1. Golden Retriever: The sun is shining, the day is young, we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us, and you’re inside worrying about a stupid burned out bulb?

2. Border Collie: Just one. And then I’ll replace any wiring that’s not up to code.

3. Dachshund: You know I can’t reach that stupid lamp!

4. Rottweiler: Make me.

5. Boxer: Who cares? I can still play with my squeaky toys in the dark.

6. Lab: Oh, me, me!!!! Pleeeeeeeeeze let me change the light bulb! Can I? Can I? Huh? Huh? Huh? Can I? Pleeeeeeeeeze, please, please, please!

7. German Shepherd: I’ll change it as soon as I’ve led these people from the dark, checked to make sure I haven’t missed any, and made one more perimeter patrol to see that no one has tried to take advantage of the situation.

8. Jack Russell Terrier: I’ll just pop it in while I’m bouncing off the walls and furniture.

9. Old English Sheep Dog: Light bulb? I’m sorry, but I don’t see a light bulb!

10. Cocker Spaniel: Why change it? I can still pee on the carpet in the dark.

11. Chihuahua: Yo quiero Taco Bulb. Or, We don’t need no stinking light bulb.

12. Greyhound: It isn’t moving. Who cares?

13. Australian Shepherd: First, I’ll put all the light bulbs in a little circle…

14. Poodle: I’ll just blow in the Border Collie’s ear and he’ll do it. By the time he finishes rewiring the house, my nails will be dry.

How many cats does it take to change a light bulb?

Cats do not change light bulbs. People change light bulbs. So, the real question is: “How long will it be before I can expect some light, some dinner, and a massage?”

All of which proves once again, that while dogs have masters cat have staff.

The story has been unusually clean–and that makes me nervous.  Am I missing something or is this one really smooth and well written? 

I’ll keep you posted….

Sam stood, grinned agreeably, and then shook hands with the attractive couple from two doors down the beach before resuming his seat. He continued to play the dutiful, single son, making polite chitchat for another hour before making his excuses. He understood his mother’s strategy perfectly. Nevertheless, it had been effective. Melinda and Nick made a cute couple. He’d been uncomfortably aware of his status as the lone solo act in a paired-off world, as his mom had intended.

He was still thinking about it when he drove home an hour later. The problem was, he didn’t want to settle. He wanted what his parents had. He wanted the magic. In the meantime, he was still young and there were lots of playmates to enjoy before he made a permanent connection.

Speaking of which, he spotted a damsel in distress in his right front quadrant. Hard to tell about her coloring from this angle–but she had a great ass. The hood was up on her compact rental and she was stretched over the fender, examining the engine compartment, her upper-half hidden by the hood.

Sam didn’t know a lot about engines, but he could offer her a ride or the use of his cell phone and he was happy to lend emotional support. He liked to think he was the kind of guy who’d have stopped to help even if she’d been grandmotherly, but the cute butt and trim legs had caught his eye much faster than the raised hood.

Parking close behind her, he got out of his car and offered assistance. “Can I help?”

“Not unless you’re freakin’ magician,” she snapped and backed out from under the hood, blowing long brown bangs off her forehead with a frustrated whoosh of breath.

He grinned in appreciation because the top half matched her bottom and then some. “Sorry, ma’am I’m only a lowly passerby on the lonely highway of life.”

She laughed, wiped her greasy hand on a hankie, and then extended it to him. “Caroline Kennedy, and no, not that one. My grandmother was a big Jackie O fan, so my mom promised to name her first daughter Caroline.”

Pausing to eye him assessingly, she pushed the bangs away leaving a streak of dirt on her temple. Sam waited for her to make up her mind, doing his best to look harmless and friendly, which he was–basically.

“If you could give me a ride into Kingston, that would be so great,” she said appealingly. Her eyes widened and she touched her throat, leaving another dirty mark. He produced a clean handkerchief, and gently wiped her temple, her throat, and finally he cleaned her slender fingers. Moving slowly and touching only the soiled spots, he worked to keep her comfortable. But, at the same time, make her aware of him as a man. One, perhaps, not as entirely harmless as she’d first thought.

Nothing wrong with being a nice guy except, unless he pushed, women had a tendency to dismiss him as too young, too sweet, and not boyfriend material. A guy never got laid being too nice. He’d learned.

Now days, if he was interested then he stepped inside the woman’s comfort zone and let her take a second look at man who wasn’t too young or too nice or too harmless.

His interest level rose along with another part of his anatomy that responded favorable to the curvy Miss Not-That-Caroline-Kennedy. This close she smelled good and her skin was soft and moist. She sighed and leaned closer.

God, he loved women.

Giving her a slow grin, he made a counter offer. “I’d love to give you a ride to Kingston, but would you mind if we stopped by my place first?”

She blinked in hesitation.

To push the odds in his favor, he teased her. “You’re welcome to wait in the car if you’re uncomfortable entering my lair.”

“No, I mean that’s fine, I’d love to see your place. Do you live around here?”

“It’s right on our way,” he assured her, holding her eyes though he wanted to look elsewhere. He waited, knowing his patience would reap rewards. If it didn’t, that wasn’t a problem. There were always plenty of willing partners.

The abundance of lovely women in his life was the main reasons he resisted his mother’s hints. Exclusivity and commitment were for some time in his future when he found a truly special woman. He never doubted that would happen, but until it did–he saw no reason not to enjoy the variety on offer.

He held the car door for her, buckled her in, keeping his touches light and caring. Again, his restraint was rewarded as she sighed and moved nearer. Lingering, he caged her with his arms. “Do you need to call someone? You’re welcome to use my cell.”

“No–I mean–no thank you. I tried calling my girlfriend earlier but there was no answer. I’ll try again later.”

Her eyes drifted shut–her lips were less than inch from his. Sam stroked the side of her head, letting her silky hair tease his fingers. The pink tip of her tongue darted out to trace the outline of her smile. He followed the lascivious journey with his finger, and then she sucked it into her mouth.

When she’d finished, he framed her face and then pressed his lips to hers. She softened beneath the onslaught of his mouth, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he reluctantly pulled away, unwilling to start something he couldn’t finish.

“Hold tight to that idea, baby. We’re twenty minutes from my place,” he whispered while placing nibbling kisses up her neck and on the sweet spot behind her ear. She tasted so sweet–like a sun-ripened melon.

Five minutes from home, Caroline cried out. “Oh look, can we stop?”

“We’re almost to my place,” he said persuasively.

She coaxed. “It’s so pretty and I’m really thirsty.”

“As your wish is my command,” he said shrugging off his irritation. The bar had a nice view and a little more get-acquainted time would work in his favor. A drink or two never hurt either, he thought cynically.

“A glass of Merlot and whatever the lady wants,” he instructed the bartender then excused himself to wash his hands. When he returned his glass of wine waited along with a dish of plantain chips. Caroline sipped from a tall frosty glass.

As he sat, he pressed his leg against hers. She covered his knee with her hand, and then slid it up his inner thigh.

“Very nice,” she whispered appreciatively.

The song is Brown Eyes by Destiny’s Child. Because I love a happily ever after….

“What do they say?” the priest asked.

The woman ducked her head. “They say, ‘Hi, we’re hookers! Do you want to have some fun?”

“That’s obscene!” the priest said then he thought for a moment. “You know, I may have a solution to your problem. I have two male talking parrots, which I’ve taught to pray and read the Bible. Bring your two parrots over to my house, and we’ll put them in the cage with Francis and Peter. My parrots can teach your parrots to praise and worship, and your parrots are sure to stop saying that phrase in no time.”

“Thank you father that would be wonderful”

The next day, she brought her female parrots to the priest’s house. As he ushered her in, she saw that his birds were inside their cage holding rosary beads and praying. Impressed, she carefully placed her parrots in with them.

After a few minutes, the female parrots cried out in unison, “Hi, we’re hookers! Do you want to have some fun?”

There was stunned silence.

Shocked, one male parrot looked over at the other male parrot and exclaimed, “Put the beads away, Frank. Our prayers have been answered.”

1) I don’t know what I don’t know. Even when I realize I’m missing parts of the puzzle–it’s still impossible to figure out what they are.

This particular conundrum applies to everything. At the moment, it’s a replace or repair decision on the garbage disposal. And do I consult a plumber or an electrician? Before I call anyone I have to clean the under the kitchen sink cabinet….

2) People are both unique and similar. Their outsides are real different. Yet, I know their insides are all much the same. And their insides are what count. As a writer, I need a firm grip on this subject on it’s slippery.

3) The more I study anything, the more complex the subject becomes. This translates to one of life’s basic frustrations–the more I learn the less I know. People fascinate me and baffle me. Real life people are inconsistent. Whereas, fictional people need strong motivation to behave out of character because fiction has to make more sense than real life.

4) Writing for publication has lots of levels to it. I don’t know everything about this business (see number one above). But, I have learned a few things. Success has many factors but there are baseline requirements. Clean manuscripts, correctly spelled, punctuated, and formatted are job one.

By the time a writer gets to the level where professional editors are cheerfully catching her mundane errors, she won’t need them. Editor’s have other jobs.

5) To break into mass market publishing one needs a good agent. Good agents are busy working for established authors. Therefore a high powered agent is difficult for an unknown to acquire. Obviously, there are exceptions–every single author on the New York Times best seller list started out as a newbie.

6) Time and money are trade off commodities. Money isn’t easy to make, but time can’t be made at all. Everyone gets the same twenty-four hours each day.

Feel free to share your frustrations.

For me Emma Holly is a sure thing–who’s on your list of autobuy authors?

Spring, with narcissus Thalia and May Wonder Tulips, brightening the rising perennials.

Summer, with the band of daisies, meadow rue, perennial geraniums, and white malva showing off against the greenery.

Fall with the confetti of falling leaves decorating the border and lawn.

Winter with a rare dusting of November snow.  The birch bark gleaming white against the evergreen shrubs and the rocks that anchor the bed are visible.

Taking a shower, trying to go to sleep, or walking the dog–that’s when the characters start talking and the story starts running like a newsflash in my mind. As soon as I can grab pen and paper, I scribble indecipherable notes. Sometimes this works. And next session I type furiously. Other times I squint at the scratch marks, turning the scrap of paper this way and that and still draw a complete blank.

I’ve got the cure–step into the shower, walk down the hill, or start scrubbing something. Once I’m thoroughly engaged away from the office the words flow like a Spring flood.

Actually, I shouldn’t complain–this way the dog gets walked, I get clean, and chores get done. If the stories ran steadily I’d get carpel tunnel syndrome or computer eye or some other affliction that strikes obsessed writers.

Feel free to sympathize.