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!" 

Relocating My Dignity

Hello everyone! I hope that everyone has had a more splendid month of May than the thought of Prince and David Bowie performing a duet in heaven!

I have to say that my May was just dandy right up until the universe threw an obstacle in my way that I could not go over, under or around. Let me explain: I am a power-through kind of person, much like the Kool-Aid Man powers through a wall.

Life Motto

I just made it through a year of graduate school while working three to four jobs, keeping on top of my training for athletic competitions and maintaining at least some semblance of a social life to boot.

I recently found out that I fractured my foot some months back, but somehow managed to run on that foot 20 miles a week. I even was able to make it through a seminar on proper case note documentation without falling asleep once (though, I did rest my eyes on occasion).

The conundrum with this "can-do-and-do-and-do..." attitude is that eventually even the resilience Hulks among us hit the point where their minds and bodies just say, "NOPE!"

My "nope" moment happened last week. I was 60 hours into an 80 hour work week and had struggled through two days of security work, while wearing body armor out on concrete under the Arizona sun. I hadn't been feeling particularly well all week, but I consoled myself with the thought that if I could just make it through 80 hours I could collapse for an entire day afterwards.

My body had other plans.

I was on hour 10 of a 16 hour shift and had just broken up a fight between two drunk rednecks (rebel flag belt buckles included), when it hit. Suddenly, I felt like every cell of my body had declared war with every other cell in my body. My stomach hated my rib cage, my head loathed my spine and my chest had nothing nice to say about my back.

My boss took one look at me and said, "Go home, now."

I was in no condition to argue. Actually, I was in no condition to "go home."

I crawled behind the wheel of my car and through blinding amounts of pain (no literally, there were times I could not actually see the road), limped home.

Should I have called someone to come and transport me? Absolutely.

Does one think logically when one feels like an alien being is about to jump out of one's stomach? Not so much.

By some miracle I made it home, parked my car and made it inside just in time to effectively empty myself of every bit of food I had ever eaten, and possibly some that I had never eaten but that showed up for the party anyways. Having been stabbed, I can attest to the fact that the amount of pain I was in was worse than being stabbed.

After about thirty of the worst minutes of my life, I managed to crawl out of my work clothes, which left me essentially in Batman boxers and a sports bra, and clambored up onto my couch.

There I lay, curled up in a ball, passing in and out of consciousness and vacillating between, "Is this the end?" and, "I can't die! No one can see the state I just left my bathroom in!"

It was there, lying on my couch shaking like chihuahua on meth, when I heard a faint thudding noise. Someone was knocking on my door. Assuming it was the Angel of Death, and realizing my time had probably come, I somehow made noises that indicated whoever it was could come in.

A mysterious apparition poked it's head through my door, "I, uh, have a work order to change your air filter. You okay?"

Now, at this point, I was so out of it, that I honestly had no idea what was real and what was delusions brought on by what I later found out was a nasty stomach virus, compounded by heat exhaustion and a minor ear infection. I told the ethereal being that I was sick, but he entered anyways.

The apparition moved through my apartment and began doing something to my air vent that in my state I could not comprehend. At this point I was feeling particularly introspective about life so I asked, "Do you think we keep our personalities after death?"

"Uh... what?"

"Do we... keep our personalities after we die?"

"Uh... I guess so?"

"Oh good, 'cause I'd hate to be one of those perky-happy people all of a sudden."

The apparition continued about its mysterious business as I continued, "Why does pain exist?"

"Uh... gee... I dunno. You really must be sick, huh?"

I did not understand why the apparition was so useless at providing me with answers, he was not of this world, so he should have some insights into the matters of the mortal world!

I continued to assail him with all my, two-inch, deep questions before the apparition suddenly said, "I'm all done!" With a quick, "You feel better, ma'am!" it vanished.

Okay, it went out my door, but in my fuzzy brain, whatever it was went poof like a magician.

I then, thankfully, passed out. I woke up two hours later, still in massive amounts of pain, but also a little bit clearer headed. I got up to splash a little water on my face, which is when I remembered my apparition.

I've had sickness hallucinations in the past, and I quickly chalked it up to the amazing amount of pain and probable fever I was currently suffering. That was when I saw it: Sitting on my kitchen counter was a maintenance service slip and an accidentally left behind tool.

It then struck me that my apparition had actually been my apartment building's maintenance man. I had bombarded the poor guy who just came to swap out my air filter with a whole range of feverish babble and may at one point have told him that he was a "failure as an other-worldly being."

The only positive of being in as much pain as I was at that moment, was it completely overrode my sense of shame as I staggered back to my place on the couch.

So what lessons can be burned through the fever of experience:

1. Sometimes your body has just had enough. It is wise to learn the warning signs and rest before your body just says, "To heck with it!" and lets every available ailment overrun you at once like a Barbarian horde through a fence made of toothpicks.

2. There is never an apology so awkward as, "I'm sorry that while I was sick I thought you were a hallucination. I don't normally ask people to solve all the problems in the universe while I am curled up in Batman boxers."

3. One does not need to leave one's home to horribly embarrass oneself. Apparently shame has a door-to-door service now!

I am glad to say that I am among the land of the living and able to consume solid food again, and as such I have a quick announcement. My third book, "Life is a Roller Derby Run by a Sphinx" will (if the winds blow correctly) be released later this summer!!!

For news on this release, and to check out my other books, check back here, come join me on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn), Instagram (AtillatheHawn) and Amazon!

Putting All Your Chips On The Table

Well hello all! I hope everyone has had a more marvelous week than the thought of a thousand cacti arranged to form the Millennium Falcon.

This past week I had the awesome chance to go toodle around Arizona for a few days (which is why I have been a tad lax on updates, apologies).

Arizona is an wondrous place, full of sunshine, cacti and really odd street names (Bloody Basin Road and Bee King Road among them).

 
As a resident Spokanite, I haven't really seen sunlight since Tinkerbell was saying, "In color!" before the start of every Disney film. 

Is that an exaggeration? Maybe, but having just survived another bone-chilling winter, I was ready for some sun.

I was also exceedingly ready for a break from work. Don't get me wrong, I love my clients, but you can only say, "Stop licking the walls!" and, "Take those panties off of your head!" so many times before it begins to wear on your little grey cells.

I was finally getting away from it all... or so I thought.

Just because I'm on vacation does not mean that I wish to stop working out, so I was overjoyed to find that the hotel in Arizona my mother, grandmother and I were staying in had a workout area.

I was far less overjoyed when I opened the door to their mini-gym and was met by a wave of body odor and booze. No one was in there at that exact moment, but there was a super-classy box of chardonnay sitting on top of the weight bench with a myriad of potato chips surrounding it like some kind of shrine to gluttony.

Of Course I Took a Picture With A Dinosaur Head

I snagged the box of wine to take up to the front desk, but paused when, from an outside door that had been propped open, a schnockered looking man entered. 

When he saw me holding the box of wine he gave me a shocked look worthy of a daytime soap opera and quickly exited again.

I took the box of wine to the front desk who said they would take care of it. 

The next morning, in an insane rash of optimism, I decided to try the workout room again. I knew I should have just gone running when I opened the door and was slapped in the face by body odor, booze and the additional fragrance of urine.

I peered around the corner and found myself looking at the same individual I had previously spotted. Wolfing down chips with one hand and downing fowl smelling rum and cheap wine as his chasers, the man lounged on the weight equipment staring at the TV screen.

"Hey bud!" I said.

He slowly turned as I continued, "Are you supposed to be in here?"

His mouth full of chips and dank smelling rum he blearily looked at me, looked down at his chips, and then offered them to me.

I just shook my head and headed for the front desk to inform them that they had failed to get rid of their unregistered guest.

What lessons did I learn from my little Arizona adventure?

1. When you are caught breaking into a hotel's weight room to settle in to drink and pee, there is no amount of chips you can use to barter yourself out of that situation.

2. There is no taking a vacation from a bizarre life. 

Quick announcement: Due to the fact that I wish to focus more on my writing projects, this blog will be moving from a weekly format to a bi-weekly format. Of course if you want a more frequently updated way to follow my misadventures, come find me on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn)!

No Room to Judge

Hello all! I hope your weeks have all gone better than the thought of a reenactment of Guardians of the Galaxy performed by cats.

I recently had a moment that reminded me that, while everyone's perceptions of reality are different, mine are probably a little more warped than your average Jill.

It's not that I don't believe that other people have strange occurrences in their lives, I know they do! It's more a matter of frequency.

Having worked in the past as a street outreach worker, a bouncer, a concert house lighting technician and my current job as the head of security for a homeless shelter means that I've been exposed to a myriad of strange experiences. (Need proof? Check out my two books.)

It has gotten to the point where chaos and bizarre circumstances almost feel natural to me. I'm sure that someone else would look at a man dressed in a green, full-body, spandex suit running around screaming, "I'm a leprechaun! I'm a leprechaun!" and find that a rather rare, if not scary, experience. For me, I just call that Tuesday.

I did not realize how much my perceptions of what 'normal' and 'sane' had been skewed until recently, at the end of a work day, when I happened to look up at the television screen that had been flipped on for the clients to watch. On the screen, I found myself looking at a grown woman tap dancing while dressed as a ladybug.

For a brief moment I watched the woman and actually thought to myself, "Wow, TV-land is one weird place."

Then I paused for a second and realized that not five minutes before I had just ended an hour-long battle with a woman who refused to wear pants because they were 'of the devil.' The only way I could get the only-t-shirt-clad woman to put something on her lower half, was to convince her that because this was a Catholic owned shelter, the pants' very presence in this building meant that they were safe from any form of possession.

Before that I had been forced to stop a heated argument between two grown men over whose tattoo was more faded, and earlier that morning I had to tell someone that iguanas were not technically service animals.

I looked back up at the woman on the screen, dancing her heart out in her little red and black costume and realized, I probably was no longer a great judge of what constituted as 'weird.'

You do you ladybug lady, you do you.

Anyone else have any perception revelations of late?

In other news, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" has garnered itself another five star review! Reader Brenda writes, "A great escape into the unknown and the funny. This is a quirky, off-beat tale that filled me with delight. The author has unusual voice that had me laughing out loud. A bit on the bizarre side that I took pleasure in."

See the full review here! 

Don't forget to follow me on Facebook and Twitter, and check out my books on Amazon! 

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.

I Broke Mental Health

Hello everyone, I hope you're all having a more splendid week than the thought of "Cats" the musical performed by wallabies.

This week there was another 5* review for "Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus!" Amazon reader Eclectic wrote, "You cannot be in a funk when reading this book! Allison Hawn's deliciously wicked prose will make you laugh until your sides ache."

See the full review here!

For those of you just tuning in, I am the head of security for a very large homeless shelter. How large? We see roughly between 250 to 650 people a day.

My job is basically to keep a round lid of calm on a square box of chaos. A couple weeks back I had to put my lid-fitting skills to the absolute test.

I had just opened the doors to the shelter, letting our usual breakfast crowd in, when one man wandered through, catching my attention. Now keep in mind he was competing for my notice that morning with someone came in dressed as a pony and another one who came in with a pot on his head.

Barefoot, wearing pants that he had most certainly recently peed in, he was wandering through our day room levitating his hands over sleeping peoples' heads and muttering. Worried that he might end up with a fist in his face, I wandered over and said, "Hey! You're a new face, what's your name?"

 "Jesus Christ."

It was at that moment that I knew I wouldn't get a chance to finish my first cup of coffee for the day and I might as well throw out the idea of getting anything else productive done.

I blinked at him a little and said, "Alright Mr. Christ, what are you doing?"

His hands hovered over a sleeping patron, "I'm healing them."

"Can we wait until they're awake to heal them? How about we let them sleep, okay? Let's get you a doughnut."

Eventually I was able to convince him, in all his majestic glory, to go sit down long enough for one of the staff members at the shelter to provide him with a doughnut. He held the doughnut in his hands, looked at us, then held it above his head and said, "I will feed all the hungry with this!"

Our first miracle of the day was that, as he crumbled the doughnut into crumbs and began flinging it everywhere to 'multiply' it, none of our other patrons threw punches back.

The entire day, our visitor was insistent that he was in fact Jesus Christ and refused to respond to anything else. We tried J.C., Buddy, Buckaroo... apparently he was dead set on being our savior, which we soon found out had some odd rituals with it.

Never in my life would I have dreamed that one day I would have to yell things like, "Jesus, you have to wear pants!" and, "No, Jesus, we don't try to lick people!"

Eventually, it got to the point where the staff collectively decided that he was really a danger to himself. Okay, he wasn't a danger to himself, he was a danger to others becoming a danger to himself. This meant that it was time to call on our trusty friends at the local mental health crisis response center.

This is how that conversation went:

Mental Health Crisis Response: "Crisis Response, what can we help you with?"

Me: "Well, we have a guy here who is claiming to be Jesus Christ who is persistently trying to heal people who are sleeping, refuses to put socks or shoes on and has now peed himself twice. We could use an Mental Health Professional."

MHCR: *Silence, that was then broken by uncontrollable laughter* I'm... *snicker* sorry... Can I get the individuals first and last name?"

Me: First name: Jesus, Last name: Christ. He won't give us any other name and this morning he called me a harlot for not allowing him to exorcise a demon from our piano.
 
MHCR: *Laughing* "Can I get a date of birth?"

Me: "I don't know!? 12/25/0 AD-ish? The guy just tried to multiply a doughnut by crumbling it into bits and throwing it into the air, he's not really into giving out useful info right now."
 
MHCR: *THUD-CRASH!*
 
Me: "Are we okay over there?"
 
MHCR: *Absolute belly shaking laughter* "Sorry! I fell out of my chair! We'll send some MHP's to your *snicker snicker snicker* location!"

I officially managed to break mental health crisis response. After a while they came to take him to where he could be analyzed, at which point he tried to start a 'tickle-fight' with the escorting police officers.

So the next time I have people at my apartment door asking if I've heard the good news, I'm going to tell them that the good news is currently being evaluated by professionals for several delusion disorders.

Have you heard any good news lately?

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

FREEEEEEEEDOM!

Free Until August 26th for Kindle!

Hello everyone! I hope you all had weeks that were better than the thought of "The Princess Bride" reenacted by neon painted termites!

Well I have some rad-tacular news for you all!

To promote my upcoming book, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor," my publisher, "Sweatshoppe Publications" has decided to give all of those who haven't read my first book yet a chance to read it free of charge!

That's right, until August 26th, "Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus" for the Kindle will be absolutely free!

So head on over to Amazon and snag a copy during this awesome promotion!

If you happen to enjoy the book, do me a favor and drop me a quick review to let other readers know how much fun you had reading it!

Don't forget to keep up to date on all of the news on my upcoming book "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads!!!

A Sneak Peek (with Dinosaurs)!

Hello! I hope everyone had a week that was better than the thought of a "Jurassic Park" and "Pirates of the Caribbean" mash-up!

This week, I am exuberantly excited to bring you a chapter from my upcoming book "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" which will be released September 7th!

If you haven't yet, quickly go "like" the book's Facebook page to stay up to date on more previews and exciting updates! 

So without further ado, I present the first public snippet of "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor!"

3. Everyone Follow Your Heart... Except You

There’s that age-old phrase that little girls are made from “sugar and spice and everything nice.”

Aside from having too many “ands” in it, that phrase could never have been used to describe me. I was more made from “wit and guile and everything wild.”

I was not a complacent little child. I refused to wear any dress that had ruffles or lace on it. The only way you could get me to sit in a chair for long periods of time was with a book, and even then my legs would be swinging away.

I never understood why in Sunday school I couldn’t color Jesus purple and draw green antennae on his head. Apparently, a four-year-old can commit “blasphemy” even though she can’t say it.

I also did not understand why it was weird for me to want to be Robin Hood as opposed to Maid Marian for Halloween. I mean, come on, Robin Hood had a bow and arrow. What did Maid Marian have, needlepoint?

And, though I was shy at first with most adults, if prodded enough, I definitely had an opinion on absolutely everything. I know, that last one is particularly shocking.

When I was in kindergarten I lived in Eugene, Oregon, a magical place where both the super conservative Promise Keepers religious group and the Grateful Dead once came to town on the same day and held performances two blocks away from each other.

Directly behind me lived a little boy about two years older than I, named Todd. Our back fences, which were actually just some super tall hedges, met with a gate in the middle. Every time I went over to Todd’s house to play it was like I was traveling through the portal to Narnia or the Secret Garden.

Todd wasn’t super popular with a lot of the other kids because he was extremely hyperactive. I loved him for it! We had the most amazing adventures and both ended up with some of the most fascinating scrapes and bruises. Of course, then we later had to explain to our parents how we got our injuries. The trick was doing so in a way that made it seem like playing Tarzan from the roof of the garage had a more logical thought process behind it than, “Let’s jump off the roof and swing from a bungee cord.”

 Todd introduced me to an amazing amount of pop culture. I first watched Power Rangers with him and quickly learned why no one wanted to be the blue Power Ranger when groups of us kids got together to pretend to defeat giant robots (cardboard boxes).

I first saw World Wrestling Federation, my eyes wider than one of Hulk Hogan’s biceps, from Todd’s parents’ couch. Of course, my four-or-five-year-old brain knew it was fake. That did not stop me from attempting to body slam Todd nor him trying to get me in an effective sleeper hold every chance
we got.

Probably the best and most influential piece of culture that Todd brought to me was Jurassic Park.

This was not a movie that I really was supposed to have been watching. However, at the age of five, I operated under the principle of “ask for forgiveness instead of permission,” more often than Keira Knightley is photographed with her mouth slightly open. I already loved dinosaurs, but that movie doubly solidified my adoration for the long dead creatures.

Dinosaurs were awesomely rad. They didn’t have to go to bed at nine, they didn’t have to listen to their teachers and they most certainly didn’t have to brush their teeth at least twice a day. Heck, dinosaurs couldn’t even be stopped by an amazingly good hunter, his skill being evidenced by his Australian accent, with a gun. What chance did parents have against that!?

My True Velociraptor Form

That movie was the true deciding factor; I wanted to be a dinosaur. To that end I quickly adopted my dinosaur persona, namely, that of a velociraptor. I would stomp around, making velociraptor calls and keeping my arms tucked in with two fingers protruding like claws.

Of course, at four or five years of age, adults tend to write this kind of behavior off as adorable. Somehow, I’ve discovered, as an adult people think it’s less cute when you
snarl at them.

I did not want to be “adorable.” I wanted to be fierce! This was a point that did not go over well when I chased after the other kids in Sunday school, roaring and snapping my teeth.

To answer your question, no, I did not have a lot of friends my age when I was a kid. Why do you ask?

Now, I had learned to read by the time I was in kindergarten, and not just little kid, “See Spot run” type books. I had chapter books under my belt by then and was happily working my way through books I found on Greek Mythology, dragons and, of course, dinosaurs.

Just because I could not pronounce half of the words I read, did not mean that I did not understand them. This was a fact my kindergarten teacher quickly learned when I asked her
for help with how to say a word and she said, “Oh honey, you don’t need to know what ‘peculiar’ means.”

I replied with, “I know what it means, it means weird. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

At first my kindergarten teacher was extremely excited that I could read, but then she realized how dangerous this truly was.

One day we had “Career Day,” where we were all going to talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up.

Looking back on this as an adult, it makes about as much sense to have a “Career Day” for kindergarteners as it does to have scrapbooking classes for sparrows. I am currently in my twenties and I honestly have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. How do you expect a kindergartener to know?

In any case, my teacher went around the room asking each little boy and girl what they wanted to be when they grew up.

“Remember, if you try hard enough and stay in school, you can be anything you want to be!”

Liar.

She started at the front of the class.

Suzy said, “Doctor!”

Matthew said, “Fireman!”

Sarah said, “Figure skater!”

Devon said, “Truck driver!”

It came to my turn and, being absolutely honest, I piped up with, “Velociraptor!”

My teacher sighed and blinked at me, “No, honey, you can’t be a velociraptor when you grow up.”

“Why?”

“Because little girls can’t grow up to be dinosaurs, pick something else.”

I mused for a minute, “Okay, I want to be Pegasus when I grow up!”

The teacher blew out some air, “No, try again.”

“Gryphon?”

“Nope.”

“Mutant Ninja Turtle?”

“No.”

“Phoenix?”

“No!”

We went back and forth like this for some time. I would list off a mythological creature or some strange alien being and my teacher would look more and more like she wanted to visit a
bar after work that day. Finally, she agreed to “President-ninja-Batman,” as it was at least human and moved on.

She may have moved on, but I was not giving up my dream of velociraptor glory.

A few weeks later, the kindergarten class was to put on a little mini-play about safety at our school assembly. Everyone in the class got a part.

My teacher, knowing my propensity to forget and then ad-lib things, gave me a part with one line. I was a random businessperson who was supposed to say, “I sell good veggies!”

Practices went well enough. I delivered my line and moved off stage and my teacher seemed to take fewer and fewer of the little white pills she kept in her desk with each passing day.

The day of our debut performance in front of a bunch of other elementary school kids finally came. I looked out at the crowds we would be performing for and immediately knew that my one line was too much for me to utter.

I was terrified. With all those little eyes watching me, I just knew that I was going to do something awful and embarrassing, like forget my line, walk off the edge of the stage or have to be the blue Power Ranger next time we were all playing together.

My teacher, attempting to herd all of her kindergarteners into place (a task much like herding weasels on crack) quickly dismissed my fears by saying, “Just pretend that you are what you want to be when you grow up! Think about how much courage you have to have for that job!”

Apparently my teacher had forgotten, one week later, that my vocational goals were as follows:

1. Become a velociraptor.

2. Run around roaring and eating animals.

3. Never have a set bedtime ever again.

4. Generally be awesome.

The performance went smoothly enough and then it came the time for the shopkeeper to come on stage and say her one line.

I got up on stage, looked out at the crowd of other kids, and immediately channeled my inner-velociraptor.

My hands came up into their claw position, I bared my teeth and I roared. The rest of the teachers looked at my teacher for a minute, almost believing this might be part of the play. Their hopes that this was planned were immediately dashed against the jagged rocks of reality, as I roared again and proceeded to chase Jimmy off of the stage.

Despite the punishment waiting for me at home, I never gave up on my velociraptor dream. Granted, today I can’t really roar at non-compliant clients and chase them out of my office, but if you’re around me enough, you might catch me in a moment where just a little bit of velociraptor shines through.

So, what scraps of knowledge can be picked from the bones of experience?

1. If you want normal, rather bland children, don’t teach them to read early. However, if you want awesome children, with huge imaginations, who can solve problems and think things through, then teach them to read as early as you can!

2. The weirdest kids on the block oftentimes simultaneously have the biggest bruises and the most fun.

3. Don’t try to cage the velociraptor, it will only come back to bite you in the end. Sometimes literally.

If you liked this excerpt, the rest of "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" will be sailing to a bookstore shelf or online store near you! Don't forget to go like the book's Facebook page for updates!

You Can't Cage A "Free Spirit"

Hello all, I hope you have all had a more fabulous week than the thought of a battle between Donald Trump's toupee and a weasel!

First off I now have a release date for my second book!!! "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" will be sailing into a bookstore or online vendor near you on September 7th!!!

If you want updates about the book, please check out the Facebook page my awesome publisher, Sweatshoppe Publications, has put together here.

For those of you who don't know, this month I took a position as the head of security for the largest homeless shelter in Spokane.

Basically if I were to describe my job in a nutshell it would be, "I spend all day never knowing whether I will next be faced with someone who made a knife out of salad tongs or have to settle an argument between a man and the voices in his head."

It's an adventure and a half.

I've only been working there a month, but I already have enough fascinating and interesting moments to probably fill another two, or thirteen, books.

This past week, however, I had a "once in a great while" occurrence. I was sitting in my office writing up a report on another incident involving someone wearing pizza boxes as "armor" and trying to pick fights, when there was a knock in my door.

I opened the door to find one of our older clients who was looking shamefully at the floor. I had barely said "Hi" when he blurted out with, "I was smoking pot in the courtyard, I'll see you at sanctions next week."

I blinked as he wandered out. He had just admitted to something I probably would not have caught him doing and had kicked himself out. If they all did this my job would be ninety times easier.

Every week we hold a sanctions meeting, which is for patrons who have been banned to come in and give their side of the story. We then weigh their side of things and can adjust the length person's ban if need be. We had already decided to let this guy back in for willfully admitting his wrongdoing, but we still heard him out.

He sat in the chair looking extremely apologetic as he again and again said, "I know I shouldn't have, it was stupid."

We all thanked him for being willing to take responsibility for his actions. Then, suddenly, he turned to me, held up his hand and said, "Ma'am, you need to understand, I'm a free spirit, I don't follow the law."

I just shrugged as he continued, "I don't follow the rules ma'am, I'm a bad-boy, I just run with the wind, I can't be caged."

It took everything within me to not burst out laughing as I said, "I will remember that. Remember, if you're going to be a "bad-boy" you should do so at least two blocks away from our building, ok?"

He nodded, "Oh, of course! But remember, I'm a bad-boy."

"I'll remember, your bad-boy status is safe."

What lessons can be pulled from this little experience?

1.  "Bad-boy" has now been redefined to someone who feels too much guilt after doing something wrong and turns themselves in.

2. You can't cage a "free spirit." That's okay, though, as the "free spirit" is apparently likely to cage themselves. 

Would anyone else like to redefine a term or two for me this week?

Don't forget, you can always find me on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads!