Spotlight: Helena, the Memoirs & PubSlush, Oh My!

pubslushbuttonWhen we discussed the idea of Helena featuring some of her incredible work from the upcoming Memoirs of a Dilettante, Vol. 2 on the D/A Dialogues, I had no idea which piece she’d choose.

I knew they’d all be great – because, frankly, all of them are – but I can tell you right now, the one she chose is perfect.

I mean, perfect. A perfect read. Perfect for this blog, and perfect for me, your faithful author-who-talks-to-a-Druid-in-her-head (because before the Druid, there was Dorothy). So, without further ado, I present to you . . .

The Great and Terrible Countess of Oz

“It’s a twistah! It’s a twistah!” exclaimed the Countess Penelope of Arcadia, which is, in this instance, a county in Kansas by way of Oz. It wouldn’t be the last Oz reference made this weekend. The sky swelled black like a bruise, and the wind howled and threw things around in a poltergeist tantrum.

The cat-like but never cowardly Countess and I had driven through it, swerving to avoid minor debris like small tree branches, and once, a stray shopping cart blowing across the road. I kept my white-knuckled hands tight on the wheel, while Penny twisted and turned in the passenger seat, looking this way and that to see where the storm was coming from; where it was going. We drove right through the middle of it and came out the other side, like we’d gone through a car wash. The rain beat and battered us but did not best us.

When we made it safely home, I made sure to park far away from any trees, and when I saw the debris the next morning, I knew I’d made the right decision. We got out of the car and ran to our door, both of us getting soaked to the bone just crossing the street, and then locked ourselves in for the night, lighting candles and huddling on the floor in the living room, just watching our big bay window in terror as shingles blew off our roof and tree branches broke and fell.

The next morning, we woke up sans power, which means sans air conditioning, and neither Penelope nor I woke up with the cheery disposition of a member of the Lullaby League. I told Penny I was heading out, and asked if she wanted anything. She buried her head in her pillow and told me to go away and come back tomorrow.

“Why don’t you get your lazy butt out of bed and come with me?” I suggested.

“Pay no attention to the girl beneath the blanket! I am the great and powerful…”

“Okay, get up,” I said, pulling the blanket off of her. “If you’ve got the energy for snark, you can come to the store with me.”

“Oh, have a heart, Helena! Can’t you see the circles under my eyes? I didn’t sleep all night!” And then she gave me the most pa-thetic, pitiable look – which she knows full well I am helpless against.

“You know, I shouldn’t let your puppy dog face get to me! I should be on my mettle, and yet, I’m torn apart. Okay, darling, you win. What do you want me to bring you?”

“Bring me the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West!” She demanded weakly, still trying to sleep, before the humidity began to rise again, making sleep impossible. “Oh, and coffee. For the love of Oz, the great and terrible, bring me some coffee. I don’t care how many curly toed Munchkins you have to kill, fa la la la la, blah blah blah, just bring me some coffee.”

“Uh, bring me some coffee… what?”

“Now, bitches!” The Countess demanded mock-indignantly.

“That’s more like it,” I replied.

I went out to try to acquire coffee for the Countess and myself (as no one wants to live with an under-caffeinated Countess, dar-lings) and was confronted with debris the likes of which I’ve never seen. Tree branches had broken and fallen all over the place, and entire streets had been blocked off with yellow police tape. I had to navigate around a labyrinth of newly altered landscape, taking twists and turns, and more than once running into a dead end and having to turn around. There was one rather straw-headed guy trying to direct traffic, but when I asked him which way to go, it became rather clear that he didn’t know any more than anyone else.

“This way seems to be clear,” he said, pointing left, but before I could drive away, he pointed right and added, “but then I haven’t seen too much debris down this way, either.”

“Then again, people do go both ways,” I replied, and was given a confused look by the accidental scarecrow, who just waved me on, unappreciative of my witticisms.

As of this memoir missive, we are still without Internet (oh boo hoo, what a tragedy – do you want us to start an emergency fund, Helena?) and while your sarcasm is always appreciated, there is no need to be concerned for your favourite dilettante and her aristocratic accomplice – we are just fine, thank you very much.

Oh, but anyway, darlings, we’re home – home! And these are my memoirs – and you’re all here – and I’m not going to leave here ever, ever again, because I love you all! And… oh, darlings, there’s no place like home!

———–

If you want to read more, BECOME A FAN at PUBSLUSH and pre-order Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two and Penelope, Countess of Arcadia

Available now! image06 JESSICA image07

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone's favorite dilettanteThe enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.

Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.

Last year, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, and is about to release Volume Two, along with a Shakespearean style tragi-comedy, entitled Penelope, Countess of Arcadia.

Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell. VISCERA, a collection of strange tales, will be published by Sirens Call Publications later this year. Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or and http://www.whoisjessica.com Connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat , and keep up with her ever growing body of work at GOODREADS, or visit her AMAZON PAGE

Be Our Guest: Dilettante vs Druid

Please welcome to the blog, the delightfully witty Helena Hann-Basquiat, our very favorite Dilettante. She graciously wrote up a hilarious account of her most recent run-in with D.  So, lend her your eyes and enjoy! Be sure to tell her how much you love this in the comments!

Dilettante vs Druid

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone's favorite dilettante

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone’s favorite dilettante

When I arrived at the house, I was at first a bit apprehensive. There were strange noises coming from within, and what appeared to be a tornado hovering over the roof — not doing any damage, just spinning there like a child’s top.

I rang the doorbell, and heard the rushing of feet stomp toward me from behind the door. The door swung upon violently, and I confess I flinched.

“Who rang that bell?” an annoyed looking Druid poked his head out the open door, looked me up and down like a side of beef, and then sneered. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, Mr. Druid. It is I, your favourite dilettante, Helena Hann-Basquiat.”

“You’re not my favourite anything,” he scoffed. “And anyway, can’t you read?”

“Read what?” I asked, looking around in case I’d missed something.

The Druid seemed to be flustered, and slammed the door. He returned a few seconds later with a huff, hung a sign on the door knob, and then closed the door again, barring my entry.

I stared in amusement at the sign, and read it aloud.

“Bell out of order — please knock.”

I laughed. “You know, A. would find this hysterical, but you, you probably don’t even get it, do you, you humourless bastard?”

“I’m no bastard,” Dubh an Súile mac Alasdair, a.k.a. ‘D’ coughed a protest. “And I do too have a sense of humour.”

“Oh, I think not,” I argued. “I think it got shot off in some war or another.”

“And now you’re cribbing lines from Roland of Gilead,” D said.

“Wait,” I shook my head in disbelief. “You don’t know the Wizard of Oz but you know Roland of Gilead?”

“Correction,” he raised a pointed finger. “I knew Roland of Gilead. Excellent fellow, if a bit dusty and intense.”

The one, (and thank heavens) the only, D as imagined by Green Embers)

The one, (and thank heavens) the only, D as imagined by Green Embers)

“You must have got on like fireworks,” I said under my breath. “But Roland is a fictional character in a Stephen King story. How do you…”

“Never mind that,” D interrupted. “What of this Wizard you speak of? Is he very powerful?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “He’s a humbug.”

“I know not this bum hug,” D furrowed his brow intensely. “Is he a traveller, like me?”

“You ever travel by hot air balloon?”

“Certainly not!” D protested. “How archaic!”

“Yeah, well, this conversation is getting archaic,” I murmured. “Is A. home? I really came to see about collecting those pancakes she promised months ago.”

“Pancakes, pancakes, bloody pancakes!” he snapped.

“Well, you just kind of ruined them for me now,” I said, imagining pancakes covered in blood.

“She’s not here!” he said, sounding a bit like Keanu Reeves, and even had a bit of smoulder going on around the eyes.

“Well, then, aren’t you going to invite me in?” I asked.

“Well, I was making some tea…” the sly Druid began, with a look of mischief in his eyes. “Would you care for a trip… um, that is, a sip?”

Something about the way he was looking at me told me that I should probably run, lest I find myself awakening in a compromising position some hours later with no recollection of how my underwear ended up hanging from the ceiling fan. But I was feeling a bit dangerous myself, and as A. wasn’t home, I gave the old goat a wink.

“Yeah, alright.”

Shenanigans

Photo courtesy Google Images, labeled for commercial reuse

Photo courtesy Google Images, labeled for commercial reuse

“So, this Zoroastrian, Jennifer Aniston and a Leprechaun walk into a bar – stop me if you’ve heard this, babe.”

Bored chatter on the other end of the cell phone told him that ‘babe’ – aka Jonathan L.F. Morgan, head of Le Fay, Morgan and Sons – had heard the joke before.

“Johnny, Johnny – kid, baby, come on! It’s great! They’re going to love it.”

More chatter. Morty ignored it.

“But Johnny – kid –“

A hissed intake of breath met this last. Jonathan L.F. Morgan hadn’t been a kid for nigh-on eighty years, if his wrinkled mug was anything to go by, but Morty liked to give him the benefit of the doubt – you know, make him feel younger with the lingo. It didn’t work.

“Johnny? You there?”

Dead air. Morty snarled at the blinking ‘call ended’ on his cell phone.

“Call ended – I’ll show you call ended!” He chucked the phone at the couch.

It missed and skittered along the floor, smashing into the slate corner of the sunken fire pit his last wife had thought would look “so fetching” in their split-level family room.

Last wife – what was she, six? Seven? Whatever. He didn’t know why he kept putting a ring on their fingers. Peggy hadn’t even lasted long enough to see the damn fire pit put in – but she had spent what was left of his last gig hiring the guy to do it. Morty thought for sure she would make off with the meaty hunk of good ol’ boy, but it turned out she had eyes for that good ol’ boy’s wife.

Rodger ended up putting in the slate edging free of charge. Nice fella’ – the two of them met for drinks every other Friday.

Morty leaned down to pick up the phone. Peeking out from between eyelids squeezed tight, he scoped the damage.

Cracked.

No, not cracked. Shattered.

Damnit.

He tossed it on the couch. It made it this time, but its bounce amid the cushions was less than satisfactory.

With a disgusted grunt, Morty turned to the unwieldy bowl Rodger had given him at their last meet-up.

“It’s a cauldron,” Roger had insisted. “It’s got powers.”

“What’re those?” Morty had jerked his thumb at the numerous dents and dings on the silver beast’s surface. “Bludgeoning powers?”

“No, you fool – it’s got real powers. The guy who sold it to me said no one can leave it but be satisfied. You should use it –“

“Hey, I ain’t had no problems satisfying anyone. . . Peggy notwithstanding.”

Roger had laughed. “Yeah, I thought the same with Sue. I’m not talking about women, Mort. I mean your career – you should use it to stage your comeback.”

Morty had been trying to stage a comeback for nearly 10 years. For some reason, his brand of stand-up had gone flat. Fads came and went and yet his “Johnny, baby, kid” never seemed to boomerang the way the others did. Maybe Rodger was on to something. It was worth a go.

So he’d clutched that damn cauldron in his sweaty little hand, called up Jonathan L.F. Morgan and given it his best shot. And what had been his reward?

Nothing. Nothing but the shards of another wrecked phone and dead air.

“Satisfied my Aunt Fanny – what the hell are you good for, anyway?”

Morty was about to reach for his bag of marshmallows – it was the only damn thing that fire pit was good for – when the phone began making a half-hearted attempt to ring. Morty caught it before it launched itself at the glass and chrome ‘post-modern’ masterpiece of a coffee table his second wife had insisted they buy.

“Yeah?”

It was Le Fay Morgan and Son’s competitor.

“You did? Really? Wait – you bug his phones?”

Must be the way they snatch talent.

“How soon can I – are you serious Mr. Pen—yeah, sure, I’ll call you Arthur.”

Arthur wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise, and that was just fine with Morty. He’d start at the man’s latest and hippest nightclub, Myriad, on Friday night. He even wrangled the best seats in the house for his very best friend, Rodger. It was the least he could do.

As he turned placed the phone gently on wife #2’s coffee table, he failed to notice the cauldron glowing. From within was the faintest hint of laughter.

“It’s the leprechaun” whispered a tiny voice, just beyond the range of hearing. “It gets them every time!”

For Papi Z’s prompt “Jennifer Aniston and a Leprechaun walk into a bar.” 

* * *

D: You are twisted, A.

A: What do you mean?

D: I just heard The Boy, A. He’s calling this the Godspell of Pre-Christian Celts . . . . without, you know, the music.

A: Yeah. And?

D: You’re just weird, that’s all.

A: Thank you, D. I consider that a rousing endorsement. But personally, instead of castigating me, I think we should throw our efforts behind some congratulations.

D: Anything to avoid the Druid’s opinion, is that it?

A: Right on the money, babe! So, without further ado. . .

Yesterday

D: First we want to offer a belated but well-meant congratulations to Charles Yallowitz for the release of his fourth Windemere book: Family of the Tri-Rune, which is on sale now!

A: Congratulations, Charles! Also happening “yesterday” – Veronica Mars Fans rejoiced with the release of the Veronica Mars movie. Loukeshan at Green Embers Recommends has a review!

Today

D: Speaking of Green Embers Recommends, today is the weekly ‘read-of-the-week’ roundup for Editor Ionia, from Readful Things.

A: Today is also a lovely day for a walk – and Andra, author of To Live Forever, An Afterlife Journey of Merriweather Lewis, is walking the Natchez Trace to promote her book’s release. Yesterday she reached the halfway-mark, and today . . . well today was a gas, to say the least!

Tomorrow

D: Briana Vedsted, author of my very favorite western, Me and Billy the Kid, has a new novella coming out TOMORROW!

A: That’s right, folks, The Home Fire will be released on March 20. Check out this sneak peek at Briana’s site.

D: And finally, check out the latest installments of the Bayou Bonhomme serial written by Helena Hann-Basquiat’s dark-hearted counterpart, alter ego and possible muse, Jessica B. Bell.

A: But be warned, if you have no idea what the Bayou is, you must click here. It will bring you all the way back to the beginning.

D: Why is this in “tomorrow” when all the other ongoing promotions are in “today?”

A: Because with Helena’s story, there is – at this point – always a tomorrow. Until, of course, there isn’t.

D: And because you wanted balance for your categories.

A: Yeah, well, I like symmetry.

D: Well, since I began the dialogue, symmetrically speaking, I should end it.

A: Indeed.

D: (Takes a bow) And so good people, we bid you adieu. Thank you ever so much for joining us this evening. We hope you have enjoyed the show. And as a final treat, I leave you with this, A’s very favorite Irish song, which she failed to share on St. Patrick’s Day. Goodnight!

Ruthless

D: Tonight’s blog post has been postponed due to . . . traffic.

You see, our regularly scheduled performance was hindered by A’s inability to find a yellow apartment block. On Grayden. Numbers, unknown.

Because TC is a boy. And boys give funny directions.

A is a girl. Girls also give funny directions.

A also gets lost crossing the street.

TC therefore, rests his case.

I, Dubh an Súile mac Alasdair, the not-so-impartial judge, think we should adjourn and begin a Wednesday tradition: Story Time. Before you is exhibit A:

Ruthless

P.A.N.D.A.S. Jason Bruges Panda Army Courtesy Google Images

P.A.N.D.A.S.
Jason Bruges Panda Army
Courtesy Google Images

Precise

Autonomic

Neurological

Design

Attack

Sequencer

P.A.N.D.A.S.

“Pandas are known for their ruthlessness, Luke.”

“Heddy, you know that’s not what this was.”

Dr. Heddy Lamar’s aversion to the PANDAS unit was well known in Z Group. I hated to contradict her – she’s a brilliant investigative scientist – but the slaughter before us just did not carry the hallmarks of the famous man-made assassin.

“Oh? I do? How do I know that, Doctor?”

Oh boy. Doctor. She was mad. I had heard that tone before.

Of course, before it just meant I wasn’t getting laid. Now, it meant that a man’s murder might go unsolved.

“Look at his hands, Heddy—I mean Dr. Lamar.” Damn, that glare had not gotten any less vicious. But, she did look good.

“That’s blood under his nails. Unless Lepetomane Corp has developed PANDAS that bleed, we’re looking for a human.”

“That could be Newman’s blood, Luke.”

“It could, but I’m willing to bet a million space bucks that it’s not.”

Heddy just rolled her eyes at me. “Frank—“

“That’s Fraunk, Dr. Lamar. It’s an old family name,” Heddy’s young assistant managed to squeak, despite the furious stare she turned on him.

Good for him.

“Fraunk. Take charge of the clean up, and make sure that Mr. Bialystock is on ice before noon. He’s starting to stink.”

Starting? I’m pretty sure Bialystock had stunk well before someone had taken the broken chair leg to his skull. The final insult had been the blue blanket tied around what was left of his neck.

Yikes.

“Dr. Lamar, look at this!”

“Frank—

“Fraunk, Ma’am. It’s the news. They’re saying a homicidal panda from Lepetomane Corp got loose.”

“See, I told you.

“No, Ma’am. A real panda.”

“But those – those haven’t been seen for nearly one hundred years.”

“I guess they had one in bowels of the research division. It got loose – went on a killing spree, they say.”

I looked again at the mangled body of the famous producer. “But . . . but this is rather, I don’t know, specific, Fraunk.”

“Just listen, Dr. Lonester.”

Perhaps for the first time in the bespeckled boy’s life, the entire room obeyed his command.

“Representatives from Lepetomane Corp say that the panda had been forced to watch movie after movie – comedy after comedy.”

The announcer looked up at her cameraman. “Really?” she muttered. “Genome sequencing? With Comedy? Fine, I’ll read it, but they have got to up my pay-grade for this.”

I turned back to Heddy. Her face was crimson.

“Well, sweet-cheeks, you were right.”

“Sweet cheeks! Why you—“

“What? It was a panda, darlin.’ Now, what do you say, we head over to the End of the Universe and grab ourselves the Special?”

There was the edge of a smile at her lips.

“Go on, Dr. Lamar. I’ve got it here.”

I silently blessed young Dr. Fraunk. Heddy’s smile still made my insides weak. Who cared if the Special was guaranteed heartburn – sometimes, it was more than worth it.

***

At 500 words exactly, D and I present our response to Papi Z’s Prompt: “Pandas are known for their ruthlessness.”

Trivia Time:

How many Mel Brooks films has Dom De Louise had a credited roll in?

Bloody Bard Bares . . .

cowboy-hatA: He rode a blazing saddle…!

D: . . .

A: Come on, D. Aren’t you going to fill in the next line? Hint: He wore a shining–

D: I would think wearing a blazing saddle would be enough mental imagery for the folks reading. As you’ve been reminding me all day, it is a Monday, after all.

A: That’s not the point. The point is that TC has been going over our Mel Brooks catalogue of films (for which I have World War Z to thank . . . because the book it is oh-so-incredibly-loosely-are-you-sure-you-can-call-it-“based”-I-think-they-may-have-used-the-word-“inspired”-and-that-is-pushing-it was written by his son, Max).

D: . . . I just don’t know where to begin.

A: You know, I’m almost with you on that one. Shh. Don’t tell.

D: Don’t tell. . . who, A?

A: And, it’s gone. Anyhoodles, not a bad movie – the Israeli soldier is my new hero. She was incredible. Plus: the new Who.

D: And yet . . .

A: And yet, I’m pretty sure one of the vignettes in the book was referencing Brad Pitt, in which case, the movie is more than a little self-referential. I could be wrong, but that is neither here, nor there.

D: But is it everywhere?

A: . . . Oh, you have spent way too much time in my head. I think I may need to put out a call for a character-awareness meeting, or a play date, or something. Yikes.

D: (Sob) I know!

A: (Eye-roll) We love Mel Brooks – TC was brought up on his movies because he didn’t know how to tell a joke when he was nine, and I’m a horrible mother.

D: There is so much right with that sentence—

A: Oi, Druid. Moving on… I need to make this snappy. Blazing Saddles is tonight’s feature presentation. I cannot be late.

D: What’s he going to do? Send you to bed without supper?

A: The Kid is taller than me, D. Taller, smarter and thanks to Mr. Brooks, funnier. I miss the curtain at my own risk. Besides, my creative torrents need refilling.

D: Well, then – let us hit it!

A: Okay, Mongo.

D: . . . I’ll get you for this, my pretty.

A: Wrong movie, D.

D: There are times when I dearly wish . . .  A would focus on other things – other stories, perhaps. If there’s a short story, or a piece of fiction you’ve been wanting to find a home for, pop on over to The Literary Syndicate – Papi Z has put out a call for submissions.

A: Papi is also featuring a weekly prompt. Last week was awesome (Papi did one, and so did we) and this week looks to be even better: A 500-word bit of flash fiction, in which the following phrase is used: “Pandas are known for their ruthlessness.”

D: Well. Moving on. The witty-but-assuredly mad Chuck Wendig, at Terrible Minds, does a prompted feature as well. Check out the one that went live last Friday – A may or may not participate, provided she can find something in that overheated brain of hers to go along with a ‘psychic android,’ a ‘mad botanist greenhouse’ and ‘left for dead, out for revenge.’

A: I can and I will.

D: Gods help us.

A:Muahahahha! Writers Untie! I mean unite. . . wait, no untying may be more fun . . .

D: A. Focus.

A: Another prompted feature, in which we don’t partake – because reading Helena’s contribution is just that much more entertaining – is the Friday Fictioneers.

D: We also really liked reading Wanderer’s contribution – especially as it was such a contrast to Helena’s – two wonderful writers, two entirely different ideas, from one picture.

A: Which is, of course, the point. Check them, and everyone they link to, out. You won’t regret it.

D: Congratulations are in order, A.

A: I know. John W. Howell’s book, My GRL, is out.

D: I can no longer mistake him for that other fellow.

A: That other fellow?

D: See, John is so much more important, he’s eclipsed ideas of that other John-bloke from my head.

A: Nice save.

D: 1300 years are not to trifled with, A.

A: Indeed. So are you going to Congratulate Mr. John W. Howell?

D: I am – Congratulations, John, on your accomplishment, and many—

A: Many—

D: Great wishes for its success. It looks spectacular!

A: Helena – she of the Dilettante fame – has also been published! Her latest venture, in Dagda Publishing’s anthology “All Hail the New Flesh,” features the mistress of the creepy, Jessica B. Bell. Congratulations, Helena!

D: Don’t forget: if you are – as A likes to say – blog hopping, check out GE Recommends. Green has been putting in a lot of midnight hours with that mystical language HTML and CSS to make it look fantastic.

A: And Green – as well as the regular reviewing editors – have been doing a wonderful job keeping up with all the great entertainment out there to tell us what is good, and that which has been found wanting. Green has compiled a great list of last week’s offerings, here.

D: And the lovely Marie Ann Bailey – she who brought the lovely Mary into my life – has pledged to be a part of the Rebel Writers Creed for 2014. Why don’t you ever sign up for a creed or a resolution, A?

A: I solemnly swore that I would not feed you to the beasts of hell when you inspire my ire. Would you prefer I distract myself from that?

D: Nope. That’s just fine, A.

A: Thought so.

D: So, have you been taking notes, A? Sarah M. Cradit’s author website is now live, and it is chock-full of  all sorts of goodies for fans of her House of Crimson and Clover series.

A: I love genealogies.

D: Yes, yes, I know you do.

A: Don’t roll your eyes at me, Druid. The fact that your family has such a twisty one is one of the reasons I keep to my resolution.

D: And on that testy note, I think we are going to end this with a “New to Us–”

A: But probably not new to you–

D: Featurette.

A: This week, the creators of this blog are not new to us—

D: Indeed, they are dear to us, but this concept is beyond brilliant.

A: It is a story, written one line at a time, by you, the audience. Check it out. Please.

D: And the other is a gentlemen that A just started to follow.

A: And one of his latest poems simply caught my fancy.

D: She is fickle that way.

A: And on that note,

D: We shall adieu.

A: Or otherwise, say good night.

D&A: Thanks for reading!

Hot Chocolate: Let me count the ways

From Google Images Love at first sip

From Google Images
Love at first sip

So many reasons to love hot chocolate:

It has a fun history.

It’s good for you. Young or old, it has tons of healthy properties. Learn to love the deep dark stuff, and you’re golden!

It takes a ridiculous amount to kill you, but with the amount of endorphins running through your system, at that point you probably won’t mind.

It’s very name means, Food of the Gods.

It has some fun memes – even grumpy cat got in on the game.

There are myths on hot chocolate. Myths. You have to love a foodstuff that has it’s own mythology.

Some myth-links I found (have not been checked for veracity):

Reasons I’m drinking Hot Chocolate for Breakfast

Friday: Last day of the week? Check. Only moderately snowy on my way into work? Check. One of my posts as number 3 when searching for ‘hot chocolate’ on Google? Check. Being mistaken for my son’s sister at play practice? Yep, I get to have hot chocolate for breakfast (because I’m vain)!

Thursday: Because my hand is healed. Huzzah! See, proof of the healing benefits of hot cocoa!

Wednesday: Because Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” was queued up and ready to play when I got into my car this morning (which also didn’t need to be scraped of ice – it’s the little things)

Tuesday: Because I forgot to make myself breakfast . . . and lunch. The boy got breakfast but did Mom remember to make one for herself? Nope. Did she remember to grab soup on her way out the door at the ridiculously early hour of 6:30? Nope. Was she kinda hungry all day? Nope. Because: Hot Chocolate!

MondayIt’s Monday. That’s totally allowed as a reason. Plus, I stabbed my hand yesterday while making guacamole. Because I’m a menace with sharp objects! (no worries, nothing vital hit. Plus, the boy gets to wash dishes all week!)

The Marshmallow in your cup
Other News

adventureswithD-final (1)On a non-chocolate-related note, check out our latest D&A Entertainment News post on Green Embers’ Recommends – It’s Timey-Wimey and Wibbly-Wobbly!

Also, Green is still offering up space for the Indie Book Blast, taking place on the Green Embers blog for the first 9 days of December.

Finally, it’s the last call for volunteers in Charles Yallowitz’s Allure of the Gypsies Cover Reveal and Blog Tour!

That’s it – thanks for reading and joining in on my chocolate-fueled insanity. Hope everyone has a fantastic weekend!

Hot Chocolate – it’s no laughing matter

A: Wait, no – it is. It is a laughing matter – especially with these:

D: Hey, what am I, chopped liver?

A: I didn’t think you liked internet memes.

D: I don’t, but this one seemed at least faintly acceptable.

A: Pray tell.

D: Allow me to introduce to you, Grumpy Cat!

memehotchocolateD

A: . . .

D: You like?

A: You are impossible, Druid.

D: I’ll take that as a yes!

Reasons I’m Drinking Hot Chocolate for Breakfast

Thursday: Because my hand is healed. Huzzah! See, proof of the healing benefits of hot cocoa!

Wednesday: Because Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” was queued up and ready to play when I got into my car this morning (which also didn’t need to be scraped of ice – it’s the little things)

Tuesday: Because I forgot to make myself breakfast . . . and lunch. The boy got breakfast but did Mom remember to make one for herself? Nope. Did she remember to grab soup on her way out the door at the ridiculously early hour of 6:30? Nope. Was she kinda hungry all day? Nope. Because: Hot Chocolate!

Monday: It’s Monday. That’s totally allowed as a reason. Plus, I stabbed my hand yesterday while making guacamole. Because I’m a menace with sharp objects! (no worries, nothing vital hit. Plus, the boy gets to wash dishes all week!)

 

Death by Chocolate

From: Google Images Love turned lethal? Nah!

From: Google Images
Love turned lethal? Nah!

D: A? A is it wise to drink that much chocolate?

A: Whatever do you mean, D?

D: It might be good for you, but perhaps not in that quantity.

A: I can handle it.

D: Are you certain? Your gait is a bit wobbly, there.

A: Is not.

D: Is.

A: (Walks into a chair) Okay, that’s just because I have a depth-perception problem – not chocolate overdose.

D: Uh huh.

A: I can stop whenever I want to.

D: Step away from the cup, A.

A: But it’s orange and delicious.

D: And lethal.

A: Are you going on about Pope Clement XIV again? Geese, what is your beef? The man was poisoned. It wasn’t the chocolate’s fault.

D: No, that is not what I meant, A.

A: Oh. Oh! You’re talking about Theobromine Poisoning.

D: Very good, A.

A: D, a human has to eat nearly 1000g of the theobromine in chocolate for the nasty side effects to pronounce themselves (although that amount is much smaller for dogs and other small pets – keep them away from the frothy goodness!).

D: Perhaps. But, you must admit that it puts your modern obsession with Valentine’s day and chocolate in a whole new light.

A: Hm… lover’s gift or messy murder weapon? Neat, D.

D: I’m guessing your writer brain just filed that away for future use, correct?

A: (Taps brain) Safe and sound.

D: Nothing in that head is sound, but I catch your meaning. So, are you going to temper your chocolate habit?

A: (Grabs cup and runs away, laughing maniacally). Never!!

D: Watch out for the table—oh. Ouch. That has to hurt. Oh well. Since A is nursing a poor knee, let met tell you something else rather notable. Green Embers is hosting an Indie Book Bash – he is giving away space on his blog for authors participating in Read Tuesday to advertise. Want in? Find out more!

Reasons I’m Drinking Hot Chocolate for Breakfast

Wednesday: Because Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” was queued up and ready to play when I got into my car this morning (which also didn’t need to be scraped of ice – it’s the little things)

Tuesday: Because I forgot to make myself breakfast . . . and lunch. The boy got breakfast but did Mom remember to make one for herself? Nope. Did she remember to grab soup on her way out the door at the ridiculously early hour of 6:30? Nope. Was she kinda hungry all day? Nope. Because: Hot Chocolate!

Monday: It’s Monday. That’s totally allowed as a reason. Plus, I stabbed my hand yesterday while making guacamole. Because I’m a menace with sharp objects! (no worries, nothing vital hit. Plus, the boy gets to wash dishes all week!)

The Marshmallow in Your Cup

Witchcraft by: Frank Sinatra

Theobroma Cacao to the rescue!

A: I told you, D. Hot Chocolate is good for you.

D: Prove it.

A: I don’t have to, a research paper in the August 7  2013 edition of Neurology already stated it.

D: . . . hm, cognitive function . . . bla bla bla . . . cerebral white matter integrity . . . yada yada yada . . . cocoa. Interesting.

A: You should really consider it, D. I mean at your advanced age . . .

D: Watch it, you young whipper-snapper.

From Google Images I don't know - does this orange cup make my hips look big?

From Google Images
Does this orange cup make my hips look big? I know it’s supposed to make me more alluring, but I’m just not sold on it.

A: Uh huh. Here’s another sciencey tidbit – hot chocolate apparently tastes better when drunk out of an orange cup.

D: Do you drink it out of an orange cup?

A: No. Mine is more ecru. Imagine what I’d be like if I did!

D: Let’s not. I’m afraid rabid isn’t a good look for you.

A: Aw, gee, D. Thanks!

D: So what else sciencey – to quote my terribly specific author – can you come up with on hot chocolate and health?

A: Well, this article talks about all the different compounds associated with hot chocolate (as well as everything else, because who doesn’t love The Art of Manliness website?!? It has mustaches, people!)

D: (Snore) Huh, what? Oh, sorry. I mean, you don’t say?

A: D, you have some drool there.

D: Here?

A: No, other side. Just a smidge.

D: Did I get it?

A: Yeah. Nice job.

D: Must have been dreaming about hot chocolate.

A: I don’t even want to know anymore.

Reasons I’m Drinking Hot Chocolate for Breakfast

Tuesday: Because I forgot to make myself breakfast . . . and lunch. The boy got breakfast but did Mom remember to make one for herself? Nope. Did she remember to grab soup on her way out the door at the ridiculously early hour of 6:30? Nope. Was she kinda hungry all day? Nope. Because: Hot Chocolate!

Monday: It’s Monday. That’s totally allowed as a reason. Plus, I stabbed my hand yesterday while making guacamole. Because I’m a menace with sharp objects! (no worries, nothing vital hit. Plus, the boy gets to wash dishes all week!)

The Marshmallow in Your Cup

Plate Tectonics and Hot Chocolate . . . Because science.

Let Us Entertain You

Catch up with D and me over at Green Embers Recommends! Our first Entertainment News post is now live!! Thank you, Green!