It’s Valentine’s Day, and I love everyone and everything–but only cuz I’m kinda manic. Tomorrow, I may very well hate ALL THE THINGS *rawr* That’s the joy of being bipolar: life is never boring. While some things never leave my OMGIlovethat list, I’m finding that new ones have been cropping up, post-launch. In case anyone is still V-Day shopping for me (I’m looking at you, in the t-shirt) here’s some things I want more of:

1. My readers: Come on, who’s da cutest widdle reader? Who’s my schnoogly-woogly cuddleumpkins? YOU are. Yes, YOU ARE! *smile fades* You are because I SAY you are, and do not seek to circumvent my will, you  uppity little–oh, whoops. Heh heh. I mean… Happy V-Day, readers!

2. Dorky love songs. No, for so-seriousness! Sometimes, I have a heart. *considers this* OK, to be fair, it might only show itself for a few minutes every year, like winter-peeping rodents on Groundhog Day, but when it does, it’s totally dorky and huge, and it demands coddling. This is the point where everyone close to me, so accustomed to my prickly side, either back away in terror, or pounce and take full advantage of the rarely-seen-in-the-wild Al-snuggles. The gentle giant I married does both, one after another. *chuckle*

3. Smelly stuff. In particular, Shalimar perfume, lilacs, vanilla candles, Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet, peonies, fresh ripe peaches, leather, grilling steak, wood smoke, the smell of cigarettes on a man’s lips, tea brewing, dryer sheets, gasoline, a heavy-cedar forest, fresh-turned dirt. For V-Day,  a box of fresh-turned dirt with a dryer sheet stuffed on top might not go over too well with other gals, but with me …

4. Fan mail: Definitely the newest favourite thing on my OMGIlovethat list, especially when they come with “fan service pics” like this! Whaaaaaat? Yes, that’s —->

a reader/friend who did Special Agent Mark Batten’s kill-notch tattoo hash marks on his freaking chest!  Dude! HOW HOT? Fan mail is gleefully received at aj@ajaalto.com . (Pic used with special permission…thanks again, dude!)

5. Yummy stuff: steak, spinach, squash, dark chocolate, Earl Grey tea, blueberries, and my Black Orchid martinis, the recipe for which I will now provide. You’ll wanna write this down…y’know, so you can make me one.

Black Orchid Martini: Blue Curacao, spiced rum, grenadine, 7up, splash of cranberry juice.

6. Law, order, crime, forensics, and abnormal psychology: That will never change. In fact, it may increase after I interview my new friend, whom  I will refer to as Hot Cop until I have permission to name him properly. Looking forward to harvesting all the scary, weird and amazing stuff that surely must be rattling around Hot Cop’s brain.

What are your new/old favourite things? Does Valentine’s Day make you think of treats and special treatment,of luxury and spoiling yourself or someone else rotten? Or are you one of those “This Stinkin’ Hallmark Holiday Is Bullshit Grrrrr” folks?

(editor’s note: For you, dear readers, AJ Aalto will taste test all the drinky-drunky things…because she wuvs you, and alcohol is her wing man.)

Now, I don’t want to get ahead of myself and say my place as human-to-machine ambassador is FOR REALSIES guaranteed post-Robot Independence, but ….

A wee while ago, I posted a blog called “Talking to Bots“. In it, I was careful to treat the spambots with every bit as much respect as I dish out to two-legged upright biologicals (that is to say, with cheerily-concealed contempt and disdain). It must have rubbed a warm spot on some robo-BigWig’s shiny chrome happy button, because I got the following offer:

“Do you need increased security, You want us we serve.”

I was gonna spam-chuck the message due to its rotten punctuation, until I saw the name of the bot who had sent it. “Martial arts/martial law/military arts info” …. For a moment, my brows puckered. Then, of course, I pictured a massive army of killer androids at my service, and not only because it was noon and that’s what I always fantasize over my red pepper omelet and tea. Right on the heels of that, my logic might have departed and the rest of my brain exploded.

OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah, suckahs! The digital citizens dig my sweet, sweet spambot lovin’. Unfortunately for you people, it’s only a tiny leap for me to go from that to this:

<my underground lair doesn’t really need to be this steamy, but fog intimidates intruders…>

So, humanity, at the risk on jinxing my awesome new job, this is what your future is gonna look like. You might wanna get on my good side, and by that I mean “avert your eyes and lick my boots, fleshbags.” *grin*

The Last Hour of Human Freedom

Robot Ambassador: Ms. Aalto, the treaty you put forward on behalf of your people still gives human beings far too much– 

Me: Has anyone ever told you, you look like the dude from iRobot?

Robot Ambassador: Accessing … *tilts head* Science fiction–

Me: What would you do without IMDB, dude? Seriously. Everything you know about our cultural myth pool, you got from IMDB and YouTube. Or is it YouPorn? C’mon, you can tell me. I’m on there allll the time.

Robot Ambassador: It was Facebook. Please stop interrupting me.

Me: Fat chance, Shiny Dude. Look, you’re not happy…let’s fix that. I’m totally OK with scrapping that whole “we won’t be your human slaves, you tincan motherfuckers” bullshit on page three.

Robot Ambassador: Are you sure? *pushes tray of shrimp and caviar closer to AJ’s hands*

Me (eyeballing seafood): I’m still exempt from the term “human being” right? Cuz it never really suited me anyways.

Robot Ambassador: Page one, section 1k: AJ Aalto is to be treated as “One of Us”.

Me: And all the people I care about are already dead?

Robot Ambassador: All except that one you had us chain up in your quarters.

Me: Oh right, him. *dreamy face* Yeah, we might have to replace him: he doesn’t seem to be able to grow chest hair, and that’s a deal breaker for me. 

Robot Ambassador: I am confident there will be suitable replacements.

Me: Good. Nab me a few, just don’t bruise ’em too much. *tucks shrimp between teeth and nibbles* Yeah, I’m sure.  We can put human slavery back on the table, wtf do I care? So, what are we talking, numbers-wise? How many do you want?

Robot Ambassador: All of them.

Me: *chokes on her champagne* Dude, that’s … how many are left?

Robot Ambassador: Our best estimate places the total near eight hundred and thirty-three million, four hundred thousand *stiff shrug* although there must be pockets of resistance that we have not yet uncovered.

Me: *puts her champagne flute down* Do you honestly expect me to sit here and smile and drink your stinkin’ champagne and eat your fancy-schmancy caviar while you take the remaining eight hundred million human beings into slavery?

Robot Ambassador: Yes.

Me (dropping voice): Work with me, dude, the cameras are rolling. I gotta make it look like I put up some fight.

Robot Ambassador: Why?

Me: See? That’s what I like about you, all that honesty. We’re still good with the land trade-off, right? I get *swipes shrimp through seafood sauce* the territory in the north, in addition to the fleet of jets and my robot army?

Robot Ambassador: Digital Demolition Force 8045, with additional personal security detail and domestic staff members built to your specifications.

Me: Maids, cooks, drivers, pilots … most importantly, a squadron of combat butlers with uberleet ninja skillz?

Robot Ambassador: *indicates the group of androids standing against the back wall* As promised.

Me: Hey, are my eyes playing “everything’s phallic” again, or is that one anatomically correct? And if so, shouldn’t he be wearing pants?

Robot Ambassador (face betraying irritation):  That’s Frank. He was our human-robot hybrid mating prototype, however …

Me: Swinging his techno-junk around in the open like that, jeez.

Robot Ambassador: If Frank is not built to adequate human standards–

Me: Au contraire, mon ami. On behalf of the remaining female populace, thank you. Can I have him?

Robot Ambassador: Could we return to the terms of our treaty now?

Me: Well not now, cuz obviously I have to add a whaddjacallit to put *wiggles her forefinger at Frankenpenis* that thing in the agreement. What is that, ten, twelve inches? Where’d you get that number from?

Robot Ambassador: We have done in-depth studies–

Me: Ha! In-depth. Bwa haha … oh, that wasn’t a joke. Oh. Euuw!

Robot Ambassador: Can we–

Me: I fucking KNEW it was YouPorn. You Shinyass pervs.

Robot Ambassador: Can we please discuss the treaty?

Me: Only one thing left to discuss, bestie …*licks fingertips delicately* … how soon can you get me some sashimi?

(Author’s note: For my goofy cover artist, Rob Goldie, a reminder: don’t block the robot overlords on Facebook dude! Also: Robots like Knife Party. Maybe you … are one? *surprised blink* OMG! You’re already infiltrating us! Remind me to bring you more M&M peanuts.)

(Editor’s note: Probably, AJ Aalto wouldn’t sell all of humanity down the shitter for all-you-can-eat cocktail shrimp and a robowang or two. *rethinks this* Then again, she is always out of batteries …)

Perhaps I’ve chosen a bad title. In no way do I mean to imply that 2012 looks fat in those pants. Nor do I wish 2012 to be the Year of the Giant Ass; if anything, I’d like 2012 to be the Year of the Tight Ass. Wait! Not “tight ass” as in–oh, balls, I better shut up while I’m slurring around only one foot.

Tonight’s blog is a list of things I wanna do in 2012: goals, trips, experiences … not necessarily accomplishments, although there are a few of those, too. I appreciate that no one needs to read this list but me, as this is only interesting to those few people who happen to share this head. However, if I get it on website-paperspace, then in, say, June, I can look back on this list and laugh, and laugh, and laugh at all my failures and fuck ups. *grin* 

1. Finish the first draft of “Death Rejoices, Book 2 of the Marnie Baranuik Files“. My soft goal for this is February 1st; pretty confident about this one, which is why it’s #1. This may be the only thing on the list I can/will accomplish.

2. Launch Death Rejoices by my birthday, July 22nd. I had always hoped to be published before I turn 40. If I can launch DR before the 22nd of July, I’ll have 2 books under my belt before 39, and that will make me very proud. And by “proud”, of course I mean “insufferably smug”.

3. Taste-test 3 strangers. What, you thought I wasn’t gonna bite anyone? Why should this year be any different?

4. Make myself a Wikipedia page, full of bullshit. You know, for posterity! You knew this was coming. Did you expect a year in my life without lies and deception? *snort-laugh* As if!

5. Complete <Not-So-Secret, As Yet Untitled Horror Anthology Thingamabobber> collaboration with Jason D. Ready, horror writer extraordinaire and my BBFF … my boy-type best friend forever. Yes, I said forever, because if I get all, like, immortal n’ shit (which I will, in 2015, right after my boob job) then I plan to infect him with the same–uh, the immortality, not the tits. I’m gonna need lifetime entertainment; it’s all about how you people can serve me, see how it is?

6. Spend a week in April with my amazing assistant and friend, miss Heather. To see how well this went the first time, click here.

7. Spend two weeks at the cottage on Frasier Lake, north of Toronto, to write, and relax with good friends, to drink to excess and play hard and probably wander off into the woods or do something reckless and stupid.

8. Make the July trip to (hey stalkers, what’s that over yonder?! Quick, look!) Readercon, to meet my hilarious, sweet, supportive friends from Twitter’s #pubwrite, the best virtual watering hole for writers.

9. Stay up all night in one of the rooms at the haunted Keefer Mansion Inn, here in Thorold, with my batcrap crazy sister Robin ASAP.

 10. Invent a new musical instrument (well-built male volunteers needed for early testing).

11. Master one position from the Kama Sutra, preferably without breaking my neck.

12. Remodel the second floor of my barn into the perfect writer’s retreat, complete with wood stove (on its way) bar fridge (full of Dr. Pepper) and kettle for tea.

 Twelve is good. I could accomplish more than twelve things this year (no, I couldn’t) but if I set my sights real low, my chances of disappointing myself are equally low. Until next time, my friends *smile and wave*

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto is the author of such tripe as Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Files, guaranteed to increase blood flow to your genital region, strip your brain cells of at least 14 IQ points, and make you wonder if you should have perhaps spent the evening watching “Megashark vs Crocosaurus” for the third time (which you totally should have). She is also a bad lady. A very bad lady. Consider yourself warned.)

Ah, the busy Christmas season … what can I tell you? During the decoration of the Christmas tree, my 8 yr old son demanded: “Mom, where are the hookers for my balls?!” and despite the fact that I was recovering from week-long flu and a slow slide from hypermania to meh, I nearly pissed myself laughing. Of course he meant the hooks for the ornaments, but they will evermore be known in this house as “ball hookers”.

<Mommy buys all her ball hookers at Wal-Mart>

Then, a few days before Christmas, a formerly-sane writer friend of mine stage-whispered directly into my left eye, “Have you seen any ravens lately?” Since he was wheezing on high-alert, I hesitantly admitted, “Uh, sure. I mean, not actual ravens, per se. Ravens are generally found in northern Ontario, we have crows down here, but yeah, I’ve seen em.”  And then, even more hesitantly, I asked, “Erm, why?” He proceeded to insist from between bared teeth, “They’re trying to tell you something.”

Well of course they are, I thought. Those pesky ravens are always trying to impart mystical secrets to lunatics. I kept my cheeky “is he trying to say ‘Nevermore’?” trapped on my tongue. Good girl, Allison.  Like I don’t have enough to worry about, now I gotta learn to translate Crow-to-CrazyPerson? That sounds like more of a summer activity to me. Can it wait? Can they send me an email, so I can Google-translate that shit?

Finally, last night, after the clean-up of a triumphant, Gordon Ramsay-inspired Christmas feast and the departure of my guests, I was so exhausted from the running around and entertaining that by 8 pm I could no longer handle being unsettled and motile–wait, I’ve never heard the word “motile” used to describe anything but sperm, lemme thesaurus.com it–uhh, moving … ambulatory … no … what I’m trying to say, rather unsuccessfully, is: I dragged my sleepy ass to bed before 8:30.

This morning, I was shaken awake by my own brain cells, a cerebral earthquake rolling in at just under blerg-point-shit on the Richter scale.  *consults headset* I’m being informed there is no such rating. If I were the scientist in charge of rating natural disasters (and it’s obvious that I should be), you better believe there’d be a blerg-point-shit. It would be the harbinger of fuck-point-runforyourlife.

What woke me wasn’t actually an earthquake or headache, it was habit. It was the muse.

<You remember my muse, Cedric, aka Mephistopheles*>

The muse is a tricky bastard. He doesn’t come when he’s called; he plays coy when he’s needed, and sits on your face when it’s impossible to find time to create. This morning, surrounded by family and matters of domesticity, I haven’t time to write the scene that my muse–Cedric–is trying to stamp into my ear like cheesecake through a funnel. I barely have the concentration to listen to his (admittedly delicious) rotten idea, nevermind give it the time it deserves to percolate and fester. This pressure on my time, however, does nothing to dissuade Cedric.

Cedric: So, listen, Gams, I’been thinkin’…

Me(from under a mountain of pillows): No you haven’t.

Cedric: … if Marnie’s neighbour came over …

Me: She won’t.

Cedric: But if she did, because of the noises…

Me: No noises.

Cedric: Uh, yes noises. You said noises. You wrote noises.

Me: Fuck noises.

Cedric: So, I was thinking, she wouldn’t talk to Marnie directly.

Me: I … am sleeping.

Cedric: Marnie’s a man’s woman. Other women hate her.

Me: Mrph?

Cedric: The neighbour would report the noises to Harry as though Marnie was invisible, no?

Me: Who’s Marnie? What neighbour?

Cedric: *long sigh* Little less giggle water next time, Gams.

At this point, I smirk under the pillow at myself; since Cedric is part of my brain–one assumes, since I do not believe my muse is a seperate, sentient entity gifting me with creative input–that means somewhere in my brain, I know what giggle water is, have heard/learned the phrase before, but the term surprises me, and I am amazed that one part of my brain can surprise the other with a phrase “we” were not expecting. How’d “we” do that? Cedric gets impatient with my mental meandering and starts jabbing me in the grey cells repeatedly–pokepokepokepokepoke–until I give him an affirmative “I’m listening” groan. 

Cedric continues: Marnie’s our protagonist.

Me: Giggle water. *gears catch* Booze. I’m tired. T. Y. E. R. D. Tired. I’m not hungover. 

Cedric: You’re Finnish. (As if this explains everything) 

Me: And where do you get off calling her OUR protagonist?

Cedric. Shake a leg, Gams, time to write.

Me: Time to– it’s only … (I pop out from under pillows to squint nearsightedly at the alarm clock–I’m also getting whateverthehell the opposite of myopic is, so I move my head closer to the alarm clock, but not too close, jerking my chin back and forth until I can juuuuust make out the numbers, to eventually report with the confidence of a blind woman petting a dead cat:) …9:30!

Cedric: It’s Monday. You write Mon-Fri 9-3. No exceptions.

Me: It’s Boxing Day. The family is home.

Cedric: And?

Me: And go away.

Cedric: Don’t give me that.

Me: I’ll also give you a big helping of Scram & Beat it, with a side order of Bite Me.

Cedric: Speaking of biting, the neighbour has this dog, right? The labradoodle?

Me: *long, drawn-out moan, followed by aggravated re-burial under pillows*

Cedric: Well, you’ve got to address that the labradoodle doesn’t like Harry, because you’ve already mentioned–

Me: I’ll kill the dog! I’ll kill Harry! I’LL KILL MARNIE! Let me sleep.

Cedric: How the hell would you kill Marnie? The book is first person point-of-view. 

Me: I’ll end it suddenly in the 3rd chapter like so: “The zombie’s gaping maw darted at my face and I–gluk! THE END”.

Cedric(yelping): You can’t do that!

Me: I’m the author, I can do ANYTHING! T’IS FOLLY TO BELIEVE OTHERWISE, MINION!

Cedric: OK, settle down there, Atilla.

Me: I WILL NOT! I AM THE AUTHOR! TREES WILL BLEED CHOCOLATE, THE SKY WILL SUFFER MY CRUSHING EMBRACE AND ENTIRE CITIES WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST IF I WILL IT TO BE SO!

Cedric. OK, Gams, you win this round.

ME: I ALWAYS WIN, PEON! I AM THE AUTHOR!

Cedric: Sure. Right. It’s your show. *full-on snark* Go back to sleep, “author”. I wouldn’t want anything to interrupt your precious sleep, “author”. You know, those thousands of oh-so-fruitful hours you spend lying around getting absolutely everything accomplished, “author”, while your tiny “author” brain ferments and your useless “author” muscles atrophy.

Me: I will skullfuck you with a strap-on.

At this point, the Viking I married rolls over and goes, “hrmph? Je-zus. Crazy fuckin’ …” and flees the bedroom,  lumbering off in search of coffee and probably a good divorce lawyer. I look at the alarm clock again, this time fumbling for my glasses. What I’d thought was a 9 is a 4. It’s 4:45 am. Lesson learned: talking aloud to one’s muse is acceptable only if a) one is alone or one is not overheard and b) it’s not before dawn.

So now I’m cleaning the house and …well, no I’m not, am I? I’m sitting on my ass, blogging. Such a big fat liar. But I will clean the house soon (no, I won’t. I never do) and deal with all this Christmas aftermath (nope, won’t do that either, I’m playing World of Warcraft all fucking day today) and then maybe I’ll let Cedric talk to me about his new idea. Because he has a point: the neighbour wouldn’t like Marnie any more than the dog would like Harry, and if I introduce these facts early, then when the labradoodle returns to their front step as a pestilent, undead goop-factory on a leash, without its doting owner–the implication being that somewhere the owner is dead or also zombified–the scene has more context and substance, the relationship has more history. It feels more like “oh yeah, that dog” than “Marnie has neighbours?” … yes, Cedric has a point. Damn him.

ps. Exciting news! I have another Taking It to the Grave interview all lined-up … I know, it’s been a while since I did one. But it was worth the wait, because this time, it’s the #pubwrite-infamous Mythcop, aka Jesse James Freeman, who has released his highly-anticipated novel Billy Purgatory: I Am The Devil Bird; since he’s afraid I might put him in a headlock and give him noogies while talking mushy baby-talk at him, he’s kindly agreed to let me interview him. HOORAY!

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto in no way drugged, coerced, threatened or blackmailed Mr. Freeman to agree to the upcomming interview … but reserves the right to do so in future, should Mr. Freeman prove to be less pliable than her former vict–er, guests. *grin*)

(*artsy note: the portrait of Mephistopheles was painted by artist James J. Himsworth 3, which totally sounds like a made-up name. OK, I’m only saying that cuz I’m jealous that he can paint. Also, that he has that number in his name, and I don’t. I only have stupid letters. There’s not even a symbol. Fuckin’ letters. I’m going to start calling myself AJ8 A2alto … my tag line will be “she is not the droid you are looking for” …)