Marissa Turner

Do not give away your virginity. You will miss it, and you won’t remember his real name in ten years.

Though it will feel good in the short term, do not burn the bridge with Mr. Big. You’ll probably never again trust him with your heart, but he will end up saving your life.

Call your mother. She knows what she’s talking about, so listen to her too.

Wear sunscreen. You will be thankful later.

When asked, always deny being on the Pill, even if you are taking it.

Guard your heart, but not so much that you never let anyone in. Even if they don’t take care of it, love is worth the risk of a crushed heart.

Stay picky about who you sleep next to. When the nightmares come, be sure they can handle it.

Even though you don’t marry the first guy who asks, don’t marry the second one either. Neither of them are worth you.

Study at college. The parties are great, but an education will far outlast the buzz of a few beers and shots of Mad Dog. Also, a Mad Dog hangover is akin to a root canal without a local.

Carry your own condoms.

Call your dad. He worries just as much as your mother, but he’ll never say so.

Always take the time to dance in the rain.

Starting over is hard. Starting over is more than worth it.

Build your credit. Just because you think not being a jackass with money is a wise move, does not mean banks share the same view.

For every person who calls you homely or ugly, there are a dozen who think you are beautiful and amazing.

Learn to take a compliment without arguing.

Do not obsess over your body. You will never be 5′7 or a size 0, so own your curves like you do everything else.

Never forget you’re the most awesome person in the room. Everyone else can accept it or not, they’re not your problem.

Tell the father when you are pregnant. It will always be your baby, but he has a right to know it’s his baby too. You don’t need to protect him from himself.

He’s a racist jerk. It is not your fault, so don’t blame yourself.

Talk to the hot guy, but date the geek. One is fun to look at, but not much else. The other is fun to be with and can actually hold a conversation.

Smile more.

Sit up straight.

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Found out about Alter Bridge over Christmas, and since my friends are wonderful and amazing, I was gifted with both albums via iTunes a few days ago. I can believe that these guys are basically Creed without the douchenozzle, but it’s still a bit surprising when I am belting out the songs while folding laundry.

I, at age twenty-eight, finally got my first car. It’s used, it’s a decade old, and it had over 100K miles on it, but it’s mine. Well, the banks, but it will be mine. I never needed a car before, I went from living with my parents to living with my fiance (and later husband) and there was just a car there for me to use all the time.

Then I got a divorce, and suddenly, no car. I borrowed one from family, a 1978 F150 I learned to love (it was a bit temperamental in extreme cold), and then a Jeep that I scooted around in. But I needed my own car, because being an adult and having to go “Mama, can I borrow the car?” is both soul sucking and made me feel like I was ten years old all over again.

Then I learned that no credit? So much worse than bad credit when it comes to getting a loan. I wanted to rip my hair out by the time it was all said and done, because I wanted to shout at these people that I was a responsible woman who paid everything in cash because she didn’t like credit cards. But no one cared.

It’s all said and done, and I have a car, and while the bank will own it for a little while, it’s mine.

I finally “feel” divorced. That last bit of me that had depended on him, on his money to get a family car and on his willingness to let me use said car, is done. I’m not living an easy life, I am working my ass off to scrape by, but I am doing it. Slowly but surely, I’m doing it.

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Women, as a whole, hate bras. They can be uncomfortable, itchy, too small, too big, stabby, or bust a hook at a bad time.

And, now, they come with bling. Why do bras need shiny things on them? I can understand for “special occasion” bras (though, personally, I’d just as soon skip the wrapping and get right down to business), but for an every day bra to have something eye-catching and shiny on it makes no sense to me. And right smack in the middle of the bra, where no one actually looks. I can count on one hand the number of men who have actually looked at a bra I am wearing, and none of them were someone I was trying to impress.

Santamas has come and gone, and the Santamas Opossum was very good to me this year. Which is a surprise, as I told him I’d been naughty and it was worth every second. Perhaps he rewards the naughty and punishes the nice?

Per tradition, my mother and I went out to a movie Christmas night. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I haven’t read the books yet (I have the first two ordered from a swap site I belong to, so hopefully that should be remedied soon enough). That being said, I don’t feel like I can give a good review of the movie, since I have nothing to compare it to. I liked it, it was entertaining, and I learned that 98% of all Swedes smoke. I did not see the end coming, which is always a wonderful thing. The scene with the dildo and the tattoo gun… that one I didn’t see coming either. I laughed during it, because god yes it is good to see a woman get revenge on someone like that, but I am pretty sure that wasn’t the point of the scene.

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Oh, the gift-giving season is upon us! I am almost done. I have… seven more to get, then I’m done. Those seven need purchased, all my handmade ones are already done. Because I am made of awesome.

I’ve found a site that sells Wish Ribbons, and I am getting some of those for the holiday I think. Because I love the idea of them.

Anyone else out there get the holiday shopping done? Or do you boycott gift giving on major holidays?

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NaNoWriMo. Making writers crazy since… well, I don’t rightly know off hand. But it’s making me outhouse rats bonkers.

I was over twenty-thousands words into the MS.  I was right on schedule, I was making word counts, and I wasn’t freaking out over every little thing. (Which is my normal MO, in case you hadn’t figured that out)

And I realized…

I was going the wrong way in the story.  Not just kind of the wrong way, but COMPLETELY THE WRONG WAY.

So I shelved that idea, dusted out an old idea, and started cooking with that one. I won’t make the word count, but I’ve written every day, and it feels good to get back in the saddle. I think my laptop missed me.

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And I am behind on my word count. Because I am a lazy writer… okay, not so lazy, but I literally have one day off a week, every other day I have work or prior commitments. So I am writing in my comfy chair at night, tucked up like a little kid, with late night coffee cups piling up next to me.

I am writing, I swear, but I am doubting I’ll hit the 50K wordcount. But I am writing! It’s been too long since I let the voices in my head out, and I’m happy to say, they’re still willing to talk to me.

Are you doing NaNoWriMo? Know someone who is? Kindly force us to sit down, hit the wordcount, and feed us coffee. You might have to poke us with a stick to get us properly motivated.

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You ever know someone who makes you feel like you need to explain everything about yourself because they’re just not getting it? I feel like I need to carry a list around that has all my likes and dislikes, with a small explanation as to why. They don’t understand the correlation between my love of PBR (the rodeo, not the beer) and theather, and why I can rock out to death metal before flipping to Jason Aldean’s latest album.

Granted, that would mean planning ahead, which we all know I’m not exactly stellar at- but I’m trying.

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Oh holy jebus, I knew going into this that what I understand about cars can fit on the head of a pin with thousands of dancing angels, but it was brought home the other night when a friend asked me what kind of engine it had.

My educated response? “Automatic.”

*headdesk*

Can someone just pick out the kind of used car I need, less than 10K, and it gets good mileage? Save me the hassle? Because that’d be fan-bat-tastic.

Moving on.

I have noticed a trend with male characters in my stories: I love them on paper. In real life… I’d beat with over the head with my grandmama’s cast iron skillet.

They’re pushy, demanding, coddling, alpha types. “Here, sit here and look cute while I take care of the big and scary. Play with a doll. Don’t bother the men, we’re doing manly things.” I’d going on a murder rampage within a week!

However, since they’re all my idea of smokin’ smexy, they’d get away with it. Damn my being a shallow and hormonal woman. (Don’t shake your head at me, you know you’re the same way. And if a tat’d out man rolled up to your front door on a Harley Dark Custom Blackline, you’d forgive him too)

Books = fantasy. Reality is a bit harder…

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Went to see WICKED with Mama and Oldest Sister yesterday. Oh. My. GAWDS. It was AWESOME! I could see it again this weekend. I’m hoping if I’m very good, and very kind, Santa will bring me tickets to see it next year.

I missed the theatre. Missed the shows, the smells, the excitement as the lights go down. I miss being on the other side of the stage too, and being so jittery about the performance that my hands are shaking and I can’t feel the tip of my nose.

That being said, I’ve got a pet peeve that about blew up at some schmuck I saw there. When you go to the theatre, you dress up. Nice clothes, not always a tie, but a button down shirt and a suit jacket. Women in heels, make up, and a dress or suit. Because it’s the THEATRE. It’s a sign of respect to the performers that you dress up.

If me, who worked until midnight the night before (a very long, very stressful double shift no less!), and then cleaned up the kitchen and took a shower before bed can get up and I can still get into a dress, heeled boots, a good bra, and thigh highs, than by God, you can too!

What started it yesterday came at intermission. I was making the mad dash for the bathroom (come on, first come, first to pee, and I can’t use the mens room at the Benedum), and got stuck behind a man wearing dingy jeans, a stained hoodie, and smelling like way too much Old Spice.

I wanted to go Linda Blair on him, because COME ON, put on a suit jacket at least! But, as everyone knows, there is a small window of opprtunity to use the ladies room at a public place, and I wasn’t going to risk losing my chance. I had to settle for glaring at him, and I know that was rude, but I couldn’t help it.

Some of you might be sitting there, saying “well, Marissa, maybe he can’t afford nice clothes.” To which I say “pish” and “tosh”. The dress I wore was from Goodwill, on sale for $2.50. The boots I wore, also on sale. Thigh highs and the bolero style jacket I wore I’ve had for a few years. You can dress nicely for really, REALLY cheap. You just have to take the time to get the stuff to actually do the dressing nice.

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Well, story rejected. I’m trying to be bright sided about this, you know, lots of authors get lots of rejections before getting published. Stephen King kept his on a railroad spike. Sherrilyn Kenyon made beans on her published story (in terms of an advance). Authors get dirty before they get published.

It’s hard to be bright sided when you get a form rejection.

Just sayin’.

Thunder Butt has a hot spot on her head, right below her ear, so it’s made doctoring fun. Picture me, a hypochondriac brunette, with seventy-two pounds of yellow Lab pinned on the kitchen floor with my legs, with just her (the Lab, not me) head poking up between my knees. Now, once positioned, I realized I need at least one more hand, because trying to hold Thunder Butt’s head still, open the peroxide bottle, and keep her head tilted in such a way that I wouldn’t just be pouring the peroxide on my lap, just didn’t work.

So then, I got smart. I trimmed off all the fur around the hot spot, because, you know, it’s important to see what you’re doing. I used my mother’s good kitchen scissors for the trim job, which was all kinds of wrong I was told, after I’d cut the fur off. (I don’t think my mother will recover from the abuse) Now that said hot spot was visible, I squished her head in one hand, prayed her ear would stay flipped up over her head, and doused that mother with peroxide.

I don’t think Thunder Butt will forgive me. She’s probably called PETA on me already.

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