At 12:08 p.m. I typed the last word to book three, The Big Picture. I will now nap the rest of the week and eat bon-bons.

Actually I went directly to my car and down the road to McDonalds for a quarter- pounder, fries, and a shake. My mouth says, “Ohhh, thank you.” But my arteries say, “Can’t…breathe…please send help…like broccoli.”

And I think I scared the people at the drive-thru. Did you know when you order they take a picture of your car and then pull it up when you pay? They didn’t take my picture and things got messed up. The woman at the window said, “I don’t know why he didn’t get your picture. I guess he forgot.” But he didn’t take a picture of my car because I was hanging out of it. I went to McDonald’s in what I like to call my “last days of deadline attire.” Today’s selection was a pink wife beater, green cut off sweats, no makeup, and Frito breath. Obviously the teen boy in charge of car pictures and orders was so taken by my beauty, he forgot what he was doing. Few people can pull this look off. It either says, “I’ve been writing nonstop for days and days and hygiene is currently not a good use of my time.” OR “I like drinky, and I think my buddy Jack Daniels is super cool!” I totally should’ve gotten a free shake upgrade for their mistake.

So last week a few of us went to see the fabulous and currently sober Keith Urban. It was amazing. My sister-in-law had to take care of a sick family and couldn’t go, so I won’t gush too much. But that boy can sing AND play. And I’m not sure, but I think we had a moment. There was CLEARLY a time when our eyes met across the huge arena–when he looked up into the nosebleed section and thought…”Had I met you, girl who scares teen boys with your fashion violations, before Nicole…things might’ve been different.” I saw it.

“Though I look like I’m into this song, I am really scanning the crowd for some Arkansas ladies. Are there any in the house?”

“I enjoy picking and grinning. Do you?” Why yes! Yes, I do!

“I’m sorry I’m so sweaty. I just get so into my music.” Dude, I totally relate. Let me tell you about my trip to McDonald’s…

In the hotel the next morning, we are just lounging around watching Regis and Kelly (She’s skinny AND she has biceps. Why do we watch her?) and resting our vocal chords from the previous night of screaming. Then as we sit there in our pjs, the stinkin’ alarm goes off! IN the room! And then it starts talking. I can’t remember what it said. I was having flash backs to a few weeks ago when I set off my house alarm. But it said something like, “Get out, you lazy girls! You look like death and you need to shower, but now you can’t because this alarm is going off! And no, you can’t use the elevator because you will later eat your body weight in Cheesecake Factory cheesecake and need to burn off some calories! Go! Go!” So we scramble around for pants and bras (sound familiar? Geez, I think I’m just going to start sleeping in full attire.), giggle like maniacs (but I did think, if this is a fast burning fire, and I die because I had to stop and get a bra, I am going to be so ticked.), and race out the door. We follow a million EXIT signs until we actually do reach an exit and sprint down to the lobby. Where they look at us like idiots. Apparently it was just a mistake. They didn’t offer any free shake upgrades either.

On a different note, I was so sad last week to hear about Joel Siegel passing away of cancer. He had my dream job–to watch movies, give your opinion, and get paid for it! Nobody did it better–not even those two dolts who sit in the balcony. Joel had class.

Okay, I’m out. I am going to nap like I’ve never napped before.
And probably change my clothes at some point.
Maybe.

Here’s a tip. Don’t buy the Stouffer’s Corner Bistro smoked turkey club panini. I don’t really like those frozen things—they gross me out. But I thought—smoked turkey. How can you mess that up? Well, they did. I bit into it and thought, “That’s funny. This tastes like beef jerky.” But I had to be wrong. Turkey CANNOT taste like beef jerky. Bites two, three, and four confirmed that it indeed, did taste like dehydrated cow meat.

Speaking of beef jerky (which is always a delightful topic of conversation), Wal-Mart has these 100 calorie packs—of beef jerky. Okay, if you’re the type of person who eats that on a regular basis, you probably don’t give a flip how many calories are in it. Just a theory. And who exactly is the target market here? Can you imagine some guy packing it for a camping or hunting trip?
“What’cha got there Bubba?”
“Jerky. 100 calorie jerky. I’m watching my figure.”
“Your sissy jerky insults me! Get off my tree stand!”

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but in case you missed it or blocked it from memory, I like the occasional romance novel. Not the smutty gross ones. (No, really.) But there are a few authors who can truly mix romance, plot, and humor. Julia Quinn is one of those authors. So today I bought The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever. And yes, I know. I have a deadline. Thanks for the reminder. Anyway, I promise the ones I read really have a plot. (Though it STILL embarrasses me and my sister-in-law when my 35 year old brother picks one up and proceeds to read it aloud. Because it’s ALWAYS at a point that is…um….plotless. He’s been doing that since I was in the fifth grade reading Danielle Steele.) And usually leading men have strong, regal (read: hot) names like Chance, the Duke of Bradford, Drake, etc. What is the leading male’s name in this book? Nigel. Call me superficial, but this book has a strike against it already. WHO names the hot love interest NIGEL? Nigel is the name of a butler. Or the mysteriously feminine male cousin. NOT the name of the man our heroine is supposed to love forever despite all odds, mishaps, and evil twin sisters!

Speaking of names, I have a name dilemma myself. I have a character who was supposed to be minor, but yet…now he’s not. At first his name was Ryan (when he was just a blip in the book). Now he’s Tate. But I don’t know. Something about a one syllable name for a significant person in the book doesn’t appeal to me. (Though you have to admit, Tate is a cute name.) He’s seventeen and blond. Any suggestions? Other names I’m considering: Hayden, Dawson (too Katie Holmes though?), Spencer, and Riley. What do you think? Also if there are any teen girls in your vicinity, ask them which names resonates with them more.

If I don’t get an answer, I may have to go with…Nigel. Or Rupert. Or Otto.

Nine more days until my third book is due. And instead of sticking to my “I’m going to watch TV vs. read” idea—didn’t work. I can’t just go straight to bed. I’m in the habit of reading. But if I read, I have to finish the book, and that means I won’t be writing. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle. Like coloring your hair.

But I’m climbing back on the wagon I fell off of, and I’m not going to read anymore fiction until my deadline is past. Seriously. And I will be hunting down this show to be sure.

Honey: We’re Killing the Kids is one of those shows that sucks you in, and when it’s over you think, “I can’t believe I watched that.” Like Walker Texas Ranger.

So the basic premise is that this family has a diet/health coach and they’re all going to eat better and lose some weight—especially the kids, one who is obese—Twinkie Kid. But Twinkie Kid just steals the show. So the coach goes through the house and forces the family to throw out allll the bad stuff. But mom knows her little darlings probably have a secret stash. Sure enough this younger son, who is probably about ten, does indeed have some food stored away. When they finally find his stash in the laundry room (cause what kid would be in there? Genius!) and take away his last remaining Twinkie, he starts BAWLING. Am I the only one who relates to this moment? And they have to pry the unopened Twinkie from his mouth. As they’re grabbing it, the kid’s trying to eat it through the package. Because we all know if you can work a hole in that package, the Twinkie will squeeze out. Um…at least I know that. Anyway…

So at dinner mom makes vegetable risotto.
Twinkie Kid says, “I don’t want that crap. It tastes like dog doo-doo.”
“Oh, really? When was the last time you ate dog doo-doo?” asks a smirking dad.
“Last week.”

Now Twinkie Kid just does not give a rip about the show or eating healthy. He’s an amazing, convincing liar. And an accomplished puker. He PUKES on command! And in his thick southern accent he uses the word “crap” like an artist with paint. He provides lots of moments where you think Mom is just gonna lay into him, but she doesn’t.

The family is just a little bit country, and a little bit weird. As I mentioned, Twinkie Kid has VERY sensitive gag reflexes (They even send their camera crew into the school bathroom with him. I’d be using the word “crap” and telling people I ate dog poop too.)

But Mom finds she must celebrate the little things, as her family is not on board. After the vegetable risotto dinner (“This is crap!), she cleans up the table and says, ‘I didn’t have to clean up no puke. I’m so excited!”

You have to tune into this show. Then there will be two of us in the country watching it.

Back to my deadline and watching the summer hours tick by—in no particular order.
Next time: Keith Urban and having to evacuate the hotel. Good times.
Happy Belated Fourth!