that great insecurity picture.
(the last thing I need to do is piss off google, or photobucket, or the internet powers that be)

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Shannon E. Kennedy


Photo by Joan Harrison