No One Panic... But It's Out!!!!

That's right ladies, gentlemen and cats walking across their owners' keyboards! Life is a Roller Derby Run by a Sphinx is out!

Grab your hard copy or your digital copy here!

A huge thank you goes out to cover artist Anthony Carpenter, graphic designer Paul Brand and editors Raquelle Potts and CarolBeth Hawn! Also, a huge hug and hearty high five to my readers, thank you for your patience in waiting for me to get this book out in print!

As always, I would love to hear your feedback through reviews and you can always find me or contact me through Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and instagram (@AtillaTheHawn)!

Cookie Monster (Life is a Roller Derby Run by a Sphinx Preview!)

Hello everyone! I hope you have all had more fabulous weeks than the thought of the Democratic National Convention reenacted by William Shatner impersonators. 

Well, we are getting close to the release of Life is a Roller Derby Run by a Sphinx and so this week I wanted to give you a quick taste of what is to come. So for your reading pleasure, ripped directly from the pages of my next book, is Chapter 27: Cookie Monster.

27. Cookie Monster 

Some children are lovely little gifts from heaven. Other kids are more like trials sent to test parents’ perseverance, cunning and ability to get crayon off of a variety of surfaces. 

         I was more of the latter; I pretended to be a dinosaur during church, thought I was a Power Ranger and World Wrestling Federation wrestler all rolled into one (that poor furniture) and built very elaborate spaceships from everyday items and sometimes essential machine parts. 

         Not only was I handful, I was a rather clever one. I had learned to read at an early age and by the time I turned four I already had most of the Nancy Drew, The Boxcar Children and The Hardy Boys under my literary belt. Add in the fact that I watched as many episodes of Murder, She Wrote and Matlock as I could find, and I was a regular criminal mastermind in the making. I gobbled up mystery stories faster than the newest Lone Ranger movie bombed and was forgotten.

Out soon!!!

         Of course, with my rambunctious little brain, I began to wonder if I could pull of a caper that not even Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher could solve! 

  

          I plotted, I planned, I drew schematics, I built models of vaults and banks out of Legos.

           Now keep in mind, at four years old you really don’t have to have an exact goal in mind. I wasn’t out to steal the Hope Diamond or ransack a museum for priceless art. I was just plotting crime in general.

           

           My parents, knowing I lacked the income and resources to pull off a liquor store robbery, much less a fantastical heist, weren’t too concerned about my little ‘flights of fancy’ into the heinous world of crime.

          

           I knew that my plans could succeed, as a Brain without a Pinky could, if only I had a goal to focus them on.

Then came the day my mother made her wonderfully delicious peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies. These cookies are melt-in-your-mouth good. If we could give these cookies out to every world leader simultaneously, there would be World Peace, because it’s impossible to feel aggressive or angry while eating one. 

She baked an entire batch in the afternoon, and I had been granted one cookie. The rest, she informed me, would have to wait until after dinner. I tried to reason with her, dinner was a full two hours away. My pleas went unanswered. I watched sorrowfully as my mom put every remaining cookie into the giant strawberry shaped cookie jar far back on the kitchen counter and wandered off to do something else. 

I stood in the kitchen staring daggers at that cookie jar, reveling in how unfair the situation was. I could still smell the cookies, and still had the taste of peanut butter and chocolate in my mouth. 

Suddenly, it hit me like a Mac truck hits a sleeping armadillo, this is what I had been scheming for! This was my crime of the century! Well… at least crime of the day… let’s be real here. 

I ran back to my room digging through my catapult designs, ideas for a mind-control laser and blueprints of someone else’s house that I had found while playing outside one day. None of it seemed to help my cookie situation. 

I snuck back towards the kitchen to do some reconnaissance. Crawling, army-style on my belly, I crept down the hallway, listening intently for any adults. No one was about. I stood up and wandered towards the kitchen counter, realizing that I was far shorter than it was and the cookie jar was all the way back on the counter near the wall.nMy thoughts turned to the kitchen chairs, which could be drug over, but I needed to determine where my mom was first, in case the noise would alert her. 

I found my mom in the living room folding clothing. I nonchalantly wandered in, “Hi mom, you don’t have any reason to go to the kitchen anytime soon do you?” 

My mother’s eyes narrowed, “Why?” 

“No reason,” I said as I darted away, congratulating myself on not making her suspicious at all. 

Back in the kitchen, I planned my route of entry. The chair would be too loud to drag, but if I opened the drawers like stairs, I could probably climb up relatively easily. 

I wandered back down towards my mother, who, still folding clothes, was now surely listening intently for something to explode. Again, as casually as I could, I asked, “Hey mom, you don’t have a reason to be in the kitchen, right?” 

My mom blinked at me a couple of times, “Is there something on fire in the kitchen? Should I be in the kitchen right now?” 

“Nope! Was just wondering!” I said, skipping back down the hallway, again impressed with my own dramatic non-mom-worrying skills.

I checked to make sure the coast was clear, and then I opened the first drawer. I looked around; no one seemed to be rushing down the hall. I slid open the second drawer, nothing. I flung the remaining drawers open with wild abandon and stepped up onto the counter.

There it was, the strawberry cookie jar, in all its red glory.

I lifted the lid and found a veritable dragon’s hoard of amazing luscious little treats inside.

I’ve never been a dainty person. The cookie carnage I unleashed would have made the Cookie Monster seem civilized by comparison. I stuffed, I crammed, I smeared. I had chocolate on my face, cookie crumbs in my hair and peanut butter residue on every piece of clothing I was wearing. The spoils of my crime were sweet, soft and delicious.

I was about halfway through enjoying cookie number seven when I heard it, “Allison, what are you doing on the counter?”

         

          Turning, my mouth absolutely stuffed with cookie, I blinked at my mother. How had she caught me? I had made sure to fool her into thinking that nothing was wrong in the kitchen! Why was she here!? There was still thirty minutes until dinner!

          

         She stood, hands on hips, surveying the disastrous scene, “Allison, did you eat cookies out of the cookie jar?”

         

        I blinked. Interrogation was not something that Nancy Drew, Jessica Fletcher or any of the others had ever prepared me for. Mostly they just caught the criminal, the criminal confessed and then they would get a sad, disappointed look from Angela Lansbury. I knew my mother’s punishment wouldn’t be a sad, sympathetic, yet also disappointed look. So I came up with the best Hail-Mary answer I could think up.

          

         “No!” bits of cookie spraying from my mouth, “No! It wasn’t me!”

          

         My mother let out a tiny snort, then collected herself again and said, “Now,” small amount of laughter, followed by a throat clearing, “I’m going to ask you again. Did you eat the cookies?”

         

          Don’t ask me why, even at the age of four I knew there was no logical escape, and yet, I found myself answering, “Nope! Wasn’t me!”

         

          My mother instructed me to come down off the counter and stand there for a minute, she would be right back. I obediently, for once, climbed off of the counter and stood, waiting for my punishment as my mom took long strides towards the hallway.

          

          I realize that she was trying to hide the fact that she was laughing, but I could still hear her. To this day, I will never forget her pained attempts to be a seriously upset parent as she snorted out from behind the wall, “Go,” chuckle, “to your room! Bahahahahahaha!”

         

         So what crumbs of knowledge can be extracted from the cookie jar of experience?

1. Laughter may delay punishment, but the punishment is still forthcoming.

2. If your child is planning heists at the age of four, you might want to pay closer attention to her behavior.

3. Sometimes the best-laid plans end with cookies and grounding.

   

If you want news on the upcoming book you can get updates by liking me on Facebook, following me on Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and follow me on instagram (@AtillaTheHawn)! You can also snatch up my previous two books here!

Laundry Room Blues

Hello all, I hope you have all had a more fabulous start to your summer than the thought of an elephant dressed as Elton John (he could be called "Elephant John," and this is why I probably need adult supervision).

Well, the summer here went from too hot to run in to too hot to breath in pretty quickly. This is particularly troublesome because my apartment's laundry has no air conditioning.

"Why don't you leave your clothes in there and come back when they're done?" you might find yourself wondering.

Unfortunately, like every other aspect of my life, the laundry room is yet another place where I cannot be a normal person and do normal things, like leave my clothes to wash and dry while I go back to my apartment to be a normal adult. Here is why:

One of the first months that I moved into my apartment, I thought just as you all do, "I can leave my gym clothes in the washing machine, no one will want to mess with dirty gym shorts..." and so I left my clothes, confident that when I returned they would be fresh smelling and ready to pop in the dryer.

Instead, I returned to find the washer I had been using open. My dirty gym shorts were still there, in fact, most of my clothes were still there. What wasn't there was any of my underwear.

Now let me clarify; women, have two different types of underwear. We have our "good" underwear and our "smeh" underwear. Our "good" underwear is flattering, form fitting, cute and relatively new. Our "smeh" underwear is what we wear to the gym, when we're lounging around alone at home or going somewhere we are relatively sure we won't be injured and have a possibly cute EMT see them at any point.

This load of laundry, being primarily full of gym clothes, was not just my "bad" underwear, it was the "three seconds from being thrown out" underwear. Add in the fact that the washing machine had started the cycle when it was interrupted, so everything in there was soaking wet, and you have quite the caper on your hands.

So, someone stole my dirty gym underwear straight out of the washing machine. As I asked others in the area to see if they had witnessed this, I found out that apparently this was an epidemic. There was a panty plunderer in our midst. As such, I did the responsible thing, and called the police, not because I wanted them returned, and I knew they wouldn't investigate, but I wanted them to be aware of the pervert wandering around who may escalate from stealing women's underwear to something worse (like stealing bras, those things are expensive!).

So, after giving the most ridiculous police report of my life. I went back to resolutely guard what remained of my laundry. It was then that things got weird.

Okay, things were weird already, but then it got to the "watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show while sleep deprived" level of weird.

I had been standing by my washing machine, suspiciously eyeing anyone who approached, for about five minutes when this short woman ran up to me and, while speaking rapid Spanish, thrust her baby into my arms before running off to fold laundry.

A quick note for those who don't know me. I don't like babies. I think they are cute from a distance, but even when it's a baby of someone that I know, I have little to zero desire to hold it. She apparently spoke no English, as I repeatedly tried to return her child to her, she would just ramble something in Spanish and return to folding laundry.

 So I stood there, with a child that I not only did not know the name of, I actually had no clue of its gender, wondering when this Hell simulator might end.

Apparently the Hell simulator was on "shop demonstration" mode, because out of nowhere this guy, with clean shaven head, beard that qualified as "ZZ Top length" and a giant swastika tattoo wandered up to me, "Hey... I heard your underwear got stolen... that really sucks..." 

So, a quick recap on the situation. I have had all my underwear stolen, I am stuck holding a baby of unknown name and gender and I am now being consoled about stolen underwear by a Neo-Nazi.

At this point, I figured, "Well, it can't get any worse, right?"

The universe loves to laugh at these thoughts. The Neo-Nazi suddenly changed subjects, "So... are you busy Friday night?"

I was about to attempt a reply when suddenly the baby hiccuped and puked down my arm. Granted, if there is ever a time to puke, it might be witnessing someone being asked out by a Neo-Nazi in a laundromat, but I still didn't appreciate the gesture.

Finally, after fending off my Neo-Nazi Nitwit, managing to give back the baby, and most of the puke, to the mother and gathering up my finally clean laundry, I was able to leave.

Now I go to the laundromat armed with mace. Excuse me, not "mace," I meant "a mace" as in one of those medieval weapons with the chain and the spiky ball on the end. It has the benefit of both occupying my hands so unknown babies cannot be thrown into them and keeping unwanted advances at bay.

So what socks of knowledge can be pulled from the laundry basket of experience?

1. If an officer asks, "What would you like me to do about your stolen underwear?" Responding with, "Well, nothing really, I mean if you see a guy wearing panties on his head, you might assume he's the culprit and talk to him. I just thought you should know about the creeper..." will make the responding officer nearly snort his coffee all over his notebook.

2. Apparently baby puke repulses Nazis, if only we had known this in WWII.

3. Laundry day is a dangerous day.

As always my adventures can be followed on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn), instagram (@AtillatheHawn) and my books can be found here! Keep checking in for more news and details about my upcoming book "Life is a Roller Derby Run by a Sphinx!" 

Sometimes Life...

Hello everyone! I hope you have all had a lovely past few months!

I'm afraid I have been a little more than errant in posting here. To adequately describe my life the last four months, I must impart the wisdom of a five year old.

I was wandering through the grocery store around a year ago, when I happened to run across this little boy and his mom. I really didn't catch much of their conversation, but as I passed them, this little boy turned to his mom and said, "You know... Sometimes life just gives you the taco poops."

That little munchkin in a Superman t-shirt somehow managed to state an absolute truism about life; Sometimes life just gives you the taco poops.

The combination of moving (again), working three jobs and going to grad school full time has meant that I have let a lot of things slide in the past few months. This blog was one of them. And while I can't promise that I will post with regularity again, I can promise that I will attempt not to leave a several month gap in between posts.

So until next time, which I hope will be soon, everyone have a fabulous time and don't let life's taco poops catch you as they caught me!

As always, my adventures can be followed on Facebook, Twitter and now Instagram!

The Graduate School Experience

Hello everyone, I hope you're all having a wonderful day full of rainbows and cheer and coffee (which is what I am 99% powered by right now, the other 1% is coffee fumes).

Well I have now been a graduate student for a little over two months now. The number one question I have received during that time is, "What is it like?"

So here, to answer your questions, is what graduate school is like.

Imagine you're floating down a river on a log. Why you chose to put yourself in the middle of the river on a log is anyone's guess, but there you are.

Luckily, you have learned a little about how to stay balanced on a log in a previous water-bound adventure, but this time the river is flowing a bit faster and you're noticing a lot more rocks in your path.

As you float along you begin to realize that your simple log is going to be insufficient to transport you safely, which is what the river guides/professors walking along the banks are for. From the safe tenured banks of the body of water, the professors throw you tools while shouting helpful hints like, "Build a canoe, it will be easier to steer and stay on!"

"But I've never built a canoe!"

In response they lug a five hundred page canoe building manual at you and say, "I think if you pay really close attention to every single page you should be able to manage building a canoe just fine!"

So, while balanced on the log, rushing down a never slowing river, you read the manual. Only to find that the information you needed on how to build the canoe is on page 489 of 500. The first 488 pages were actually a history of canoes. With this new knowledge you start to carve out the inside of your canoe, a bit exhausted at this point from trying to stay balanced, continuing to avoid the rocks and reading and retaining information you did not actually need.

You somehow manage to dig out a little divot inside the log to sit in, and you start feeling more confident about your little river adventure. Then another voice from the banks says, "Oh no, that's not going to work, you need at least one paddle..."

More tools and another manual, this time 600 pages in length is lobbed at you as the water surrounding you becomes even more choppy.

"Is there a simpler manual or any hints you can give me!?"

"Nope, that is the only manual in existence that will teach you how to make a paddle the right way. As for advice, just don't let the alligators eat you!"

Now you not only have to make a paddle, but you have to keep your eyes open for a new threat to your existence that you, up until this moment, had no idea even existed.

You furiously read the manual, which spends approximately 500 pages talking about how many different uses for paddles exist in both the first and third worlds, and finally reach a chapter about making a paddle. Using some of the wood from your dugout canoe you start to make a paddle, only to nearly get hit in the head by a chunk of wood thrown at you from the bank.

Yet another voice calls, "You can't use THAT wood, use the stuff I threw you instead."

"But I only know how to carve this type of wood..." you say with a sigh, "Can't I just use the wood I've been using all along?"

"Nope! But don't worry, there's a manual on how to work with the wood I just tossed you, don't worry it's only 800 pages long. And the part about how many trees that wood is related to is really fascinating stuff, make sure you don't skip that! Hey, did you notice the leech on your arm? Don't worry, there's a manual for that too..."

This is pretty much what graduate school is like, folks.

Feel free to follow my continued adventures, and see if I fall off the log, on Facebook and Twitter and don't forget to check out my books!

Ban Illiteracy

Hello everyone, I hope your weeks have been more fantastic than the thought of a wombat version of the X-Men!

Well, in case you missed this tidbit of news in the world of books, this week is Banned Book Week!

This is a magical time of year when authors, readers, librarians and bibliophiles get together to promote a world free from book censorship. In honor of that I have collected a few of my favorite banned books for your perusal.

 Hop on Pop - Dr. Seuss

That's right, Dr. Seuss was banned.

The violent images of violence perpetuated by children against their long-suffering father prompted quite a few complaints up in Canada forcing several libraries to pull the book from their shelves.

Of course, we all know Dr. Seuss, that warped man, was really just promoting patricide, not literacy.

The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien

Technically The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and the Silmarillion have all been banned at one time or another. Though, if anyone who recommended the Silmarillion be banned had actually read it I would eat my nonexistent hat.

All three of these were banned because they possessed an obvious connection to Satanism.  After all, who hasn't actually opened a portal to the underworld just by reading about Hobbits? Oh, did that just happen to me? Okay then.

Where the Sidewalk Ends - Shel Silverstein

Yep, your favorite childhood poet was secretly poisoning your mind.

How? Well, obviously the book promoted cannibalism, naughty behavior by children and mass plate breaking.

No, seriously, there was a group that freaked out because this book displayed children breaking multiple plates instead of washing them, which obviously was encouraging child-based anarchy.

Harriet the Spy - Louise Fitzhugh

This spunky little girl was actually an insidious, clandestine plan to encourage children to spy!

Well, I guess it is in the title, so you know, it wasn't very secret...

As an author and bibliophile, I strongly encourage everyone to go out, find a "Banned Book" and read it! That's right, do something dangerous, buck the censorship system and read!

Let me know what your favorite banned book is in the comments below! 


As always you can find me in Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and find my books here!

The Mulan Effect

Hello everyone! I hope your weeks have been better than the thought of a party hosted by intelligent pelicans.

It is no mystery that I have worked a plethora of interesting jobs. From stable hand to Japanese language tutor, my jobs have not been in the sphere of 9 to 5 normality.

Quite a few of my jobs thus far have not only been a bit on the odd side, but have also been ones that have, in the past, been traditionally held by men. I've been a bouncer, head of security for a homeless shelter, lighting technician for a concert house and self defense instructor.

Now, before I get a ton of comments saying, "But women's equality has come so far! You can't seriously think your gender matters in modern jobs!" let me tell you how much bull pucky that is.

What It Feels Like Working In A Male Dominated Field

I have found that as a woman my credibility and my experience are constantly called into question.

I once literally had a customer when I was a lighting technician for a concert house say, "Move over sweetheart, I'll focus that light."

To which I promptly replied, "What is your profession?"

"I'm a salesman."

"Uh-huh. And how much experience with lighting has that afforded you?"

"Umm...None."

"Then no thanks, cupcake. As I'm the trained lighting technician I think I have the lights. If I need to sell something I will let you know."

The way that I have come to cope with this kind of behavior I like to call The Mulan Effect.

For those of you who never watched Mulan as a child, and therefore I assume had empty and sad childhoods, it is a film in which the protagonist, Mulan, takes her father's place in the army by pretending to be a man.

While I have never claimed to be a man during any of my jobs (and certainly never had a lucky cricket or talking Dragon to help out) I found that taking on certain masculine characteristics helped keep some of the sexism at bay.

It was during my lighting tech days that I started going by Al. Somehow when clients heard that their lighting tech was going to be Al instead of Allison there seemed to be fewer instances of, "Oh, do you have anyone else available that day?"

Of course it was always interesting when they found out "Al" was a 5' 2" blonde twirling a giant wrench, but since no one ever had anything negative to say about my lighting sets, being Al got me through the door to work with customers.

As a bouncer and security personnel, I always got a better and more professional response when I was wearing heavy steel toed boots, a more loose fitting t-shirt and black straight-cut pants than if I wore anything even slightly alluding to my femininity.

Even lowering my voice an octave or so dramatically shifted the level to which others perceived my level of competence, even if I was talking to the same person when I lowered my voice.

This Mulan Effect as I like to call it does have it's limitations of course. There have been times when despite my efforts to suppress my femininity while in the job, I have had people walk off because of my gender.

The fact of it is, that I find it incredibly sad that in 2015 I still have people shaking my hand while saying, "Wait, you can't be the head of security here. I mean, wouldn't he be better at it?" (And yes, I have had that happen multiple times.)

I find it even more depressing that to be taken seriously I have to suppress things as core as my sex and gender to be taken seriously at jobs simply because it has traditionally been worked by males.

So has anyone experienced the Mulan Effect? What about men, do you find that taking on more "traditionally feminine" roles you have to hide your masculinity at times?

I really would love to hear from everybody.

As always I can be found on Facebook and Twitter and my books can be found here.

Living Dangerously

Hello everyone! I hope your weeks have been better than the thought of 1920's jazz performed on kazoo's!

So it has become apparent to me that not even the hallowed 'Halls of Justice' are immune from my abilities to attract the bizarre in the world.

This past week I had to go to court to file something for work, which happens on occasion when you're the head of security for a homeless shelter.

All I needed was a judge's signature on one document, and I would have been home free. Knowing that life rarely allows for the simplicity involved with "all you have to do is just..." I had brought my trusty book.

It was a good thing I did so, because getting that one little dash of ink took nearly three hours. For my part, I was just dandy. I had my copy of "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven" and this was the closest thing to a break I'd had from my crazy life in days.

There was this adorable little, very flamboyantly gay, court assistant who whisked back documents to the judge with flair. He greeted everyone with, "Why, hello there! Isn't today just a peachy day to be in court!?" 

With my book and no clients to tell to stop licking the walls, I thought so.

I was only two pages into my book when I heard a small disruption. By 'small disruption' I mean I watched someone run into a bench, apologize to it, then plunk down on the same bench with all the grace of a pregnant hippo.

There was a cloud of rum that wafted in my direction as the court assistant approached the person, who was suffering from the depressing side effects of living like a Jimmy Buffet song. The attendant almost choked on the smell coming from this man as he asked, "What can we... urp... help you with sir?"

The man blearily looked at him and said, "I's supposed ta come ta this here court room today..."

"What for?"

"I got dis bull DUI charge... I wanna give the jug a piece of my mind..."

Everyone in the room blinked at the inebriated gentleman as the court assistant blinked rapidly, "Well... umm... sir, you're in the wrong place, sweetie. You need to go next door to traffic court, okay?"

The drunk guy narrowed his eyes trying to decipher the words that had been offered to him. Finally something clicked and he shoved himself to his feet and staggered out the door.

The assistant fanned the air that the man had just vacated and went about his business saying, "Good luck with that case."

I returned to reading my book and made it a whole three more pages when the courtroom doors opened again and someone plopped in the chair next to me.

He was sixteen, with a round face and all the acne that an awkward teenage experience could provide. How do I know he was sixteen? Because he had his license out and in his hand and I could read his birth date. 

Now keep in mind I was wearing my security uniform that read, "SECURITY" in giant letters.

I kept reading my book, only acknowledging his sitting right next to me, in a room with thirty other empty chairs, with a slight nod of my head.

"So what are you here for?"

I kept my book open as I replied, "Work."

"What do you do?"

I pointed at the giant lettering on my shirt and said, "I'm the head of security for a homeless shelter."

Now, I'd like to think this would have made most people pause for a second and contemplate their future word choice. Nope, he was obviously too young to have learned that lesson yet. The tyke next to me said, "You're cute. Do you like dangerous men?"

I didn't respond, turning a page in my book and continuing on my Sherman Alexie adventure. Unfazed he blundered on, "Because I'm here for a ticket. I drove 50 in a 35 mile zone."

I blew out a sigh, "Yesterday I had someone at work try to jump over a bench to punch someone in the face. Driving slightly above the speed limit doesn't make you dangerous, that makes you mildly annoying. Also I'm twenty-five."

The court assistant, who had been helping a woman a few chairs down from mine, heard the entire exchange. The kid sitting next to me told the assistant, "I thought she was like, eighteen."

The adorable court assistant smiled and said, "Awwww... Kid, work on your lines. Also, you need to go one courtroom over for traffic court."

So what lessons can be pulled from the docket of experience?

1. Arriving drunk to contest a DUI charge is perhaps not the best plan of action.

 2. If your idea of 'danger' is driving fifteen miles above the speed limit, I might suggest not trying your hand at becoming an international spy.

3. Apparently the guards at the front doors of the court building do not check or care if someone walks in drunk or stupid to their court date, but heaven help you if you're wearing boots with metal lacing holes.

In other news, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" received another 5 star review! Reader BookNoseRose writes, "This book is SO FUNNY! I loved Ms. Hawn's first book and this one is just as good! Definitely pick it up if you need a laugh!"

Remember, reviews save authors! 

Don't forget to follow my adventures on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and check out my books on Amazon.

Feeling Very Small

Hello all, I hope you have all had a magical week full of wonderful adventures, or at least managed to not spill coffee on your lap while you're driving (I feel like those two things are tantamount).

This week I made one of those 'I'm really an adult now' decisions: I bought a Costco membership. What can I say, they sell my Kashi granola bars in mass bulk and I can buy 90 pounds of cheese at a time if I want to (now storing that much cheese is another matter entirely).

I hadn't really been Costco shopping since I was much, much younger, and revisiting this magical place of consumerism was kind of like forging forth into a brand new world.

So here are the things I learned about Costco on my maiden shopping voyage with my new membership card in hand.

1. Ever need to feel like a kid again? Just push a Costco shopping cart around for a while. 

Shopping Cart: Juggernaut Edition

No seriously. I am 5' 2" tall and was holding the camera in the picture to the right at about the level of my neck.

That cart came up to my collar bone and could have easily fit two of me in the giant basket. I wanted to test this theory by actually climbing in, but employees were already giving me strange looks, so I decided against it.

2. Every Costco shopping aisle comes with at least one old bickering couple.

Without fail, I would wander down an aisle to see two, obviously married, senior citizens saying something along the lines of, "Ethel, I don't want the raspberry jam, I want the strawberry jam!"

Ethel would then let out a deep sigh and retort with, "Well, I bought the strawberry jam last month, and halfway through you said you were sick of it! So this month we're getting raspberry so that I don't have to listen to you whine about getting bored of the strawberry jam!"

Somehow, the women always seemed to be winning.

3. Shopping at Costco is kind of like getting in touch with nature... because there are birds.

It was actually a little serene to be wandering up and down the concrete floored aisles listening to the very overweight birds chirp happily above. At the same time it was slightly terrifying, though, because there was a chance one of them might bomb you as you walked underneath.

4. Not only do they make bottles of tequila in five gallon sizes, but Costco sells them.

 I feel like if you're buying Costco kegs of tequila, and you don't own a bar, are planning on having a party for a hundred people or live with nineteen roommates, you might want to admit you have a problem. Also, it's a good thing that Costco sells lemons and salt in bulk, because you are going to need it.

5. It is actually okay to go shopping hungry at Costco, because they give out samples.

I have never had so many different types of food provided to me in little plastic shot-glass form, but I definitely approve. I rather wish that this was standard for all food selling stores.

6. Costco is the Mecca of Muffins.

Holy muffin top Batman! Not only have I never seen such a myriad of different muffins, but the muffins were huge!

7. I am now stocked on certain items for the rest of my life.

I needed trash bags. Now I probably have enough trash bags to suit all my trash needs for the foreseeable future and still have enough left over to assist in the disposal of everyone on my 'should not still be walking around on this planet' list.

8. Who needs the gym when you've got a Costco membership!

Seriously, getting those giant bags of cheese up and down the stairs is an intense workout all on its own. They will nicely box your purchases up for you, but then those boxes will weigh about the same amount as Val Kilmer does now, so good luck!  

So, what wonderful Costco revelations have you had?

As always, I can be found on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and Goodreads!

Christmas Creep

Hello all! I hope everyone had a splendid week full of clear roads, sunshine and warmth.

If you live in the Pacific Northwest, I know that these things are basically a distant memory as we all wake up an extra twenty minutes early to scrape our windshields free of permafrost, take our Vitamin D, since we probably won't see the sun for months, and don our wind-proof parkas.

One Photogenic Cat

Just a quick reminder, half of my profits from Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor and Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus through November and December will be going to help the wonderful efforts of SpokAnimal.

So pick up a book for a gift, or for yourself, and know that you're helping animals like Mz. Boo, here to the right, stay safe and warm this winter. Also, Mz. Boo is available for adoption, so save me from becoming a crazy cat lady and adopt her before I'm tempted to!

Well, it is now officially December, which means that the holiday spirit has gone from being the dull roar that has slowly been building since October, to the full-on maniacal laugh of Christmas crazy.
 
Don't get me wrong, I think Christmas is all fine and dandy. At the point where it starts to invade my every moment for nearly three months, trampling other poor holidays into the dust, it becomes a bit much, though. 

Seriously, every store I walk into looks like it was taken over by Santa's clone army.

There is a house down the street that has so many Christmas lights on it I have actually used it to help give driving instructions to my place.

"Okay, you're going to see a bright glow off to your left. Follow the bright glow for about a mile or so. As you drive by don't look directly at it or you'll blind yourself, then take the next right..."

I honestly have no idea how those people sleep at night since it is probably daytime in their house 24/7 thanks to those lights.

Probably the most disturbing part of this Christmas chaos is the fact that I am currently being stalked.

No, it's not the creepy Santa Claus hanging out in the park with his burlap sack full of... I actually never wanted to know what was in there. I think the cops told him he couldn't hang out there anymore.

I am being persistently followed by "(In Winter It's a) Marshmallow World." 

If you've never heard this glittering little slice of Hell, I have included it here for you:

Sung by the most alcohol soaked member of the Rat Pack, Dean Martin, isn't that just a lovely piece of sugary sweet terribleness? 

This has always been one of my least favorite Christmas songs. With lyrics like "It's a yum-yummy world made for sweethearts," every time I hear it I just want to punt a reindeer. 

Here, just to get that out of your head now, here is my favorite Christmas song:

 

So as the Christmas music began to roll onto the radio, I was chagrined to find that "Marshmallow World" was the first festive tune that graced the airwaves in my truck. I switched to the heavy metal station so fast that I may have broken a pre-set button.

Figuring I had met my "Marshmallow World" quota for the season, I decided to pull up a Pandora Christmas station. Not only was "Marshmallow World" the first song that popped up, out of the first five songs that played, my Marshmallow Nightmare played three times.

I've stopped using Pandora for a bit. 

I don't own a television, but this past week I went to house-sit for a friend who does. I have not flipped on a television in over a year, but the first thing that popped up onto the screen was a commercial for Target with, you guessed it, a pop version of "Marshmallow World" as its background music. 

So when I went grocery shopping and stepped into the store to hear that I was going to be buying celery to the sounds of Dean Martin slurring out, "It's a whipped cream day..." I may have let out an audible whimper. 

There was no way to explain to the concerned store attendant that I was being stalked by Dean Martin, who has been dead for nearly two decades, and his persistent desire to let me know that, "The world is your snowball just for a song." 

If you need me for the next month or so, I will be in my apartment curled up in a ball rocking back and forth and listening to the Twisted Sister Christmas album on repeat.

What Christmas songs are plaguing you this season?

As always, come find my festive self on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn), and Goodreads!

How Pringles Almost Became the End of the World

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

I hope everyone enjoys celebrating the best holiday of the year! Still need a costume idea? How about dressing up like this dashing fellow to the right?

In some positive book news, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" did make it to the top of Goodreads' "Chick Lit for the Misfit Girl" list!

So a couple weeks back I was sick.

How sick was I? I had a fever that made me delusional enough to think I was talking to both Agatha Christie and Hugh Jackman over tea (the tea was non-existent as well, mind you).

I spent an entire week in bed unable to move because every time I tried to stand for more than about thirty seconds I had a chance of blacking out and waking up an hour later hugging my coffee table. (I don't know what my coffee table thinks our relationship status is now. I'm just not bringing it up and hoping that it doesn't bring it up either.)

I couldn't eat, could barely drink and spent most of my time sounding like a pug with sleep apnea. 

After three days of a water and two-whole-Saltine-crackers diet, I finally had my first craving for food and it was more powerful than the Death Star's tractor beam. I wanted... No, I NEEDED sour cream and onion flavored Pringles.

 Now keep in mind, this is really a strange craving. I rarely eat potato chips and never buy them for my own consumption. But that day I would have mugged a granny for a can of preservative laden potato crisps.

I couldn't drive. Heck, I could barely walk.

Of course, I had friends who probably would have happily dropped my food craving by, but they were all at work. I was finally hungry for something, and that, in my fevered and exhausted brain, needed to be solved now.

My rather addled mind somehow remembered that there was a convenience store on the first floor of my apartment complex. You know the type of place, they sell random items at a two-hundred percent markup? 

This was day five of my illness, and I had managed to shower twice, change my shirt three times and I had given up entirely on the concept of pants. I did not even have enough energy to try to beat my hair into submission long enough to get it into a ponytail. 

Yet I decided that I was going to get to that convenience store come Hell or high body temperature. Like Hercules tackling his twelve labors I began the task of putting on enough clothing that I wouldn't get arrested for indecent exposure.

First, I put on a shirt that lacked a giant red Gatorade stain from the times I had fallen asleep while trying to drink in the previous days. This took ten minutes as the many holes of the shirt continued to confound me more than German Existentialism confuses a duck.

Then came the pants. I got one leg in all right, but then found I had absolutely no energy left to put my other leg in. I sat there on the edge of my bed staring down at the half on pants, willing myself to just move in the correct order of motions to complete the task at hand.

It was only the thought of sour cream and onion Pringles that made the task doable. After another ten minutes, I had pants on.

I fought my way into a jacket and grabbed my keys and a five dollar bill. Giving up on socks entirely I opted for the commando approach to my skater shoes.

Finally, wearing legally enough clothing, I made it out the door of my apartment.

Technically, I made it out the door and made immediate friends, face first, with the wall across from my apartment door.

That wall and I stayed close buddies as I basically leaned on the wall and walked/slid my way towards my next obstacle; the stairs.

I stood at the edge of the great precipice, looking down the one flight of stairs that on that day seemed about as easy as a trek down the side of Mt. Everest on roller skates. It's really good that the railings in my building were apparently made for gymnastics routines, as I half walked, half lowered myself down one stair at a time.

The convenience store was out the door and around the corner. By the time I entered the small shop, I already felt like I had just fought off the minotaur using nothing more than a box of Cracker Jacks and a Monopoly board.

 Squinting around the small shop I saw a spot that seemed to be the 'salty snacky things' section, and launched myself in a staggering trajectory towards it.

I stood there, swaying like the palm trees in a Jimmy Buffet song, blinking at the chips shelf. There were canisters of Pringles lined up; original, barbeque, cheddar-cheese... No sour cream and onion.

There was a gap on the shelf in between a couple of the flavors, the tag below identifying that this was the spot where once the Holy Grail had rested.

I had faced the struggle of getting clothed and making the journey with the kind of bravery and determination of an Olympic athlete, and now here I was bereft of my gold medal.

My fever had again climbed to a triple-digit number and all four of my remaining brain cells could not comprehend the unfairness of the situation. My eyes began to tear up.

That is when the poor store owner found me, the most pathetic version of Cousin It he had probably ever seen, about to lose my composure and what was left of my mind over a missing can of chips.

"Can I help you find something?"

I looked up at him, the sweat from the fever matting hair to my face, my face pale and gaunt and my bottom lip trembling. I lacked the energy, or in fact the working brain matter, to ask for what I was looking for, I simply pointed.

The store owner looked at me for a second and asking, "You sick?"

I nodded, still pointing.

"Ah," then he looked down at the shelf, "Oh, are you looking for some sour cream and onion Pringles? I might be out. How about one of these other flavors?"

My bottom lip quivers got bigger and he quickly finished with, "You know what, never mind. I might have some in back!"

He dashed off, obviously worried that I was going to die in his shop and he would have to explain to my friends and relatives that it was all because he had failed to produce chips fast enough.

I heard the sounds of boxes being ripped open, things being shifted and even a few thuds. After a few minutes, a dust and sweat covered store owner came out panting, "I found one!"

 I mustered a muttered, "Thank you," as I paid for the last can of Pringles.

The store owner just looked down at me, as I stood there, swaying and holding the chips close to my myself like Linus and his security blanket, "Well... umm... don't die?"

Nodding, I slowly turned, resetting my next trajectory in the general direction of the door.

I hugged the can of Pringles close to my chest the entire return journey, apparently afraid that in my feeble state some hooligan might come and steal them in the ten yards back to my apartment.

I gave up attempting to walk up the stairs, instead half crawling, clutching the can in one hand and using the other to help propel myself upwards.

I don't entirely remember how I made it down the hall back to my apartment. I'm sure walking was involved at some level, but judging by the bruises I found later, it was a safe bet that the wall had to help me at certain points via solid reinforcement.

By the time I got my apartment door open I was way past feeling woozy. I felt like someone had drugged me with chloroform prior to hitting me on the noggin with a sledgehammer. 

I walked out of my shoes, my jacket dropping to the floor behind me in a little trail of victory to my bedroom.

Still fully clothed, I plopped face-first into bed, my arm still holding my precious Pringles out beside me. My epic journey was complete, I had succeeded in my quest.

Lying there on my bed, my tiny feet dangling over the edge of the mattress, I fell asleep.

I woke up some seven hours later, the unopened can of Pringles still clutched in my hand. I slowly turned my head, popped the top of the can, and proceeded to kind of half shovel some of the chips into my mouth.

Indignity never tasted so good.

So what lessons can be wiped from the brow of experience?

1. If you're so sick that pants become too difficult of a puzzle for you, it's probably not a good idea to attempt to leave your home.

2. If you want excellent customer service, make your hair look like you spend much of your time sticking forks into light sockets and start to cry over very small issues like a missing chip flavor. Boy howdy will you get some awesome help then!

3. Sometimes we don't make the greatest decisions when we're sick. It's unfortunate that another side effect of being ill is that we can't judge when we are making those terrible decisions.

If you want to see the kinds of things I do when I'm not sick, come find me on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads!