High-tech Redneck Hubby here (formerly known as the Imaginary Dead President or IDP, a name I neither sanctioned, nor appreciated, but I digress.) Not that I'm excited about being named after a George Jones song, but when it's that or Mr. Lincoln, I err on the side of The Possum.

Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about names. I came here with a warning. But before I get to that, I'd better explain. And since the wife is not exactly herself tonight, you're stuck with me.

7:35 pm - I entered the residence after a long day at the office to find an eerie calm. Not even the dogs greeted me at the door. The scent of home cooking hit me the minute my feet cleared the threshold, but there was no sign of my wife. Never a good thing.

7:40 pm - I turned off the fire on the skillet of Sloppy Joe bubbling away on the unattended stove, sauce splattering every nearby surface. Then I followed a trail of empty candy wrappers to the living room where I discovered my wife, the writer, curled into the fetal position on the sofa, hair sticking up in all directions and mumbling something about chocolate. I approached slowly, using the list of soothing words she'd put on the refrigerator for just such an occasion, but stopped cold as her eyes met with mine.

7:50 - Watched with growing trepidation as my wife bounced restlessly in a chair, whispering curses at her temporary laptop, eying me ever few minutes as if she could burn a hole in my very soul with a single look. Then as if I hadn't heard her voice in ages, she spoke. "We need to go to Walmart." Perfect. The one place in a fifty mile radius where a homicidal female might not stand out in a crowd.

8:30 pm - After a quiet thirty minute drive where I'd deluded myself into thinking things might work out ok, we arrived at our destination and I realized how very wrong I was. The minute we walked through the sliding doors, my wife began her assault on a pair of shopping carts that had gotten tangled up together. The pure evil oozing from her eyes was enough to turn my blood cold, but like a fox in a trap, I couldn't leave. Using my list of soothing words, yet again, I wrested the carts from her white-knuckled grasp and untangled them, carefully pushing a free cart in front of her like a peace offering.

The people of Walmart were clueless as to how close they were to meeting their end as my wife drove the cart through the aisles, growling under her breath about things like sharpies and chalk outlines. I pretended she was talking about markers and chalk boards, but let's face it...that was as far from the truth as I could get.

9:00 pm - Our cart was filled with more junk than Fred Sanford's backyard. Chips, candy, cheese dip, and three huge boxes of sugary breakfast cereal. I wanted to tell her how bad those things were for her health, but feared for my own if I opened my mouth. I simply kept my thoughts to myself and reveled in the fact that I managed to toss a few screen wipes for my laptop and a new 16GB USB flash drive into the cart without her noticing. Her vocabulary had been reduced to mere grunts and growls as she pointed to each thing I should put in the cart, and like the dutiful husband, I complied with each one.

9:16 pm - We made it out of Walmart alive. More importantly, we made it out without anyone else dying. There were a few close calls (namely the woman who refused to move her cart out of the aisle as we attempted to go down it, and the woman who engaged us in a random conversation about her cat while we walked down the pet aisle looking for a new collar for one of our dogs.) Once we were safely in the car, I gave her a candy bar and pulled my fingers away before I lost one. The night was still young, and the evil was still coursing through her like the mighty Mississippi.

9:30 pm - I made one last stop before heading into the semi-dry county we live in. The liquor store. I know there are drugs out there specifically designed to combat the effects of PMS, but since I had no clue what those might be, and feared for my life if I fell asleep before she did, I went with my gut. After an encouraging smile from the wife, I picked up a bottle of berry flavored vodka, a liter of Sprite, and a sippy cup (what can I say, it's Georgia) and drove as fast as I dared to get home.

10:59 pm - One drink. Scratch that. One half a drink later and the savage beast has officially been soothed. I'm not sure if it was the liquor or the bag of Hershey's kisses, but either way, I think I have successfully navigated another month and another Ultra-High Red Alert. If nothing else, I hope I've managed to warn others who may not be aware of the tips and tricks of traveling down that slippery slope of life with a wife. Let's just hope I have fair warning next month too.

Until the next time...I'll be making myself one of those drinks before bed.

Tonight, as a special treat, we have author Stephen Kozeniewski guest blogging for me because I was lazy...I mean Indy got bit by a snake and I was taking care of him. And I'm milking that excuse for at least another day. And no, I'm not drunk (though I do occasionally partake, despite what some might think) but I think Stephen is.

Eh, at least I get the night off, right?

Ladies and gentlemen...I give you, Stephen Kozeniewski...

Attention followers of Erica Lucke Dean!

I now control the vertical.

I now control the horizontal.

I now control the fluff.

Yes. That’s right. ALL the fluff in China.

Because Indy is sick. So while Erica is taking care of doggy I am spelling her for a day on her blog. I know it’s not normally guest post day (Saturdays, 12:00/11:00 central) but, I mean, come on. Her dog got bit by a Coppertone.

What? Sun tan lotion? Yes I know.

Her dog got bit by an ophidian of some description.

So, for today, one day only, you get a blue light special on me: Snephen Kozanflumflum. (I forget how it’s spelled.)

First of all, I want to point out that I have repeatedly canvassed Erica to change the name of her blog to Shit Out of Lucke. (Clever, no? Not, “Clever: no” but rather the interrogative. But also the first thing.) And every time she has responded, “Did you know Cooper was based on Harry Cargill?”

Yes. Yes, we all know that.

The topic tonight is booze. The reason behind said pre-aforementioned topic is that Erica, as you know, does not and should not drink. However, if Sex and the City has taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that romance people like their booze. And that Baryshnikov is a terrible, terrible lover. So two things, really, that it didn’t teach us.

My poison of choice is bourbon. It’s not very ladylike, which is good, because I’m not. Ladylike. (Except for pedicures. Those are awesome.) And, specificagally, a brand of Old Bourbon called Booze Crow. I’m drinking it right now, in fact. You couldn’t tell. That’s how good I am at wordsmithery.

And why not? But, more importantly, why? Because I’m an author. A scrivener, a la Bartleby. A writesman. And if there’s one thing that everyone knows that they didn’t learn from Sex and the City, it’s that writesmans needs booze.

And why not? But more importantly, why? Take Hemingway. Please. [rimshot] It is a well-known and popular fact that Hemingway drank excessively all his life with no ill effects. (ed – Hemingway shot himself as a result of morbid alcoholism.)

Or, as another example, take Poe. Please. [crickets] Ahem. [clears throat] Poe also drank his whole life, and also, with no ill effects. (ed – Poe also took his own life due to morbid alcoholism.) Or Bukowski! (ed – Bukowski…well, he died of leukemia. But the booze probably didn’t help matters.)

But what is it about bourbon, brownest of the brown liquors, and Old Crow, oldest of the brownest of the brown liquors, that causes me to recommend it so highly? Well, because Old Crow is a classic. My friends, to a tee, make fun of me for this predilection.

“Old Crow is a bottom shelf,” they say, or they would, if they were still talking to me.

“Ahhhh,” I would theoretically reply, “But was it not Dr. James Crow, the eponymous ‘Crow’ of the title, who invented the single batch sour mash process?”

To which nodding all around would be my reward.

So, I guess what I’m saying is: Kids, don’t drink. It’s not cool. Be cool. Like Erica. And feel better, Indy. There, I was nice to a dog. Proof positive of my humanity in these situations.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled flibberjibbetflurmypassthebour

bon…

Blog: http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/outfortune

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying my much deserved night off.