Johnny Cash wrote it best ... (Though, I'm still waiting for No Doubt or Weezer to cover it.)

I've been to ...
Boston, Charleston, Dayton, Louisiana,
Washington, Houston, Kingston, Texarkana,
Monterey, Faraday, Santa Fe, Tallapoosa,
Glen Rock, Black Rock, Little Rock, Oskaloosa,
Tennessee, Hennessey, Chicopee, Spirit Lake,
Grand Lake, Devils Lake, Crater Lake, for Pete's sake.

I haven't exactly been everywhere; yet, I have been to far more places than I can list or count on all the digits at an Inland Empire Mensa meeting. Generally, unlike the grand Johnny, I tend to reference countries and states, perhaps the notable cities and Metropoli. For the non-Johnnys, 'tis impossible to list every city, town, hamlet and burg ... although I did try one afternoon and it was exhausting, and took an entire afternoon. (I certainly should have been editing my current novel instead of playing on Facebook.)

The particular Facebook time-suck in question was an application sponsored by Trip Advisor called Cities I've Visited. (I have since abandoned FB altogether, primarily based on such time-suckiness.) If I'm being entirely truthful, it was the Only Child in me that spurred me to finally attack the app. and begin the torture of pinning, via a simple zoom-in-and-out map, all the places I've visited so far. Much like the childish competition that has ended in so many of said vacations, the O.C. in me (Only Child as well as, I suppose Orange County)does not like to be left out of activities and absolutely does not like to learn when others are headed for destinations when I am not. Many a trip began with this impetus. (I know: shallow, inane and infantile. I'm me, nice to meet you.)

J'adore la pluie! I once travelled to Scotland with a pal over the summer, in part, to escape the SoCal heat, only to be to greeted with a heatwave across the U.K. I also enjoyed a very happy, rain-soaked summer in Vieux Quebec, thrilled to be out of 90-degree weather for the horrid month of August. (You know what they say about Paris in August? Only tourists and the infirm remain. So it should be with SoCal.)

Yes, I love and appreciate our blue skies and California sunshine, which is truly its own beast; there is no light like California-light, except maybe that basking over the South of France. 'Tis true though, I have yet to see a sea as turquoise as that of Nice and Cannes. Quelle belle mer!

To wit, these are the days I cherish most (and I tend to cherish most everyday), the days I miss most from our Virginia-sojourn. In a place that is more Palm Beach than Seattle, I welcome the odd day of thunderstorms and black skies, despite the horror reported to us by local news stations' StormTracker Weathergirls. (I know, this is not a p.c.-term. I don't care. I like the term Weathergirl; it's cute and sometimes totally accurate: like "stripper" over "exotic dancer" and "Teleprompter Jockey" over "broadcast journalist". That one's especially fun.)

Standing in line at a Carlsbad Starbucks this morning, happily awaiting my turn to order my Pumpkin Spice and Soy Americano with Whipped Cream - insert Homer Simpson donut drools here - , I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the chick in front of me and the counter girl. (Yeah, probably not p.c. either.)

Sbux Gal: Good morning! How are you enjoying this weather?

Obtuse-chick: Ohmygaaaad. I haaaate it. It makes me so depressed. When it's like this, I like to stay indoors, close all the windows, turn on some cheerful summertime music and watch travel videos of Hawai'i until the sun comes out. It's soooo gross today.

I imagine if one is in one's third month of a grey world in Baudette, Wisconsin or Grimsby, Ontario one might drift toward the sunnier-based episodes of Three Sheets. Admittedly, after two months or more of snow and dove-grey skies in Virginia, I tended to watch way more Rick Steves on the Mediterranean than is healthy. (Don't get me wrong, I love Rick Steves ... his travel tips just bug me sometimes. Please, see my very first posting ever here to see just how much.) Yet, when San Diego gets about thirteen days of rain total per annum, well, fret not, Chica. Put away the razor blades and be patient. In just about fourteen hours it shall be bright and sunny again and you won't have to pull the shades for another month or two.

The added bonus of days like this? I get to go play outside and splash in puddles in my best Frye boots and all without a single dollop of sunscreen!!! Mon Dieu, it gets to be a hassle. Nevertheless, with Dita Von Teese and Rose McGowan as my vampire-guides, I march valiantly into the oncoming decades certain I shall not be mistaken for one of The Real Lizard Women of Orange County or the reptile chicks from that old, '80s Sci-fi show V.

Throughout my didactic history, educators have endeavoured to rid me, cure me, more accurately, of my verbose and superfluous ways in all matters of the pen ... it did not work. (Sesquipedalian Girl is just one of my many, many monikers.)

One PoliSci professor stamped an essay of mine (an exceptional piece, I thought, on the proximate relationship betwixt art and politics) with a great, red "Bullshit" and returned it to me with the directive to write something less "foppish" and more "serious". Clearly the world of politics was not to be my metier.

Another professor accused my father of writing a final essay for me: the topic being sociological in nature, my father being a clinical psychologist, the essay being "of post-doctoral level quality", the conclusion being I must have cheated. I received a C- because he couldn't prove I cheated. What a dick.

I dreamed I won a raffle contest the other night, but before I could collect the prize a woodchuck came up and claimed it. -Woody Allen

Maybe 'tis the curse of being a shrink's kid, or merely the blessing of an inquisitive mind, or, arsy-versy. Either way, my grey cells like a challenge and refuse to take much at face value. I rarely let a brow twitch, a head scratch or a stutter go by without a "Hmm. Sehr interessant." Naturally, near the top of the hierarchy of subliminal interpretation is the almighty dream; ergo, dreams absolutely fascinate me.

Fortunately, Dear Old Dad (shrink in question) is rather knowledgeable where such matters are concerned and I've often gone to him to find out what this-and-that symbolize. Sure, there are the standard tent poles of dream symbolism: teeth falling out and being nude in public tend to represent, depending on the scholar or psychologist you ask, a loss of control or feelings of vulnerability; flying generally means escape and is commonly cited as a frequent fantasy of prisoners, college students and military personnel alike; snakes and, well, tent poles for that matter, can mean, if you're a Freudian ... you know!

Those are all amusing; but, I like the really wonky dreams, the wild, Fellini-esque (who, by the way, kept a diary of dreams for decades), Dali-esque and Burton-esque dreams. I like the ones in which Muppets make cameo appearances (Miss Piggy and her satin, lavender pumps do on occasion.) and portions of my night are completely shot in full, Pantone color technology animation, like Family Guy or American Dad episodes. I also like the ones with Star Wars characters. See, I've referenced before what a media glutton I am; it infiltrates my subconscious and I love that because it makes for an awesomely entertaining dreamscape. It's like the teevee never goes off, ever! Yet, what about Saks Fifth Avenue? I have an awful lot of dreams about Saks!

I often dream in mostly complete story structure: beginning, middle and denouement. Additionally, I dream in vibrant color and with loads of minutiae. The teeny location coordinators, set designers and costuming departments in my noodle are efficient, hard-working and very detail-oriented. Nice work, folks! I see this as a sign of too much imagination, so much that the mere daylight hours of the mortals cannot contain my mischievous medulla. The most complete dream in my recall is a full, feature film, some twenty years ago, starring Steve Martin. Fun-ee! (Daddy says recalling too many aspects is a strong sign of making it all up, that dreams are too vague and nebulous. I disagree. My dreams have very vivid features.)

Other reveries include a veritable cavalcade of stars including David Duchovny, David Hyde-Pierce, Marilyn Manson, Johnny Depp, Juliette Lewis, Miss Piggy (as noted) Luke Perry, Lois Griffin, Peter Griffin, Chip an' Dale, Chris Matthews, Anderson Cooper and a further-odd assortment of minor figures from obscure animation to local news broadcasters. Of course there are friends, fam and literary figures whom all play the occasional role. Happily, I can say, mostly, that not many including family and friends are too bizarre ... although, I wouldn't share those here, now would I?

I did dream once that my brother-in-law, a professional pirate who goes by the name of Captain Maurice Bloodstone and on whom a character was based in my Savannah of Williamsburg: The Trials of Blackbeard and His Pirates, was staying the weekend with us at our home in San Clemente. Our pup at the time, Herr Ichabod, a black Tea-cup Pomeranian, often enjoyed sleeping with company and did so even in my dream. Yet, in this vision, as my pirate-in-law slept on the sofa in the living room, Ichabod came marching into our bedroom, stood at the side of the bed and in his thickest Scottish brogue (Weird, because I always thought he was more Teutonic than Celtic.) said, "For fak sake! Yer bleedin' snore-pig is keepin' me awake and I won't take it anymore!"

A nagging habit of mine (nagging to others, too) is to relay dreams of my husband and friends to Daddy and divine what they mean. (My husband would prefer I not do that. Point taken.) Pop always says the same thing, "You can't interpret someone else's dream. It's their subconscious, not yours." Puh-shaw! I'm really good at it! Once I learn of, then commandeer, your dream, it's like the pretty bauble you left in our guest room, it's mine, all mine!

A dear friend once told me she dreamed that she, my husband and I were all lying in a very fancy bed, straight as boards, hands down at our sides and all wearing powdered wigs, white makeup and frock coats and knickers, "Like Amadeus!", she said. Years later, she dreamed I was dressed like Morticia Addams and taking my very proper, Wednesday Addamsesque daughter or neice to Grammy's mansion in New Orleans or somewhere to collect an antique of some sort. (She's got me nailed, I'd say!)

In clear need of a Disney-, Hallowe'en- or a deep sea Alaskan fishing-fix, I dreamed of late that Captain Sig Hansen of Deadliest Catch called me up to his wheelhouse in the dead of night and, with cigarette in one hand and running his other hand through his hair, asked urgently, "Jen! You gotta tell me. Where's the best place to drop these Opilio pots?" Naturally, I replied, "The Haunted Mansion!" He then stroked his hair harder and said, "Fuck! Yep, you're right. Fuck!" and began to input coordinates to get the Northwestern to Disneyland as quickly as possible.

Recently, I sent a birthday gift to a friend. It was belated, so, to be honest, I imagine there was some leftover guilt and the need to assuage that by knowing the gift was a hit. (Thankfully, it was!) Obviously my brain wasn't all too certain because last night I dreamed that the friend in question and I went out for the evening, but she invited Courtney Cox to come with us, which was awesome ... except for the fact that Courtney was wearing the gift: a lovely top from Saks Fifth Avenue. When I asked why Courtney was wearing it, my friend replied simply, "Because it's ugly and it looks cuter on her anyway."

"How could you say that?" I cried. "Why not just give it back to me so I could return it or wear it myself?" They laughed, so I left, only to become lost in a vast parking lot whereby my teeth kept falling out. Thankfully, the actor Tim Roth came by and in his odd yet charming Vincent D'Onofrio-meets-Captain Jack Sparrow kind of swagger, addled up to me and helped me pick up my teeth. He then offered to drive me to the dentist, in my new Prius.

A fave dream of mine, not to mention the most easily decipherable, was one in which Darth Vader slowly chased me up and down the escalators, over and over, at the Saks Fifth Avenue at South Coast Plaza. Neither of us walked or ran, we just rode the escalators up and down, bodies and arms straight as boards, staring ahead, never looking around and always with about ten steps in between us. No, I didn't have a Saks credit card, or any store card for that matter (I like cash; it doesn't creep up on you later.), but I think I may have had a problem and it was creeping up on me in the night.

Now that you're frightened, your faces frozen, aghast in fear and awe, please share avec Moi. What are your wackiest dreams? Please though, no horribly emotional divulges. Remember, as Ross said to Chandler when sharing his Slave Leia fantasy, "I said share, not scare!" Oh, also, do you think other mammals dream: dogs, cats, badgers, wabbits, squirrels, Bigfoot? I sure do!

May you dream of me tonight and wake up disturbed.

-Joan Crawford, The Gorgeous Hussy

I have noticed, most happily, an uptick in pageviews ici and, gloriously, a new follower!! Merci, merci Haute World!! (For those of you whom are unaware, please add Haute World to your lists! Marvelous galleries of high- and fantasy-fashion/decor, as most safely enjoyed and optimally viewed through the professionally lit looking glasses of some of Europe's most majestic grands-magasins and p'tites boutiques. If Audrey would have subscribed to something as prosaic as a blog, she would have followed Haute World ... and mine, I'm certain!)

Ainsi, as I am churning blog themes in my noodle, I thought I would conduct a wee experiment. As some of you may know, I am an author. I scribe pre-Revolutionary, historical-fiction set in 18thC. Europe and America: Savannah of Williamsburg. A little Redwall, a little John Adams, a little Emma, mine is an odd and unique series of three books thus far (1705-1735) with three more planned and leading up to the American Revolution. (I have also recently finished my fourth novel: a contemporary-fiction, only mildly related to the Savannah Series, but a decidedly non child-friendly and mature title set in present-day Orange County and San Diego, California. Finally, it is done and shall be available soon here on JennyPop for your eReader!!! Who would have thought pure-fiction would prove more difficult to write than historical-? Phew. C'est fini!)

Now, whilst I am most proud of my very loyal following, it is indeed small, yet devoted ... yet small. Yes, the Twilight books may have 7.6 million fans on Facebook, but I have 76. Mon Dieu!! That's almost the same number: just one nasty little decimal point in the way. To wit, my experiment ... I would like to see how many new fans I can add via this blog. C'est ca, c'est simple. I sincerely appreciate the fact that anyone would read my blog. I am also beyond-appreciative that folks would read my books. I am forever touched and amazed at books signings when I see readers plunk down real cash for my wordsmithing. Une mille mercis a tous!

Now, allons-y! Off you go! Like, thee, Savannah of Williamsburg!

Oh, do me a huge fave? If you do join, post a little note on the Savannah of Williamsburg wall and let us know from where you are viewing! I love seeing readers from the Netherlands and Slovenia, Norway and France, Ireland and Sweden! Joy to the World, n'est-ce pas?

Run for your lives, local mortals! 'Tis time! 'Tis time! San Diego Comic-Con (SDCC) is here, again, kittens! Whilst Summer is my least fave season (Moi, aka, authoress Jennifer Susannah Devore, needs her Autumn days and Sbux PSL!), July is a glorious month indeed! Comic-Con, the reigning monarch of all comic book/pop culture conventions takes flight July 19 - 23, 2018 at the San Diego Convention Center. Once again, Yours Truly will be there with my fave con cohort and shutterbug, Eslilay Evoreday of Twisted Pair Photography and Sea Gypsy Costume Designs. As this Summer tradition remains a constant, some aspects of the game are ever-changing. Now, the game is afoot!

It's Springtime in San Diego, kittens and that means one thing: San Diego Comic-Con (SDCC) approacheth! July 19 - 22, 2018 will find Yours Truly awash in cosplay and cultur de pop, more so than usual. Sure, it's still three months off; yet playing the big Con takes prep. Every sweltering, sunny, San Diego Summer year my Con-cohort and I, Eslilay Evoreday, immerse ourselves in all the geeky goodness at the grandest of comic book conventions.

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Can't make it to Comic-Con? Don't be sad! JennyPop's got you covered! All the dorky fun rages July 19 - July 23, 2017. For full posts, detailed accounts and, possibly, her Souvenir Book article, bookmark @JennyPopCom Twitter and Insta for all the in-depth, geeky, good times.