Just when you thought the housemates were gone...

Many of you have expressed concern that my recent household move will halt blog posts about the two twenty-something male housemates who've kept us entertained this past year.

Many of you have read my posts about bizarre happenings in my life and left comments along the lines of, "if it were anyone but you telling this story, I'd never believe it's true."

This post is for you.

A couple days after my gentleman friend and I moved into our new house, I was on the floor of my office cursing like a sailor with my skirt hiked up around my waist as I struggled to stuff the futon into its cover.

It would have been better if I'd just written, "I was in my office writing," huh?

So there I was on the floor with my hair and clothing all askew and my sliding door open to my fenced backyard when I heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Tawna. How's it going?"

I jumped up, straightened my skirt, and squinted into my backyard. There, peering over the fence with matching grins on their faces, were my two former housemates.

"Er, what's up?" I called, tugging at my skirt as I gave the futon a kick for good measure.

"Nothing," one of them yelled. "Just looking at some rooms."

You read that right. In a city of 82,000 souls and countless homes with rooms for rent, the two former housemates not only decided to go house-hunting together, but to rent space in the home directly behind us.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

To their credit, they came over before committing to rent and made sure we were OK with the arrangement. We agreed, as long as they both promised we will never come home to find them sacked out on out sofa watching war movies and feeding deep-fried pastrami to the dog.

They agreed.

A few days later, I bumped into one of the housemates in the driveway of our old home. We were both there packing a few last-minute things, and it was the first time we'd spoken alone for ages.

"So I've gotta tell you a funny story," he said. "The day we checked out that house and realized it was right behind you, we explained the whole situation to the woman renting the rooms."

Apparently, their new prospective housemate found the whole thing hysterical. "It's a really quiet neighborhood," she told them, "and a lot of the nearby houses are vacant. And everyone's sleeping with their windows open right now because it's so hot. And I don't want to spread gossip or anything, but a couple nights after those two moved in, I heard them really going at it."

The housemates laughed, and politely changed the subject (or so his story goes).

"After he and I left," the housemate continued as we stood there in our old driveway, "we started talking about whether we wanted to rent those rooms or not. And he says to me, 'it's too bad about Tawna. I guess they're not getting along."

Confused, he asked him to elaborate. The other housemate frowned. "You know. The neighbor said they were really going at it. Fighting and stuff."

It took every ounce of self-control the other housemate possessed for him not to fall to the ground laughing. (This is probably a lie – I'm sure he laughed his ass off).

"I don't think she meant they were fighting," he said slowly. "I think she meant going at it –like going at it?"

It took a few beats for the other housemate to get it.

And it took a few hours for me to stop laughing after I heard this story.

"For the record," I informed him. "We were probably just moving furniture up the stairs. Or playing with the dog. Or watching a movie. Or–"

"How about we just never speak of this again?" he said.

"Agreed."

And how about I give serious consideration to having my windows permanently sealed?

How much damage can two 27-year-old boys do when left alone in my house?

If I ever again suggest I'd like to pack up my entire household and move to a different home, you have my permission to slam my nipples in the kitchen cupboard repeatedly until I black out.

Now that we've got that out of the way, you'll be happy to know my move is complete. We're still living out of boxes, and my former home still contains many odds and ends that must be relocated.

The housemates, for example.

Many of you have followed my housemate stories from the beginning, but for those just joining the party, here's a recap: at the start of my divorce in the spring of 2011, the home I shared with my ex proved to be the most challenging asset to divide. Knowing the process might drag out a long time and that prostitution wasn't a desirable method of paying the mortgage, I rented out two rooms in the home to a couple of twenty-something boys.

Besides helping me to make my house payments, those housemates have provided all of us with significant entertainment value over the last sixteen months.

But all good things must come to an end, and by that I mean my gentleman friend and I were so desperate for privacy that we'd taken to necking in the coat closet.

So now we've moved. But since the sale of my former home won't actually close until late August, I offered the housemates an option.

"I'm taking all my furniture when we move August 1," I explained. "Couches, chairs, lamps, dining room table, all the cookware in the kitchen. Same with the refrigerator and the washer & dryer – everything's going with us."

The housemates considered that a moment. "Are you turning off the power?" one of them asked.

"I guess not," I said.

"Water? Sewer?"

I assured them I planned to keep all the utilities going, minus the internet. And I confirmed that the new owners won't take possession until late August.

"We're staying then," they decided.

So they set up their camp chairs in the living room, dragged their record collection out of my antique armoire, filled a cooler with beer and Oreos, and made themselves at home in front of their big-screen TV.

I walked through the living room the next day and squinted at the TV.

"You don't have cable and you can't stream Netflix through the internet anymore, so what on earth are you watching?" I asked.

"PBS," one of them replied.

"It's a special about sharks."

"Right," I said. "Good to see you're making yourselves comfortable."

"It could be better," one of them replied. "When are you taking the hammock?"

Before I had a chance to consider the question, they scurried outside and carried the hammock in from the second-story deck.

"Perfect," they declared, and sat down to watch the Spanish channel.

I have a sneaking suspicion my realtors will be forced to physically drag them from the house when closing day comes for the buyers. I'd kinda like to be there for that.

Mostly because I want my hammock back.

Phrases I never imagined I'd utter until I lived with two 27-year-old male housemates

Late Monday night, I came home from a friend's house and opened my freezer door. Inside, I spied a Tupperware container that hadn't been there when I left. Curious, I opened it up.

Naturally, the freezer is the perfect place to store dead bugs.

Words can't accurately describe the feeling of discovering a giant, dead moth that's being intentionally stored in your freezer at 11 p.m. on a Monday. Since neither of my two 27-year-old housemates was awake, I had to wait until the following evening to question them about it.

"Why is there a big dead bug in a Tupperware container in the freezer?"

It's a phrase I never thought I'd speak aloud until I lived with two twenty-something boys. While we're on the subject, here are a few more unexpected phrases I've caught myself uttering in the last few months:

• Please don't feed beans to the dog.
• No, you can't hook the lawn mower to your motorcycle and ride around the yard.
• Thank you for the offer, but I don't want you to batter & deep-fry the pineapple.
• I'm sure you're right that the 38 boxes of old National Geographic magazines are worth money, but can you please move them so I can get my car in the garage?
• Who's been eating the bloodworms in the freezer? 
• I do respect your goal to watch 16 straight hours of Miami Vice, but would you mind turning it down?

Oh, and to answer the moth-in-the-freezer question:

"Because it's really big. Did you see it?"

And that explains that.

Life with male housemates is seldom dull

It's been a little over year since I took in two 27-year-old male housemates to help pay the mortgage in the wake of my divorce. Though I appreciate the entertainment value they've brought to my life and my blog, the time is drawing near for us all to move in separate directions.

Fortunately, the housemates are doing their best to offer humor and hijinx in our final months together as a happy, dysfunctional household.

A few weeks ago, I walked out to the garage to grab something from my car. Both housemates were deep in conversation beside the lawnmower, and I felt a flutter of gratitude for their chivalrous intentions.

"You dragged the lawnmower out," I said. "Wow, thanks so much. You're mowing the lawn?"

They stared at me blankly for a moment. Then one of them shook his head. "Nah, we wanted to see if we could hook it to the front of one of the motorcycles and ride around the yard."

The other housemate nodded in agreement. "We're going to film it and put the video on YouTube."

Noticing my expression of terror, the first housemate grinned. "With your permission, of course."

I sighed and retreated back into the house. "Just don't run over any pets. Or each other," I added as an afterthought.

As far as I know, they didn't achieve success with their lawnmower plan. Since I didn't see any bloody limbs in the yard, I assume they didn't achieve failure, either.

Even when they aren't plotting YouTube videos, the housemates are constantly striving to achieve maximum entertainment value from their motorcycles. One of them routinely straps a dog kennel to the back of his bike and takes my dog with him on long hikes. I monitored the operation closely in the beginning, making sure Bindi wasn't uncomfortable or being forced into the kennel against her will.

It didn't take me long to realize the mere sight of the motorcycle sends her into a joyful frenzy of tail waging and excited barking, and she's been known to leap unaided into the kennel before the housemate has finished strapping it in place.

Still, I wasn't prepared for the text I received at work earlier this week from one of the housemates.

Teaching the dog to ride a motorcycle.

I opened the attached image with a sense of dread.

I studied it for a few moments before texting back.

At least teach her to wear a helmet. Oh, and can I post this to Facebook?

So how are you being entertained by the people or pets who reside under the same roof you do? Please share?

I'd better go check YouTube for new videos, just in case.

What's the opposite of cleaning?

As I've shared before, my house has been for sale since last November. The process is drawing to a conclusion, and my realtor called last week to alert me she'd be touring the property with an inspector from the bank.

"Sure," I agreed. "I can stay home and clean all evening, and we can have the place in pristine condition by tomorrow morning."

"Right, see this isn't like all the other showings you've been doing where the house has to look perfect," she explained. "In fact, it's OK in this instance if the place looks a little . . . "

"Distressed?" I suggested.

"Exactly," she agreed. "I know it goes against your nature since you have this urge to clean up for guests, but in this case, it's OK to let it all hang out."

I had a sudden mental picture of the housemates lounging on the sofa in their underwear watching soap operas. The realtor must have had the same mental picture, because she quickly clarified. "Go ahead and leave the breakfast dishes in the sink, the dog toys on the living room floor, and the beds unmade."

"This will be fun," I said, with more enthusiasm than she probably wanted to hear.

I got home and explained the situation to the housemates. One of them was in the process of preparing a dinner of hot dogs stuffed with cheese, wrapped in pastrami, battered and deep fried. He gestured to his fryer with reverence. "So I can leave this out on the counter when I'm done?" he asked.

"Absolutely," I agreed.  "Don't do the dishes, either."

The other housemate grinned and held up his empty beer can. "Want me to leave this on the counter instead of throwing it in the recycle bin?"

I considered that for a moment. "Throw it on the floor. That would be a nice touch."

Suddenly, both boys were overcome with inspiration.

"That dead bird that flew into the window last month is still in the backyard," one of them said. "Want me to go get it and put it on the floor?"

"Yeah!" agreed the other housemate. "Then when the inspector gets here, we can offer to deep fry it for her."

"I haven't done laundry all week, so I can toss my clothes all over the house."

"Oh! We can repair the motorcycle engine on the dining room table."

The other housemate whistled for my dog as he began rummaging through the fridge. "What can we feed you so you have really bad gas tomorrow morning?"

Mildly unnerved by their enthusiasm, I headed to the bathroom to change out of my work clothes.

"Don't flush!" someone called after me.

The next day, the realtor called to let me know the inspection had gone very well. "You did a nice job dirtying it up," she said.

I felt strangely proud. "That was the most fun we've had with any house showing in five months," I admitted.

"I could tell."

Sadly, undoing the mess wasn't nearly as fun as creating it. Convincing the housemates that we don't get to live like that on permanent basis was equally disheartening, though they're already plotting future inspections.

"I've got an idea," one of them told me this morning. "Have you ever seen that show Hoarders?"

Alarming things on my bookshelves

Thanks so much to everyone who weighed in on last week's question about the best schedule for my shift to twice-weekly blog posts! Based on your input, I'm going to test out a Monday/Thursday routine and see how that goes. I appreciate all your insights!

Now back to our regularly-scheduled blogging . . .

As an author and the owner of a English Lit degree, I'm required by law to have a minimum of 10 fully-stocked bookshelves in my home. (Sidenote: the Facebook users among you might be interested to see my recent bookshelf refinishing project here).

The problem with having so many books is that you sometimes forget what you own and how its presence might alarm others.

Shortly after we started dating, my gentleman friend began spending more time in my writing office. A photographer and copywriter himself, he's an easy person for me to share creative space with, and I happily made room for him to work nearby.

I was busy writing as he arranged some of his possessions on the bookshelf beside me. Suddenly, he got very quiet.

"Um, what's this?" he asked.

I turned to see him studying this popular title:
My one regret is that I didn't have a camera to capture the "is there something you forgot to mention?" look on his face.

"It's for naming characters in the books I write," I assured him. "Check the bookshelves of every fiction author in America, and I guarantee 90% of them will have one."

Fortunately, he accepted that explanation without question. Unfortunately, I didn't get any smarter about hiding the more delicate titles on my shelves.

My gentleman friend's ex-wife recently dropped off their offspring and needed a few minutes of private discussion with him about kid-related matters. I kept the young'uns occupied in the kitchen with fart jokes while quietly fretting that the office where the grownups conferred looked like a nuclear weapon had been discharged on my desk. Every surface was littered with tax forms, editorial letters, and chewed-up pens. My coaster held a tea mug, a cup of water, and an empty wineglass. I'm pretty sure there was cat puke on the windowsill.

The instant the ex-wife left, I scurried into my office to see whether the mess might warrant a call to the child welfare office. It was then I noticed which title would have been most visible from her vantage-point:
For the record, it's a pretty good book (and yes, it's exactly the sort of fiction you might expect from the title). No one ever said a word about it, which is probably for the best.

My latest round of questionable reading material appeared just a few days ago. A friend who manages a bookstore knows I'm noodling a new story, so she loaned me a title to help me research the heroine's profession.

We were out drinking beer the evening she gave it to me, and when I came home, I tossed it on the kitchen counter and promptly forgot about it.

The next morning, I came down to find the housemates giving me goofy looks. I ignored them and made a beeline for the refrigerator, secretly wondering how I'd drunkenly embarrassed myself the night before.

"So, uh . . . congratulations?" one of them said.

I turned with a well-masked look of alarm. "For what?"

"When's the wedding?"

I stared in horror, my mind doing a slow replay of the previous evening's events. To the best of my recollection, no one had gotten down on one knee in front of me (which is a damn shame, but I digress).

Finally, the other housemate pointed at the book:
Relief flooded my body. "Oh, that. It's research."

They grinned. "Uh-huh. Right."

I'm still not sure they believe me, but maybe that's best. Maybe I'll ask whether they'd prefer wearing fuchsia or lavender bridesmaids dresses.

Is there anything on your bookshelves that would be alarming to others? Please share!

I'll be looking for a copy of How to Dismember Bodies and Get Away With It. Might as well give the housemates something else to ponder.

Real authors probably have a better system for this

A new romantic comedy idea sunk its teeth into my brain last week and began gnawing like a feral hamster on crack.

A smart author would probably devote time to charting a detailed plot and analyzing the characters' goals, motivations, and desires. At the very least, she'd put some solid thought into her hero and heroine's names.

I opted to leave that to the housemates. I found one sipping coffee in the kitchen, and though I wasn't certain he was awake, I decided to pick his brain.

"I'm starting a new book this morning," I informed him. "Name my hero and heroine."

He blinked at me. "Johnny Appleseed. Allie Alligator. Donald–"

"Allie, that's good. That'll work. I've never written an Allie before."

"Especially not with the last name Alligator."

"Right," I agreed. "I might have to change that. OK, now you have to name the hero."

He stared at me blankly for a minute, then looked down at his coffee.

"Hold that thought," I told him. "I have to refill the dog's kibble. You keep thinking."

"Kibble's a good name," he mused as he took a sip of something he probably wished was a lot stronger than Starbucks.

"I know!" I announced. "The hero comes from a big military family. How about a famous military name? Weren't you a history major? Here's a great chance to use that degree!"

He didn't look entirely enthusiastic about the opportunity, but began rattling off names anyway. "Custer. Patton."

"Too redneck. Too gay."

He frowned. "Ulysses?"

"As in Ulysses S. Grant?" I tried to remember eighth grade history class and whether Ulysses S. Grant had a history of beastiality. "Grant's good. I don't think I've written a Grant."

I thought about it for a second as I scooped kibble into the dog's dish. By the time I set the bowl back on the floor, my mind was made up. "Allie and Grant. I like it. Those are my characters' names. Thank you."

He nodded. "I still like Kibble better."

"I know you do."

So there you have it – the new characters I'll be getting to know shortly. I hope I didn't spoil anyone's notions about the hard work and creativity that goes into naming romantic comedy protagonists.

If you're a writer, how much thought do you give to your characters' names? For the readers among you, how much of a difference do names make in your perception of a story? Please share!

I'll be hard at work crafting the fate of Allie Kibble and Grant Patton.

A mouthful of something nasty

Though I've been living with a collection of male housemates for nearly a year now, there are still mornings I stumble downstairs and yelp at the sight of three grown men lounging at my eating bar.

One glance into our shared refrigerator is enough to remind me just how different my life has become. The freezer is packed with fish sticks and frozen french fries. The ratio of beer to milk is generally 10 to 1. The housemate who hails from Louisiana makes sure we have two metric tons of butter on hand at all times.

We share staple items like flour, milk, and eggs, but have a hands-off respect for special purchases like wine or meat or candy.

At least until someone gets hungry. Then all bets are off.

"What's in that Styrofoam box in the freezer?" one of the housemates asked the other night. "It tastes awful."

"Styrofoam box?" I asked.

"Yeah. It looks like candy but it doesn't taste good."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Tell me you didn't eat the bloodworms."

"Bloodworms?"

"The little frozen cubes in the foil packet?"

He nodded. "Yeah, that's it. What are bloodworms?"

"They're a form of mosquito larva."

He frowned, looking a little green. "Why do you have mosquito larva in the freezer?"

"They're for the fish! In the aquarium? Haven't you watched me feed them pretty much every night? Why on earth would you eat that?"

He shrugged. "I thought it was chocolate."

"Chocolate that looks like hunks of frozen blood?"

It's likely there was beer involved. Which reminds me, we're running low. What's the grossest thing you've ever eaten, either by accident or on purpose? Please share!

And I'll be happy to share my chocolate anytime.

Who makes you howl?

With a wide array of housemates, significant others, and random strangers cycling in and out of my house like perverts through a brothel, my dog is rarely alone these days.

Bindi sees this as the biggest plus of our current living arrangement.

Each household member plays an important role in Bindi's life. I'm the steadfast provider of dog kibble, regular walks, and trips to the vet. One housemate is her supplier for table scraps and lazy afternoons on the sofa watching ninja movies. My gentleman friend can be counted on to throw her ball until one of them collapses from exhaustion.

Then there's the housemate who isn't much of a dog person. He doesn't dislike dogs, and will even drag her out for the occasional run or hike. But their bonding has been a little more tepid.

Or so I thought.

Several weeks ago, he sent me a text message:

Bindi & I had a howlin' contest this morning.

Intrigued, I clicked the attached 24-second video. (Warning: there's a curse-word in this video. If you're offended by curse-words, I suggest you not click. I also suggest you not read this blog or my books. Why the hell are you here, anyway?)


Now here's the funny thing – I've owned Bindi for more than two years. We've gone for countless hikes, endured lengthy road trips, and snuggled for endless hours. Never once have I heard my dog howl. I didn't even know she could howl.

I asked my housemate about it later when all the other household occupants were present. No one else had heard Bindi howl, either, but the howl-inducing housemate just shrugged it off.

"It's sort of our thing," he said. "She only does it when no one else is home."

I'm fascinated by this. Not only by my dog's behavior, but by the notion of one creature triggering another to do something he or she doesn't do for anyone else.

For once, I'm not being filthy.

I was thinking about this in the context of the rewrite I just submitted for my third contracted romantic comedy. One element of my marching orders from the editor involved tightening the bond between my hero and heroine. What is it that makes their relationship unique? What are the little inside jokes only the two of them share? What separates her from every girl he's ever dated or him from her ex-husband?

I can't tell you the answers to those questions without giving away some plot twists, but rest assured, I figured it out.

Are there things you share only with one special friend or significant other? I'm not talking about playing Spear the Donut. I'm thinking more along the lines of little things you catch yourself doing around a certain person who's the only person in the world to see you behaving that way. Please share!

And please take a moment to enjoy this second video my housemate shot just to prove the first one wasn't a fluke. Aroooooooooooooo!

On dog puke, candy canes, and my new life

At least once a week, I'm struck by how different my life is now than it was a year ago. I currently share my home with three grown men, five cats, and a dog.

It goes without saying the conversations taking place under this roof are a bit different than they were 12 months ago.

Like this one that occurred last night when my gentleman friend and I returned from grocery shopping to find the two 27-year-old housemates seated at the dining room table eating barbecue chicken:

HOUSEMATE 1: (to me) Your dog threw up.

HOUSEMATE 2: A lot. It was like something out of the exorcist. You wouldn't believe how much liquid came out of such a small animal.

ME: (scrambling to put down the groceries so I could inspect the dog. She was prancing around the kitchen with her tail wagging, in no apparent distress). Are you OK, baby? What's the matter? Is your tummy upset?

HOUSEMATE 1: It was a lot of puke. Like a lake.

HOUSEMATE 2: It took a whole roll of paper towels to clean it up.

ME: Was there blood in it? Has she been acting sick? Have you fed her anything unusual today?

In case you wondered what
broiled candy cane looks like.
No, I won't show you the puke.

HOUSEMATE 1: We made her eat a candy cane afterward. She had puke breath.

HOUSEMATE 2: Then we put a candy cane under the broiler to see if it would melt.

HOUSEMATE 1: It did.

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: (making an effort to be supportive) Was there anything in the puke or was it just liquid?

HOUSEMATE 1: Want to see a picture? It's on my camera upstairs.

HOUSEMATE 2: Wait, I've got one here on my phone.

ME: You both took pictures of the puke?

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: Is this why the snow shovel is on the porch? Did you try to shovel the puke?

HOUSEMATE 1: Check it out, look at this picture.

ME: Oh, geez. (To gentleman friend) Would you mind starting dinner? I think I need to write all this in a blog post right now and get it up fast.

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: You said "get it up fast."

HOUSEMATE 1: Knock on wood.

HOUSMATE 2: You said wood.

Yes, this is my life now.

I'm pretty damn happy about that.

Household purging gone awry

Before my house went up for sale last month, the realtors gave explicit directions for staging the place to look its best.

Most instructions began, "get rid of–"

I took countless loads of stuff to Goodwill and the dump, resisting the urge to forage at either place for more things to bring home. Decluttering is the name of the game, and I'm proud to say I'm pretty good at it.

My two 27-year-old male housemates aren't adapting as well.

During the first walk-through, the realtors pointed out a wheeled office chair that didn't appear to be in use. The seat was slightly torn, and I'd stuffed it in the guest room in case I needed an extra chair for dinner parties.

"Can you get rid of that?" they asked.

"Sure," I agreed. "It's in decent shape, so I'll just wheel it to the sidewalk and stick a free sign on it."

I did exactly that before piling another load of household clutter into the trunk of my car and heading to Goodwill. When I returned an hour later, the chair was gone from the sidewalk.

I was delighted for the thirty seconds it took to drive from the bottom of my driveway to the top. That's when I discovered the chair sitting in the front yard with the free sign gone.

"What the hell?" I asked as I walked through the front door.

My housemates ignored me, probably because they're accustomed to that as my normal greeting.

"Why is the chair in the yard?" I asked.

"It was free," replied one of the housemates. "I thought it would look good in my room."

"It was free because I put it there," I informed him. "And also because I'm trying to get rid of things."

He grinned. "You just did."

I gave up the chair battle and continued filling boxes and bags with castoff clothing, rarely-used appliances, and the overabundance of office supplies I swear have been procreating in my desk drawers. I stuck one of the boxes in the entryway, thinking I might inspire the boys to do some decluttering of their own.

"I'm taking that box to Goodwill later today," I told them Saturday morning. "If there's anything you want to get rid of, go ahead and toss it in there."

They both looked up at me. "That box is going to Goodwill?"

Before I could open my mouth to reply, they were both pawing through the box like a pair of mongrel dogs doing a dumpster dive outside the butcher shop.

"Hey, this is a good mug!" one of them declared.

"This hula girl hasn't even been opened," the other shouted. "I can put it on the dashboard of my car."

The other housemate took it from him. "Let's see if her skirt comes off. That would be better."

They continued digging as I stood speechless in the living room, not daring to interrupt what appeared to be the most fun either of them had enjoyed all week.

"Tape?" one housemate yelled. "Who gets rid of tape?"

"I had twelve unopened boxes of it in my desk," I informed him. "I don't need that much tape."

"Probably stole it from work," he muttered to the other housemate. "Hey, what's this thing that says Pirate Playmates?"

He pulled out a plastic baggie of action figures someone gave me as a gag gift. They both frowned. "That's not what I was hoping for."

I sighed. "Is there anything else I can get you boys?"

"Got any bulbs for this lamp?"

So much for decluttering. On the bright side, the housemates seem pleased with their new acquisitions. In hindsight, I probably should have wrapped up all my castoff stuff and offered it to them as holiday gifts.

How are your decluttering skills? Do you tend to be a pack-rat or a ruthless organizer? Please share!

And let me know if you want to pilfer through the housemates' rooms for any household goods you might need. I promise not to tell.

My dog has two daddies

I'm fighting a cold right now, which means what little energy I have is being channeled into the final round of copy edits before Believe it or Not goes to print.

In case you're wondering, I've now read the manuscript 74,389 times.

Since many of you show up here expecting a laugh, I feel like I should at least share something that made me giggle recently.

I've told you before how my two 27-year-old housemates have plotted to use my dog as a chick magnet. Late last week, the two boys took my dog out for a hike in the snow. They returned home soggy and exhausted, but gushing excitedly about the newspaper photographer who snapped their picture.

"We're going to be famous," one of them deadpanned. "You'll be asking for our autograph on Saturday."

"Chicks love famous guys," the other agreed.

"Don't worry," the first housemate assured me. "We made sure to give the photographer the correct spelling of the dog's name."

Saturday morning, I heard them both up rustling around much earlier than usual. I came downstairs to find them frowning at the front page of the Local News section.

In case you can't read that, here's what it says:

A stroll through fresh snow
Bend residents [Tawna's housemate], 27, left, and [Tawna's housemate], 27, along with their dog Bindi, return to their car after a hike to Tumalo Falls west of Bend on Friday afternoon. Snow was about a half a foot deep along the trail. Look for the Well, shoot! field trip to Tumalo Falls on Page C1 in Tuesday's edition of The Bulletin.

The housemates watched me as I read it. "What do you think?"

"You mean besides the fact that it makes you sound like life partners?"

They both scowled. My gentleman friend picked up the paper and studied it. "What a nice young gay couple out for a walk with their dog," he said.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," I added. "So much for using the dog as a chick magnet."

So that was the highlight of my weekend (albeit, perhaps not theirs). How about you?

Why you need extra eyes

Prepping my home for sale has been as enjoyable as giving myself a wedgie with a piece of barbed wire.

The upside is that my house is now cleaner than it's been since I moved in six years ago. Closets have been organized, floors have been scrubbed, and the fur balls under the sofa have been surgically reattached to the cats.

The realtors have been great about pointing out little things that might annoy potential homebuyers – personal photos, desktop clutter, lingerie hanging from the ceiling fan – things I've grown so accustomed to seeing that I don't even notice they're there.

But the realtors missed something. It took one of the housemates to point it out the other morning as I scrambled around prepping for a showing.

"I'm surprised the realtors haven't said anything about the stairs," he said.

"What's wrong with the stairs?"

"Unless the potential buyers have the same first and last name as your ex husband, they might not appreciate having his name written in bright yellow letters on the bottom step."

And damned if he wasn't right. Obviously, I knew it was there. When the home was built six years ago, we opted for sort of a modern industrial look. The stair rails are done with custom-finished wood and wire cables, while the stairs themselves are tile with steel corner pieces.

Word of advice – you don't want to fall in my home unless you enjoy brain injury.

The steel caps on the edge of each stair came from a local supplier that thoughtfully marked the buyer's name on one of the pieces in the supply yard. For the first few months after the house was finished, it was a running joke. After that, I remember asking my then-husband if the words could be removed. He told me he'd tried and failed, so I pretty much stopped noticing the name was there.

When I told this to my housemate, he laughed. "Ten bucks says we can get it off in thirty seconds with nail polish remover and steel wool."

"Thirty seconds sounds a little fast for getting off, and doesn't the steel wool hurt?"

He wisely ignored me and went to retrieve the steel wool from under the sink. I headed upstairs and came back down with a bottle of nail polish remover.

Two minutes later, all traces of the name were gone.

"This is why every writer needs good critique partners," I told him.

He frowned. "To scrub their ex-husbands' names off their stairs?"

"No. To help them fix the things they've stopped noticing or decided aren't fixable."

"Right," he said. "With steel wool and dirty jokes."

Hey, whatever works. It's true that the greatest value a critique partner or beta reader brings to the table is the benefit of a fresh pair of eyes. Even if that person isn't a grammar expert or a writing whiz, he or she can still offer a new perspective. I can't tell you how many times one of my critique partners has picked up on an error more glaringly obvious than a bright yellow name on a staircase, and I've found myself dumbfounded. How did I not notice that?

Easy. There's a sort of blindness that sets in when you're too close to something, whether it's a manuscript, a relationship, or anything else in your life.

If you're a writer, have you ever had a critique partner point out something so ridiculously obvious you couldn't believe your own ignorance? For non-writers, tell me about a "captain obvious" moment elsewhere in your life!

I'll be spending some quality alone-time with the steel wool and nail polish remover.

Please pet me, I'm writing

Note to self: the next time daylight savings time rolls around, consider the fact that your brain will begin waking at 2 a.m. with the urgent need to tap-dance around the bedroom. Given the resultant state of sleep deprivation, it is perhaps not the best time to plan things like the sale of your home, the final read-through for two contracted novels, or a blog post for the day job that requires you to sample mac-n-cheese at every local restaurant until you find yourself in a perpetual food coma.

I'll admit it, I'm fried. I've got no words left, so this seems like a good time for pictures. Pet pictures, to be precise. It's no secret I adore my pets, and that they're a constant presence in my life and my workspace. One look at my Facebook page or my Twitter stream confirms that.

So for today, I give you a handful of my favorite pet photos from recent months...

Bindi is a three-year-old Australian Kelpie, which is a fancy way of saying "small herding dog on crack." One of the best things about my two 27-year-old housemates is that they assist me in wearing her out with regular hikes and games of fetch. This is a shot one of the houemates took using an underwater camera.

The other housemate relies on a motorcycle for most of his transportation. This doesn't stop him from taking Bindi with him when he goes out for hikes. She seems to love it.

Bindi is surprisingly tolerant of the fact that she shares her home with three (yes, THREE) cats. One of the cats doesn't exactly count. Ivy is a crazy feral cat I trapped 13 years ago. She's spent most of her life hiding in closets and under beds. I recently bought Bindi a fluffy new dog bed, and Ivy decided she loves this bed with every fiber of her being. Suffice it to say, Bindi hasn't gotten to use it.

Ivy abhors being held. She also terrifies the hell out of my housemates, both of whom refer to her as "ninja kitty" and have spotted her only a handful of times.

You know how parents aren't allowed to have favorite children? The great thing about pets is that you can have favorites, and Matt the Cat is mine. He's a polydactyl cat, which means he has extra toes on his front paws. I like to think this has something to do with his kleptomaniac tendencies. Matt steals constantly from around the neighborhood. Gloves, stuffed animals, puppets, mouse pads, rolls of toilet paper, leaves, homework assignments, goggles, flip-flops, darts, socks...these are all things Matt has dragged through the cat door.

Oversized paws make an excellent sleep mask when you don't want to wake up in the morning.

Matt likes to assist while I'm writing. Here he is anchoring the printer so it doesn't fly away,

And here's Matt helping me write a blog post.

Then, there's Blue Cat.

When the cleaning crew showed up the other day to prep my house for sale, I eavesdropped as they made the rounds. I had to laugh when I heard one of them shriek (in Spanish), "That is the biggest cat I've ever seen in my life." I didn't have to look to know which cat they'd spotted.

Blue Cat has a shoe fetish. Anyone who leaves shoes lying around pretty much guarantees those shoes will be used as a feline pillow.

Though I'm not allowed to tell you much about the new secret project I've been hinting at in recent weeks, I can tell you that Blue Cat is a character in the story. He plays himself. Very crafty of him.

So there you have it....my brain dead post of the week. What do you think of my furry babies? Lie if you must and tell me you love them.

Otherwise, I'll sic ninja kitty on you.

Being sneaky got the pokey thingy out of my hole

Prepping your house for sale isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.

Doing it while lodging two 27-year-old male housemates whose idea of home décor is a futon mattress on the floor can be a bit more challenging.

On Monday, the place was scoured spotless by a terrifyingly efficient housekeeping crew hired by the realtors. Within 24 hours, my housemates had thoughtfully redecorated the kitchen counters with an ornamental assortment of empty cans, coffee grounds, corn chips, and two deep fryers.

It’s not that they’re inconsiderate. It’s just that their version of tidy differs markedly from that of the average home buyer looking to hand over their life savings for a four bedroom, three bath dream home with breathtaking mountain views and a kick-ass writing office.

The boys are doing their best to help, but they aren’t quite sure how to accomplish that.

Tuesday morning found me teetering on a step-stool at the top of a staircase attempting to extricate twelve pounds of dead bugs from a glass light fixture 30 minutes before an open house event.

“Don’t fall,” one of the housemates called helpfully from his station on the sofa. “The cleaning crew will be mad if you mess up the clean floor with brains.”

I shot him a scowl before aiming one in the direction of the other housemate sipping coffee and lounging against the kitchen counter. “You guys aren’t being very supportive,” I snapped.

The coffee sipper set his mug down and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry about that.”

He grinned and clapped his hands together cheerleader style. “Go, Tawna! Nice job! Way to clean those lights! You’re doing great! Don’t swallow any dead bugs!”

Laughing with your hand on a light bulb is not a good idea.The next thing I knew, I’d snapped it off in the socket.

“Damn,” I said. “The pokey thingy broke off in the hole. Do either of you have a pair of those pinchy things?”

Now here’s the deal. I know damn well that the pokey thingy is called a bi-pin on a G8 lamp base, and I also know exactly where the pliers are in my garage.

But my feigned incompetence – coupled with my housemates' fear that my electrocution might preclude them from watching television – was all it took to spur them into action.

“Get down from there,” ordered the handiest of the two, springing off the couch. “I’ve got it.”

He took the stairs two at a time as he pulled a Leatherman tool out of his pocket. “Go flip the circuit breaker in the garage,” he ordered the other housemate.

I stood back and smiled sweetly as the two of them took charge, wielding tools and offering up the occasional manly grunt.

Do I feel guilty for taking advantage of their macho urge to rescue me with superior tool handling and home improvement knowledge? Hardly.

No more guilty than they feel about the corn flakes glued to the edge of the sink.

One way or another, we’re all making this work for us.

On comfort food and machine gun fire

When I set out to acquire housemates last spring, I decided up front that I’d prefer to live with men.

It wasn’t so much a desire to build a small harem of twenty-something males under my roof (though certainly that held some appeal). It was partly that I didn’t want pals. I wanted quiet residents content to nuke the occasional frozen pizza and then get the hell out of my kitchen without asking to bake scones together while braiding each other’s hair and dishing about boys.

I’ll admit it was a sexist notion. I’ll also admit I might have misjudged.

I knew up front that one of the housemates enjoyed cooking, but didn’t grasp the magnitude of it until the day he moved in. He spent several hours unloading an arsenal of kitchenware before whipping up a batch of brownies from scratch. Then he unpacked a giant television in the living room, a space I’d previously reserved for quiet reading and snuggling with the dog.

That was five months ago. I honestly can’t remember the last time my kitchen counter was visible beneath trays of baked goods, barbecue accessories, and three (yes, three) deep fryers. If I ever walk in and find my couch isn’t occupied by a barefoot southern boy watching war movies, I consider calling the police to report he’s been kidnapped.

There are times I mourn the loss of my clutter-free counters. There are times I miss my privacy. There are times I want to take a baseball bat to the constantly blaring television.

Monday night was such an occasion. I was tucked in my office trying hard to write, but having trouble concentrating over the blast of televised machine gun fire and the clatter of cookware.

I was on the brink of snapping when someone knocked on my office door.

“Yes?” I called through gritted teeth.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“What?”

“Dinner. I made chicken fried steak.”

I emerged from my cave, bleary-eyed and a little dumbfounded. The counter held approximately six tons of chicken fried steak, along with homemade gravy and mashed potatoes.

Comfort food I didn’t know I needed.

“I’ll make salad,” I offered, feeling bad that only three minutes earlier, I’d been plotting to grind his television remote in the garbage disposal.

I poured a glass of wine for myself. My tee totaling housemate filled his water glass. Then we sat down and watched an episode of Scrubs on Netflix. We didn’t braid each other’s hair, but we did laugh a lot.

We also licked our plates when we were done eating.

Was it how I planned to spend my evening? Not really. Is this how I envisioned my life a year ago? Definitely not. Are there moments I want to stomp into the living room and scream that if he drops another piece of fried chicken on the couch or downloads another noisy slasher movie, I’ll superglue him to the sofa and set fire to the living room?

I’d better not answer that.

But I will say this – there’s something satisfying about knowing I can adapt to almost any situation. There’s something rewarding about learning to adjust to personalities and habits I never imagined I’d be living with in such close proximity.

And there’s something enjoyable about sitting back with a plate of artery-clogging, southern fried goodness and saying, “damn, this made my night.”

When’s the last time you had to adjust to something you never expected in your life or your household routine? How did you cope?

If it’s a struggle, allow me to suggest that gravy and chicken fried steak have a remarkable way of making everything all better.

The boys who live with me and pull my hair

One of the best things about having two 27-year-old male housemates is that they sometimes walk from the shower to their bedrooms wearing only a towel.

I’m lying. I’ve never seen either of them do that, and frankly, I’d be a little creeped out if I did.

Though I joke about my little male harem, our relationship is definitely more brother/sister than Charlie Sheen/porn star. In fact, one of the things I love best about “the boys” is how completely oblivious they are to me.

It keeps me humble.

Several weeks ago, one of the housemates stomped in after having dinner with his parents visiting from Chicago.

“My mom thinks you’re famous,” he muttered. “She wants your autograph, and now I have to go buy your book so she can send it to my grandma. What the hell is your book called?”

I glanced from the giant stack of Making Waves bookmarks on the kitchen counter to the assortment of Making Waves notecards on my desk. Then I toed aside the big, open box of Making Waves author copies in the foyer.

“Let me write that down for you,” I said.

So he headed off to Barnes and Noble and returned with my book and a very nice bottle of Pinot Noir from his mother. “How the hell did she know you like wine?” he asked.

“Everyone knows I like wine,” I admitted as I signed a book for his grandmother (who later sent me a delightful thank you note).

Another time I decided I wanted a photo of me being dragged by the hair to accompany my final Debutante Ball blog post. A friend offered to snap the picture and approached one of the housemates to assist.

“Would you mind grabbing Tawna by the hair and pretending to drag her out the door while I take a picture?” he asked.

The housemate shrugged. “Sure, as long as you hurry up,” he said. “I don’t want to miss the sunset.”

The phrase, “what for?” never crossed his lips.

Not that any explanation beginning, “there’s this blog…” would have been met with anything but a blank stare.

Both housemates have been called upon to draw blog contest winners at one time or another. Despite me informing them on multiple occasions that I mention them sometimes (like here or here or here or here or here), they always look a little mystified when I say anything about the blog

“Do people read it?” one of them asked in a rare moment of faked interest.

“Er, sometimes.”

“And I’m in it?”

“Well, that’s not all it’s about,” I started to explain.

“Bummer. People would probably like that.”

Indeed, they would. Maybe we should consider changing up the blog so it’s all housemates, all the time?

Or maybe I’ll just lurk in the hall until the opportunity presents itself to snap one of those towel photos.

The very wet life of a romance author

I stumbled out my front door yesterday morning with a mug of tea and a slight hangover from the previous night’s book launch party. I was already ten minutes late for the day job, so when I looked up to see a geyser in my front yard, it didn’t seem like a good sign.

I stared at it for awhile, wondering if it was a new decorative water feature one of the housemates had installed. After a few minutes of that, I set my mug and keys down and shuffled into the garage to find the control box for the sprinkler system.

Using my vast knowledge of lawn maintenance and irrigation, I attempted to troubleshoot the problem. By that, I mean I punched buttons at random and cursed loudly. When that had no noticeable effect, I walked back out to the wayward sprinkler-head and stomped on it.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Within seconds, I looked like the losing competitor in a wet t-shirt contest. The geyser continued to spray, now angled toward my car.

Discouraged, I walked inside where both of my twenty-something male housemates were eating breakfast.

“Anyone know anything about irrigation systems?” I asked.

They both turned and took in my bedraggled appearance and the puddle I was making on the dining room floor.

“I know they aren’t meant for showering,” one of them offered helpfully.

Once they’d finished laughing at me, they followed me outside and stared at the geyser. One of them walked into the garage and began punching buttons on the sprinkler system controls, while the other walked up to the spouting sprinkler and stomped on it.

Unsurprisingly, he stepped away drenched.

“I could have told you that wouldn’t work,” I offered.

“But you chose not to tell me?”

“I thought it was worth another shot.”

Meanwhile, the other housemate yelled to us from inside the garage. “Is it off yet?”

“No,” we chorused.

He punched a few more buttons, then ambled around the house where we were studying the geyser. He looked at it for a minute, then moved toward it. “Maybe we could just stomp it back into place—”

“Wait—”

But of course, we were too late. All three of us stood there dripping in the driveway as the sprinkler continued to jet toward the heavens.

“I guess I could call the landscaper who installed it,” I said.

So that’s what I did, and as luck would have it, he was working on another job just a couple miles away. Ten minutes later, he pulled up and got out of his truck.

“Sprinkler’s broken,” I called as he walked up the driveway.

He looked at the three of us standing there in a puddle beside the geyser. “So you decided to play in it?”

“We thought stomping on the sprinkler-head might help,” I offered.

“Replacing it might be a better idea,” he said. “And shutting off the water.”

So he proceeded to do those things while my housemates and I retreated into the house and changed clothes. My hair was still wet and my eye makeup smeared when I marched into the office a full hour late.

My boss looked at my appearance and grinned. “Good time at the book launch party?”

“Yes,” I  muttered. “The glamour never ends for romance authors.”

A doggie-style love affair

My dog is in love.

She wasn’t looking for it, and her head-over-tail passion for my 26-year-old male housemate caught us all by surprise. She follows him around the house with her tongue hanging out, accompanies him on long hikes, and sleeps in his bed whenever he’ll let her.

He’s smitten, too. I catch him cuddling with her on the couch, talking to her when he thinks no one can hear.

But theirs is a doomed love affair.

As much as I appreciate the fact that the housemates’ presence allows me to pay the mortgage for now, I know they won’t always live here. I don’t picture myself in the kitchen with them when I’m 82, bickering about whose turn it is to buy eggs.

Which means my dog will eventually lose her boyfriend. I know this, and I wish there were some way to explain it. To let her know she shouldn’t get her furry little canine heart so tangled up in this ill-fated romance.

But then I think better of it.

When it comes to love or writing or really anything worth pursuing with passion, you don’t avoid throwing your whole self into it just because things might end badly.

What kind of world would this be if everyone who’d ever lost love or racked up a rejection pursued all future attempts with a half-hearted, half-assed approach? If you knew things weren’t going to turn out the way you hoped in the end, would you really want to miss the tail-wagging thrill of enjoying it while it lasts?

So as usual, I think my dog might be smarter than me.

Well, except for the butt licking thing.

Bizarre burglars, clueless housemates, and one blog contest winner

When I decided to rent out rooms in my home during my divorce, there are key reasons I chose to take in two twenty-something males. Surprisingly, none of the reasons involved cougar-themed fantasies.

The main thing I craved were housemates who'd leave me alone. I didn't want buddies who'd want to cook meals together and talk about our feelings. I wanted to come and go as I pleased, with housemates who'd do the same. The arrangement has worked well for the most part, though it became apparent the other night we could stand to improve our communication skills.

Saturday was a whirlwind of activity, with my ex dropping by to claim a hodge-podge of possessions decreed to him in the divorce agreement. I saw one of the housemates in passing and mentioned the situation to him before a friend dropped by to pick me up for a concert.

It wasn't until much later I realized the other housemate was in the dark. My first clue came in the form of a voicemail:

Um, where is everyone? All the cars are here, and the motorcycles, too. Something weird is going on. Call me.

I didn't get the message until nearly midnight when a friend brought me home from the concert. Everyone was sound asleep by then, and after a quick tour around the house to make sure it wasn't on fire or in danger of being overtaken by poltergeists, I turned in for the evening.

The next afternoon, I came home from shopping to find the housemate in the kitchen.

"Dude," he said. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I got home from work and no one was here – not even the dog. All the cars were here though."

Before I could point out that I'd gotten a ride to the concert and the other housemate had likely taken the dog for a walk, he interrupted.

"That wasn't the weirdest part though," he said. "I went to make dinner and all the silverware was gone. Then I looked in your office and your desk was gone, but there's a new desk in there. And that cowbell over the fireplace is missing."

I wasn't sure whether to praise his observation skills or ask whether he really believed someone had broken into the house and stolen the dog, the silverware, a cowbell, and my desk (which, as he noted, the thoughtful thief had replaced with a different desk). Then he noticed the big box of silverware in my hand.

"Oh, cool," he said, reaching for the box. "It comes with ten steak knives."

I never got to explain anything else, but at least he's pleased with the new silverware.

Later that evening, I found him on the sofa drinking beer and watching television. I handed him a bowl filled with tiny slips of paper bearing the names of readers entered in Friday's blog contest. "Can you pick one?"

He dug his hand in the bowl and grabbed a slip of paper. "Rick Lipman," he read. "What's it for?"

"A contest on my blog," I replied.

"Blog?"

"Right. I have this blog and – " I stopped myself, deciding it was probably best if he didn't know. "Enjoy your MacGyver marathon."

"Mmmph," he said, already tuning me out.

So congratulations to Rick. Send your snail mail address to tawnafenske at yahoo dot com and I'll hook you up with a signed copy of Making Waves. And super-huge thanks to the rest of you for all the wonderful suggestions and ideas on Friday's post. I owe you one!

Oh, and for the record, don't count on my housemates for ransom if you decide to kidnap me. We'll all be waiting awhile.