I love to read. I don't think there's anyone who has ever met me that isn't aware of this. If I had a choice between bathing in chocolate, getting a hot stone massage from Vin Diesel and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, or reading a really good book, I'd pick the massage with Vin and Rock, but it would be a reallydifficult decision. Maybe. How did I get off topic here?

As an avid reader, I have been quite vocal about my love for the book itself. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the smell of a new book or an old musty classic, and the ability to take a book anywhere with me. I have the Kindle app on my iPad, but I never use it. I blame this on the irresistable temptation that my 'Plants vs. Zombies' app dangles in front of me on the iPad, plus my unwillingness to take a $500 tablet to the beach or the bathroom.

My only teeny, tiny problem with books is that our house is rapidly running out of room to store them all. If I really like a book, I own a copy, and if I loveit in an "if you love it so much, why don't you marry it?" kind of way that makes you answer "okay," like how I feel about Cider House Rules by John Irving, I buy it in hardcover. We have bookcases lining the walls of our office, and books in between the cases; towers of books precariously balanced in the spare room; novels crammed on the shelves and in the drawers of the hutch in our dining room. I can't help it. It's impossible for me to leave a library book sale without giving myself a hernia from my purchases.

While gushing about the joy that is reading with some co-workers this week, one of them (who shall, from this point forward, be known as my BFFandever Damian,) offered me his extra Kindle. Could I really go against everything I've ever ranted about, the changing publishing industry and the dying breed known as the book store...all of which I blamed on the Kindle? You bet I could. I accepted Damian's offer before he even finished his sentence, because at my very core, I am a sell-out.

To say I love my Kindle is an understatement. I downloaded a ton of books for free and some for a couple of bucks each, and I haven't let it out of my hands since. (Jason knows there's a Kindle in the house, but I haven't even let him breathe on it yet.) I take it everywhere I go, and use it when I'm brushing my teeth, cooking dinner, or even painting my toenails. The red polish and my lack of attention made my toes look like an autopsy, but I didn't care, because my Kindle was there with me. Now I know what's been missing all of my life—more books, without the storage problem. I don't bother conversing with people anymore, because I don't have to. My nose is buried in my Kindle. In fact, I'd love to tell you more about it, but writing this blog has already taken up too much precious reading time.

The only place the Kindle can't go with me is the shower. But really, how important is good hygiene, anyway?

People often ask me how I wound up being a writer. The truth is, I’ve always enjoyed writing, and have experimented with many genres. Let’s take a look at some of my writing samples over the years.

The Adventures of Detective Kitty
Genre: Mystery
Age: 9 years old 

Inspired by my formative years on a dairy farm and my love of cats, this was my first serious foray into fiction.

Excerpt: "Watson the Dachshund was sure that Clarabelle Cow was the culprit, but Detective Kitty was not convinced. Chewing on a rat tail, the Detective breathed deeply. ‘This manure is not cow poo, you dumb mutt,’ Detective Kitty purred, choking. ‘My eyes are watering and my whiskers just fell out. The only critter with poo that powerful … is none other than Carlsbad Chicken!’ Watson hung his head down in shame, his tail between his legs. Once again, the Detective had proven that cats are way smarter than dogs."

Kim and Stacey Meet Duran Duran
Genre: Romance
Age: 13 years old

What happens when a ‘tween falls in love with her first pop band? She writes one of the most nauseating and embarrassing stories of her life.

Excerpt: "Nick Rhodes smiled at her, his mascara and spiky red hair shining in the moonlight. ‘You look so beautiful tonight,’ he sighed, and Stacey giggled in reply. ‘And I believe we’re wearing matching lipstick. Clearly, we are soul mates.’"

The Truth Hurts
Genre: Haiku
Age: 16

As I matured, I began to experiment with other styles of writing. I’m still pretty proud of the following poetic attempt:

"Beth is a slut bag
As I wrote on bathroom wall
I hate detention."

The Oppression of Women in Disney Schematics
Age: 22
Genre: College Essay

I began finding my feminist voice, and asserted my position every chance I could get. Here, I attack that sexist tyrant Walt Disney.

Excerpt: "Ariel doesn’t care if Prince Eric has a good sense of humor, or an upstanding reputation, or high-earning job potential. This twit is willing to give up her voice for this schmuck simply because he’s cute. Someone should tell this airhead that Ted Bundy was pretty good-looking, too."

Don’t You Hate That?
Age: 28
Genre: Humor Column

My first paid writing job was as a humor columnist for the Block Island Times. Here, I would opine on such matters as cat vomit, hard water stains on my dishes, and tourists who didn’t know how to turn off the signal light on their mopeds.

Excerpt: "Honestly! It’s the switch on the left, people! And don’t honk your stupid @!!$! moped horns when you’re driving by my house!"

Terror in the Hills
Age: 35
Genre: Horror

I couldn’t have gotten where I am today if I didn’t experiment with all these other genres in the past. Clearly, each story’s influence has played a part in making me the writer I am today.

Excerpt: "Nick Rhodes ran from the stage, the zombie hordes still groaning along to the final strains of "Save a Prayer." He needed to get home to his cat. He was sure the dog was already dead, too stupid to not to play fetch with decaying zombie limbs.
Nick tripped over the corpse of Beth, one of the slut bag groupies who had been waiting for him offstage. He kicked her in the head for good measure – it’s not like she was interested in his mind, after all. He wished for a moment that she was still alive so he could remind her that Ted Bundy had been pretty good-looking, too.
Nick jumped into his black Ford F-250 and floored it. He accidentally ran over a tourist on the way out. Beneath the tourist's crumpled body, the moped's left blinker still flashed, slowly signaling left. Nick backed up and ran over him again."

I like to participate in the MS Walk every year. As you can see from this picture, the MS Walk isn't just about fundraising to find a cure for MS. It's also a major arena to showcase your athletic talents. That's my friend Carol sitting to my left in that picture. Think of her as the Burgess Meredith to my Rocky. This picture was taken at the Rhode Island Walk MS in 2010, and you can see that we were at the peak of our physical prowess.
Besides being a major athletic competition, the MS Walk has benefited me in many, many other ways. I don't do it every year just because my friend Renee can no longer feel her hands and therefore has to wear elastic-waist pants. I do it so that when I go to the doctor for my annual physical and she asks me if I exercise regularly, I can honestly answer yes. Because thanks to the MS Walk, I now walk regularly, once a year, like clockwork.
It also doesn't hurt that I can list the MS Walk on my resume. Of course, I prefer to list it as "volunteer work with the handicapped" which would make me feel bad except that I know Renee does the same thing. Every year when she asks me to participate, she puts it on her resume as "working with the mentally challenged to get them involved in everyday activities." So it goes both ways.
I don't like to brag, but I can get pretty hard-core with my fundraising. See, the only way to get a free t-shirt proving that you were actually at the MS Walk is to raise at least $100.00. I like to start early, hitting up my family at Christmastime, when they can afford it the least. Then, when I see the girl scouts selling cookies outside the grocery store, I like to hop in to one of the store's electric scooters and putter up to them, pretending that I have MS (or some other severe handicap that causes me to drool and foam at the mouth. Like they know the difference. They're ten!) Usually their moms are pretty generous about paying me to go away. Finally, to make up the difference, I contact my friends and blackmail them with pictures of drunken, absinthe-fueled evenings at various horror conventions (I cannot tell you how important it is to stay sober at these events. The blackmail photos alone are worth tens of dollars.) That usually gets me to my fundraising goal, proving that I have no scruples when it comes to earning a free five dollar t-shirt.
I think everyone should get involved in volunteer work. Honestly, it will make you feel better about yourself. I know I do!

It's true, gentle reader. In my former life, I was a bunny.
It's not something I like to brag about. I was young, and I needed the money. I was eighteen years old, all blonde and curvy, and if there was ever a time when I was fit to wear a bunny suit, that was it.
Sure, my parents were a little embarrassed. They weren't telling anyone what I was doing for a living. But they also instilled in me a very strong work ethic, and they knew that no matter what I set my mind on to do, I would do it to the best of my ability. And that's what I did, during my month as a bunny.
It wasn't easy. Most of my customers just wanted to look, so I never bothered to speak. Sometimes, I had to hop and shake my tail a little bit, and one time I pulled my hamstring and landed in some strange guy's lap. He just gave me a wink and a hug and offered me some candy. I can't tell you how many perverts I met in a day, practically undressing me with their eyes.
It was uncomfortable, I'll admit. The ears and cuffs were itchy. Nobody cared about my dreams to go to college or be a writer. All they cared about was my big blue eyes and whether or not I was willing to give them a little lap dance.
It was hot, and humiliating, but I won't lie—the money was sweet. And really, if I could make some lonely sailor smile, no matter how degrading it might be to me, I suppose it was worth it.
My days as a bunny are long gone, but I still look back on that time with a wistful smile. I do miss the other girls that I made friends with as a bunny. But it was a job that couldn't last, and I had to move on to bigger and better things.
There's only one picture in existence of me in my bunny suit. It's a blurry shot of my sister and me, goofing off during my down time: