Your Fake Service Dog is Ruining It for Legit Ones

This is Teddy. Services he provides include: licking sticky
fingers, assertive snuggling, and eating
rejected crusts of toast.

Fourth of July Weekend is a big thing in my hometown. Like, ridiculously big. The locals in the town which, nine months out of the year, is a small, closely-knit community brace themselves for the onslaught of tourists who really do act as if they own the place.

We locals do our shopping on Wednesday, and stock up, because going to Safeway on the holiday weekend is the stuff of crazy-making. Standing in line behind an entitled doofus who is outraged over the lack of gluten-free beer selection is never high on my list of "good times."

Unfortunately, Curlytop needed a pair of sunglasses because hers went missing or got broken or were stolen by faeries, so I had to brave the variety store.

Standing at the spinning display of kids' shades while Curlytop tried on every... single... pair (because, you know, they have to feel right, and if they smell different than the others, that's noteworthy, too), we were nearly knocked over by a dog.

A big one.

A Great Dane.

I nearly lit into the handler, but then I noticed the vest.

The dog was wearing a blue vest which read, "Service Animal." It had pockets on it, and it was filthy. I could hardly make out the words, for all the dirt and grime on the vest.

I hesitated, thinking maybe the dog was just so big, it had a hard time getting through the narrow walkways between the display racks, but then I saw the dog was literally pulling its handler along, and bounding down the aisles, stopping to sniff at every passerby and end-cap.

I hope I don't have to tell you that this is not how service dogs behave.

I know, because I have clients who train service dogs. I have a daughter in vet school who occasionally fosters and works with service dogs in training. I have spent time around many a service dog, and this dog was doing it wrong.

See, it's become pretty easy to "authenticate" a fake service dog, and people are doing it in droves. Seriously, I can go to eBay right now, and get a "service dog" vest with authentic-looking information cards with an official-looking seal, telling all about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) -- for less than twenty bucks for either Teddy or Kipper. Neither of them has had any training, save for learning to tolerate Curlytop and Snugglebug dressing them up in doll clothes and costume jewelry.

To be clear, I am not talking about Emotional Support Animals (ESAs), which have a much lower standard to meet, as regards a public access test. ESAs need generally only be able to follow simple commands, behave on-leash, and not show aggression toward other animals or humans. I have friends who gain comfort and assistance from ESAs, and that is not what I'm talking about, here. (ESAs are NOT protected under federal law, by the way.)

I'm talking about service animals, which, by definition, must have accessory training beyond standard obedience courses, and must provide particular assistance to their humans. The assistance might be seizure detection, boundary protection to an autistic individual, support for the hearing- or sight-impaired, carrying of medical equipment, or any other number of support duties performed by service animals.

These animals and their owners, rightly, are protected by federal law.

Having a legitimate service animal means the owner is saying, "I have a disability, and this animal is necessary for my day-to-day functioning." Of course, federal law prohibits asking what that disability is, but but it does allow establishments to ask two things:

• Is the dog required because of a disability? (Again, establishments cannot ask what the disability is)
• What specific service or task is the dog trained to provide?

But, here's the rub... Businesses are often afraid to ask, because they either aren't aware of what they can ask, or they aren't informed as what to ask. Some businesses aren't even aware that they can ask the animal to leave, if it becomes disruptive or a danger or threat to the health of others. If they ask the wrong thing, or ask the dog to be removed improperly, they can get sued. Further, they have to take the answers to the two allowed questions at face value, because even legitimate service dogs don't have to be certified, by law.

And so, we have an onslaught of fake "service dogs" jumping up on people, knocking things over in stores, sniffing crotches, toileting in public venues and acting like general -- well, animals. And not well-trained ones.

How does this hurt anyone? Well, the service animal owner in this article says she's questioned more and more about the status of her seeing eye dog. This article shares the many ways fake service dogs harm business, legitimate service dog handlers, the dogs themselves, and the owners. 

In short, these fake "service dogs" are making the real ones look bad, and it's calling into question the legitimacy of much-needed companions for those with disabilities.

You may think your dog is well-behaved enough to pass a rigorous behavior test, and it may be. You may have the best-behaved dog, most well-trained dog on the planet. However, you devalue the legitimacy of disabilities suffered by real people when you fake a disability of your own.

My daughters are autistic. They may, someday, require a service dog. Currently, we are looking into how to appropriately and legally provide them with access to an ESA, which we know won't cover all the bases, but we are hoping it can help them to cope with certain high-stress situations which provide common triggers for them. I've discussed it with their therapist, and together, as a team, we are analyzing whether or not it would be appropriate for them, and how best to proceed.

When and if it does become necessary for us to seek service dog for them, I would hope that they and their service companions will not be subjected to doubt, disrespect, or denial of the legitimacy of their needs. 

There are plenty of businesses which are pet-friendly, and the list is growing. Rather than "faking it," I'm asking those of you who love your pets to please show support of those businesses in your area which have opened their doors to your pet, by shopping and enjoying those spaces with your buddy... without a "service animal" vest and fake "certification" from a sketchy website.

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Seeing Red

Photo credit

A few weeks ago at the dental office, Curlytop looked up from her book and said, “Mom, tomorrow is my last day of first grade… Do second graders get to eat Red Dye?”

“Not you, Sweetie – you’re allergic, and so is Snugglebug.”

The color drained from the dental assistant’s face. She’d just finished cleaning Snugglebug’s teeth, a small tub of RED cleansing paste still in hand. “You didn’t use that on my daughter, did you?” I asked, stupidly. Of course, she had.

At that moment, our dentist popped his head in. “How’s it going, here?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, Doc, I’m a bit alarmed and concerned, since Snugglebug was just treated with red paste.”

He blinked. “But, she’s allergic to Red Dye.”

“Yeah. I know.” I’ve come to believe some medical professionals have hair-trigger backpedalling devices installed during their schooling which activate in response to potential liability, and our dentist didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I know you SAY she’s allergic to Red Dye, but – you know – is it REALLY an allergy? I mean, is it a documented allergy?”

“Well, it’s well-documented with our pediatrician, school nutritionist, neurologist, developmental specialist, five different therapists, and YOUR OWN RECORDS, as evidenced by the all-caps words on that screen.” I pointed to the screen next to him. “Do you need more documentation? I’m sure I can dig it up.”

I could tell our doc was getting a little nervous. “What sort of allergy is it? Do they break out in hives, or what?”

“It’s pretty much straight neurotoxicity. Curlytop has seizures.” I paused, letting that sink in a bit. “Oh, and they do this self-injurious behavior thing where they tear and bite their skin open. It’s a fairly awesome spectacle.”

“Uh-huh… Well, that sounds pretty serious, so, uh… well… erm…”

I took the time to text Mr. Wright: I think you’d better head to the dental office. I’m about to lose my sh*t with our dentist.

Then, I returned my attention to the stammering dentist. “I want a printout of the ingredients in that paste. Like, now.”

The dentist hustled off to find the data, and I was left with the wilting hygenist. “I actually don’t think it has Red Dye in it,” she said, hopefully.

“Really? What do you think makes it bright red?” As it turned out, there were two Red Dye ingredients, according to the emergency hotline for the manufacturer.

Most of the hubbub had died down by the time Mr. Wright arrived, and I informed him we had a rough night ahead of us, following Snugglebug’s exposure.

“I didn’t know whether to contact our attorney, or not,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure we can document this and ensure it doesn’t happen again on our own,” I assured him.

“I meant for YOU. Where’s the bloodbath? I was looking forward to seeing you in action. I even have popcorn out in the car!”

Is it any wonder I love him so?

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Things I Accidentally Taught My Kids

Curlytop, age 15 months
"Shhhh, Mama... you've said enough, already."

I’m the proud mother of two of the best little mimics on the planet. That means Curlytop and Snugglebug say, “No, thank you,” when they actually mean, “Not if my life depended on it,” and “Bless you,” for coughs as well as sneezes—because their mother believes a coughing body needs as many blessings as a sneezing one. Instead of “I hate that,” they dutifully respond, “That’s not my favorite,” when offered a food they don’t care for.

Unfortunately, they’ve also picked up some rather curious lingual patterns.

They’ve confused more than one waitress by expressly requesting a “cow burger,” because I feel it’s important for them to know hamburgers are made from cows, not from ham. They’ll also vocalize their preference for either “cow milk” or “soy milk,” depending on the kid, the day, or the mood.

Neither of my darlings actually knows how to “pet” an animal, but they routinely ask, “May I ‘softly’ the kitty?” due to my repeated cries of “Softly! Softly!” every time they reach for an animal.

I had no idea how deeply my chronic migraines were affecting my kids until I asked Curlytop to pick her dirty clothes up from the floor and she refused, claiming, “I need to lie down in the dark, ‘cause my head is making me sick. You just need to leave me alone and be quiet, okay?”

Ever vigilant of the girls’ sensitivity to food dye, I had a proud moment a few weeks ago when Curlytop refused a red lollipop from a bank teller, saying, “I’m allergic to Red Dye 40. Do you have a yellow one?”

This morning, Snugglebug disagreed with me about the best use of her time. I suggested she put her dirty cup in the sink, before she wanted to play outside. Tears ensued. “That makes me very, very serious,” she insisted. This, my friends, was the moment I realized I only say, “Listen to me—I’m serious!” when I am, in fact, running out of patience and on the verge of a mommy meltdown. My poor kid thinks “serious” is a synonym for “ticked off, and about to boil in my own rage.”

I got another dose of my own medicine the other day when I denied Curlytop a sixth gumdrop, and the enraged kindergartner fired my own words back at me—“Don’t you tell me ‘no.’ That’s not a nice way to talk!” In my defense, I was a bartender for years, and I’m well aware of the signs of over-service. The kid had reached her gumdrop limit, and probably should have been cut off after the third.

Some kids relish the thought of an adventure, but no phrase will ruin Snugglebug’s day like hearing, “You’re going on an adventure with Daddy!” Somewhere along the way, she figured out “adventure” is code for “a very long day, cooped up in the car while Daddy takes pictures of property for his real estate business.” I’m a fan of deductive reasoning, but do they have to learn so quickly?

I overheard Curlytop cry, “Are you kidding me?!” the other day when a crayon broke while she was coloring. I’ll confess to being the source of that phrase of frustration—one I adopted only after Mr. Wright insisted I stop using more colorful exclamations within earshot of the children.

Last week the girls were playing with their dolls in an adjacent room, and I heard the sounds of an imagined family scene—a mother making food, a father working, children playing… It wasn’t long before the mother doll’s “voice” instructed the children, “You don’t have to like your food, but you do have to eat TWO BITES before you can leave the table,” closely followed by, “I am NOT impressed with that behavior.”

It turns out I’m not the only role model around here.

A couple weeks ago, Snugglebug said, “When I get big, I want to have a big, big tummy… Just like Daddy!”

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I Am SO Blogging About This!

“In case you were unaware… asking permission to write about you in my blog is just a courtesy. I cite the first amendment, public domain, and the fair use limitation. Have a nice day.” 


— Auntie Social, roller derby athlete with East Bay Roller Derby

Mr. Wright has taken to saying, when he does something particularly humiliating, “You can’t blog about this!” As if I would do anything to embarrass my darling husband. Okay, maybe I would. But – to slaughter an American Express slogan – “bloggership has its privileges.”

I’m not a journalist, so please don’t look to my book or blog for fair, balanced reporting on the things that happen to or around me. Like my namesake (Hunter S. Thompson, the original Gonzo McGonzopants), I can’t help but give my slant on events.

Perhaps Mr. Wright needs to start his own blog.

It’s powerful stuff, blogging. People have actually said to Mr. Wright, “Please don’t tell your wife about this. I’d hate to have her blog about it,” thus inferring I have absolutely no common sense or a shred of prudence. I actually do try to use a modicum of grace and self-censorship when deciding what to blog:

• Will my kids require therapy if I post this? 
• Will Mr. Wright divorce me? 
• Will the FBI show up at my door? 
• How about CPS?

Fortunately, I’m happily self-(un)employed, so I don’t have to worry about a pesky employer objecting to what I write.

Mr. Editor excluded, of course.

There was one guy, an anti-fan I call Doctor Grumpenstein, who sent Mr. Wright a scathing message on Facebook after I blogged about another guy openly cheating on his wife at a convention. He told Mr. Wright I was an embarrassment, and the only thing anyone should be ashamed of was my decision to blog about what I’d witnessed. It basically made me cry, the way I do when Cantina runs out of Southern Comfort.

Then, I checked my blog hits. The thousands and thousands of hits were still there, and I was receiving an inbox full of emails, thanking me for speaking out against infidelity. Doctor Grumpenstein was totally wrong when he declared “no one” reads my “tabloid of a blog.”

Perhaps Doctor Grumpenstein needs to start his own blog, too. He can blog about bloggers who are blogging about things that shouldn’t be blogged about. Heck, I’d read that!

If I know you in real life or online, there’s a chance I might blog about you. If I see you out in public, you might find yourself in one of my posts. If you tell me, “You can’t blog about this,” there’s an increased probability I will do just that. If I share a bed or a dinner table with you, you can bank on being given a codename and your very own “tag.”

I’m thinking of changing my book marketing pitch to: If you don’t buy my book, I will blog about you. What’s your privacy worth? Ten bucks or more? I do take orders online.

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Finding My Skate Legs

Photo by Hayley of Hayley's Horror Hut

In case you haven’t heard, Wenatchee is starting a roller derby league. The Gonzo Mama can’t resist becoming a public spectacle, so I’ve signed up with Apple City Roller Derby.

The pre-registration packet said I’d need skates, insurance, and a commitment to learning a new sport. I love learning new things, and Obama’s cronies promised I’ll have health insurance. Riedell makes a vegan skate. (A bit pricey, no? Have I pointed out my PayPal donation button lately?) When I found out I’d be wearing hot pants and fishnet tights, it pretty much sealed the deal.

Nothing highlights cellulite like hot pants.



Did you know the nearest skating rink is in Soap Lake? Well, it is. I’m sure nothing pleased the proprietor more than the prospect of a herd of adult women in leg warmers descending upon the rink every weekend as they endeavored to find their “skate legs.”

Sure, we have some young ones – and by “young,” I mean under mid-thirties – but a large percentage of the girls are, well, like me. Thirtysomethings with kids, spouses or significant others, the occasional gray hair beneath the most recent application of L’Oreal, and some of us can even remember when all hair spray came in aerosol cans.

You know, girls who learned the facts of life by watching The Facts of Life.

Incidentally, I’ve noticed I’m beginning to get wrinkles around and under some of my facial features. I’ve also developed one deep crease between my eyes, which tells me I worry too much, and no wrinkles across my forehead, because nothing really surprises me at this point in my life.

The point of skating on weekends is not to learn the sport of roller derby, but to get us used to being on wheels. Not just wheels, but two-in-the-front and two-in-the-back wheels, because most of us were also alive for the inline skate revolution, but it’s really not the same. A lot of us haven’t been on quads in twenty years.

I assured myself of utter humiliation by taking my teenaged daughters to the first skate night I attended. Nothing makes you look like a stumbling old broad like being flanked by two agile teen girls who may as well have been born with wheels.

Nothing, that is, except a six-year-old dynamo who’s training for the national speed skating championship. This little tyke celebrated each corner by crouching down, grabbing her outside skate, and cornering on one foot. “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I said. “Can you show me how to do that?”

The wee wheeler looked me up and down. “No... I don’t think so.”

For the rest of the night, she gave me the stare-down every time she turned a corner. I could read her thoughts: You can’t do it, you stumbling old broad!

Suddenly, I understood derby lust. That night, I learned what it really meant to want to send a girl home with rink rash. So what if she was only six? We’ve all gotta start somewhere.


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I Really Need Your Help. It Might Even Be an Emergency. WIN a Copy of My Book, Too!

Photo source

I went to my first roller derby meeting last night. It was very eye-opening, and almost scary enough to make me say, "Sorry... I must've walked into the wrong meeting," and walk out. But not quite.

2011 is my Year of YES. (More on this in next week's column.) It means I'm saying yes to things that ultimately terrify me, but I know I can conquer.

One of those things is public speaking. I hate public speaking. In fact, in my high school speech class, I had to give a demonstration speech, and my hands were shaking so uncontrollably, I dropped all my props and failed the speech. My Speech grade left an ugly blemish on an otherwise stellar academic record. Well, that, and Wood Shop. Whatever.

Anyway, I walked into Mr. Editor's office at my home paper, the Lake Chelan Mirror, whining because someone was mean to me on Facebook. It's unremarkable that some people don't like me (and by "some people," I mean that one woman who really hates me), because I do tend to be a bit opinionated and often come across as pushy in written discussion. However, this particular (different than "that one woman who really hates me") woman attacked me over something I didn't even say, and nothing upsets me more than someone being upset over something they've only imagined about me.

I mean, good gosh - I beat myself up for my own imagined shortcomings enough, without other people inventing new ones to be ticked off at!

Anyway, Mr. Editor said exactly what I thought he'd say. He's always quoting a couple particular passages from the Epistle to the Romans (11:29 and 16:17), and paraphrasing it to "Don't let the haters get you down, Gonzo."

Then he said, "We're doing a podcast." Podcast? Really? The Gonzo Mama does NOT do podcasts. Then I remembered it's the Year of YES, and sucked it up and did it.

Here it is.

It didn't totally suck, so I guess I can do another one. As you can hear, I'm taking on some pretty scary things this year, like doing the Winterfest Splash, and joining roller derby.

Which brings me to my big problem.

I had the perfect roller derby name picked out ("Tawdry Hipburn"), but - I learned at the informational meeting - derby names are exclusive, and no two girls can have the same name. Or, it appears, even terribly similar names. There's already a Tawdry Hepburn and an Audrey Hipburn registered, so I'm out of luck.

I need you guys to give me a roller derby name!!!!!

I'm thinking something with "Gonzo" in it, or something that highlights my glorious veganism, like Gonzo Gladiator or Tofu Terrifier or something, but I'm totally open to suggestions. My goal is to take The Gonzo Mama, if I'm allowed, but I need a back-up name!

I'll take your comments here and on Facebook for the next few days, then put up a poll, and everyone can vote on it.

Aren't you excited? I'm taking you on this derby journey with me, in the hope you'll keep me accountable when I'm nursing a broken arm and want to quit.

Also? I need a busload of money for skates, equipment, insurance, dues and fishnet tights, which means I'll either have to take a part-time job or point excitedly to the donation button up at the top of my blog.

See the donation button? *points excitedly*

Don't forget to leave your suggestion for my derby name in the comments here or on Facebook! I'll have to run suggestions through the list of registered names, so if you don't see your suggestion in the final poll, it's because it was already registered or too similar to a registered name.

I'll send an autographed copy of my book, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House, to the suggester of the winning suggestion, and there's no limit on the number of names you can suggest, you suggesters, you... So get to it!

To clarify: The readers' favorite will win a book. MY favorite will win my heart! Just wanted to get that out there before everyone voted for "Fat Bottom Ghoul" and then wondered why I didn't adopt it as my own.




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You Know You're a Great Role Model When...

I've been trying to get across to the members of my family that Curlytop and Snugglebug are like over-sized camcorders these days. Anything we say or do is likely to be played back for us by one of our little cinematographers - most likely at the most humiliating or improper moment.

So far, this has included choice phrases uttered by adults and teens in the household (not terribly appropriate for either set, and definitely inappropriate coming out of the mouth of a kindergarten student). Sometimes, it includes an interesting pose or gesture.

Sometimes, it includes both.

Yesterday, Snugglebug walked up behind Curlytop, grabbed her sister's posterior and declared, "Ooooh... that's NICE!"

Pepper and I stared at Snuggle in disbelief, then looked at each other. "Did she just do what I think she did?" Pepper asked. I nodded. "Where did she learn THAT?" Pepper wondered aloud as I explained to Snugglebug we don't do that and it's not okay and her sister's bottom is her sister's bottom, and we don't touch it.

I knew the answer, of course, but Pepper confirmed it when her father came home, entered the kitchen, kissed my cheek and copped a squeeze. "Ooooh... that's NICE!" he announced to everyone within earshot and a decent line of vision.

Then, he scooped up the four-year old attached to my leg.

Where did she learn that, indeed?

Naïveté at the Nativity - Revisited

This is one of my favorite holiday posts, because it demonstrates so perfectly the dynamics of my family. In fact, it may just become an annual post. Enjoy, and please feel free to share your holiday program mishaps... You know, so I don't feel so dysfunctional and whatnot.

My kids make up eighty percent of the children and youth in our church, so there’s little question that they will be cast in the Christmas production each year. The competition for roles is—what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes… “nonexistent.” In fact, it’s not unusual for a single child to play two or thirteen different roles in each year’s program.

In 2006, a three-month-old Snugglebug made her stage debut as baby Jesus. During rehearsals, we’d placed her in the wooden manger (filled with shredded paper instead of hay, due to her asthma) several times so that she wouldn’t be startled by the sensation. There was some discussion of a song that would be sung during the manger scene, but we never ran the scene with the music. Our director said things like, “This is where everyone is gathered around baby Jesus in the manger. Is the baby in the manger? Okay. Now, there will be music here, so everyone will just be still and look at the baby, okay? Okay! When the music is over, the curtains will close, and the baby can come out of the manger.”

We actually didn’t hear the music until the performance. Mr. Wright and I were backstage, assisting with costume changes. There were many. Shepherds became angels who became sheep who became shepherds, and so on. Snugglebug was napping in her infant carrier, and I held out hope that she’d stay that way through her big scene. Naturally, just before her cue, she woke up, hungry and fussy.

A volley of urgent whispering took place behind the drawn curtain, with Princess (“Mary”) asking, “What do I do? She’s crying. I can’t take her out there while she’s crying,” and me thrusting a bottle into her hand and directing her to “wing it.”

Nestled into the manger with Princess holding the bottle for her, Snugglebug calmed down, and no one even brought up the anachronistic use of the plastic bottle that fed the infant savior. Then, the song started. It was “What Child is This?” With two verses down and just the slightest discontent stirrings from Snugglebug, I thought we were in the clear. I prepared for the curtain to close, planning to whisk her offstage before she let loose with any serious wailing, but the music went on. And on. There must be thirty-seven verses of “What Child is This?” that I have never heard.

Snugglebug began making the small whimpering sound I recognized as the prelude to full-volume, fist-clenching, rage-filled screaming. Mr. Wright heard it, too. We looked at each other. “What do we do?” we mouthed.

As luck would have it, I married a genius. Mr. Wright grabbed a pair of donkey ears from the pile of costume accessories, put them on, and entered the stage. What’s one more donkey, in a manger scene?

It did raise a few eyebrows when the large donkey stole the baby Jesus from the manger, but I’m sure the wisemen would have called in an Amber Alert if they truly thought there was cause for alarm.

This year, Curlytop and Snugglebug couldn’t wait for their cue to enter as angels and followed “Joseph” and “Mary” on the road to Jerusalem. “Oh, look!” a chuckling Joseph ad-libbed. “The Lord has sent guardian angels to watch over us on our journey. God is so good!”

The unscripted guardian angels appeared in several scenes, including the manger scene. When Snugglebug saw her Cabbage Patch doll resting in the wooden trough, she shouted, “That’s not baby Jesus!” over the playing of “Mary Did You Know?” With haste, our precious cherub yanked the doll from the manger and tossed it across the stage.

Taking note of the empty manger, Curlytop pulled off her wings and crawled inside. “I’m not baby Jesus,” she announced to those who may have been confused. “I’m not an angel now. I’m a little girl. I’m gonna use the baby Jesus bed, okay?”

In fact, the only scene Curlytop and Snugglebug didn’t participate in was the Choir of Angels scene they were cast in. Instead, they ran, screaming, down the aisles of the church. It’s tough raising divas.

Call me naïve. Call me an optimist. Call me out of touch with reality. The fact is, the church Christmas program only happens once a year. That means I have ample time to forget everything that went wrong with the previous year’s program, and get excited about the current year’s performance.

Merry Christmas, and may the Lord richly bless you in the coming year!

I Just Wrote About My Sex Life for a Sex Toy Site. I'm Sorry, Mom.

I think I'm taking embarrassing my parents to a whole new level. In fact, if it ever becomes an Olympic sport, I'm a shoo-in. Can't you just see it?

Anyway, I wrote about Christian sex, and how it's not boring and is, in fact, quite the opposite for married couples with a sense of adventure.

So, you know, if you're going to be grossed out reading about my sex life... don't click over to Toy With Me. Seriously - if you think you'll never be able to look me in the eye again, knowing what Mr. Wright and I do in bed, don't click.

Go watch my book trailer  and buy my book instead. No saucy details of my sex life. I promise.

Also, it goes without saying - don't click over if you're a child. Especially MY children.

Finally, the title I submitted for the piece was "Christian Sex: Not Just Missionary Anymore." It got run as "How I Became a Porn Again Christian." You guys all know I'm vehemently anti-porn, right? Okay. Just wanted to get on the record, there.

Photo: Gonzo Jenny put the bunny ears and banner on me. I added the medal.

Photos from Chelan with Corbin Lewars

My first book signing was fabulously fun and was made even more delicious by the presence of my super-talented and hot mama pal, Corbin Lewars. Check us out!

Thank you, LakeChelanOnlineNews, for the awesome photo!

Thanks again, Riverwalk Books, for hosting us! (Riverwalk still has a few signed copies of our books in stock, so don't be afraid to click on over and order!)

The photo was taken at our post-signing dinner at Chelan's hot new restaurant and bar, Tin Lilly, owned by my friends, Jhen and Tony. Awesome, awesome food, drinks and service. What more could a hot mama ask for?

Get the "F" Outta Here!

That's right... You know what word I'm talking about.

It's that four-letter word that makes you feel dirty; makes you feel like running and hiding, lest anyone see how uncomfortable it makes you. C'mon, now, spell it with me...

F - E - A - R!

Confession: I am terrified to read in public. I mean, part of the reason I write is so I don't have to talk to people. Don't get me wrong - I love people. I like to think I'm as much a "people person" as the next guy, and with Mr. Wright being "the next guy," I try to be a tough act to follow. That is, when I'm not actually doing an "act."

If you know me in real life, you know I'll talk your ear off. You know how tough it is to have a conversation with me, because I just won't. stop. talking. Maybe you've seen my theatrical efforts, watched me onstage playing a spinster (Crimes of the Heart), a courtesan (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum), or an ad executive (Twelve Angry Jurors; an adaptation of Twelve Angry Men). Maybe you've witnessed the spectacle that is my belly dancing effort (if so, my most sincere apologies).

The thing is, none of those compare to reading my work in public. I can have a one-on-one conversation with someone, even if it's more of my "one" than my companion's. I can put on a costume and become someone else. I can even comically shake my money maker with minimal humiliation, but doing literary readings makes my lunch wanna get up and dance... right up my esophagus and out my mouth.

It's just so... personal. Baring my soul to (what I hope will be) crowds of strangers adoring fans is a little -- well, soul-baring.

Do you have any tips on how to overcome stage fright? Or a secret fear of your own?

Let's get the "F" out of our lives, together!

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nettsu/4583111188/

There's a Reason Agents Get 15 Percent

So, you’ve written a book. Congratulations! That’s the easy part.

Now, get ready to find an agent. I like to think there are three primary methods of securing an agent:

1. The Set-Up. You know someone who knows someone who met someone who had the business card of an agent. Or, you are fortunate enough to know an author who has an agent and is willing to recommend your manuscript to his agent.
2. The Blind Date. You perform Internet searches into the wee hours of the morning, reading agent profiles and sending queries to those you feel a connection to. After a few rejections, you lower your standards. Your new mandate becomes the ability to fog a mirror.
3. The Destined Deal. By luck, you’re seated next to an agent on an airplane or an agent trips over your laptop cord as you pound the keys in a coffee shop. A conversation about your manuscript ensues, and the agent produces a contract from his briefcase, ready for your signature.

Your agent’s job is finding a publisher for your book, and getting you the best advance and royalties possible. The agent takes a hefty chunk, but you don’t care. She’s worked hard, pimping your manuscript. You’re a grateful little book hooker, and your book gets published.

If you can’t find a book pimp of your very own, there are other ways to get your tome off your hard drive and into the hands of your adoring fans:

1. Compete for Publication. Some publishing houses run contests which award winners with publication. Contests may or may not charge entrants a reading fee, and may or may not offer a cash advance upon acceptance of the winner’s manuscript. Publishers don’t like to take chances; they want to print books that will sell. If your book is atypical in genre, length or style, you’re not likely to find yourself among the finalists.
2. Go to the Source. Most large publishing houses don’t accept queries from writers. Instead, they rely on agents to prescreen manuscripts and submit only the best. Remember, in publishing, “best” means most marketable with highest sales potential. Some smaller presses will entertain queries from authors and negotiate contracts directly with writers. Since small presses have small budgets, an author may get little to no advance and a small royalty per book sold.
3. Do-It-Your-Damn-Self. The stigma of self-publishing is actually relatively new, and already fading. Margaret Atwood, Zane Grey, Benjamin Franklin, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain and Edgar Allan Poe are just a few authors who self-published. For a modern-day self-publishing success story, one need only look as far as The Shack by William P. Young, which has sold millions of copies and spent over 100 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list.

I chose Publishing Option 3 for my first book, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House. That means I have no publisher to market my book, plan a book tour, or provide promotional materials. I know absolutely nothing about any of those tasks. I’m learning as I go.

If you’re lucky enough to secure an agent, and that agent manages to place your book with a publisher, or if you find your way into a publisher’s heart on your own, it will be someone’s job to send copies of your book to important people in the world for reviews.

Should you choose Publishing Option 3, plan to go into the world to find important people on your own. Beg them to review your book. Offer to babysit their kids or weed their gardens. Get them drunk, take photos of them shaking their groove thangs, and promise not to post the pictures on Facebook if they’ll write a review.

Call any relatives within a 200-mile radius and ask if they know a local business owner willing to host a book signing. Ask how many people they can con into showing up at the local self-serve pet wash for an event titled, “Books, Bubbles and Bones.” Voila! A book tour.

Speaking of book tours, I’m hoping you’ll all show up at Riverwalk Books on Friday, June 18th, at 7:00 p.m. for my very first book signing. Can’t make it? You can still order signed copies right here, on my website. Did I mention they make great Father’s Day gifts?

Would you care to review the photos I’m preparing to upload to Facebook before deciding on your purchase?

Growth Forces Sale, Make an Offer!

For sale: 2 cubic feet of cellulite. Expansion forces sacrifice of this sizable collection. I'm willing to entertain all serious offers, but must confess I've become quite attached. Might make good insulation for custom building project or filling for overstuffed chair? Lovely cottage-cheese texture may make acceptable substitute for popcorn ceiling. No phone calls, please - I'm keeping the line open for Jenny Craig.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toreajade/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Perhaps We've Been Married Too Long

A few days ago, I found myself with some extra time. Instead of contemplating the rose garden I never intend to plant, outlining my next novel, or polishing my shoes, I decided to take a shower.

That's right - it was before bedtime for the toddlers, and I managed to steal away into the shower. I even shaved my legs and washed, rinsed, and repeated. When I emerged, smooth-skinned and sweet-smelling, I realized I still had time to spare.

So I plucked my eyebrows. Well, maybe eyebrows - plural - is stretching the truth a bit, since the area above my eyes was beginning to resemble a closely-planted crop of mohair.

After that, what the heck? A little makeup couldn't hurt things, right? And my wet hair could be sculpted into something resembling a "style," if I wiped the dust off my Aussie Sprunch spray and applied it.

Glancing in the mirror, I almost didn't recognize the woman staring back at me, with her lined eyes and mascara, blushed cheeks and glossy color swept across her lips. She was kind of hot - certainly not the same haggard mommy who hides in my reflection in store windows as I slouch around town in yoga pants and sweatshirts with flour smudged across her face and her hair tucked under a denim baseball cap.

No, this woman looked like she had a life! A life, maybe, that wasn't spent in front of a strangely-lit computer screen or, alternately, in the kitchen.

I felt so confident, I pulled on my skinny jeans and a soft, fitted top. I slid on some fashionable flats and spritzed both of my wrists with perfume. I couldn't wait for Mr. Wright to get home! The feeling of accomplishment at taking a shower, plucking my eyebrows, applying makeup and putting on clothing that didn't involve an elastic waistband or a drawstring - all in the same day! - made me mad with confidence and femininity.

Wouldn't he be surprised?

Gosh... I hoped he noticed.

What if he didn't even notice? What if he didn't think there was anything noteworthy of me accomplishing what most women who have "real" jobs do every single morning, and before 8:30 a.m., at that?

A few hours later, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for Mr. Wright to arrive home. I checked my lipstick, freshened my fragrance, and met him at the door. I needn't have worried that he wouldn't notice... he did.

Taking in the vision that stood before him, he asked, "You've taken an afternoon lover, haven't you?"


Photo by Dean's Photography. Thank you, Dean... Our photos were perfect!

Ugly American: The Gonzo Mama in Japan

A light dusting of snow covered us as we made the five-minute walk from Tokyo Station to our hotel. At the entrance, I stooped down to put something in the small trash bin near the door. The debris fell out of my hand and I crouched low, picking it up. I didn’t crouch alone.

The doorman was down there with me, helping me stand and intent on relieving me of my luggage. “Really, I can stand on my own,” I wanted to protest, but he was so earnest I let him help me up.

As we approached the front desk, a uniformed woman made her way into our path, bowing and offering us each a clean, dry washcloth. At the front desk, I whispered to Mr. Wright, “What do we do with the washcloth?” He shrugged. The front desk guy spoke English well enough to get us checked in, so I went for broke.

“Can you help me?” I asked. He nodded vigorously in response. “What should I be doing with this washcloth? I mean, should I be wiping off my wet shoes, or drying my face, or what?” Apparently, his English training didn’t include answering basic etiquette questions from ignorant Americans, because he smiled and nodded some more.

I discovered what to use the washcloths for fifteen minutes later when Mr. Wright made my dinner in our room’s electric teapot and it boiled over, spewing boiling water and piping hot rice stick all over the top of the dresser.

My first public restroom experience left me feeling like a dirty, ugly American. The toilet was confusing enough, with its buttons: one for bodily function-masking sound to play while the user does her business; one for a “powerful deodorizer;” and two (two!) for bidet functions. “Would you like a rear or frontal water attack?” it asked.

I’d learned my lesson about playing with the loo buttons back in our hotel room, when Mr. Wright pressed the “front wash” button, “just to see what would happen,” and got a face full of water. Unbelievable – thousands of miles away from the toddlers and I still had to shout, “Stop playing with the toilet!” Anyway, I resisted the urge to punch the button for a powerful deodorizer, since I wasn’t sure exactly what odorous target it may be seeking.

Placing my hands under the faucet, I was pleased to be at a simple sink – no confusing buttons; just a simple pump for soap. I pumped twice, and the liquid that covered my hands was thin and watery, unlike the thick, shiny handsoap we use at home. I rubbed my hands together vigorously before rinsing under the running water, taking notice of the sign that said, “Prevent disease by washing hands and gargling.” Gargling? Sure enough, the ladies to either side of me were gargling with gusto.

Feeling a bit awkward about being the only gal unsanitary enough to leave the restroom before gargling, I placed my hands in the high-powered air dryer, and then exited. Mr. Wright was waiting for me near the doorway. I showed him my hands. “I think I just washed my hands with mouthwash,” I said.

He took both of my hands and pulled them to his face, inhaling deeply. “Ah… minty fresh!”

People carry mouthwash cups with them into restrooms. They also carry tissues, since some public washrooms don’t have toilet paper. I saw one man heading into the men’s room in Tokyo Station with a pair of chopsticks.

I don’t even want to know what he used them for.

We read that it is extremely rude to gesture with one’s chopsticks. We were told the same by our travel advisors. Somehow, in the confusion of engaging in conversation while consuming enough food to feed a third world country, Mr. Wright and I consistently forget that advice. We’re animated talkers, my husband and me, and it’s just so hard to break habits that are ingrained into every fiber of our being.

Our saving grace is the very nature of the people of Japan. They are patient and kind. They dismiss our faux pas like we dismiss our toddlers’ inappropriate exclamations and less-than-perfect table manners.

This week, I consider myself a daughter of Japan. Like my uncouth daughters, I ask question after question about customs, food preparation, traditions… the equivalent of a small child’s “Why? Why? Why? WHY, Mommy?”

The only difference is: I’m taking notes.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toddmecklem/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jpellgen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The Chonies I’ll Be Wearing When I Die

With all the excitement and travel, I almost forgot to post this week's Gonzo Mama newspaper column! No worries, readers. Here it is:

If I’m ever involved in a tragic accident, I’m pretty sure I won’t be wearing the lacy black Victoria’s Secret panties that always find their way to the back of my drawer. Even worse, it will probably be Laundry Day, and I’ll be wearing some sort of faded cotton granny panty. The waistband, its elastic long popped and ineffective, will be held together with nothing but a prayer and maybe a safety pin or two.

I have a near-clinical fear of flying or riding in any vessel that travels at extreme speeds or altitudes. In ten hours, I will be boarding a plane to Japan, where I will embark on a journey that begins with a bullet train.

For precisely this reason, I’m packing only my best chonies.

Yesterday really was Laundry Day. Not only were we preparing to leave the country for a week, but we were also preparing for the housesitter who, under no circumstances, should be forced to live for a week with the mountain of laundry I should have done two weeks ago.

I was upstairs, cleaning the toddlers’ room (because our housesitter must also not be led to believe that we allow our children to raise livestock in their bedrooms) when my keen eye and excellent perception helped to discover the mountain of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. I’m a great detective like that. With my arms full of pink textiles, I trotted down the stairs to the laundry room, where I saw Mr. Wright folding a load that had just finished in the dryer.

And that wasn’t all I saw.

There, in all his glory, was a naked Mr. Wright. Well, almost naked. A swath of powder blue cotton/Spandex® blend stretched over my husband’s nether region, and I couldn’t help but notice it was a small swath. I mean, bikini-small.

“What are you wearing?” I asked my strictly-boxer-brief man. “Are you wearing… bikini chonies?”

He looked at me, as if to say, “Clearly, I am. It’s Laundry Day,” but remained silent. Suddenly, I became extremely curious – okay, obsessed – about where the pale blue offenders had come from. Was Mr. Wright carrying on with some trollop who told him, during nights of steamy romance, that he would look mighty fine in a set of micro-shorts?

Well? Was he?

No. He assured me the chonies in question were circa 1988. Why he hadn’t tossed them by now is anyone’s guess. Maybe he hasn’t worn them often enough in the last 22 years to feel he’s really gotten his money out of them. Always the spendthrift, that husband of mine.

My main concern now is ensuring that the light blue bikinis don’t find their way into Mr. Wright’s luggage. They are precisely the type of chonies that invite disaster, and if our plane starts plummeting into the Pacific or the bullet train jumps the track at 200 miles per hour, I don’t want to have to check Mr. Wright’s pants to see if it’s his fault.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/barbietron/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27923176@N02/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

4AM in Tokyo

Our sleep routine is all fouled up. We arrived at our Tokyo hotel early in the evening, took showers, made some "instant" peanut sesame noodles in the teapot and planned to find a place to have a drink. Instead, we fell dead asleep, wet hair and all.

We both woke up at 4am, thirsty. I remembered a 7Eleven downstairs, so we tossed on some clothes and headed for the elevator.

As we rounded the corner, I heard a low, rumbling noise, and when we turned, we saw a large man sprawled on his back, open wallet in his hand and cell phone next to his body. He was snoring loudly.

Mr. Wright shifted into EMT mode, checking the man's vitals and attempting to get a response from him while I picked up the courtesy phone, hoping the front desk attendant would understand me. I reported there was a man, unresponsive and unconscious, on the floor in front of the elevator.

Mr. Wright and I stayed with the man while we waited for the hotel staff to arrive. I picked up his hand and held it. It was warm... a good sign. Still, we didn't know if the man had fallen and hit his head, had a seizure, or what.

I patted his hand firmly. "Sir? Sir? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

By the time the hotel worker arrived, the man was beginning to murmur some responses. The worker called for backup and sent us on our way.

Turns out it was a case of too much sake. Still, we felt like heroes.

Like I Said... Fame and Fortune

Maybe you thought I was exaggerating a wee bit when I said I was on the road to fame and fortune.

O, ye of little faith!

I've recently been published in Hip Mama #45. In fact, if you look closely, you'll see I made the cover ("Child Rearing Lessons from the Frat House")! Since Hip Mama was the original breakout indie mama zine, I've always wanted to be published within its prestigious pages, and now I've succeeded. I actually cried a little when my issue arrived and I saw I got a cover blurb.

You can buy it here.

I've also been included in the new Mamaphiles! This is #4, and it's called Raising Hell. In case you didn't know, Mamaphiles is a collaborative effort of the superstars of mama zinehood. Oh, yeah... they let some daddy zinesters in now. Anyway, believe me when I say it's a BIG DEAL and an honor to be included in the project.

I don't have any copies printed yet, so you can order it for now here or here.

When I get back from Japan, I'll have some printed up and you can purchase it through me.

As if ALL THAT weren't exciting enough, I'm going to be doing a reading in my beloved city of Chelan at the historic Ruby Theater on February 24th. The event will be put on by Write on the River, and it's FREE. Check out the deets!

So, yeah. I'm pretty much a rockstar these days. Somehow, I still remember to come back and write for you good people...



What good news or accomplishment has made you happy recently? Tell me all about it!

Shave and a Haircut...

... two bits TOO BAD.

There I am, in all my makeup-free, split-end glory. I'm very aware of the fact that I need to get it cut before we go to Japan next month, but I'm sort of stalling. For no good reason, in fact.

It's not that I don't want my hair cut. It's not that Mr. Wright wouldn't watch the babes while I got it cut. It's certainly not that it doesn't need to be cut, for crying out loud.

It's just... Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that no one does it just right. I have yet to find my stylist soulmate, and I always walk out of the salon, cringing. 

Also? I don't know how I want it cut. That's a dangerous mental territory to be stranded in when you walk through the salon door, because someone will inevitably talk you into a cut that will cause you to walk out of the salon, cringing.

Plus? I want to do something different. Something a bit reckless and carefree. Something that says, I'm an individual, just like the 500 other trendy women in my county who have this cut! Something that doesn't require hot rollers, a curling iron, a blow dryer, hairspray, gel, mousse, pomade or spritz. Preferably something shower-optional, since sometimes I don't get a shower until afternoon nap time. You know, something I can sleep in and wake up looking glorious and ready to greet the Jehovah's Witnesses at the door! Something I can just fluff with my fingers and know I look HAWT. Hassle-free. Gorgeous and sophisticated.

Or maybe long, blonde waves... Can we make that out of the black, brittle, flat, limp, shoulder-length mop on my head? Could I please have Scarlett Johansson's hair transplanted onto my head?

What do you suggest, readers?

Photo from xrayvision.today.com

Table for One, Please...

Remember when I urged all of you mamas to break into spontaneous conversation about parenthood with any fellow mama you might bump into?

I did that today. With Mr. Wright out of town and the kidlings safely deposited in institutions of glorious education, I slipped into a new-ish Pan Asian restaurant for lunch. Alone.

I actually rather enjoy dining alone, once I get past the hostess who, invariably, says, "Just one?" I often answer - in song, "Not JUST one... I'm ONE! SINGULAR SENSATION! Every little move I make!" It tends to be an embarrassing spectacle for everyone involved, except, of course, me.

Anyway, the staff at the restaurant actually had to pull a larger table apart to make a small table for lonely little me. About five minutes after I was seated, a waiter approached and said, "I'm bringing you some neighbors. You don't mind?" I was so engrossed in my book, I barely noticed as he pulled the adjacent table a little further away, putting a bit more distance between my table and its separated twin.

Guess who sat down? Two ladies! Two MAMA-ladies! They asked what I was having, and ordered the same thing. We talked about kids' sports, about adoption, about mama stuff. We all finished at about the same time, and I was pleasantly surprised when one of the mamas wrote down her name and email address, and asked me to keep in touch. She said, "Isn't it great when you go in for lunch, and come out with a new friend?"

Amen, Sister.

Thank you, Pan-Asian-Lunch-Place-Mamas... You made my day!


Have you met someone who made you smile recently? Tell me about it!

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/damaradeaella/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0