When I heard about Whitney, we were in the car—six friends driving from Pebble Beach to Healdsburg, California, a tedious, almost four hour trip—when all of our phones dinged. AP breaking news. Whitney was dead. We all scrambled for verification, googling from phones and iPads, hoping that perhaps the AP, for once, had gotten it wrong. 

It took a few minutes for other sources to pick it up. I knew it was definitely true when all three of my sisters started texting me. 

We sisters don't take celebrity deaths lightly.  

It's so sad. Yes, I know she was whacked on crack and she hadn't been the real Whitney for years. But in her day, her voice was unparalleled. She sang the national anthem here in my hometown for the Super Bowl one year. Our country was at war. Peace in America had been my birthright, but now there were bombs and strife and shadowy dangers rising up in a continent that no longer seemed thousands of miles away. Sadly, it was the beginning of some of our country's darkest days. But on that night, Whitney and her heavenly voice reminded us how privileged we are to be here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Gifts like that are rare and few and now we are left with one less glorious voice in the world. 

Now, let's talk about happier, shinier things. 

Namely, I've been rubbing elbows with the celebrities these days. 

It all started a few weeks ago, when I joined the world of querying writers. I was slacking off checking my Twitter for agent information, when I spotted a tweet from my hot Italian honey, Chef Fabio.

He was tweeting about an upcoming appearance, a cooking lesson he was giving at a Publix in South Florida. So I took the opportunity to beg him to come up to my part of town. 

We have better Publixes. 

I really don't know if that's true or if, in fact, that is the correct plural spelling of Publix, but . . .  

We do have Ernest, the 80-year-old bag boy who sings George Gershwin tunes as he's carrying out your bags. I'd say that pretty much qualifies as the best. 

A few minutes later Fabio tweeted me back, with:

I'm really not sure what this means, but I'd like to believe it's his way of saying he loves me. 

After all, who can forget this amazing tweet he sent me, after he asked his fans for input on a T-shirt he was creating for Team Fabio. In a tweet, I told him the letters were a little too high on the shirt and asked if there would be a ladies cut. Here's the gushing sentiment he sent to me that time:

I'll let you know where to send the wedding gifts. 

And if that weren't enough to make you jealous, last week I was in Pebble Beach where I may or may not have called golf tournaments, stupid. 

I'd like to take a mulligan on that. 

Because golf tournaments are not stupid. They are fun, super fun. 

Especially when celebrities and vodka and cranberry cocktails are involved. 

We were guests of a company my hubs does business with and that fabulous company had this mammoth doublewide trailer with ample seating, wall to wall windows, (hopefully strong ones) overlooking the 17th green, delicious food and of course, the cocktails. I had gone to the tournament begrudgingly, but as soon as we walked into that trailer and I spotted the giant chocolate chip cookies and the luxe bathroom, I thought, "Okay, this might not hurt after all."

The men in our group were sad to hear Tiger had already been to our hole. (Please don't laugh. I am vastly ignorant when it comes to sports terms.) So they decided we should leave our beautiful trailer with the three different types of cookies and wild mushroom risotto and Eric the bartender and traipse around after stupid Tiger. 

Since I didn't want to seem all bad sporty, I traipsed with my crew. 

This was verrrry good sporty of me because it was sprinkling and a heavy mist hung over us from the Pacific Ocean and I have blonde, kicky hair that turns decidedly un-kicky when wet. 

We had umbrellas, but the crowds were heavy and people were giving me the stink eye every time I poked them with my umbrella because clearly people are unbelievably prejudiced against good hair. 

We found Tiger which was super un-thrilling. He hit the ball. The crowd clapped. He ignored the crowd. That's it. 

He was the only golfer of the day who acted like a jackhole. 

The wonderful Phil Mickelson waved and shook hands and eventually won the tournament. 

So maybe someone should lose their smug attitude, Mr. I-Love-Me-Some-Pancake-House. I think SOMEONE could use all the good PR he can get these days. 

Finally, after having enough of watching Tiger ignore everyone, my friend Lisa and I decided our blonde heads of hair had had enough mist and we poked our way back to the wonderful doublewide with this view:

Wonderful doublewide. 

I never thought I'd utter those two words together in my lifetime. 

The boys stayed to follow jackhole Tiger around, so we ladies sat in our doublewide, keeping our hair kicky and waiting for some good celebrities. 

There were a parade of sports celebrities that I could not tell you about. 

The real fun began when Josh Duhamel showed up on our green.

When God smiled upon us and rolled Josh's ball right up to the front of our doublewide, every single dignified woman in that trailer rushed to the giant picture window. 

We squealed. We called his name. We rapped on the glass.

He hit his ball into the hole and then smiled and waved. Again. I do not know golf or anything else. 

After they all hit their little balls in the hole, they walked around the side of the doublewide to tee off for the next hole. 

Our beautiful doublewide's steps were directly in front of their teeing off place.

Thank you, Jesus. 

Josh came over to greet our bevy of ladies. And we classy ladies acted exactly like we were 12 and Justin Bieber had just ripped his shirt off, exposing his prepubescent, hairless, girl pecs to us.   

Since I was a newbie, I had no idea we would be this up close and personal with such hotness and unlike everyone else, I had nothing for Mr. Hotness himself to sign. 

And because I am me and because my doublewide had Eric who was making succulent cocktails, when Josh set his glorious eyes upon me expectantly and said, "What do you have for me?"

I stuck out my arm and said, "Sign me?"
And yes. I know. 

My friend Mary has already chastised me for giving him my arm as my best body part. 

But I was trying to act dignified, since we were guests of this company. 

Oh, who am I kidding! I never pretend to be dignified. The lady who grabbed the president's ass this weekend? That's my kind of dignity. 

The truth is when Josh looked at me, all thoughts flew out of my head. And I just poked out my pasty white arm. 

I know, sad. 

But still, I went back to the doublewide, my arm held high in victory as all the women gathered around, oohing and ahhing and telling me how lucky I was. 

I was still saying, "I'll never wash my arm again" when the next crew hit our green. 

It was George Lopez and Andy Garcia. And I have no idea who any of the real golfers were except for Pancake Tiger and Gentleman Phil, so do not bother asking me about that. 

After they hit their little balls in the hole, I was getting into the groove of things and I flew out the door to get more body parts signed. 

Now, here's the thing. 

Picture taking was off limits and I got caught more than a few times. The phone police were always very nice about it and would gently ask me to put it away. 

Which I would do. Kind of. 

I was trying to pretend I was talking on my phone while aiming it at the golfers, when a dude on the course came over to me. I tried to slide my phone back into my pocket, but I wasn't quick enough. 

But instead of scolding me, he asked if I would mind making a call for him, since they were not allowed to use their phones while on the course. He then asked me to call the golf course's restaurant, The Tap Room, and reserve a table for George Lopez.

So, there I was, on the Pebble Beach golf course making a reservation for George Lopez. 

The harried woman who answered the phone, couldn't quite hear me over the din of the crowd. All she heard was my request for a reservation, to which she told me in a clipped tone, they were not making reservations today. 

I said with great celebrity confidence, "But I'd like to make a reservation for George Lopez, the comedian?"

Once again, words I never thought I'd utter in my life. 

I have now firsthand evidence that celebrities really are the special people. She said, "Oh George Lopez! Of course. How many?"

And just at that moment, George had wandered over. I stuck out my non-signed hand and said, "Hey George, I'm making your reservation. How many?" 

George had a cute little Panama hat on and he smiled and said, "Make it for ten. Thanks, baby." 

He signed my outstretched limb and then:

Kissed. My. Hand. 

I went stampeding up my trailer stairs and found my whole crew, (the boys had made it back), sitting there. 

I said, "I know this sounds really random, but I just made a dinner reservation for George Lopez!"

I am a regular Edie Sedgwick with my celebrity elbow rubbing.

There were also a few others like Chris O'Donnell who also signed my arm and Goldie Hawn's gorgeous son, Oliver, but none of them asked me for a dinner reservation. 

So, that was my fabulous tale of mingling with the celebrities. It was like hanging out at Studio 54, back in the day. Except Cher wasn't there. Oh, wouldn't that have been utterly fabulous if Cher was there in one of her Bob Mackey getups?

Although, we did have the fabulous Bill Murray in his camo/cowboy fringe outfit.

After the golf tournament, we spent a few days up in Sonoma valley, where we had a great time. As usual. 

I won't bore you with the details. They are the same every time.

We see old friends. We find new ones while discovering new wines.

And as usual, there might have been a little bit of nonsense along the way.

This time, our nonsense happened at a little Sonoma bar, stuffed with regulars who made the mistake of thinking they were up for another normal weekend night, that is, until our motley crew walked in the door.

There was the big rowdy group of young folks who worked for Amy's Organics, who loved our iPod library so much, they hooked up their speaker to it and whooped at each classic tune. Sam, the grizzled rancher who rescued wild donkeys and brought them to the safe haven of his 800 acre ranch, just down the road. He was there in the bar with his two Australian shepherd pups. I bought handmade beef jerky and those beautiful dogs were my best friends for the rest of the night.

Jonathan, the bartender and ex-police officer who let our friend, Rob bartend all night.

Jonathan's brother, Garth who was there having a beer and keeping his brother company. And Jonathan's girlfriend, I can't remember her name, who sadly confided to me when we became fast friends over a cocktail, that Jonathan and Garth had a pact to never marry. And Pat? I think, who told us he would have left the bar hours ago, if it wasn't for us. 

There might have been a bit of this:

And a bit of that:

And maybe some dancing:

And more dancing:

And perhaps some dancing on the bar:

And since I loved this boar and wanted a picture of it, there was also some of this:

And that's all I have to say about that. 

And one more thing:

I do so apologize for my heavy silence these days. I truly, truly, truly appreciate all the love that has been coming my way. Please know that. But this querying thing along with all of the other major components that make up my day are keeping me a mite busy. My guilt over you, Internet, is one of the things keeping me awake at night. That and the  fact that I cannot find my RED iPod anywhere. I'm wondering if it's in one of the Moron Twins stomachs. It's quite possible, since it is a Nano and I've seen them eat much bigger items. I keep putting my ear up to their stomachs hoping to hear Bono, but nothing but churning stomachs so far. 

Today's Definite Download: I'm not a big pop music fan, but today I must honor Whitney. Even though, she's known for her big, blustery beautiful songs, this rather low key one is probably my favorite of hers. "My Love Is Your Love." Here she is in concert, with a heartbreakingly sweet, young Bobbi Christina. 

"If I should die this day 

Don't cry cause on Earth we weren't meant to stay.

And no matter what the people say

I'll be waiting for you after the Judgement Day."

Let's just get it out in the open. Right here. Right now. 

I have been so rude to each and every one of you. 

And that's not like me. I'm not rude unless you're driving like an idiot and I'm stuck behind you. And then, all bets are off. 

But I've been so negligent with all of you. I haven't had a chance to visit anyone and for that, please forgive me. 

I've been so solely focused on getting my novel out to agents that I've been eating, breathing, sleeping and oftentimes drinking my manuscript (and a few other libations), getting my work in fighting shape. It was supposed to go out this week, but there was this heart-stopping moment when my word file got corrupted and I watched all my words get eaten up by tiny black squares. And yes, I save, but I hadn't yet backed up this final draft. Luckily, my hubs was able to recover it. Unfortunately, some key pieces in my last revision were gone, but nothing I couldn't push my sleeves up and redo again. 

Next week, it will be shopped out to literary agents. So next week, you can guarantee I'll be getting my first official rejections—from the literary world, that is. And next week, I promise to come a-calling. 

But I have other big and exciting news today. 

Today, I am the guest blogger at Things I Can't Say, the blog of the amazing and splendiferous Shell. 

When she asked me to guest on the inaugural post of her new series, Things They Can't Say, 

I was so honored and thrilled because she is not only one of my favorite people in blogland, she is also one of my faves in the real world. 

And that says a lot, since we've never met. 

But I feel like we have, through our emails and tweets and comment love and bloggy friendship. And well, just head on over there because I gush some more about her in my post. Because how can you not gush if you know Shell. She's gushable. (Not a word, but I like it.) We need to send that word to Urban Dictionary with Shell's picture as the definition. 

I'm over there, giving my two cents about the best qualities to look for in a husband and it may or may not have to do with tampons. Because that's how I roll. Weirdly. I roll weirdly. 

Anyway,

If you're new to my place, thanks for coming over. You might regret it, but I'll try my best not to make you hate yourself too much in the morning. 

Here's a few of my less lucid moments, if you're really brave:

One of the many, many times I have made a complete and utter jackass of myself:

Hello, My Name Is Assy

The time my dogs, The Moron Twins, almost killed me:

Lessons I Am Learnin' You Today—You Are Welcome

And if you're in more of a weepy mood, here's a piece I wrote to my eldest girl, away at college:

A Letter To My Girl

And there's a whole bunch more up top in my faves, because clearly I love myself. 

So, that's it for now. 

Go see the beautiful, rock star Shell and tell her I said she's just plain gushable. 

See you next week!

I'm planning on continuing my Mexican tales here very soon, which may or may not include nudity.

Stay tuned for that kind of business.

But for today, I have to tell you about my ruined Saturday.

It's a cautionary tale involving Marky Mark.

Not this one.
You are welcome, Ladies.

But this one.

See, everything was plugging along just splendidly on my sunny Saturday. 

The dogs had let me sleep in past dawn which is a miracle in itself. 

My girls all had plans that were going to keep them busy all day. 

And my hubs was doing shooting things—gun shows, shooting practice, banjo duels—whatever he does in that shooting world of his and I was super excited to have the day to myself, a rare thing. 

It started out fabulously. I killed myself running on the treadmill and then lifting weights while watching The Hangover. 

And let me tell you, nothing can put you in a finer mood than Zach Galifianakis and his band of idiot brothers. 

I tidied up the house, threw a load of laundry in and sat down to enjoy the rest of my day. 

And that's when I spotted the email from Facebook, notifying me that my Paypal account had been charged for something like one mazillion chips so I could evidently play some more Texas HoldEm Poker. 

I had four of these charges, all for big chunks of money. 

Now here's the thing: I don't even know how to play poker. People have tried to teach me, but it's just like Geometry, my brain turns off at all the folding and calling and raising and the flush and the royal flush and the full houses. All I hear is the Charlie Brown teacher's voice in my head.

The game is too full of rules for me. 

I like a nice game of Twister. The rules are easy.

The object of the game? Don't fall down.

And all you have to remember are four basic colors and your left from your right.

I can handle that.

Most of the time. 

I also don't gamble. 

Slot machines are the extent of my gambling. 

One time, those fabulous funsters of AIG sent us on a dreamy vacation to Atlantis. 

All the men in our group were making fun of me because I wouldn't venture past the quarter slot machines. I mean, there was no WAY I was spending my money on the 50 cent slots. I am no crazy risk taker. 

I didn't go near the roulette tables, because I have no idea how that spinner thing works. 

And I don't play blackjack because I'm too worried everyone will see me adding on my fingers. 

And so I stayed put on my little quarter slots, while the rest of them were smugly gambling at their high rolling, math-taxing tables. 

So, guess who walked away from that vacation with not one but two jackpots and a massive wad of hundreds in my wallet?

Not the high rollers. They were all mopey from having lost their shirts, shorts and socks.

So, anywhoo I see these notifications from Facebook and I immediately panic because I'm a panicker of vast proportions in most situations and hacking and subsequent thievery sends me into a tailspin of OMG-I'VE BEEN HACKED-IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD-MY LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME-MY IDENTITY IS GONE, GONE I TELL YOU!!!!

My hubs is always the calm one in these sorts of situations, reminding me that no, our life is not over and that our credit card companies are well prepared for these kind of situations. 

But since he was in some banjoesque location, hiking through weeds and dirt to shoot at targets with his big ass soundproof earphones on, he was not there to calm me down.

And so I had to panic all alone. 

I don't know why I panic. We've experienced theft before. 

One time, my personal credit card people called me (Yes, I kept my own credit cards from my single days. Everyone should establish their own credit.) They asked me about some suspicious charges to some online site. I informed them the charges weren't mine and that was the end of it. I did, however, check out the site. Because I had to know what sort of desperation would make someone steal from me. Thieves bug me. They really do. It's not that hard to be a good person. Don't harm others. That's really what it's about.

The dastardly thief had used my funds on a porn site. And not only was it a porn site, it was a FREAK porn site. I won't go into the details. I'll only say that I learned there really are people in the world who enjoy golden and even worse, muddy showers.

I think the person who stole my credit card had bigger problems than theft. I hope they've invested in tubs of Lysol wipes.

Then, there was the time we were in Sonoma on one of our wine vacations, eating breakfast in this little hole in the wall we love, when our credit card was denied.

This was my hub's credit card. His super secure credit card. The card that calls our house on every little thing they consider suspicious and they consider everything suspicious, especially when we're out of town.

When the waitress brought back our credit card back with a sheepish smile I asked my hubs if he informed his credit card people that we were going out of town. The sheepish look on his face told me he'd forgotten.

But still, let's say the credit card security department was monitoring our account for suspicious activity.

"Okay, looks like they're in California. Here's a purchase for wine. Some more wine. More wine. Lots more wine. Wait, holdup, here. Bacon, eggs and OMG, HASHBROWNS? Holy Hell, we've got a problem, here! Decline."

It didn't make sense. My hubs went out to call his credit card people while I got the supreme satisfaction of paying with MY non-declined credit card.

It ended up that someone had cloned our card the night before and do not ask me what that means and don't try to explain it to me, either. Because my hubs has attempted to explain it to me many hundreds of times and it's just like geometry and poker, my brain simply can't compute it. So they cloned our card, (I think it might have something to do with robots) and made two separate purchases for thousands of dollars worth of store gift cards. At a Walmart. In Mississippi. At 3:00 AM.

I'm not sure what was the bigger tip off: Walmart gift cards or Mississippi.

But the point is, this ain't my first hacker/thievin' rodeo. 

So, on Saturday, I notify Facebook security that someone is on my page playing Texas HoldEm and it sure ain't me. 

And it wasn't my kids either. They may be a lot of things like dung beetles and sassy pants and thieves of all my makeup, jewelry, shoes and clothing. But they are not online gamblers. 

And my hubs has his own Facebook account and since it doesn't involve shooting or Mac computers, I knew it wasn't him.

Facebook got back to me immediately and no, I did not talk to someone on the phone. It's the first thing everyone's been asking me. Silly people. Facebook doesn't actually have phones. Duh.

But they did email back immediately, saying they had detected my account had been compromised. They told me they were shutting me down and then I'd have to go through a series of steps to reactivate my account with all my info intact.

It was painless and Facebook was awesome.

After I notified Facebook, I checked my games and there it was, TexasHoldEm Poker. I deleted it and then called my credit card company attached to my Paypal account. They were also awesome, ensuring me they'd take care of it and watch for any other like charges.

I told them not worry about any and all shoe purchases.

I then called Paypal

They were not awesome.

They were douchebags.

"The world's most loved way to pay" was not very lovable.

After finally going round and round, I finally had to say to the customer service girl or rather, India, "I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you're saying. I'm telling you my account has been compromised. I did not authorize these charges. Please fix this."

Her answer, "No problem." A tutored american catch phrase in her thick Indian accent. "I will be sending you an email about your situation. Thank you for calling. My name is Ashley."

Yeah. No it's not.

And so Ashley of India sent me an email, a form email telling me that my trusted and loved source, pretty much, was washing their hands of my situation.

I closed my Paypal account. I used up every character in their Reason For Leaving space.

I then googled to see how legit TexasHoldEm Poker was. Turns out there as legit as an online gambling site can be, (all judgements withheld), but it also turns out that other people have been hacked. 

And all of the victims said the same thing: Paypal is a douchebag.

I am no worse for the wear. My money is back in my pocket and Mr. or Mrs. Freak Gambler no longer has access to my Facebook or my PayPal.

And Mark Zuckerberg has contacted me every day since those ornery thieves came to my Facebook town with tips and all kinds of helpful information.

Hey Marky Mark! (It's what I've started calling him in our emails.)

And actually, I'm not sure if it's Mark himself, but I'd like to think those Facebook emails were lovingly typed by his nerdy fingers.

Marky Mark gave me some tips and I'd like to pass them on to you right now. I've also added a few of my own. I'll leave it to you, Internet, to differentiate between the two of us. Although, Mark and I are on the same page on pretty much everything or at least I'd like to think so. I mean, I feel like we're pretty tight since we've had these flurry of emails between the two of us.

Facebook Tips or rather Marky Mark's Tips

* Secure your email. Create different passwords for both your email and Facebook accounts. (I have now done this and trust me, thieves, you will NEVER be able to figure mine out. All I'll say is I have a twisted brain and my passwords now reflect that.)

*Only log in at Facebook.com. Don't go through any other sites to get to your FB even if they offer you snappy prizes like a puppy or free face painting.

*Don't make cryptic statuses. "I made the worst decision of my entire life last night when I drove down that dark highway." Because I'm nosy and when I comment on your status and ask, "OMG, what happened on that dark highway?" And you answer, "Just a really bad decision that may or may not affect my criminal record for the rest of my days. All I can say is, pray for me please." Not only will I NOT pray for you, I will unfriend you and I may or may not call in a tip to the highway patrol. I'm just sayin'. If you're gonna put it on FB, you best be prepared to man up.

*Check your profile and all of your information on a weekly basis. This is a very good tip. Not only did I find that someone had thought it would be funny to change my profile to "Interested in meeting up with the ladies," I was also, without my knowledge, pretty much a completely obsessed gamer.

*Speaking of games, don't ask me to join your gang, send you fish or farm animals, cook with you or any other ridiculous crap that will waste my time even more. I tweet and FB and blog and spend copious amounts of time on Web MD and English gossip sites, I don't need you to help me waste my time. I do very well on my own. Besides, remember? I only play Twister.

*If you haven't done so yet, add some security questions to your Facebook page. I now have security questions that involve codes and secret handshakes. I was going to go with the "Who is your favorite recording artist of all time?" But then I thought, WWMMD, (What Would Marky Mark Do) and I realized everyone including the hackers and spammers know about my love affair with Bono.

*Don't use your Facebook as a really trivial accounting of your daily life. "Grocery shopping and then off to the gym for a 3 mile walk on the tread. Fab!" First of all, you're advertising that YOU'RE NOT HOME. The poker thieves might need to pawn a few TV's for some more poker chips and secondly no one gives a crap. Tell me something more like this, "I'm going to ram my cart into the wobbly ankles of this old woman if she doesn't move her damn cart out of the middle of the freakin aisle! And yes, I'm PMSing. You got a problem with that?" Or tell me about the guy at your gym who showed up in his BVD's to work out and yelled, "This is America!" when management asked him to put on some shorts. That was actually someone's story and it was fabulous. Forgive me, if you're reading this and it is your story. I can't remember who told me that, but I'll never forget it. Anyway, the point is, when it comes to your statuses, ABA, Always Be Awesome. Marky Mark and I agree on this one.

*Do not accept friend requests from people you don't know. I don't know if it's because I spend 99.9% of my time on the world wide web putting all of my secrets out there for the world to read, but I get a lot of weird friend requests. Like, seriously all the time. There are quite a few foreign ladies with way too many vowels in their names who want to be my friends. They all have that sort of porno-ish look to their pics with very little info about them. I'm always polite and send them a message saying, "Can you tell me how we know each other, because I'm not placing you." They rarely answer back. There was the one who wrote back, "Hi. You look for love with me?" And since I'm not looking for love with people who have bad grammar and too many vowels in their names, I did not accept her request. So, in essence, if you get that friend request from the guy with the beard in a tunic, saying Jesus wants to be your friend, it's probably not in your best interest to accept that friend request.

That's all I've got. Stay safe on the Internet, my friends. Marky Mark and I want what's best for you.

Today's Fresh Laundry: Kelley of Kelley's Break Room is one of the funniest girls out there. Not only does she have a fabulous blog, she is outrageous on Twitter. Seriously, her tweets are always ridiculous in their funny. And because of her tweets, a fabulous opportunity was presented to her. Read about that right here. Congratulations, Kel and keep on keepin' on with the funny.

Today's Definite Download: It's not a song today. Since I brought up Zach Galifianakis, I wanted to share a little bit of his comedy genius today.

Zach does a show called Between Two Ferns on the fantastic Funny Or Die website. He interviews celebrities like no one else.

Here are three of my favorites:

Zach interviewing Bruce Willis.   


Zach portraying his brother, interviewing Sean Penn


Zach interviewing Ben Stiller. 


Be warned, they're definitely filled with adult humor. Just so you know. Now, go laugh. I'll see you next week. 

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

My Internet, My Internet, no I have not forsaken you. 

That's my little shout-out to Lent. Sorry if I've offended anyone, especially you, God. 

Because that would be bad. 

Anyway, I'm still here, still revising and I'm alllllmost there. Sorry to keep you waiting so long, but I promise it won't be much longer. 

I took a break from revising because I have a cautionary tale I must tell you. And brace yourself, because it's a doozy. But I'll tell you ahead of time, it comes with a happy ending. 

When I had my daughters, my perspective of the world was rocked to its core. My eyes were wide open to all the dangers out there the minute my little girls entered my life. 

I have raised my girls to be brave and fierce and strong and smart. 

But I have also taught them that the world isn't always filled with rainbows and sunshine and I have done my best to teach them how to protect themselves. 

When my oldest girl went away to college, I made her take a self defense course. Her father armed her with the best mace on the market. I preached safety constantly. Always lock your doors. Never go out alone at night. Always be aware of your environment. And never, ever sit on the public toilet. Always cop a squat.

It was easy enough to protect my girls when they were still small, when their hand still clutched mine every time we ventured out into the world. But then they let go and walked away into their own world and I could only hope and pray they would stay safe every time they left my house. My final words to them, these days, are always, always, "Be Careful. Please, be careful."

A blog friend of mine said safeguarding daughters is a constant process that is utterly exhausting. 

I think she summed it up perfectly. 

My oldest, Olivia, has a job at Victoria's Secret up in her college town. She loves working there. 

It's been challenging for her to learn how to balance her good grades (necessary for her scholarship) and work, but she has done an admirable job. 

Her store has extended hours and so quite often she works until midnight. 

I was none too crazy about this. But when I asked her about walking to her car late at night, she said she was never alone, they headed out in groups. 

It slightly eased my worry, but I told her she could call me, no matter the hour when she walked through the mall's desolate parking lot. 

Just a little extra insurance. My hubs is in the insurance business and I've come to understand you can never have enough protection. 

Especially when it comes to beloved daughters. 

This past Tuesday, my phone rang a little after midnight, startling me out of a sound sleep. 

I answered immediately because my phone now sits on my bedside table since the day she left our nest two years ago. 

I place it there every night before I climb into bed —my last prayer before I fall asleep, for God's protection over her as she learns to live her own life away from us. 

I answered the phone, groggy with sleep and she said, "Hi Mom. I'm getting ready to walk to my car."

Instantly awake, I stayed with my girl in that dark parking lot in the middle of the night. 

We were just talking about inane things, when she cut me off and started talking to someone else. 

Her words sent chills down my spine. 

I heard her say, "No. No. No. Because I don't know you."

There was a sickening tinge of fright behind her words.

Every motherly neuron in my brain fired off and I screamed into the phone, "STOP TALKING TO THAT PERSON! STOP TALKING TO THEM RIGHT NOW! GO TO YOUR CAR! GO TO YOUR CAR!"

I heard her say, "My mom." And then she asked someone, "Do you know him? Does he work at VS?"

I had no idea what was going on. I just knew with all my heart that she was in a dangerous situation. I screamed into the phone again for my girl, my precious girl, to stop talking and run to her car. 

She came back to me and said, "I'm almost to my car, Mom. This is kind of scary."

My instinct told me not to ask her in that moment what was happening, but to get her focused on getting in that car. 

It was only seconds, but for me, sitting on the other side of the phone, helpless against the danger my daughter faced in that parking lot, it was a horrifying eternity. 

She made it to her car and locked the doors and looked around before zooming off and that's when my interrogation began. 

She said a man in a car had approached her and said, "Come here." Insisting over and over again that she come to his car. At some point, as he tried to lure my daughter to his car, he must have heard my insane screams and asked her who she was talking to. When she said her mother, he stopped asking her to come to his car. I think for once my drama queen skills, the one this family constantly rolls their eyes over, came in handy. 

When I asked her if she'd been walking with anyone else, she said one of the store stockers was walking near her and when she turned to ask him if he knew the guy in the car, the stocker just smiled and walked to his car. 

I was outraged until Olivia informed me that some of the guys stocking the store don't speak very much English. 

And since I've played the sickening scene over and over in my mind, I realized the stocker probably thought this assbag was a friend of my daughter's. 

It's my only explanation. It's what I want to believe, that no one would purposefully walk away from a girl in trouble. 

As my daughter drove through the night, still a little shaken, I quizzed her. Where were the groups she'd told me about? Where was the manager? And why wasn't there security? I'd even take a Paul Blart mall cop on a Segway. 

My daughter told me they tried to walk out in groups, but oftentimes people were parked in different areas. 

And she said the manager did watch them walk to their cars . . . from the store door. 

Of course, none of these answers sat too well with me, but I didn't say much. I was just utterly grateful she was safe and on her way home. We talked and as she drove, her fright quickly wore away and was replaced with something else, something that alarmed me. All of a sudden, she assumed this false sense of bravado that all 20-year olds have, that nothing bad will never come their way. 

She started telling me that it wasn't a big deal, that the guy might have worked at the store since there are so many employees, she doesn't know all of them yet, that nothing would have happened to her, that the manager could have screamed and called 911, that I was overreacting, that and this was the one that got me the most, that she could have handled herself. 

Now. 

I told her that it was, in fact, a big deal, that it was a huge deal. And thankfully this time, it was only a scare. This time. 

I told her that if the guy by some remote chance did indeed work at that store, he should be ashamed of himself. 

Normal guys know better than to call a girl over to their car in a dark parking lot, late at night. There was a reason he wanted her to come to his car and I am absolutely certain it wasn't a good reason. 

I told her that as much as I wish I could draw a magic circle of protection around her, that yes, something horrific could have happened to her. I told her that a manager calling 911 after the fact wasn't acceptable and I told her that at 98 lbs dripping wet, that guy in the car could have picked up her with one hand tied behind her back. 

And of course, she's not sure where her Mace spray is. 

She made it home safely and we said good night and for the rest of the night, I lay there awake playing out the scene and all the horrific possible outcomes in my mind. 

The next morning, it still haunted me. 

So, I got on Twitter. 

And I wrote this:

My college girl was approached by a man in a car last night after leaving her shift at 12 AM @Victoria's Secret. I was on the phone with her. Brutally scary. VS, u can do better. Get security 4 these girls walking in the dark.

And then I went about my day. 

Olivia came home that night because of a dental appt the next morning. We smothered her with love, happy to have her safe with us, if only for the night.

We cooked up her favorite foods and lingered over a long dinner where her dad and I told her, that after that unacceptable incident, we wanted her to quit. She protested, telling us she loves her job. After a bit of discussion, we decided she could stay if she told them about the incident and asked for an escort anytime she had to work after dark. She agreed, but something inside of me told me she was just appeasing us. 

The next morning, I hugged her with all my might as she went to leave and I reminded her of her promise. She rolled her eyes at me and that's when I knew. 

20-year-olds hate to be singled out. 20-year-olds don't want to look anything less than capable or dependent. They've just strapped their training wheels on and ridden out into the real world and they certainly don't want to mess that up by telling someone they're afraid.  

After she left, I said to my Hubby, "She has no intention of telling them and the thought of her walking out there alone is going to kill me."

And my Hubs said, "Oh, don't worry, I'm planning on calling the store tonight and speaking to the manager."

She was going to hate this. She was going to hate us. For meddling in her world, this brand new adult world she'd claimed for herself.

But I didn't care, if it meant she was safe. 

In the middle of the afternoon, I checked my Twitterdeck and was shocked to see a tweet from Victoria's Secret. 

It was an urgent message, telling me to phone them. 

And so I did. 

And that's when I met Bob of Victoria's Secret. Bob is one of the Big Cheeses at Victoria Secret. 

Bob and I had a lengthy conversation where he reassured me over and over that Olivia's incident was unacceptable and would never happen again. 

He went into great detail on how he planned to ensure the safety of all VS employees. 

All I heard was, he was promising me he would keep my little girl safe.

She might be 20, but she is still my girl, no matter how many years there are between this day and the one when that squalling bundle of love was put in my arms. 

After Bob filled me with promises, I said, "Bob, can I ask one more favor?"

I told him Olivia would be mortified if she were to find out her scary night was the catalyst for all these new security policy changes.  

Bob said he would be completely discreet, that he understood having children of his own. He then added, but no daughters. 

I wanted to say, "Oh Bob, you sweet, innocent man. You have no idea. Teenage girls are a whole different shrieky, irrational animal." But since I was trying to convey a modicum of professionalism, I didn't tell him about the lunacy that is a teenage girl. 

Bob flooded my worried mother's heart with such relief. I could tell from our conversation he was a man of his word. He told me to keep his digits in case I ever have any more issues.

It was only after I hung up that I remembered all the other things I should have said. 

I should have told him about that stupid Angels Secret Embrace line they carried a few years ago. How they touted their softness and how I fell in love with that incredible softness and how I spent entirely too much money on every color and design bra that line carried. And how within a few months, each one of those bras had ripped in various places because there are certain things that can be too soft like cantaloupe or American's waistlines and clearly Angels Secret Embrace bras. And how my lingerie drawer is still filled with those stupid broken bras, because I never take anything back because I hate standing in lines and filling out forms. And how I can't bear to just throw them away because they're really pretty and so I always have to dig through all the broken bras to find my good lingerie. And being Bob and all, what could he do about that?

And I certainly should have filled him in on the fact that they need to rethink the models who represent them. How about a catalog filled with normal girls with, you know, curves? Their commercial with all the beautiful models proclaiming they love their body is not empowering to other women. It's just plain depressing. Of course they love their bodies. They're just boob jobs on toothpicks. 

And mostly, I should have told him they should have NEVER hired Gisele Bundchen as their main model since every single female on the planet hates her for the ridiculous slew of smug verbal diarrhea that comes out of her plumpy lips on a regular basis. I should have told him that I've never believed a single one of her claims, especially this last whopper that her son was potty trained at six months. I'm not sure if you know this Gisele, but you can't be potty trained if you can't walk yet. I mean, I know his father's a famous quarterback and all, but still there are some feats that are just damn plain impossible. And I don't care about this kid's super genetics, there's no way he was weeing in the potty at six months old. This lie goes along with her other statements, most of them outrageously condescending towards other women, like labor didn't hurt, not even a single bit. That labor was so effortless, she plopped out that baby and got up and did some dishes. I have a hard time believing she's ever done a dish in her life, much less right after giving birth. And that she gained very little weight during pregnancy, unlike most women who  use their bodies as human garbage disposal machines. And yes, that's what she called the rest of the female race, human garbage disposals. 

I should have tipped Bob off that truly if he wanted all of us human garbage disposal machines to buy his lingerie, he might want to rethink the Gisele thing. 

I got off the phone from Bob and called my Hubby to let him know his phone call would not be necessary.

We agreed not to tell Olivia. See above reference, about the shrieking and irrational behavior. 

I went back to Twitter to publicly thank Bob and Victoria's Secret for ensuring my girl's safety. And for the first time since that terrible night I felt a sense of peace. 

At 12:30 that night, my phone rang. It was Olivia on her way home from work. 

Olivia-"Mom? Did you call Victoria's Secret?"

Me-"Uh, what?"

Olivia- "Or was it Daddy? Which one of you called Victoria's Secret?"

Me-"Daddy didn't call and I didn't either . . . technically." 

Olivia-"You called them! OMG! I can't believe you called Victoria's Secret!"

Me-"Well, no. I didn't call Victoria's Secret. I called Bob."

Olivia-"Mom. What did you do?"

And so I explained the Tweet and the phone call and how I didn't care if she was mad. She was safe. 

She then told me how they'd called a big meeting at work that night and every employee was required to attend. She said it was filled with security officers from the mall and VS managers and they had announced that VS was making their employees' safety their number one priority and their new policy ensured that every employee would have an escort to their car when they worked the late shift. Olivia then said, "I was sitting there listening to all of this. And I turned to the girl next to me and said, 'I have a bad feeling my mom is behind this.'"

And even though Olivia was a mite mortified, I think she was actually pretty damn impressed. I also suspect she was secretly relieved to be walked to her car that night by two security officers. I know I was.

After she'd simmered down and gotten beyond her outrage that her mom was indeed, the force behind her store's new security policy, she suddenly exclaimed, "Get this. We had a guest speaker in our Economics class today. He talked about the power of social media, specifically how we can change the world for the better with the forces we have at our fingertips. Mom, he talked about Twitter being one of them."

I smiled into the phone and simply said, "How about that."

I've taught my girls a lot of things in their life, but I hope one of the brightest things they will remember about my lessons is how very much I loved them.

Thank you Bob and Victoria's Secret for keeping my girl and all of the other employees of your company safe.

Today's Definite Download: Adele's "Make You Feel My Love."

For Olivia and all my girls.

When the rain is blowing in your face. 
And the whole world is on your case. 
I could offer you a warm embrace to make you feel my love. 


I'd go hungry. I'd go black and blue. 
I'd go crawling down the avenue.
No there's nothing that I wouldn't do. 
To make you feel my love.