The Best Things In Life Are Free

Confession time.  I have this weird thing where I don’t like to pay admission prices. I mean, I’ll pay to see a movie, but I balk at paying to go into a historic monument or a national park or look at a giant ball of twine or whatever.

Saxon makes fun of me.  I think she secretly agrees with me on the whole thing, but likes to blame the cheapness on me.  I am not cheap.  I am frugal. There’s a difference.

There’s an old civil war fort near here.  It’s in the town of Ft. Gibson.  And, yes, the name of the fort is Fort Gibson.  When Saxon first moved here I took her to see the fort.  We walked up to the gate and there was sign that said for us to deposit five dollars per person into the box before we went inside.  FIVE DOLLARS!  Five dollars to walk around and look at a bunch of giant sized Lincoln logs glued together? Frickin’ ridiculous.

I wouldn’t let Saxon go inside.  I walked around the outside of the fort and found a little peeky hole in the logs where you could look inside.  “There,” I said, “You can see perfectly well what an old civil war fort looks like through this peeky hole and it’s free.”


The same thing happened once when we went on an adventure to Arkansas.  There was a store that advertised the world’s biggest rock or some such stuff.  We stopped to go look at it, but when I found out the store owner wanted us to pay five bucks to see a rock, I snapped.  “Five bucks!  Isn’t that a little excessive?”

The store owner shook his head.  “It’s the world’s biggest rock,” he said.


I walked outside, picked up a pebble, came back in and held out my palm.  “See that rock?” I asked.

“Yep,” the owner said.

“That’s the world’s smallest rock.  You owe me five bucks for looking at it.”

He spit tobacco into a dixie cup and squinted one eye at me.   “Nope,” he said.

“We’re not going to pay,” I said. I grabbed Emma and Saxon by the shirt collars and pulled them out of the store.

Saxon and Emma pouted all the way home, but I had my limits.  And paying to see stuff that we should be able to see for free was one of those limits. After all, the best things in life are free.

….By the way, you owe me five bucks for reading this blog.

Start your week with a laugh! And you can borrow it for FREE!

(prime and unlimited members)


Revenge of the Mustache

Mustaches are all the rage right now.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  I mean, why is it cool to have fake mustaches plastered everywhere – pencil toppers, bumper stickers, notebooks, T-shirts – but it’s not cool to have a real one under your nose?


I have a mustache.  A real one.  Under my nose.  I’ve had it since I hit puberty.  In reality it was blondish and peach fuzzy. In my mind, it was Hitler-esque.  And there was no way to hide it.  I tried growing out my bangs, but I looked like Cousin It.  So I kept my head lowered for the entire time I spent in eighth grade.

One day, I was on the bus after school, sitting next to my best friend.  We were seated in the middle of the bus, but within ear shot of the cool kids who sat in the back.  There was a boy I had a big crush on.  To be honest, every girl in school had a crush on him.  His name was Mike and he was good-looking and looked great in his bell bottom jeans. On this particular day, I heard Mike say, “Layce’s not bad looking except for her mustache.  I would never go out with girl who had more facial hair than me.”  All the cool kids laughed.

Talk about embarrassing.

That’s the kind of thing that haunts you forever.

But I didn’t cry.  I didn’t even flinch.  I went home and spread Nair cream all over my upper lip.  While I waited for it to work its magic, I plotted my revenge.  It was a plan that didn’t come true until two years later.

I was sixteen.  Mike was nineteen.  He didn’t remember me.  He drove his Camaro through the drive through of the hamburger place where I worked and I served him a burger with a smile and gave him a free order of fries.  He took the bait, sauntered inside and asked me out.

We dated for three months before I let my mustache grow.

I let it grow out to its fullest, peach fuzziest, glossiest length.  Then I went to the drive-in movie with Mike.  He waited until halfway through the movie to kiss me.  After the kiss, I turned on the car’s interior light and raised an eyebrow.

“See anything different about me?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Look,” I said, pointing to my upper lip.  “I have more facial hair than you.”


He squawked and pressed himself against the door as far away from me as he could get.

“I’m going to tell everyone you kissed a girl with a mustache,” I said getting out of the car, firmly shutting the door and walking away.

It was a long walk home that night, but worth it.  I had found out something important.  And that something was:  Revenge feels good.

It wasn’t long after that I started dating girls.  They liked my mustache.  It tickled.


Guaranteed to tickle your funny bone!

Available at Amazon and it costs less than a latte.



Candy Crush

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My name is Layce Gardner and I’m an addict.  I kicked the evils of alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes years ago, but have fallen victim to my latest addiction – Candy Crush. I knew the moment I downloaded the game to my kindle that I was going to have a problem.  It was so fun!  So addictive!  If I could just complete one more level!

Saxon asked me what I was doing. 

“Playing Candy Crush,” I answered.

“Candy Crust?” she said.

“Crush,” I said testily.  “Crush.”

I tried to quit playing after the first hour, but was bombarded with enablers everywhere I looked.  People on Facebook sent me messages to join them and a friend of mine kept calling herself the Jesus of Candy Crush and daring me to compete with her.  I simply couldn’t stand strong in the face of all these evil Candy pushers. I was only human after all.

 “Candy Crash?” Saxon asked.

“Crush, crush, crush” I said between gritted teeth.

 After only one day, things around my house began to slip and show signs of neglect.  My daughter was late to school and only got a Pop Tart for breakfast.  I didn’t have time to line dry the laundry anymore.  I stuffed the wet clothes in the dryer and called it good.  The dog threw up in the corner and I pretended I didn’t see it.  I made my daughter walk home from school.  All of this just so I could spend five hours completing level 30.

“Candy Crisp?”Saxon asked.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.

“Candy Crest? Candy Cat? Candy Crap?”she taunted.

I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Or killing her.

The worst part came that night.  My family was asleep, but I was still up and gaming.  My kindle wouldn’t load the next level.  The words ‘internal error’ flashed across the screen.  I ran to my computer to order a new kindle.  This one was obviously faulty.  I had to spend $200 on a new kindle and get it by next day shipping or how was I going to live?!

Saxon continued her jabs. “Candy Cantina? Candy Doodle Dandy?”

“Shut yer piehole and I mean it,” I growled.

 I was sobbing and ripping at my hair.  I blindly Googled and lo and behold!  I found out that fucking around with the date and time of my Kindle in order to get more free lives was what caused the internal error.  To fix it I simply had to set the date and time back to where it really belonged.

 “Candy Crunch? Candy Cruise? Candy Cunt?”

That was the last straw.  I exploded. “Candy Crush, you idiot!”

The next morning found me bleary-eyed and cranky from gaming all night. I was a mess.  Chapped lips, greasy hair, sore thumbs… I was wearing an old towel that I had fashioned into an adult diaper so I wouldn’t waste valuable time in the bathroom.

 Saxon scurried from the room, dodging the verbal epitaphs I slung at her like a

gorillas slings its feces. I could hear her maniacal laughter from the other room. 

Saxon eyed me up and down and immediately invoked an intervention.  She took away my Kindle and deleted Candy Crush. DELETED IT!  I cried. I sobbed. I begged.  I bargained.  I cried some more.  But to no avail. I offered her sex in exchange for just ten minutes of play.  (I almost got her on that one, but she declined.)

 Saxon continued to taunt me under her breath. “Candy Crude.  Candy Crud. Candy Crepe. Candy Cane.”

“I can’t take it anymore!” I yelled.  I collapsed to the floor in a heap and sobbed.

 That was my bottom.  Since then I’ve been taking it one day at a time.  I don’t know that I’ll be able to hold off the demons of Candy Crush forever…


Over three months on the Amazon Bestseller List!

Get your copy here.


My Vagina has a First Name

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You know the old adage about if you love something you should set it free and if it loves you it will come back?  That happened to me and my vagina once.

I went to Mexico on a day trip.  My friend Brenda went with me.  We stopped in Ensenada, a little town near the border.  We were walking down the street, minding our own business, talking about where we could buy Retin-A or Valium to smuggle back across the border when a little Mexican man stepped out of the shadow of an alley and blocked our path.  He pointed at the ground near my feet and said, “Excuse me, Miss.  You dropped your vagina.”

I looked to where he was pointing.  Nothing was there.  I smiled like how you do when suddenly faced with a potential crazy person and said, “Um… no, that’s not mine.  Mine is much pinker than that.”

Then Brenda and I crossed the street and giggled all the way back to our car.  But that made me start thinking… what would it be like if a vagina was just an accessory?  Something you could take out whenever you wanted? You could buy vaginas in different sizes, shapes, colors.  Wouldn’t that be wonderful?  There could be name-brand vaginas.  Jaclyn Smith and Martha Stewart could have their own line of designer vaginas.  There would be spring vaginas, fall vaginas, winter vaginas.  Walmart would sell vaginas that cost less and are made by children in Taiwan.  Athletes would have sports vaginas.

Excuse me, does this vagina make my butt look big?

Does this vagina go with these shoes?

Don’t wear a white vagina after Labor Day.

Christians could advocate not wearing your vagina as a birth control device.

Vaginas would have cute little cases to carry them around in.  I would love to have a Kate Spade vagina case.

Vaginas could double as coin purses.

Brenda and I discussed the possibilities all the way home to Los Angeles.  I dropped her off at her apartment in the valley.  When I got to my apartment back in Hollywood, my answering machine was blinking.  I pressed the button and heard Brenda’s voice say, “I know you just dropped me off, but I thought you should know that your vagina somehow got in my luggage.  I put it on the counter while I unpacked my stuff and when I came back in the room the cat was playing with it.  I put it in the sink to soak.  I think it may have gotten scratched and stretched out a little, sorry, I’ll pay for any damages.  Anyway, I’ll talk to you later!”

There was a pause then a new message began playing. It was Brenda. “Hi, it’s me again.  Your vagina was getting really wrinkled in the sink.  I took it out and dabbed some Retin-A on it.  Can I put it in the dryer?  Is it Wash ‘n Wear?  Call me back.”

There was a third beep and the machine played another message, “You know what?  Forget about it.  I’ll take you to Vaginas ‘R Us tomorrow. You can buy another one.  This one is pretty worn out.  You can keep this one as a back up but it’s not looking pretty.”

I didn’t buy a new vagina.  I kept the old one.  There’s just something about a comfortable old vagina, you know?

We’ve been inseparable ever since.

If you have a vagina, you’ll love this book

Buy it here.



The Day I Killed Santa Claus

I don’t remember ever believing in Santa Claus, though I know I must have. There’s an old 8mm tape somewhere that shows a four-year-old me sitting on my Grampa’s lap and grilling him about Santa. “How does he get down the chimney? What if you don’t have a chimney?” Even at that young age I was skeptical.

My daughter, however, believed everything I ever told her. So when Emma was in third grade and some of the other kids found out she still believed in Santa Claus, they made fun of her and she was very upset. So upset, in fact, that she hit a little boy who called her stupid for still believing.

I had to go to the school and pick her up. She was in tears. She cried, “He said there was no Santa Claus, Mom. He said I was a baby for believing it. He said you’d lied to me. He said it was you who put the presents under the tree. He said you ate the cookies and milk I left out for Santa.”

Oh boy, I thought. Here it comes. I didn’t have a choice. I was going to have to kill Santa Claus.

When we got home, I sat Emma down for a serious talk. “There is no Santa, honey. Not really. The spirit of Santa is there. But there’s not really a man dressed in red with a white beard and –“

“You lied to me?” Emma interrupted.

“Well, it’s more like a white lie. It’s for fun. And it’s not really a lie because –“
But Emma didn’t let me finish. “I hate you!” she yelled as she ran for her room and slammed the door behind her.


I was stricken. I didn’t know what to do. After a bit, Emma came out of her room. She stood before me with her little arms crossed defiantly over her chest. “What about the Easter bunny?” she asked. “Is he a lie, too?”

I nodded. She ran back to her room. The door slammed again.

Later, Emma came out and squinted at me. “How about the Tooth Fairy?”

“Made up,” I answered.

She ran. Slammed the door.

A little later, she peeked out her door at me. “Jack Frost?”

“No,” I answered.

“The Sandman?”


The door slammed shut.

Well, that’s it, I thought. All the childhood characters were now officially dead and gone. She would be mad for a little while then she’d forget and that would be that.

But it wasn’t over. The door opened. Emma peeked her head out. “What about Jesus? Is that all a lie, too?”

Oh boy…


A new romantic comedy by the duo of Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner.

Available at Amazon in ebook and paperback.


The Beautiful Beaded Belt

Have you ever wanted something so bad that every waking moment was consumed by it? You even dreamed about it? That happened to me when I was nine-years-old. I fell in love with a beaded belt. This was no ordinary beaded belt. It was the be-all, end-all of beaded belts. I simply could not go on living without this fabulous, groovy belt.

You see, every summer my Grandparents would load up their Winnebago and take me camping with them in the Colorado mountains. They would find a nice secluded campground and we would stay there nestled in the mountains for three months.

I took ice cold baths in the creek, picked gooseberries, dug for night crawlers, hiked in the mountains and read lots of books. Even as a child I was an introvert and I spent my days pretending I was the last soul on earth and lived off the land in what was formerly the state of Colorado.

But I’m getting off track. I was supposed to tell you about the beaded belt. Every week we would travel ten miles to the nearest trading post to stock up on supplies. It was at this trading post that I first saw the beaded belt.

It was love at first sight.

The belt was leather with tiny, colored beads across the back that spelled out “Colorado.” It was beautiful to behold.


It cost five dollars.

I didn’t have five dollars. I didn’t have a penny. I sucked up all my courage and asked Grandma if I could have it. “No,” she said without even looking at it. “It’s a waste of money.”

Dejected, I walked outside the store to wait on her to finish shopping. There was a lady sitting in a lawn chair at the edge of the parking lot. She was selling rocks off her truck’s tailgate. They were pretty rocks, all right, crystals and such. She was charging five to ten dollars for each specimen. Now if you asked me that was a waste of money.

It was on the way home that I came up with my idea. Surely, Grandma could not object to me buying the beaded belt if I bought it with my own money.

That day I scoured the campground for rocks. I hauled them to the side of the road and laid them out in a nice pattern on the right-of-way. Then I made a cardboard sign that proclaimed: Rocks for Sale. 25 cents!

You would be amazed how many cars will stop if they see a little fat girl standing beside the road with a sign like that. You would be even more amazed to know that I could actually sell the rocks. By the time Grandma found me down by the road I had my pockets stuffed full of quarters and was almost out of inventory.

I dreamed about that belt every day until we went to the trading post.   I proudly bought that beautful beaded belt with the money I had earned. I wore it for about three days until the beads began to fall off. After that it lost its magic for me and I stopped wearing it. The next time we went to the trading post, I used the rest of my quarters to buy a box of Mexican jumping beans.


There is a moral to this story. Sometimes dreams are better than reality.



“Adorable, crazy, charming and laugh out loud funny! Must read!” ~Jade



Once Upon a Time Travel


My Young Adult book  is on sale over at Amazon!  Only 99 cents for the ebook.  The sale begins today and last through Saturday, April 5th.    Click here!


Twelve-year-old Rebel has a nose for trouble. During in-school detention, Rebel stumbles upon a wormhole and travels back in time to the 1930s Dust Bowl in Oklahoma. She meets Dixie O’Dell, an orphaned girl, who picks pockets to earn enough money to survive. While on the run from the law, Rebel and Dixie are taken in by a traveling carnival freak show. The company freaks – The Illustrated Woman, the dwarf, The World’s Fattest Woman, Spidergirl and The Half-Man, Half-Woman – teach Rebel the true meaning of family.

“Fun and Fast… a delightful read” ~Sher

“Couldn’t put it down!” ~Lorene63

Definitely not just for young adults.” ~JBaker


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