Girl Under the Weather

Apologies for my absence from the blogosphere this week.  Winter finally won; I've been down for the count with some nasty cold/flu thingy.  It's been all I can do to keep from choking to death on menthol lozenges.  I'll be back next week.  Promise!

Ignite!

Books get me all worked up in a variety of ways all the time, but today’s book blog post is about the sort of book specifically intended to get a girl hot and bothered.  I’m talking erotica, and in this case, I’m very specifically talking about the genre most of us didn’t even know existed until E.L. James gave us Fifty Shades of Grey.  No, no - I don’t mean BDSM.  (We all knew about that stuff, right?  It’s as old as sin.  Literally.)

I mean mommy porn.

If you regularly follow this blog, you know how I feel about Fifty.  To catch yourself up, you can click here to (re)read my post ‘Kinky Fuckery For All.’  Basically, I got it, but it didn’t do a whole lot for me.  I thought it was great that women were openly reading erotica; I just didn’t personally relate to the tale of a 21-year-old virgin (cue the laugh track) whose initiation into sexual activity came with whips, chains, butt plugs, and an Audi R8.  And - spoiler alert if you haven’t read Fifty or are the one person on the planet who hasn’t absorbed the storyline through osmosis - when our heroine Ana gets everything she ever dreamed of in life via commitment to the rich, sexy train wreck that is Christian Grey, my inner feminist threw up in her mouth a little.

But to get back on point…mommy porn…

E.L. James deserves credit for taking erotica for women out of the shadows.  The market that’s emerged for seriously hot fiction for your average hard-working, Target-shopping modern mom is impressive.  A recent standout is Ignite, a collection of ten erotic short stories with the accurate tagline, “Tasteful erotic fiction moms will love!”  I won’t tell you which of these ten quick tales was my favorite (because then you’d know too much about me, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone), but suffice it to say, if you’re a hot momma, there is something in here for you.

But then, maybe I’m just easy.  Any book where foreplay includes a husband who’s vacuumed and prepared dinner gets my vote.  (Oh, be honest - you swooned a little at the phrase “vacuumed and prepared dinner,” too, didn’t you?)  As often happens in contemporary erotica, some of the setups are bit contrived, but let’s be real: you can cut a little slack for anything you’re gonna read with a vibrator handy, no?  We all know the gardener’s there to bed more than just the roses, but hey…

Reminder: this is EROTICA, so if you’re off-put by detailed descriptions of intense sex, this is not for you.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

{That said, I think I just heard the sound of a whole lot of one-click action on Amazon, so…yeah…if you’re still with me, click this link.}

Imaginary Friends

I recently had what may seem like an unusual conversation with a friend.  I said I was glad Mark Zuckerberg is a gazillionaire, because I cannot think of anything (OK, other than the iPhone) that has altered my life more thoroughly for the better than Facebook.

And I said this as someone who was dragged, kicking and screaming, to Facebook to promote the release of my first novel in 2008.  I didn’t want to be there.  I thought it was silly and superficial.  The contemporary equivalent of a middle grade burn book.  Isn’t that what I’d struggled to get away from?  Wasn’t the reward of adulthood supposed to be graduating from such nonsense?

But a funny thing happened.

I reconnected with folks from high school - the silly and superficial as well as those I’d genuinely missed - and I found they’d all grown, often in ways I couldn’t possibly have imagined.  I received an apology from a girl - now a grown woman and a mother - who’d stood by as I was teased by her friends.  Honestly, I didn’t recall her complicity in my suffering, but I was grateful that she did.   How amazing is the soul that catalogues and atones for abuses even the “victim” has forgotten?  I felt honored.

But best of all?  Through Facebook I found friends I would never have found any other way.  A gay vegan bodybuilder from Australia?  Check.  A fellow Rhode Islander honing her remarkable talent for fiction?  Sure.  A Hollywood producer turned YA author?  Of course.  An Indigenous American filmmaker and activist?  Yup.  A civil rights activist and blues aficionado?  You got it.  A network of chick lit authors who’ve become my sisters?  Hell, yeah.  Folks in South America, India, Slovenia, England, France…the world just keeps shrinking.  Beautifully.

I could go on (and on and on) with the list.  I now speak daily with people I cannot imagine my life without.  And I’m no internet hermit; no - I’m outdoors in the “real world” as often as I can be.  But the lines have been blurred.  I’ve met many of my Facebook friends live and in person over the years, and the gratitude I feel for their presence in my life is palpable.

I wonder sometimes how I went from being a person who abhorred all things technological to this girl who cannot keep her paws off her iPhone for more than a quarter hour.  The answer, I think, lies in the motivation behind the interaction.  I am - as I have always been - a people person.  And I am thrilled beyond expression to be able to communicate so easily with so many people.  To reconnect with people long gone from my life, and to find those I’d never have found in a million years otherwise - what a blessing!

So, come on…say it with me…

God bless you, Mark Zuckerberg.

Good night, all you princes of Internet, all you kings of social media.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Fatal Vision

I was twelve years old when I scooped Joe McGinniss' Fatal Vision from my parents' stash of true crime books and stayed up late into the night, reading.

Not such a good idea, really.

This riveting, suspenseful story of brutality and betrayal impeccably masked was probably not the sort of glimpse into the world of adults one needs when she herself is on the cusp of growing up.  The story stayed with me, first because it scared the bejeezus out of me and kept me awake more than a few nights, contemplating the deceit of which humans are capable.  Later, as a student of writing, I found it curious to consider the way McGinniss assumed so many roles in the process of authoring Fatal Vision: investigator, journalist, storyteller, character.

Before and after Fatal Vision, McGinniss came under fire for his approach to journalism - most notably when he moved in next door to Sarah Palin and her family in Alaska while working on a scathing book about her.  Todd Palin accused McGinniss of stalking and having a "creepy obsession" with his wife.  (There are so many things I could say here, but I'm working on my karma.)

Love him or hate him, when Joe McGinniss passed away on Monday, he left what every writer hopes to leave: a legacy in print that will last long after we are all gone.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Zen and the Art of IKEA Shopping

I am no stranger to shopping IKEA.  As one who has spent much of her adult life with design taste far exceeding her budget, I've always appreciated the option of well-designed, affordable furniture and storage solutions.  You know, even if it means I have to be able to bench-press twice my own weight in order to haul those hefty packages of pressed-board perfection home, and then need the patience of Job to assemble the f*ckers.  Bargains require sacrifice.  I get it.

This past weekend, I decided it was time to make the pilgrimage to that mecca of blue-and-yellow signage and all things accessibly Euro-chic.  I had a list of seven items: four primary selections and three alternates, should things be out of stock.  (As I mentioned, I am no IKEA rookie.)  I compiled my list on the IKEA web site and checked availability of the products at my "local" store - which is an hour-plus trek into neighboring Connecticut.  All items had the maximum number of auspicious-looking little green bars indicating that they were "most likely in stock."  I checked the dimensions and weight of all the packages, then meticulously measured the cargo space in my car.  I would not be "that girl" unpacking her purchases in the parking lot in an effort to cram them into a too-small vehicle.  No.  Never!

Satisfied that I had a sound plan in place, I went to bed early, as a good night's sleep beforehand is another IKEA-prep must.  I rose and took a brisk walk with the dog (a decent warm-up to the miles I would walk through the inescapable showroom), ate a healthy breakfast (because shopping IKEA on an empty stomach is akin to attempting a marathon without training), and made a last-minute online check of store stock (still all green bars).  I hit the road, confident.

Upon arrival, I did everything right: I avoided the throngs circling for parking out front and easily found a space alongside the building, I ate a banana and downed some water for endurance, I double-checked that I had my list and a plan of attack.  I set an alarm on my iPhone so that, should I become disoriented in the brightly-lit maze that awaited, I'd be brought back to reality.  I dodged a half dozen strollers at the main entrance and made a beeline for the rest rooms.

(SIDE NOTE…  If you take nothing else away from this post, let it be this: always use the rest rooms the moment you enter IKEA.  You will never - ever, ever - be able to find them again.  And as my wise friend and running buddy Stephanie always says, "No one ever regrets using the rest room.")

So there I was.  Fly zipped, hands sanitized, shopping list at the ready.  I dashed up the escalator and made my planned tour of the labyrinthine showroom in record time.  I confirmed that my selections were sound, avoided myriad distractions, and made my way through the marketplace with nary a glance at a cleverly-named $1.99 teacup or place mat.  I grabbed a cart and found the warehouse aisles containing the items on my list.

Only they weren't there.

Well, I shouldn't say they weren't there.  That's not entirely accurate.  One item was.

One.

Out of seven.

I deflated like a cheerleader denied the tiara and title of prom queen.

Thirty-five minutes later, having confirmed that, yes, only one of the seven items I wanted was actually in stock - green bars be damned - I found myself back in the parking lot, a battle-weary fool trying to open the trunk of my car by repeatedly pressing the wrong button on the clicker.  I had one of the seven items I'd come to purchase.  I had eight items I hadn't known I needed until I saw them.  I smelled faintly of Swedish meatballs.  And defeat.

Luckily, the sun was shining, and I had a massive chocolate bar I'd purchased on impulse while waiting in the checkout line, so I wasn't entirely crushed.  Also, while the patio table and chairs I'd bought (lest I go home with nothing…and hey! they were only $50…) didn't fit in my car, I discovered I could dismantle them sufficiently to make it work.

As I unpacked and wrested my new purchases into my small vehicle, I caught a sympathetic sideways glance from a pair of twenty-somethings.  I realized they mistook me for an IKEA virgin.  I wanted to show them my list, tell them about my preparations.  But I let my indignation go.  I smiled sheepishly and gave them a shrug.

At 40, it's kind of nice to be mistaken for a virgin in any arena.  Even the parking lot of a massive blue-and-yellow monument to the willingness of folks to suffer greatly for cheap, cool-looking stuff.

I took a deep, meditative breath and made my way home.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Unfinished Business

Carolyn Ridder Aspenson's mom was what my Gramps would have called, with his usual eloquence, "a hot shit."

She was the kind of mom who, when Carolyn was only five years old, handed her brother's eyeglasses to her and had her take them to the basketball referee with a message: "My mom says you need these because you're a shitty ref."  Better still, she was the kind of woman who, in her mid-forties, flashed truckers on I-65 because it would "make their day" (and yes, she was a busty woman, so of course it did).

And then?

Cancer.

Let's just say it: cancer sucks.  If you're human and have a pulse, you likely had a visceral reaction to the very word, because few among us have been immune to the horror of the C-word.  In the case of Carolyn's mother, doctors gave her ten months.

She died in four.

"I'm still really ticked at that doctor," Carolyn told me.  "He promised ten months, and I want those six more.  Doesn't anyone stand by their words anymore?"

As it turned out, Carolyn would stand by her own words.  She began work on Unfinished Business: An Angela Panther Novel in hopes of honoring her mother, bringing her alive for those who had never met her, and keeping her alive for those who had.  Fran Richter, the mother in the novel, is very much Carolyn's mom.  She's loud, bossy, annoying, fiercely loyal, Italian…and did I mention loud?  She appears in the novel as the sort of ghost you will not forget, and she steals the show.

Angela Panther has a busy but predictable life.  She's happily married and busily parenting.  The appearance of her dead mother as a rather pushy ghost is unwanted - even more so when it seems her arrival has triggered in Angela a talent she wishes she did not have.  Suddenly, she sees dead people.  All over the place.  And they want her help.

Angela's struggle to sort out what this all means for her unfolds in a funny, touching story.  Carolyn's greatest strength as an author lies in her firm grasp of relationships and her ability to convey them meaningfully.  Her sense of humor and her skill with dialogue envelop the reader.  Even with dead folks all over the place, one feels a sense of familiarity and comfort in Angela Panther's world.

Which makes it startling to think that this is a book that very nearly didn't get written.  Carolyn started, then faltered.  It wasn't coming together as she intended, and she wasn't sure how to fix it - or if she should even try.  

Then she had a dream.  Her mother was standing behind her, beautiful as ever, her hands on Carolyn's shoulders.  When she spoke, it was in her raspy I-smoked-for-much-too-long voice, adding an edge of realism to the moment.

"You need to finish the book, Carolyn," she said.

And so Carolyn did.  The book made her a best-selling author, and allowed her mother - thinly veiled as Fran Richter - to come to life in the imaginations of her readers.

I'm sure Carolyn still wants those six months her mother's doctor promised, but I bet her mother is fine and feisty as ever.

Damn proud, too.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Unfinished Business: An Angela Panther Novel is on sale now for only $2.99

  

Transition

Mine is a life in transition these days, something that feels simultaneously like a blessing and a curse.

The blessing is that opportunities abound.  I ponder possibilities, and options fall into my lap.  Friends and family remind me that I am not alone.  Colleagues lend a hand.  And in quiet moments, I remember that I have survived quite a bit in my forty years on this planet, each time finding greater peace, each time learning and growing.

The curse is that some days I’d like to be done learning and growing already.  I’d like to be done with heartache and loss, no matter how much character they may build.  I recently informed the universe that I’ve got enough goddamn character; stop working on me, please!  (I believe it’s possible the universe had the volume turned too high on her iPod at that moment…)

One of the happier transitions taking place in my life right now is a career move I’ve dreamed of for ages.  I am building my reputation as a writer of fiction, and I am making the shift to writing as my full-time job.  This is something I find so exciting, I often want to rush it, the way children want Christmas to hurry up and happen, even if it’s only July.  I’m in such a hurry, in fact, that I sometimes forget what a blessing my current occupation is - and has been for over twenty-five years, ever since my father taught me the trade of real estate title examination.

Today I met with an attorney to review some work I’d done for him on a particularly nasty real estate title. When he realized I was Albert Knight Antonio’s daughter, he said, “Well, that explains why your work is so meticulous.” He went on to say that my father was his “very best friend in the business,” that he misses him daily since his sudden passing in 2011, and that he’s saved their email correspondence and refers to it often for guidance.

I left that office with my heart soaring. A tedious piece of title work resulted in a blessing. What better life lesson could I have asked for today? 

And so, while I am eager as ever to move into the next phase of my life, I find myself reminded that sometimes even tedium is a gift.  Maybe heartache is, too.  Maybe a life well-lived inherently involves pain, for while we are meant to grow and change, isn’t it lovely to know that anything we’ve spent our time on - or anyone we’ve spent our time with - meant enough to leave a mark on our soul and a tear on our cheek?

{The journey is the destination.}

www.kcwilder50ways.com