I think I live next door to the Goonies

I’m thinking this whole country living thing might be fun after all.

I actually made a good bit of headway on the boxes today when my daughter and her boyfriend moved all her boxes up to her room, leaving a huge open space in the sunroom. Then after a trip to “town” (where she and the boyfriend found jobs for the summer) we met the neighbor boys when they decided to investigate our giant dog.

Indiana Jones gradually made friends with the boys, and not long after, the boys (ages 16, 13 and 12) divulged some stories about our spooky old farmhouse.

Apparently, not so long ago, the basement wasn’t the only scary place inside. After having been abandoned for the past twenty years, the boys and their friends used to dare each other to spend time in the old haunted farmhouse. They knew more about my house than I did, and had even explored the inside, from top to bottom, before any of the renovations had taken place.

“Hey, did you get them windows fixed down in the basement?” the youngest of them asked me. They had apparently broken several windows with rocks while the place was still vacant.

“Yes,” I assured him, then quickly added with a grin. “But don’t break anymore.”

He promised he wouldn’t, then ran home to get the riding lawn mower to mow my back yard…if I’d let him pop wheelies (which I did, because who can pass up free yard work?)

Then the boys offered to kill any stray raccoons or groundhogs we might have on the property (which I politely declined.)

I made the mistake (or calculated decision…it’s too early to tell just yet) to mention we were planning a bonfire, and the boys jumped at the chance to set things on fire on purpose (they’ve apparently set several things on fire by accident).

That’s how I ended up with three neighbor boys in my backyard burning our entire brush pile (supervised of course). Alexa, her boyfriend Dillon, Mike, me, and the three boys, who remind me of characters from the movie The Goonies, are sitting around a raging fire that often times reaches so far into the sky I worry it may singe the clouds.

The youngest of the boys reminds me so much of Chunk (from the movie) that I fear I might accidentally call him that. He was the one popping wheelies on a riding lawn mower (something my husband initially thought impossible, then decided was probably dangerous) although not as dangerous as riding his bike down the long narrow stairs that lead to the exterior entrance to our basement (which we refused to allow him to do, no matter how many times he’s already done it) and he was also the first one into the brush pile with an axe, ready to chop the logs into bite sized pieces, perfect for a hungry fire.

The boys were really very nice…and polite…and amazingly helpful too. A few more nights like tonight and we won’t have a single brush pile on the entire property. And probably no raccoons or groundhogs either (not because I condone such things, but boys will be boys!)

The Goonies will be back tomorrow to finish mowing the lawn. Although, I suspect they might want to visit the dogs and the baby chicks too. And that’s ok.

I have to admit, I had fun tonight. There’s something about living here that makes it feel like I’m on a permanent vacation. Even if I do have to unpack a little every day. I’m sure I’ll eventually feel moved in.

Until the next time…I’ll be standing outside with a hose until the flames die down a little.

life as I know it

So many changes. I don’t even know where to begin. I guess the first thing would be that I’m not even close to being unpacked. My best attempts at organization were shot down when my husband decided to put boxes wherever he had room, rather than in the room they belonged. So I have pantry items in the living room, laundry items in the dining room, and bathroom items in the kitchen. So, even the simplest tasks have been a challenge.

I spent an hour digging through boxes this morning to find the maple syrup. I knew we had some. I’d watched my husband pack it…I just didn’t know what box. So I systematically opened every box marked “kitchen”.

Thank goodness we took the time to label the boxes. If only I’d made a list of each item in each box. It would have made things a whole lot easier when I was making waffles. And yes, you read that right. I made waffles. In fact, despite winning the bet (I never have to cook again) I’ve been cooking every day. I made taco dinner one night, shrimp gumbo the next, followed by gourmet pizzas, chicken a la king, and tonight it was shrimp and grits. Although my husband did the cooking tonight…I baked. I made my first carrot cake and declared myself an official farm wife. My husband wondered out loud if being a farm wife hinged on the baking of cakes, to which I said, yes. Cakes are required.

It’s been a good week so far, and it’s not even half over.

Maybe that’s because my daughter drove up to visit. I’m trying to convince her to stay…I’ve missed having her around. I don’t know if she will, but the draw of baby chicks and carrot cake might turn the tide in my favor.

Crazier things have happened.

Like discovering the family of groundhogs living in our rickety old barn. I guess I’ll know who to bitch at when the weather turns cold at the end of the week. Shouldn’t that six more weeks of winter be over by now?

Until the next time…I’ll be eating carrot cake for breakfast!

lucky seven

As I understand it, I’ve been tagged with the lucky seven. I don’t exactly know where this lucky seven thing came from. Or how I get myself into these things. Or rather…how others get me into them. But I figured, hey…what could be better on a Monday night than a little game of Tag? I may as well play along, right?

The rules to the Lucky Seven are as follows: *Open the document for your current MS/WIP (manuscript or work-in-progress for the non-writers out there) *Go to page 7 or to page 77 *Go to line 7 *Copy the next 7 lines (sentences or paragraphs) and post them exactly as they are written. No changing or cheating! *Tag 7 authors and let them know.

So here you go, page seven of To Katie with Love.

My coworkers nudged me out of the booth clapping and shouting.  I felt the color draining from my face and thought I might faint. 

The truth is I love to sing…when I’m alone.  I’d never sung in front of a crowd, certainly not at a karaoke bar.  Yet, there I was, being propelled toward the stage by Silvia, the real manager in my office, title or no title. 

I reluctantly dragged myself forward, looking back to my table for moral support the entire way.  They waved me on, cheering like a bunch of high school girls. 

Even Phil. 

I spun around to watch where I was going and a guy shoved a microphone in my hand.  Next thing I knew, I was facing a crowd filled with semi-drunken college students and business bankers. There were dozens of eyes watching me and I really wished I hadn’t worn the short skirt and form-fitting blouse Silvia had promised would make me look hot. 

I’m a banker, not a prostitute.  I don’t dress hot.  I dress professionally.  Well, usually I do.  Not tonight.  Tonight I was Silvia’s science project. 

My heart slammed in my chest behind the flimsy black sheer blouse as I stood in the wash of the spotlight, and my insides did a mini flip purely out of fear as I sang the first line of the song.

And I have decided to tag…

@CiaraBallintyne

@KellySGamble

@Raine_Thomas

@BethAnnGarland

@McMillenDC (DC McMillen)

@lmkolar1 (Laura Kolar)

@Valeriebrbr (Valerie Haight)

Until the next time…I’ll be ducking to avoid the low flying debris as they contemplate accepting the challenge.

whatever you do, don't touch your do-dong

Easter.

As a young girl I used to get so excited for the arrival of Easter. It always meant a new dress and a pretty bonnet for church. (And of course, a basket of candy from the “giant bunny”.) And when my kids were growing up, I was torn between that same nostalgic excitement, and something akin to horror as roamed the apocalyptic scene at the local Walmart on the night before Easter, fighting old ladies in wheelchairs for the last few chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs in the entire store. This because I’d either completely forgotten about Easter until then, or already eaten the previously purchased candy. And the scene was a cross between a Mad Max movie and the original Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory.

Mad Max and the chocolate apocalypse.

Of all the things I miss…that isn’t one of them. So as sad as I was to realize this would be the first year I failed to do Easter baskets for the kids (most of which are actually adults who don’t really care if I buy them candy) I was secretly delighted I would be spared a trip to Walmart on the Saturday before Easter.

Imagine my horror as I somehow managed to find myself exactly there…Walmart! At ten o’clock at night. On the night before Easter. With all the other zombies trolling for chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.

But I wasn’t shopping for candy. I was shopping for a lightbulb.

Let’s rewind. Mike and I rolled out of bed (reluctantly) at seven this morning. It was garage sale day, and we were thrilled to be getting rid of our junk…I mean stuff…for some extra cash. It was a good morning…we sold a lot. We even met the neighbors.

This is how I know were are really and truly living in the country.

I actually witnessed…as in heard with my own ears…a grown man say the word do-dong. You might remember I wrote about a dongle some time back, and as funny as the word dongle sounded, it wasn’t what you thought it was. Well, this time it was exactly what I thought it was. The context is somewhat important. My husband was pulling a vine from under the porch when the neighbor (a man in his late fifties to early sixties) said (and I’ll write this out phonetically because it’s way funnier that way) “That thar is posen (not poison…posen) ahvy. You don’t want that. And ya best not touch yer do-dong before you wash yer hands.”

Yep, you heard (err…read) that right. “Ya best not touch yer do-dong…” Well, I agreed wholeheartedly. You do not want posen ahvy (or poison ivy for that matter) on your do-dong. I don’t have a do-dong myself, but if I did, I’m certain I wouldn’t want poison ivy on it.

Funny accents aside, he’s a sweet man, my neighbor. And oh so thoughtful, thinking about my husband’s do-dong like that. Not many men are secure enough in their manhood to mention such things outloud.

So, I guess you’re wondering what drove me to Walmart (and a twenty minute drive to reach said Walmart, by the way) for a lightbulb, on the night before Easter? Well…with our garage sale proceeds, we went to the local feed store and bought eight baby chickens. We needed a lightbulb to keep them warm at night. And they seem to be toasty warm, indeed. Oh, and in case you’re wondering…my husband’s errr do-dong seems to be just fine too.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to the baby chickens peep all night long.

F is for Friday (among other things)

I’m not participating in the A-Z blogging challenge. I didn’t write anything for letters A-E and I’m not doing G-Z. Oh, I’m not knocking it. I probably would have been up for it, had I gotten the memo, but since I’ve been so engrossed in moving, I’ve thought of little else for weeks on end.  But since today didn’t work out the way it was supposed to, I decided I’d have a little fun with F.

There are so many wonderful things that start with the letter F.

F is for Friday (that’s today) the day normally reserved for my weekly guest spotlight. This is where I feature other writers and challenge them to raise the bar on the funny so I can have a much deserved night off.  

F is for Forgot (because I forgot to get anyone as a guest for this week.) Yeah, I totally dropped the ball on this one.  But who could blame me? I’ve had my head so buried in boxes for the past week and a half I taste cardboard in my dreams.

And F is for Fuck…now I have to write it myself (I don’t need to explain that one, do I?) But since my life has been reduced to an episode of Hoarder’s, I can’t seem to think of a single funny thing to write about. I mean, even I don’t care if I have hot water anymore. And so what if there was a huge spider in the bathtub this morning (I’m talking tarantula huge…I had to kill it with an entire can of Scrubbing Bubbles!) Let’s face it…this stuff is just not interesting anymore.

F is for Fangs (because we’re getting closer to the new season of the Daywalkers every day.) Will Victoria survive? Will Claude flirt with Lizzie. Will Sebastian find Anne in time? I’ll never tell!

F is for Fudge brownies (another no-brainer, and my current food of choice.)

F is for Flatulence (Sorry, I’m sitting really close to the Mastiff as I write this.) Just be glad you only have to read about it…my eyes are burning as I type.

F is for Farm (that’s here) and is it just me or does the grass grow way faster down on the farm? I’ve been here for two weeks and already the back forty has grown so high I lost the dogs’ leashes and Indy’s favorite Teddy Bear. But since we still have one furry ear and the left leg, Indy is placated until we unpack the mower to uncover the rest.

F is for Friends (and I really miss mine.) Even my online friends (some of the very best friends I have) have been neglected during this brutal move. I may just be too old for this shit after all.

F is for Fast asleep (that should be me in a few minutes.) It’s been a long day, and we’re having a yard sale in the morning. Time to get rid of some of this stuff I’ve collected over the years. I mean, how many sets of fireplace tools do you need when you don’t even have a fireplace?

Oh yeah…F is for Finished (because I’m officially done with this post.)

Until the next time…I’ll be selling my life from my front porch!

life is really just a 70's rerun

Blech. Moving.

After careful consideration, I’ve decided the worst part about moving is the unpacking. I still have boxes stacked everywhere. I don’t even know what’s in them anymore. I know I wanted everything as I was filling them. I remember thinking I would be heart-broken without the ceramic rabbits and silver-plated Bulldog salt and pepper shakers. Now I dread unpacking them and finding a new place to put them. But dread or no dread, I made a good bit of headway today. I managed to clear a wider path through the living room and even hung a clock on the wall. Hey, I even have hot water after more than a week of nothing but cold. Now, if only I could get the washer and dryer connected so I can wash clothes.

Oh well…baby steps, right?

At least I finally got my husband to clear out the back of the old pick-up truck before I had the entire city of Blue Ridge humming the theme to Sanford and Son as I roll by. Hey, it could happen.

Who am I kidding? It did happen.

I went to the farmer’s market yesterday and a man actually came up to me humming the theme song as I got out of the truck. I had to laugh. It was kinda funny. I spent the better part of the weekend laughing at my husband as he drove the truck. The Junk Mobile

But this was me. I don’t drive junk-filled pick-ups. I don’t drive trucks at all. I drive a Kia Soul. Powered by hamsters, or something like that.

Right…apparently I do, now that I’m a farmer’s wife. Even if my farmer husband has been too busy with his day job of Network Engineer to do much of anything else this week, leaving me to fend for myself with the unpacking.

Oh well…it happens.

I just hope he wasn’t hoping I would unpack his underwear or anything. I’m sure it’s on my to-do list. Somewhere near the bottom…below the silver-plated dogs and the ceramic rabbits.

Until the next time…I’ll be driving my Kia again!

let there be light...or rather hot water!

Ah, the comforts of home.

I managed to unpack several boxes and even made a path through the dining room to the front door. Don’t laugh, this is progress. I’m finally feeling like this is home. I even cooked dinner in the new kitchen. Yes, I know I won the bet…I didn’t have to cook…I wanted to. And it was a pretty good meal if I do say so myself. I made a trip to the Amish food store today and stocked up on cheeses, spices, and garden fresh veggies. Everyone enjoyed it. Especially after the other good news of the day.

Joy of all joys…we have hot water!

Yes, it’s true. The electrician showed up just before the dinner hour to fix my malfunctioning hot water heater. As it turns out, faulty wiring was the culprit, and lucky for us, the electrician got here when he did…saving us from a potential fire.

So after cooking dinner, the first order of business was to take a shower.

Of course, I was beaten to it by the thirteen year old step-daughter…who used every drop of the hot water in the tank, by the way. Oh, not to worry, I’ll get my revenge…later. She has to sleep sometime.

And speaking of sleep. I need some. It’s been a long week.

Until the next time…I’ll be working on a special Daywalkers bonus for Easter.

Is this what it's like to be Amish?

We’ve lived in this house for over a week and still no hot water.

Apparently the only electrician in town is far too busy to fix the problem (I can only hope this is a temporary condition), so cold water it is. But although, the water is icy cold, the weather has been hot.  And when you add a string of eighty degree days to a sea of boxes to unpack, you get one sweaty writer.

So what’s a girl to do?

I can only go so long without a shower, right? But I’m not into icy cold showers. So, instead, I boil water in a pot on the stove to fill the sink and tub to wash. I’m thinking about switching to candlelight in the next few days…you know, so I can really feel like I’m Amish. I almost wonder if this was part of my husband’s grand plan when he decided we should move to the mountains and live on a farm.

And about that…

What’s up with Mike going to the office every day this week? I didn’t sign up to be stranded here in Green Acres by myself. No, I sure didn’t.

So…with that fact in mind, I piled Mike’s visiting thirteen year old daughter into the beat up old pick up truck I’m stuck with (while my husband drives my Kia Soul eighty miles to the office each day) for a mini-road trip to the paint store two towns over. Because after two weeks of unbridled certainty about the perfect white, I was having second thoughts.

Fast forward several hours (and one trip to Dairy Queen later) and I was cracking open a can of Sherwin Williams Ivory Lace…not the Shoji White.

It was a spur of the moment decision, coupled with a thirty-five dollar discount (what can I say? I charmed the paint guy) and after painting a huge section of wall in the kitchen, I can safely say, the experiment was a success.

It would have been a pretty good day if not for the millions of boxes yet to be unpacked. The painted shut windows. The no hot water. The missing husband. The possible rabid possums in the basement. But let’s not focus on the negative.

I found the perfect white paint…and a store that sells Amish cheese. And let’s face it…cheese makes the world go ‘round!

Until the next time…I’ll be boiling water.

so, about this farm life thing...

I miss my kids. 

I miss my washer and dryer (still unplugged in the sunroom.) I miss hot water (still no ETA on the water heater repair.) I miss the hustle and bustle of the city (okay, the suburbs.)  I miss good cell reception, Dunkin Donuts, and Barnes and Noble. And I really, really miss my kids (I know, but it bears repeating). And living out of boxes sounds much more exciting in print than it is in real life.

But aside from all that, I love the mountain air, and the dogs are having fun investigating the green pastures.

The things that go bump in the night are still bumping, but as nothing bad has come of it, I’m not so inclined to worry. I do, however, reserve the right to change my mind in the future.

As for today, I spent part of it resting, and the other part unpacking boxes in the kitchen. I’ve decided the task requires a systematic approach. And why not start in the room with the food?

The first box unpacked was the one with the wine, and the wine glasses.

Isn’t it funny how a few sips of wine takes your mind off your worries? Ok, so maybe it takes a glass or two, but I’m definitely feeling more comfortable in my surroundings. Ghosts, coyotes, bugs, and scary basements be damned.

Now I just need to get the rest of the boxes unpacked and the house decorated. That might be the scariest proposition of all. I think I just might have a garage sale this weekend…sell things by the boxful.

Yep…sounds like a great plan.

Until the next time…I’ll be taking pictures!

oh, the pain...

I’m not a whiny person. Ok, I lied…sometimes, I am a whiny person. But this time, I have a really good reason. Moving isn’t just a pain in the ass. It’s a pain in the feet…the ankles…the knees…the back…the hips…the hands…the neck…and yes, even the ass. Basically, I hurt from head to toe. I’ve used muscles I’d forgotten I had. And a few I wish I didn’t know about.

Despite the fact that I feel like an advertisement for Icy Hot, I’m in good spirits (thanks to spirits). The old house is finally cleared of everything we own and the new (older) house is filled with boxes, baskets, and other assorted containers I will need to unpack in the very near future.

But not until I recover. I’m pretty sure a lot more wine (and whining) will be required. Probably aspirin too.

And rest. Could I please get a day or two of rest worked in there? You know…for good measure? Who knows, with a few days of recouperation, I might even take pictures and post them.

Of the house.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the combination of wine and aspirin to kick in.

all writerly days start out as winners

Welcome to the Weekly Guest SpotlighJulie Butchert 

Tonight’s guest is writer Julie Butcher. For more about Julie, click her picture to visit her website.

My Writer Day

This one had gone extremely well. By ten o’clock I’d wound my way through a maze of plot pot-holes, figured out a major motivation for the bad guy and added eight thousand words to the manuscript. This much success, that early, should have been a dead give-a-way. *Back to the manuscript.*

By eleven o’clock, my youngest son emailed that his Mp3 had been taken away at school, could I please come pick it up and pay the ten dollar fine? Of course, that wouldn’t be until later, so I was good. *Back to the manuscript.*

At noon, my youngest daughter called to ask if I was picking her and my seven-year-old nephew up from school since it was an early release day. HOLY CRAPOLA! Evidently I didn’t know what day it was. I was still the hubby’s boxers and wife-beater undershirt (It was hot, okay?) I grabbed the first things to come to hand, gave up on finding two shoes and hot-footed it to the car.

I swear to God I didn’t know I’d put on green pants, a grey tank and a blue/black/purple tank at the same time. I did, however, notice I was barefooted. I also might have forgotten big hair wasn’t in and was half-way to the school before I remembered I didn’t have a hair brush.

This was not funny guys. I had to WALK INTO THE SCHOOL to retrieve the children. It was however very entertaining to the ladies in the office, and the assorted people in the parking lot. When I dropped my nephew at Grandma’s house, my mom came out to the car, shook her head, and turned around.

I heard her laughing all the way down the block. *Back to the manuscript* Twenty words later, the phone rings and it’s the Dear Husband needing banking information off the internet. *Back to the Manuscript.* College Daughter calls to fill me in on all things Sorority. *Back to the manuscript* I swear to God I had THREE WORDS written when the High School Son gets home and bounds into my Writer Clubhouse.

Still in the clown outfit of doom, I go into the high school, retrieve the Mp3 player and another daughter. *Back to the manuscript.* I hadn’t even opened the document when my mom showed up. The awesome outfit of color fit right in at Wal-Mart (I’d brushed my hair by now) and TV antennas were purchased and installed in Mom’s new house.

Three hours later I’m home, still in clown clothes, and I remember this post.

*Back to the manuscript.*

A huge thanks to Julie for pulling this guest post off in less than a day. She’s my new best friend! As for me, I wish I was getting back to the manuscript. Instead, I’m still moving. Gah! Will it never end?

Until the next time…I’ll be drinking wine (for medicinal purposes, of course.)

who cares about ghosts when you have wine?

Sleep…I’m beginning to think it’s a myth. Oh sure, I’ve nodded off over the past few days. Several times, in fact. Usually while writing my blog, or riding in the car. But once night falls and I close my eyes to sleep in my bed, something inevitably wakes me up.

The real question is, what?

Mike took a huge flashlight and a mobile video camera into the basement last night. He determined (after creeping around in the scariest basement I’ve ever seen outside of a horror movie) our ghost must surely be rats. Or a raccoon. Or possibly an oppossum. And as far as I know, possums are hardly supernatural. But, honestly, I’m not sure what’s worse. I think it might be easier to call in an exorcist to get rid of a ghost. Getting rid of furry rodents tends to be a little more complicated than that. You certainly need your wits about you if you’re going to try.

So, tonight I decided sleep would not fail me…no matter what extreme measures might be in order. I may have had to unpack eight boxes to find it, but wine was, without a doubt, on the menu for tonight.

Two glasses later, I think I might be ready to hit the sack. Let’s just hope it doesn’t hit back.

Until the next time…I’ll be grabbing at least forty winks for a change.

things that go bump in the night

There would be no sleep for me. Instead, there would be agitated dogs, creaking doors, banging ducts…and loaded shotguns.

Just another night in the creepy old farmhouse.

We were awaked from a dead sleep at three am by the sound of old hinges groaning on the floor below…the basement. Mike (who usually tells me to calm down and go back to sleep) was out of the bed, pulling his rifle from the closet to load it. The dogs were growling at the floor grates and staring into the darkness at things I couldn’t see.

I begged my husband to dial 911 as he slid another round into his gun, and challenged the ghost to a duel.

I’ve seen the Amityville Horror…I knew what would happen next. I made sure the door to the basement was locked and blockaded. Just in case, of course. I don’t believe in ghosts, but in the event they believe in me, I figured I’d be ready.

Ok, I’m lying…I believe in ghosts. And vampires. And zombies. Something just as terrifying was hanging out in my basement, and my husband was in his underwear, loaded shotgun in hand.

And I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open a mintute longer, so I’ll tell you about his adventure in the dark basement with nothing but a flashlight for a weapon, tomorrow night.

I know…that was mean. But I really am exhausted!

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to sleep.

who ya gonna call?

I think I may have stumbled across the one thing that will undoubtedly distract me from the bugs. Sooo, ummm, anyone know the number for the Ghost Hunters? Or the Ghostbusters? Even that tiny woman from Poltergiest…Tangina (although, she’s only one step up on the scary meter) I’m not going to get all picky here. I just need a good ghost exterminator.

Why is it things only seem to go bump in the night? I’ve never once heard a scary noise in the bright light of day. Could it be my hearing is just that much better after the sun goes down? Or do scary things really stay up waiting for us to drift off to sleep…sort of like cats.

Are scary things nocturnal, or am I just afraid of the dark?

Maybe a little of both, if my dogs are any indication. At eleven o’clock at night, they congregated around an open grate in one of the front rooms of the house, barking into the opening until the sound echoed throughout the ducts. My husband shined a flashlight into the grate but saw nothing but dust. The dogs weren’t convinced.

Neither was I.

An hour later, I still hear creaking sounds…and snoring. My husband and the dogs are all sound asleep as I hunker down under the blankets, listening for things that go bump in the night.

I want to go investigate, but I’ve seen far too many movies to even consider that.

Until the next time…I’ll be under the covers until the sun comes up!

my kingdom for some bug spray

Ah, the mountains. So beautiful. So breathtakingly serene. So many freaking bugs.

As I was watching my newly activated satellite TV this evening, a spider walked across my sheets. I managed to kill him (without a drop of guilt over his death) but I may never sleep again. The trauma has scarred me like a paper cut…superficial but severe. I didn’t sign up for all these damn bugs when I agreed to move to the mountains.

Nor did I sign up for no hot water. No cell phone service. No blazing fast high speed internet. Yeah, yeah…I get it. I’m spoiled. But I’m ok with being spoiled. It works for me. Now I’m forced to get used to these roughing it conditions. And before I get a dozen lectures about how millions of people are forced to get by boiling water over an open flame for their once a week bath (my husband did just that last night) or forced to use a landline telephone (I grew up using those…the kind with the cord attached to the wall off all things) or even dial-up internet (too scary to imagine in this century) I’ve lived through these things already. This is how I know there are better ways to live. Yes, as a spoiled individual…and remember, I’m ok with that. I’ve been camping. It’s overrated. Give me the Four Seasons any day.

View from my bedroom windowBut there are definite advantages to living in the mountains. The views are pretty amazing. As it turns out, the Blue Ridge mountains are actually blue. And you can see all the stars at night. Who knew there were so many? And once I air out this musty old house, I think it’s going to be pretty amazing to live here…even if I do have to contend with nature on a daily basis. Nature can be nice if you let it.

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping in my mosquito netting suit of armor!

homesick

I’ve decided I don’t like moving after all.

After only one night in the creepy old farmhouse (charming by day, creepy by night) I’ve found myself homesick. Not for the old house, I don’t really miss it that much…but for my kids. For the sounds in the night. For the familiarity of the floorplan. I guess I’m just homesick for home. It just doesn’t feel like home here…yet. Maybe it never will without my kids living here. I miss them horribly. And I just saw them today.

They say life is filled with difficult transitions, and this is just one of them. I don’t know about that. It feels almost like a part of me has been stripped away, and I’m not sure if time is a sufficient fix for something like that.

I guess I’ll find out.

Until the next time…I’ll be…yeah…more moving stuff.

doggone kids

Welcome to the Weekly Friday night Guest Spotlight.

Tonya CannariatoTonight’s guest is writer Tonya Cannariato. Click on Tonya’s picture to visit her website.

(My apologies to Tonya for posting late. As we arrived at our new house last night, expecting the internet to be installed and ready to go, we realized we were the ones expected to install it. Fast forward to morning when the tech support department was awake to activate. Ah…moving!)

Stress, thy name is Tonya: These days I juggle the day job, the freelance job, and the getting ready to release my first novel job. I cram my days full, and stumble into bed, exhausted, at night. Of course, perpetual 4-year-old children that are Siberian Huskies remain blissfully unconcerned about my dire need for sleep. To our two pups, night time is the right time for fun and adventure. That’s when my two fur-kids decide they need to ratchet up their midnight hi jinx.

Within five minutes of the lights finally going out, and about 30 seconds after I’ve rolled over into that comfy prelude-to-sleep position, I am attacked with a “woof” bomb. Kyra, the grande dame at 14 years old, drops the “woof” that means: “Oh yes, but of course I just remembered I need to go out one last time.” Natasha, the 1.5-year-old happy-happy, joy-joy playgirl makes a game of joining her—and sometimes one-upping her pranks.

This week, as Milwaukee enjoyed record-breaking summery weather, and I’ve been putting a premium on getting those few extra winks each night, I’ve acceded to their night-time obsession with sleeping outside—in the interest of avoiding the 4th and 5th “can I go out now?” woof requests in the depths of the night.

This worked well the first and second nights, but the third night I was startled awake by a racket that sounded very close to home. I went to the back door, looked out, and saw both girls by the little stretch of fence that spans the distance between my house and my neighbor’s. Natasha was frantically throwing herself against the gate, yipping and yowling in that particular Husky fashion. A quick glance at the clock confirmed 3:30am cacophony was not going to please my neighbors, so I needed to go out and investigate (in my night shirt… I’m only mostly confident I didn’t flash anyone).

Since both girls were fixated on something in the road, I glanced over and thought a neighbor’s cat was teasing them. So I went to Natasha and tried to soothe her. Kyra was fine with just going in the house and handing over the reins now that someone with authority had shown up. But not Natasha. She strained against me, squeaking and nudging, trying to get closer to the beastie in the road.

At this distance, I looked again. That was not a cat all fluffed up: That was a fully grown raccoon in a “hey punk, you want a piece of me!” stare-down with my baby.

This confirmed all my over-protective fears about leaving her outside overnight and I all but wrestled Natasha into the house.

That’s when the fun started. As a whiling dervish, she thought maybe she could see the raccoon from the living room window. Or the front door, open to catch the least breeze of cool night wind. Then she would tear by me on the way back to the back door. She completed at least three of these reckless circuits through the small space, each time brushing by me as if I were the boogey man deserving the extra burst of avoidance speed. She did not want me holding her back from her goal this time.

Oddly, my husband managed to sleep through this all. And I was lucky that once Natasha was no longer available to make eye contact, the local wildlife shambled off down the road. When I finally re-opened the back door for her and she raced out to her previous vantage point, there was no longer anything to be excited about. But all that extra adrenaline meant she had to trot the perimeter of the back yard for much longer than I was willing to watch.

The good thing about the early morning adventure? Not that I struggled and grumped my way to work the next morning, certainly. Instead, our bonus was a slumbering pup, who slept the sleep of the just. Of the working dog who has protected her family.

Until the next time…I’ll be unpacking boxes! (and boy, will I be unpacking boxes!)

I'm officially an activist

After last night’s response to my tampon dilemma, I’ve decided to become an advocate…no, an activist…for women. We need affordable feminine products. And we’re going to bite the heads off Barbies until we get them!

Ok…so maybe not the head biting, but the rest is true.

After reading all the comments last night, I discovered people were blaming everything from OPEC and global warming, to the Republicans and the drought for the rising cost of cotton. I also discovered there are crazy people out there who think feminine hygiene products are luxury items. Luxury? Really? So, if they’re a luxury, that suggests we can just choose not to use them.

Wouldn’t that be interesting?

Imagine if women everywhere just decided to boycott all feminine products. I don’t think I can write about how horrible…how frightening…that idea truly is. And I don’t think the men out there would survive a post apocalyptic society where women just gave up.

Talk about your zombie invasions!

Ok…enough about that. I got the heebee jeebees just thinking about it.

So, if not a boycott, then what do we do?

Sounds like we’re back to biting the heads off Barbie dolls. A scary band of PMSing women biting the heads from dolls in drug store parking lots? I don’t know…I sort of think I’ll come to my senses in a day or two…when the hormones wear off. I might be a little more rational by then.

I sure hope the world survives that long.

Until the next time…I’ll be moving (wish me luck!)

seriously...eight dollars a box?

Ok, I’m going there. I am. You can’t stop me…don’t even try. So, if you’re easily offended, you might want to brace yourself. I’m about to cross a line I’ve always tried to avoid.

Sure…I write about PMS. A lot. But I never go there. I never actually bring up the dreaded feminine hygiene products. Well…that was then.

This is now.

I had to go buy tampons today, and I have just one thing to say. Are you really going to charge a woman on the edge eight dollars a box for tampons? Do you hear me? A. Woman. On. The. Edge! I mean, seriously…eight dollars? Do you have any idea how many of these things we go through? And it’s not like they’re woven out of precious metals…or even cashmere. We’re talking cotton.

Cotton!

I’m seriously considering a boycott…I’m not even close to letting this drop…but it’ll have to wait until next week. I’m not exactly myself right now. I’m likely to bite someone’s head off or something. Although, that might put a fright into them. I should go into the store with a Barbie doll and bite the head off as a show of…something. I don’t know what.

With my luck I’d get arrested for terroristic threats, or some crazy thing.

Then again…I suppose I’d have a valid excuse.

Until the next time…I’ll be biting the heads off imaginary Barbies.

three days and counting

Do I really need small appliances? I don’t even drink plain coffee, so why can’t I just throw out the coffeemaker? I mean…that’s why they have Starbucks, right? It just seems so much easier than packing it. And let’s talk about toast…how often do we really make toast? Can’t I just light a fire and hold the bread over it? Do you have any idea how much room a toaster takes up in a box? And while we’re talking boxes…sure they’re cheap, but even at a dollar a piece they add up. Quickly.

So, the closer we get to moving day, the bigger my toss pile is getting. I’ve already sold my leather sleigh bed (cuz who wants to move that?) And I know I said I wanted to keep all forty-two of those wine glasses, but I’m thinking it might not be so bad to drink straight from the bottle. I don’t entertain that much anyway. In fact…I barely have any real friends (other than you…and you know who you are.)

How am I ever going to be ready in three days?

Maybe I should order a few pizzas and invite all my readers to come pack with me…hey, it could happen.

Until the next time…I’ll be weeding through the rest of my stuff.