My aunt, Auntie Joanne (her official name), is not on Facebook. (Actually, none of my aunts are, now that I think about it; nor are my parents. Considering some of the stuff that gets posted on my wall, this is probably a blessing.) Anyway, my aunt has asked me a few times to post some of the silly memes I've shared on Facebook here, on my blog, so she can see them instead of pestering her daughter to scroll through my timeline and share the funny pictures. Since I'm tired, did not have a stellar week, and am fresh out of ideas, I figured I was game. Here you go! You're welcome.

If you want more substantial fare by me this week, check out my guest post about Women in Horror on Connie Hambley's website here: http://bit.ly/staceylongo
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Did you visit The Storyside this week? Why NOT? Here's what you missed:

Wise writing advice: "Why Should I Edit?" by Rob Smales 
Reflections on Welles Turner: "Library Memories" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)

I am not a parent. Why? The reason for this is not really any of your business. However, being childless, I do feel that I am an expert on parenting. Why? Because that's how obnoxiously delusional I really am.
I've discovered some alarming things about being a parent that are enough to make me never want to be one. Becoming a parent makes you completely lose your mind. Here, let me share:

1.      As a parent, you lose focus on what's really important. My sister, for instance, was furious with me when I taught her then-five-year-old son the words to the South Park theme song. Did she care that her young son had mastered complex words like "temptation" and "vagina," clearly indicating that he was a genius? Heck, no. She complained about "inappropriateness," "he's too young to know what the 'p' word and the 'v' word are," and some other nonsense. Her son was practically a virtuoso, and she didn't care. Also, I wasn't allowed to babysit any more.

2.      Becoming a parent makes you lose your sense of humor. My sister-in-law did not find it one bit amusing when I hand-crafted pillows shaped like bloodstains for her young son and daughter. These delightful keepsakes make it look like you're bleeding from a gaping head wound when you lie on them, and my niece especially liked the velvety red fabric I'd used to create these wonders. Funny, right? My sister-in-law didn't think so. Also, I'm not allowed to babysit anymore.

3.      Being a parent makes you resentful. I can't tell you how many times my sister has shot me a look of pure death when I come over, be my usual 'cool aunt' self, encourage my older nephew to guzzle two cans of Arizona Iced Tea and give the Stone Cold Steve Austin double-finger salute, applaud my younger nephew when he's able to attach glow-in-the-dark dog poo to his forehead and keep it there for a full four minutes, and then leave. It's like she's jealous of my coolness or something. Also, I'm not allowed to watch wrestling with them or shop at Spencer's Gifts for them any more.

4.      Being a parent makes you mean. My sister-in-law did not appreciate it at all the time I described to her then-six-year-old-son the exact ingredients of the sausage he was eating. I thought it was educational. She felt it was disgusting, and made me apologize to my nephew when he started crying and questioning exactly what had happened to Wilbur  at the end of Charlotte's Web. Why she's coddling those children is beyond me. Also, I'm not allowed to share meals with them any more.

5.      Becoming a parent makes you change your priorities. Not in a good way, either. One time I called my sister to see if she wanted to cruise the bars with me to pick up strange men (I was single then) and she not only implied that I was out of my mind, but also made me apologize to both her husband and her infant son for even asking her such a thing. Also, I'm not allowed to call her after 10 p.m. any more.

So there you have it. Clearly, being a parent makes you crazy. This is why I want no part of it. And think about it: do you really want someone like me procreating? Because rest assured, nobody in my family is particularly upset that I haven't.

I love to read.
This should come as a surprise to exactly nobody. I think all writers should have an innate passion for the written word (and if you're a writer, and don't love to read, I'd recommend a new career, like accounting). My first word--scratch that, my fourth word, after "mama," "dada," and "doublestuforeo"--was "book." Early classics of my life as a reader include such fine tomes as Big Dog, Little Dog and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. And who could forget that fine literary masterpiece found in only the most expensive and elite of preschools, Hop on Pop? Yes, even from my youngest, diapered days, I was something of a book snob.
As I got older, I became acquainted with an unpleasant sensation that would stay with me my whole life. As a kid, I first chalked up this unpleasantness to spoiled milk or an especially sour pickle. Eventually, I recognized it for what it really was: book envy. Why did the other third grade class get to read Freckle Juice while I was stuck slogging through the uberdepressing Bridge to Terabithia? How was THAT fair? Why did my cousin Lori have more comic books than I did? And in fifth grade, I had it on good authority that Miss Bennett's class sometimes got to go to the library twice a week, while those of us stuck in the dregs of Mrs. Gustafson's class were only allowed one precious library visit a week, and only if we didn't throw a temper tantrum about how Miss Bennett's class got to go more than us. It felt like I never got to go!
I formed friendships based on book-swapping potential. In our younger years, the Bouchard twins had a fine selection of Sweet Pickles stories; as I headed to middle school, it was Carrie down the road who had an impressive collection of Sweet Valley High books. (My mother thought they were not worth the paper they were printed on, which made the adventures of the Wakefield twins all the more precious to get my hands on.) (Update: Mom was right.) Laura had a formidable stash of Dean Koontz, Meghan had an impressive true crime library, and if my friends were mad at me (fights that arose sometimes when they suspected I was using them for their books--fights I ignored because I was too busy reading) I could always raid my sister's stash of Stephen King. Hey, these friendships weren't all one-sided: I held the distinct honor of being the gal to go to if you were hankering for some steamy Harold Robbins. Even then, though, I was a terrible snob. If you wanted to read The Adventurers or A Stone for Danny Fisher, I'd hook you up, but if you wanted something dumb, like The Lonely Lady, I had no time for you. It's a good thing I had books, because I went through a lot of friends during those years.
As an adult, I decided it was time to refine my interests: you know, select just a few authors or series or genres to call my favorite. So I finally announced it to the world: I did not care for sci-fi or fantasy. Except Harry Potter. Oh, and the first few Outlander series books weren't bad. Plus, I really enjoyed books 1 -32 of the Star Wars novelizations. But that's it. Otherwise, I won't touch it. Except Neil Gaiman. Ooh, and the Dune series. But otherwise, sci-fi leaves me clammy.
It turns out there's nothing I won't read (including cereal boxes, ketchup packets, and mattress tags). Sure, I have my favorites: I tend to devour anything about any member of the Kennedy family; anything by Wally Lamb, John Irving, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, or Michael Crichton; true crime in small doses (I wept when I heard Joe McGinniss passed away earlier this week) and anything about Manson; English history and historical fiction; and anything and everything by Erma Bombeck or Berkley Breathed (both conveniently located in the humor section). And yes, I've even been known to pick up a romance or two, but remember, I'm a book snob: I won't read a romance novel unless it has a bare-chested Scotsman in a kilt on the front. I have my standards, after all, and objectified Scotsmen are de rigueur.
I once met a man who told me he loved to read, but never had the time. I knew he was a liar--he didn't love to read. True readers know you make the time, even if it means you wind up asleep with inkprint on your cheek, your slack face marking the page where you left off. I dumped that guy. Then I met one who took me out on romantic dates to used book stores and library book sales. I married him.

Another year has passed, and you're probably wondering how my 2013 was. Wonder no more: Here are my highlights from the past year!

January: January 23rd came and went without any injuries to my knees. Since it was January 23, 2011, that I fell while ice skating and tore my MCL and chipped my knee cap, I tend to dread this date now. Also, I turned 40 this month. My family and friends plied me with lots of chocolate cake, so it wasn't so bad.

February: This was the month that I failed miserably at my attempt to follow the Atkins Diet in what will forever be known as "The Great Chocolate Mousse Cake Intervention." After recovering from my sugar withdrawal, I decided it would be healthier and safer for all involved if I ditched the diet and just bought bigger pants.

March: A low point in my year. Yes, I ate chocolate cake on my sister's birthday, but I had a sinus infection for most of the month. This was the month when I discovered home remedies for illness don't work that well. Also, if you chug apple cider vinegar, it will make you vomit.

April: This was the month we filed our taxes. Also, we realized we could no longer afford chocolate cake. I thought March was bad? Hah!

May: My addiction to Downton Abbey began in May. My mother and sister forced me to start watching this series (by mentioning that it was good) and my life was changed forever. Side effects have included talking in a mangled British accent and dressing like the Dowager Countess. Withdrawal symptoms can be easily managed by re-watching seasons over and over again on Netflix.

June: This month, I wrote an introspective letter to my teenage self. Highlights: I still love Duran Duran, and I have turned into my mother.

July: I went to see Stephen King at the Bushnell. He failed to acknowledge my existence. Hack.

August: This month, I listed the top ten sexiest actors ever. People universally hailed my list as "shallow" and "ridiculous."

September: Jason and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary by watching Sharknado and eating chocolate cake. Mmm, cake.

October: My book, Secret Things, came out this month. Hooray! This enabled me to brag that I had a book out, and meant that 3/4 of my Christmas shopping list was done. Didn't get a copy of Secret Things for Christmas? When's your birthday?

November: On November 2nd, I fulfilled a lifelong dream (or at least a dream I've had since the first season of Survivor aired) and met Richard Hatch. Now, besides bragging about having a book out, I could brag about meeting Richard Hatch. Life is good.

December: With every good thing that happens (see: meeting Richard Hatch) life has to throw a few dirty snowballs at you to keep things even. I had to sit through no less than seven crappy holiday specials this month, including Santa Claus is Coming to Town (insipid), Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (wishy-washy), and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas (nauseating). Also, because of all the cookies, there was no chocolate cake. But at least I got to meet Richard Hatch. 

Here's hoping for a fabulous 2014! And more Richard Hatch!

It's that time of year when all of the towns you've never heard of start posting signs about their annual fall festivals. Jason and I like to do the fall fair circuit, mostly because we're both big fans of fried food. We've had to limit our fair-going this year, as we have a business to run, but we managed to stop by three. Here were the highlights of each fair this year:

The Middle Haddam Fair: Never heard of Middle Haddam? Neither have we. We sat in traffic for 45 minutes waiting to get to this little fair, nestled amid corn fields and cow pastures. I was surprised that the parking was causing so much traffic backup. Their sign said they'd been holding this fair for 102 years, so I'd hoped they would be able to figure out a more effective parking setup by now, but no such luck. It was convenient that there were so many fields nearby, however, as I spotted more than one fairgoer jump out of their car and pee in the pastures while stuck in traffic. It did make me thankful that I don't live there.
Once we parked, I noticed immediately (and with some alarm) that I was clearly overdressed. I'd worn a black blouse and neatly pressed jeans, and I looked like I was on my way to a formal dinner compared to everyone else. Clearly, I should have worn a shredded tank top that highlighted my bra, short-short cutoffs, and my cowboy boots (if I were the sort to own cowboy boots. I am not). I might as well have carried a sign reading "I grew up in Glastonbury, and I think I'm better than you" which, quite frankly, was what I was thinking.
The fair was small, a camel bit my finger, and I opted not to use the port-a-potties for fear of catching crabs.
Highlights: The apple fritters were yummy.
Lowlifes: One truck actually had a confederate flag hanging off of its trailer. I borrowed a lighter from one of the gentlemen trying to light cow pies on fire and managed to set the flag up in flames. Then I had to run like the wind to get out of there before the hillbillies caught me. Luckily, because I was not wearing cowboy boots, I made a swift getaway.

The Woodstock Fair: This is a pretty big event held in northern Connecticut every year, and since I once found a lovely watercolor depicting Jack, Bobby, and Teddy Kennedy here, I have fond memories of this fair. We went on a rainy day, which cut down on the crowds, and admired the cows, rabbits, and most importantly, food. I'd dressed more appropriately (tee-shirt, jeans that were too tight) and wound up feeling pretty good about my body by the end of the afternoon. Honestly, people: if you need to lose more than ten pounds, don't wear a thong, and if you do, for the love of God, don't let it show above your spandex pants!
Highlights: I ran into Dennis, my former coworker, and got to meet his wife and see his new baby. Also, there were no camels. 
Lowlifes: There was plenty of camel toe, however. Male and female.

The Hebron Fair: I've been going to this fair since I was a kid. Also, it's practically in our back yard, so it would be sacrilegious not to go. My aunt was kind enough to cover the store so we could attend on Thursday night. I do wish that I'd remembered Thursday night is Demolition Derby night, and that Jason loves the Demolition Derby. We walked around, Jason got a corn dog, I indulged in some cheese fries, and we settled down to watch a bunch of cars ram into each other. The temperature dropped to about 30 degrees right before the event started. Here is the actual text message conversation I had with my sister:

Me: I'm at the Hebron Fair, waiting for the Demolition Derby to start. If you could stop by and shoot me, I'd appreciate it.
Kim: You need to be shot. What's wrong with you, sis? Are you blowing out black snot yet?
Me: Hasn't started yet. The derby, I mean. Not my tears. Those started 20 minutes ago.
Kim: Want me to pick you up? I have tissues.
Me: No, my tears have frozen to my face.
Kim: Do they sell hot chocolate to help defrost the ice on your face?
Me: I bought hot chocolate and dumped it on my head to warm up and now my head's cold and wet.
Kim: How are the third degree burns?
Me: Painful. I passed out from the pain for a little while, so that helped kill some time.
Kim: AND helped keep you warm.

We made it through the event without getting hit by any flying bumpers, so overall, I'd say our outing was a success.
Highlights: Those were darn good cheese fries.
Lowlifes: The camel that bit me at Middle Haddam was at Hebron, too. It saw me, winked, and slowly ran its tongue across its hideous camel teeth.

Overall, our fall fair attendance went well. Jason bought a few clunker pretzels (he nearly chipped a tooth on one) but we bought some yummy apples from the Cavanna Farm Stand to make up for it. There were very few clowns, which was a bonus, but now I have a deep fear of camels. Also, I'm ashamed that there are people in my state who fly confederate flags and others who wear thongs when they shouldn't.
So there you go. Make your fair choices appropriately, and have fun.

Dear Stacey at 15,

Hey you! Yes, you there, the one putting a hole in the ozone layer with all that Aqua Net you're spraying in an effort to make your bangs stand up straight! It's me--you at 40. Boo!
How are you doing? You seem a little angst-ridden. Why don't you turn off that music? Yes, I know the Violent Femmes rock, but they're awfully depressing, and since you will eventually be diagnosed with clinical depression, they certainly can't be helping. You know what you like to listen to now as you're be-bopping down the highway? That's right, Duran Duran. THAT's how cool you're gonna be at 40.
Right now, you're probably thinking about how you're going to meet Megan in the girls' bathroom for a cigarette before your first class. Guess who you don't speak to at all anymore? That's right, Megan. We don't even know what state she lives in. Stop worrying so much about being BFFs. And see this turkey neck? Those cigarettes gave us this. Quit now!
What's that, you ask? How could we have possibly lost touch with Meegs? Take a careful look at your friends. We don't see any of them anymore, except on Facebook, which I don't even want to explain to you right now. You know who you do get together with a couple times a year? Alicia and Laura. That's about it. People grow up and grow apart. Stop worrying so much about your friends' dramas and worry more about getting that chemistry grade up.
The good news is you'll never forget your English teacher right now, Ms. Lacosse. Be nicer to her--she will have a huge influence on your career path. And you know your secret dream to own a bookstore and read all day? We get to do that! Except for the reading all day part. Businesses take a lot of work, you know.
Hear your mother out in the kitchen, telling you to get a move on before you miss your bus? Know how everyone always says you two don't look anything alike? That'll change. You're pretty much her blonde twin now. That's right--you, too, will soon carry a big purse and wear sensible shoes. You won't care at all about how silly you look. And no, sadly, Converse All-Stars do not constitute sensible shoes. But you will occasionally throw some arch supports into your Cons and wear them for nostalgia's sake. We haven't totally changed, you know.
You and Mom are even friends now, can you believe it? Being an adult isn't so bad. You know who your best friend in the whole world is? That's right, your big sister. That hasn't changed. Awesome, right?
You should be nicer to your aunts, by the way. Three of them will be rather influential role models for you as you get older. What's that? Why did I say three, and not four? You're going to lose one when she's fairly young. I'm not going to tell you which one. That way, you can be more appreciative of the four you have now.
Why are you sighing and rolling your eyes at me? What do you mean, I just don't understand you? I WAS you, stupid. Let's get a few things straight: first of all, you're not fat. One day, you're going to make it your personal weight loss goal to stay under 170 pounds. That's about 40 pounds heavier than you are now. Shut up and put on a bikini. I do wish we'd worn those more when we could.
Second of all, know that guy who you get all crazy and giggly around when you pass him in the hallway? Yeah, we don't even remember his name anymore. He's not the love of your life. In fact, pretty much everyone you've ever dated isn't the love of your life or even good enough for you. You'll meet a guy your senior year that actually knows who Roald Dahl is. Date him. Date that guy.
I know right now you're thinking that nothing could ever be more important than whether or not Amie's pregnant, or if whatshisname will notice the cool tie-dye you're wearing today, or when you will finally be able to escape the farm and live on your own. You're so wrong. Here are the answers: Amie's not pregnant; nope, whatshisname doesn't know or care that you're alive; and someday, you'll miss both the farm and not having to worry about a mortgage. 
The most important people in your life now are your family, a guy you won't meet for another couple of decades, and a handful of friends you haven't even met yet. And some kids who haven't been born yet. No, not ours. We haven't completely lost our minds. But you do have a sister and will have in-laws that will be inclined to reproduce. It won't be as terrible as you think. You'll actually like your nephews and niece. Because you're going to be the coolest aunt ever.
Take another look around your room. Take note of that poster of Nick Rhodes rolled up in the corner; those Jack Ketchum and Stephen King books on your shelves; that old snapshot of Gordie Howe you have taped to your mirror. Good news: you're going to meet every one of those people at some point in your life. Yes, even Nick Rhodes. I'll allow you a little teenage scream for a moment. And know how you're a closet wrestling fan? You're going to have the best time hanging out with Jake "the Snake" Roberts when you're thirty-nine. I know. Sooo cool.
I wish I could tell you more, but it's time for me to go. There's so much more I want to tell you--like which college you should pick, and which marriage proposal to turn down, and a million other things, but I know you still need to make those choices and mistakes on your own.  Good luck. You're not alone.
Oh, and if you could play these Powerball numbers on February 14, 2007, that would be helpful: 
35 01 15 37 45 32 3

Love,
You at 40.

I apologize, faithful readers. My blog is late this week, but it was for a very good reason, I promise. My sister and I had tickets to see Duran Duran last night. For the seventh time.

The first time Kim and I ever saw the fab five, she was fourteen and I was eleven. Back then, the pre-conversation went something like this:
"I'm going to marry Nick Rhodes. Who are you going to marry?"
"John Taylor. Missy in my math class thinks she's going to marry him, but I'm going to tell John what a dirty skankbag she is, so then he'll marry me for sure."
"Look. There's Simon Le Bon. AIEEEEEEE!"

Times, they are a-changin'. As I looked around at the audience last night, I wondered why the woman three rows up was still trying to rock the Pat Benetar look when Pat's been hawking Metamucil on TV lately. At least my sister and I were still fabulously young. This was our pre-concert talk:
"Those are cute jeans. JC Penney's?"
"No, Jen at work is on the divorce diet and gave me her old 'fat' jeans. Don't you love the embroidery?"
"I hope John Taylor started dyeing his hair again. He was too gray the last time I saw him. Who do you think he uses, Lady Clairol?"
"I'm guessing Nice 'n Easy. I've found it does a much better job on the roots."
"Look. There's Simon Le Bon. AIEEEEEE!"

I have to admire the guys for rocking on stage for two whole hours without gasping for air and clutching their backs, like my sister and I were doing after thirty minutes of semi-dancing in the aisle. Sure, Nick Rhodes looks a little pudgy and Roger Taylor has a few crow's feet around his eyes, but they still looked and sounded great ... as did Kim and I and every other forty-something woman in the audience. Because trust me, every person in that audience was a forty-something reliving her fantasies of youth.
Once the show ended at 10:30, Kim asked me if I wanted to gamble. We were at the casino, after all.
"Heck, no. It's way past my bed time. Let's go to the hotel and see if we can catch a 'Brady Bunch' rerun."

Okay, so a few things have changed since 1984. But our love for Duran Duran remains the same.

It's been hot and sticky and gross outside for the past few days. Personally, I try not to let the hot weather get to me. Here are some of the ways that I've been able to beat the heat:

1. For outside chores that can't be put off, like weeding the garden, I like to call up my sister and remind her that I would never have broken my kneecap if she hadn't mentioned to my husband a year ago that she'd taken her kids ice skating. She's the one that planted the idea in Jason's head, and he subsequently insisted we go skating, and I wound up on crutches for four months and am still going to physical therapy. I find that if I cry out in pain every time I breathe while on the phone with my sister, it's usually enough to make her come over and weed the garden for me out of guilt (or to shut me up). I'm not totally heartless, though. I try to be good about shooing away the Japanese beetles that land on her after she's passed out from sunstroke amid the zucchini.

2. It pays to paper your neighborhood with flyers offering free housewatching during the summer while your neighbors are on vacation. When the Joneses stop by and ask me to feed their cat while they're in Disney World, I'm always willing to take their house keys. Then I move in to their home for a week, order porn on DirectTV, crank up the AC, and use their pool as my own personal bathtub. Sometimes, I even remember to feed their cat. However, I've found that most of my neighbors are total crankypants, and they rarely ask me to watch their house a second time. 

3. When the humidity has my hair looking like I'm trying to win a Diana Ross drag queen contest, I tell my friends that I've just paid hundreds of dollars for the latest in forward-fashion: the chia-perm.

4. Who wants to cook in this heat? Not me. I like to drive around town until I smell someone cooking on the grill. Then I walk across their yard, tell them meat is murder, and throw a pail of maggots over their barbequed chicken legs. This is usually enough to make them throw the meat at me in disgust. This way, I can scoop up my ready-made dinner, spicy BBQ chicken with a side of grilled maggots, without ever having to turn on the oven!  Win-win!

5. I do try to think of others when I'm relaxing in the neighbor's pool. I like to shampoo the neighborhood dogs with Nair to help them cool off during the summer heat. YOU wouldn't wear a fur coat in 90 degree weather; why would you make Fido do it? Though I have to admit, once Fido's bald as a cue-ball, he looks more like a Yoda.

Feel free to take any of these helpful heatwave hints and use them yourself. Sure, the neighbors have taken to throwing eggs at my house as they drive by, but since it's hot enough to fry an egg out there, it gets me out of cooking breakfast!

In honor of my sister's birthday this week, I was going to write this blog entry for her. But I think it's probably more for my two nephews, who often wonder why their mother and aunt are doubled over with laughter for no apparent reason in places like the grocery store or at church.
My nephews chalk it up to "sister telepathy" (which, I'll admit, is what we told them it was), that strange sixth sense between siblings that causes them to giggle hysterically when one of them turns to the other, says "see—food!" and proudly displays a mouth full of half-chewed peas. (I never said our humor was particularly sophisticated.)
The thing is, my sister and I have known each other our whole lives. Nobody else quite understands the habit we both have of checking our bagels to make sure those are really raisins and not ants before we eat it. Or why both of us will travel an hour to Whole Foods just to use the soap dispenser in the bathroom—but not on rainy days, when there might be suicidal frogs on the road. The truth is, nobody understands me like my sister. Which is probably why nobody can make me laugh quite like her.
My sister was the one who did my makeup for me before my dance recitals, in such a memorable way that I have not worn makeup since for fear of replicating her work. She introduced me to the wonder that is Hamburger Helper, something we'd never had in our house growing up. (Right now, both of my parents are reading that line and saying "Hamburger Helper? Why did we even bother with the fresh veal and pork chops?") And she has let me be the crazy, sometimes irresponsible, but always entertaining aunt to her two precious boys. It just doesn't get better than that.
So, to my two nephews, who still don't quite get why Mom and Auntie Stacey were laughing so hard they were crying when Mom gave Grandpa a pair of used socks, I can only tell you this: some day, many years from now, you two are going to be at a baseball game or out to dinner and one of you will turn to the other and say "what do you call a herd of caterpillars?" And you will both laugh so hard that milk will come out of your nose.
Nobody else will get it. Onlookers might even think the milk thing is disgusting. But you two will get it. And you will think, brother telepathy.
Happy Birthday, Kim!