it's not supposed to rain in the basement

Just to be perfectly clear…it is not supposed to rain in the basement.

I had to call my husband at work yesterday. I didn’t want to call my husband, and sometimes I do want to, but this time I had to call him. He didn’t answer his phone, it rolled straight to voice mail, so, of course, I did what every resourceful wife does…I sent him a 911 text message. One simple word, “Emergency!” and before I knew it, the phone was ringing in my hand.

“What?” His voice was stained with irritation.  You would think I cry wolf all the time or something. Which, I don’t, of course. That would be stupid, and I’m anything but stupid. Ok, sometimes I over react but that’s not the same thing as being stupid. This time I was not over reacting.

“Um…is it supposed to be raining in the basement?” I asked, ever so innocently.

Ok, maybe it was sarcastically, but either way, my point was made.

Depths of Hell coming up the tubBefore I even got to the whole, depths of Hell coming up the tub drain part of the story, my husband was on his way home from work in the middle of the day, and I was still left with a mysteriously filled bathtub (rusty, dirty water loudly gurgling up uninvited from the drain) and it was still raining in the basement.

The worst part of it was the fact that I had to go into the basement (alone) to investigate. This is how I discovered it was raining down there. And it was apparently raining the same dirty, orange colored water that was coming up the drain in the tub.

The first thing I asked myself was, “Wasn’t this a major plot point in a horror movie? One I purposely avoided out of a deep-seated fear?” Yes, I believe it was.

My bathtub is haunted.

Pipes in the basement ceilingMy bathtub isn’t haunted. Or so says my husband. And the plumber. And the scary clog the plumber managed to dislodge from the ancient, 1920’s era cast iron pipes running through the bowels of my creepy basement.

I am beginning to wonder if it’s just too much to ask to be able to take a shower without the depths of Hell coming up to greet me. Is it any wonder I’m developing a bathroom phobia? Don’t these people understand how OCD works? Didn’t they see The Aviator?

Apparently not.

Well, I suppose I’ll take a shower tomorrow. After I thoroughly disinfect the entire bathroom, just to be safe. And it might not be a bad idea to do my disinfecting with a bottle of Holy water and a bit of dialogue from the Exorcist. “The power of Christ compels you.”

That and some bleach ought to do the trick!

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping with an umbrella!

I spanked my dolls

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Joani PlentyTonight’s guest is writer, Joani Plenty. For more about Joani, click on her photo to visit her website.

I spanked my dolls. Don’t judge me.

Back in the day, when jailbreak meant getting your friends out of an imaginary prison without being tagged; “You’re going down!” wasn’t an ignored sexual-slur from your husband after three beers but a battle cry before a dodge ball game, and being “sick” was a bad thing, parenting methods were a bit different than they are today.

Being an only child had, and will always have, its perks. The television channel, dinner choice and prize at the bottom of the cereal box, were all mine! Mine. Mine. Mine. This simple knifelike word, if used for evil, could make other kids evaporate into thin air. So, of course, I used my powers wisely. For instance, as an only child, using a statement like, “I’m taking my ball and going home!” was like Wonder Woman leaving the Justice League; without her, everyone else is just a bunch of lackadaisical chumps in silly underwear. Hence, I saved that one for when I really needed to go in for the kill.

Being an only child had its bad points too, though:

• If my friends couldn’t come out to play; I was pretty lonely.
• I was blamed for everything (for good reason; whatever it was…I did it).
• There wasn’t anyone to have my back in a fight after I ran my mouth recklessly on the school bus.

An only-child’s imagination is like a sixth sense. I’m a Pisces and an only child. This caused the creative snow globe that sat atop my shoulders to be constantly worked; lie after…I mean story after story. I would tell people that I had a sister named Stacy but no one ever saw her because she was traveling with gypsies; performing disco songs. Well, except Tuesdays and Thursdays when she was teaching Linda Carter self-defense.

I grew up in the late 70s and 80s but, because I was raised by my Grandmother, I was two decades behind all of my friends. I remember, like it was yesterday, when I was in the 3rd grade and my friends came over to listen to music for the first time. I looked like a complete freakazoid when I eagerly pulled out my chunky, rectangular, Frank Sinatra and Johnny Mathis 8-tracks. The money stolen from my Grandmother’s purse to buy new friends and regain my “street cred” could have bought me, and all of my dolls, like twenty boxes of sugary-sour ‘Lemon Heads’.

I shared everything with my dolls. They were my sisters. Especially “Nancy”. She was my favorite. “Nancy” was everything that I wasn’t because, again, reality was stupid and something only rich kids and pessimists had to endure. She had long blonde hair (until I cut it all off after watching ‘Mommy Dearest’), a confused and aloof look on her face due to my Grandmother’s Southern Comfort that I used to pour into her sippy cup and was as tall as I me.

Yup! We were pretty tight. When I would have a fight with my best friend, Dana (who was also an only child so there was a very thin line between love and hate), and needed to replace her for a few days, Nancy’s hand was always the first to go up. I took her everywhere that I went. This drove my Grandmother crazy because she was too cool for such nonsense. Her children didn’t even call her “mom” but by her first name, instead. It was definitely a cramp in Grandmom’s style having me, and a life-sized doll with a buzz cut, shoved into the barely-there backseat of her brown corvette.

The problem with Nancy was that she was a little too flippant for her own good. This, along with my low tolerance for bullshit, meant that I had to, sometimes, “lay the smack down”. One day, needing a break from deep thought over how I was going to earn enough money to beat my Frogger high score at the arcade, I decided to take Nancy for a ride in Grandmom’s corvette. I waited until I heard my Grandmother laughing loudly while watching “Blondie” or some other not-so-funny-yet-you-can’t-look-away black and white show on television. I quietly reached for her car key. You couldn’t miss it; it was the one on the big yardstick-looking keychain that said, “Stitch & Bitch”. I grabbed Nancy by her ankle (the rest of her body was under my bed…what was I supposed to do? I was in a hurry. This was no time to play effin “Hide & Seek”). I quietly shut the front door and headed for what was now, in my head, my “K.I.T.T” (Knight Industries Two Thousand); my sports car of the future. Pffftttt. Who wishes she didn’t argue with me over whether or not Bo Duke was hotter than Luke Duke now, Dana?!

I put my new BFF, Nancy, into the passenger seat and went around to become one with “K.I.T.T” in the driver’s seat. I placed the key into the ignition and fiddled around with the buttons. Pressing, twisting and pulling everything that shined. I didn’t care which buttons were which because “K.I.T.T” does all of the driving anyway. Just then, I felt a sinking flutter in my belly.

“Were we always this far from the curb?” I thought. “Grandmom needs to work on her parking skills.”

*BEEP*

My heart jumped. I was scared shitless. Well, more like shitFULL. My neighbor laying her heavy, wrinkled, gaudy-ringed hands onto the horn of her car, was a newly discovered, natural, laxative. To make matters worse, I looked over at Nancy who was slouched in the passenger seat on her way to the floor smiling at me. I was furious! I didn’t see the humor in our near death experience, the fact that “K.I.T.T” malfunctioned, or that the only reason my Grandmother wasn’t outside beating me with my own plastic “Jelly” belt was because she was searching high and low for my “Jelly” shoe, instead.

“Are you laughing at me, Nancy?” I asked. “Wha…what did you say? Oooooh, you want to talk back!”

I flew the car door open and headed over to the passenger side of the “Vette”; but not before it whipped back at me and knocked my frail, thin body onto the ground. Sometimes I don’t know my own super-strength. I yanked Nancy out of the car, took off my “Jelly” belt, pulled down her pants and proceeded to whop her plastic, peach-crayon colored backside rapidly. It hurt me more than it hurt her, I’m sure.

Just then, like a ninja, my Grandmother appeared behind me.

“If you don’t get your ass and that bald-headed doll into the house right now, I’m going to show you how it’s really done.” she said, through a closed mouth and gritted teeth, like the worlds best ventriloquist.

By now I was crying hysterically (because that’s how only-children cry), thinking of a master plan to remove my Grandmother from the planet and no longer calling “Nancy” my BFF. “Maybe Dana wants to come over.” I thought. “Eric Estrada is hotter than both Bo and Luke. #truestory

Thank you Joani! I think I’ve discovered a little more than I wanted to know about your kinky tendencies…doll spanking of all things. ;) Ok, so maybe I spanked a few dolls in my day. But it’s not like they didn’t deserve it!

Until the next time…I’ll be digging out a few dolls, just for old time sake.

no, the sky isn't falling

I’ve named one of my chicks Henny Penny and one, Chicken Little. But despite what the names might imply, I’m fairly sure the sky isn’t falling. But I am exhausted after another day of farm living and chick chasing, so tonight I’m going to share the pictures everyone has been asking me for.

The three runaway hens from the other night. I call them Henrietta (they all look alike, so they are all Henrietta until I can figure a way to tell them apart.)

This is the three hens with Indiana Jones, the mastiff. He watches over them to be sure they don’t escape…or hoping they do…I’m not sure which.

And the little chicks…they’re getting a visit from Bart the cat. He likes to watch over them too…but I think he’s trying to figure out how to get in to their house. I’m not sure what he wants to do once he gets in, but I have a feeling he’s up to no good.

So there you have it. Farm living with a bunch of chickens. Am I the only one who thinks this might be a bit extreme just to get fresh eggs? Ok…it’s not just for the eggs. I’m having such fun interacting with these crazy birds…just wait until my husband gets the pigs!

Didn’t I tell you about the pigs?

Until the next time…I’ll be taking a long overdue nap!

would you like some whine with your cheese?

I’m tired of unpacking boxes. Oh, sure. I’d be done if I just kept going until the last box was empty, but the problem doesn’t really lie with the unpacking as much as the putting away. Unpacking is easy. You open a box, tip it over, and out everything comes. The hard part is finding someplace to put it.

I have three boxes of china. And before you say anything…I need three boxes of china. I do. No, really. Say it with me…I need them. I just don’t know where to put them yet. But I’ll figure it out. I will. Just not today.

Today, I unpacked more kitchen gadgets, and discovered where all my storage bowls had gone. I can now put leftovers away properly. I also found the spices and baking stuff so I can finally make the biscuits for strawberry shortcake. Well, as soon as we replace the berries we ate when I couldn’t find the stuff to make the biscuits.

It’s amazing what you find when unpacking boxes. It reminds me of what I found last time I moved. Well…it wasn’t exactly a good discovery, but it was a learning experience nonetheless.

Have you ever thrown caution to the wind and taken a crazy chance? Ever done something incredibly dangerous and foolish?

Yeah, me neither. But once upon a time, I came close.

I was unpacking boxes (because no matter when I move, it seems to take me forever to do this) and discovered a bottle of port wine. There was enough wine left in the bottle for half of one glass. I love port, what girl doesn’t? Port is sweet, and warm, and mellow…all the way down. Like a super special dessert! Especially with a nice piece of dark chocolate, which I just happened to have on hand. So, I uncorked the bottle, and took a whiff.

The bouquet was lovely, exactly as I expected, and I was delighted. I put the bottle to my lips and took a swig.

I knew instantly that I shouldn’t swallow. The wine was gritty, and sour on my tongue. I should have known better…I couldn’t even remember when we bought it. Who knows how long since it had turned. How long had it been in the cupboard before I packed it away?

I quickly spat into the sink and scrambled to rinse my mouth. It was hours before I was convinced I hadn’t been poisoned.

I won’t do that again.

But I wouldn’t mind a fresh bottle…or rather, a perfectly aged but not spoiled bottle. With the dark chocolate, of course. I might just have to go get one tomorrow. It will be my little secret.

You won’t tell will you?

Maybe I’ll just finish unpacking boxes first. It can be my reward. I love prizes.

Until the next time…I’ll looking for more buried treasure in my moving boxes!

welcome to the peep show

We’re in month two of living on the farm and I can honestly say, it’s nothing if not interesting. There is rarely a dull moment around here.

Take today, for example.

Now that we’ve had our three grown hens for two plus weeks, it’s time to ease them into roaming the yard, outside of their pen. We were cautioned to do this gradually. The hens should be released just before sunset, for just a few minutes, then coaxed back to their coop with bread. Easy, right?

Not if you decide on day two of the process that you’re going to let them loose at the dinner hour (several hours before sundown) and let them wander around for an hour, filling their bellies with worms and other delicacies so bread is of little consequence to them. Yeah…this was a recipe for disaster.

For my part, I warned the husband this would happen. I warned him over and over again the entire time the chickens were wandering the yard.

“The man at the chicken store said we’re supposed to wait til just before dusk.”

“He said they’re only supposed to be out for a few minutes at a time.”

“They don’t want the bread. They don’t want to come back to the coop either. You should have listened to the guy at the chicken store.”

“What do you mean, we’ll just catch them? Have you ever tried to catch a chicken? Didn’t you see Rocky 2? Or was it 3? I don’t remember which one it was, but Mickey had Rocky chasing chickens as a training exercise, and it took him most of the movie to catch one. And, um…you’re not in as good a shape as Rocky.”

“I’m not going to dive for a chicken…and they’re too fast for you. You really should have listened to the man at the chicken store.”

This is when the neighbor’s puppies showed up in our yard. They’re only a few months old, and very sweet, but they really like chasing chickens. And while I was busy helping my husband herd three wayward hens back into their coop, the puppies were trying to break into the peep pen (the baby chicks must be far more interesting than the grown ones wandering the yard.)

It was as if I was on an episode of Punk’d.

There were chickens running everywhere. Puppies leaping and bouncing every which way. My husband carrying a giant red rake waving his arms like a crazy person. And me, rationalizing with chickens.

“Come on, chickies…come back to your nice house.”

“Oh, chickies…chick chick chickies…I have bread…you love bread.”

One by one, my husband cornered the chickens, capturing them to put each one into the coop.  It was a harrowing ordeal. And once all the chickens were back in their pens, I discovered my Runaway Joey was missing. The dog that can’t seem to stay in the yard had apparently wandered off again.

I hopped into the car, still covered in stray feathers and bread crumbs, and drove through the backroads for twenty or thirty minutes before my husband called me back home.

Crisis averted. The dog was in the house the whole time.

And after that work out, I deserve a drink! That’s right…one frostly cold mango wine cooler coming right up! If only I could twist off the lid.

Maybe I’ll just go to bed instead. I’m kinda tired.

Until the next time…I’ll be unpacking the bottle opener!

sometimes it's ok to drink and blog

I only had one drink.  One.  It wasn’t even a big drink.  It was one little drink.  One little insignificant, girly, flavored daiquiri. OK, so maybe it was a big drink…one great big blended fruity girly rum-based drink. But we’re still talking about me here…it really doesn’t take more than one.  One drink and the room spins.  One drink and my face flushes bright red.  One drink and the keyboard is blurry. 

It’s a good thing I don’t look at the keys when I type.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t driving tonight. 

It’s a good thing I don’t have anything better to do than go to bed and sleep.

And I should certainly sleep well tonight…with many good dreams in my future.

Speaking of dreams…

I’m not sure how I ended up having a drink tonight, anyway.  One minute we were driving back from dropping Mike’s youngest daughter back to her mother, and the next thing I know, we’re whipping up daiquiris in the blender and I’m remembering an almost eerily similar moment from a few years ago when after dropping Mady at home we found ourselves sitting outside a neighborhood café, and I was ordering a pineapple martini. 

I decided then it would be wonderful to do this on a weekly basis. I wanted to have a love affair with the neighborhood café.  Especially the ones with an outdoor patio.  Especially on beautiful nights when the temperature dips below eighty, and the gods grace us with a cool breeze just to put a lovely cherry on the top of our Sunday night.

So on that night almost two years ago, as we sat at our little café table, beneath an umbrella, on the patio of the cutest neighborhood café in the historic shopping district of Roswell, Georgia and sipped our drinks—my martini…and his imported beer—and chatted with the people at the table next to us, I dreamed of a day when that would be my life. 

It gave me hope for the future.   

Hope for a day, somewhere off in the not so distant future, when I could sit at a neighborhood café with a drink.  Maybe even reading a book as I do.  Maybe with some really pretty mountain views, and temperatures somewhere in the low seventies even in the daylight hours.

And here I am…mountain views from my very own porch…blended daiquiri in my hands…home.

Sometimes dreams really do come true.

Until the next time…I’ll be working on tomorrow night’s Daywalkers!

cock-a-doodle-do!

If you’ve been keeping up, you know I recently moved to the farm and bought a bunch of baby chickens. Then two weeks ago, I added a few mostly grown, almost ready to lay, hens to those baby chickens. And today, I picked up a few more chicks, just for the fun of it.

You could say I’m obsessed with chickens…in fact, my husband said he was becoming addicted to the farm animal aspect of farm living. It’s like watching the chicken show every day. Just toss a few live worms, or a piece of white bread, into the chicken pen and sit back and watch the show!

I was so excited today as I did the head count…three almost ready to lay eggs…and twelve that will be just a few months behind them. Ummm…make that eleven.

Cock-a-doodle-doOne of my pullets (girl chickens) is actually a rooster (that’s a boy chicken for the uninformed.)

I discovered this little twist while examining my chicks today in the yard. One of them was more interested in flying than the others. It was trying to perch up high. It was bigger than the others. And it has a strangely over-developed “comb” (that’s the red thing on the top of their heads). This discovery prompted me to pick him up and check out his very muscular legs.

This chick has a pair of spurs on his legs. Hens don’t have spurs…Roosters have spurs. I have a rooster.

OMG! I have a rooster!

I was so excited. Suddenly, I was trying to come up with very roostery names for this “king of the peeps.” I pulled a chair up to the pen and stared down at him for hours, watching how he moves…how he interacts with the others…waiting for him to crow (he hasn’t yet.) 

My husband came up behind me and asked if my fascination with roosters means I’m obsessed with cocks.

Men. They always have to circle the conversation back to that!

Then again…does living on a farm mean I can say cock without getting strange looks? Can I invite people to come check out my…nah…probably not.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for my rooster to crow!

a mouse in the house

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Ciara BallintyneTonight’s guest is writer, Ciara Ballintyne. For more about Ciara, click on her photo to visit her website.

Mum has a wicked sense of humour. Dad maintains that’s not true – she just enjoys laughing at other people’s misfortune. If you actually look up ‘wicked’ in the dictionary you get five definitions. These two seemed relevant:

Evil by nature and in practice; or

Playfully malicious or mischievous:

So, Dad, any new thoughts on Mum’s sense of humour?

Despite having a wicked sense of humour, Mum has a soft spot for soft and furry creatures. Especially cats. And even mice her cats bring home.

So Mum’s cat, Mandu (ha ha) is out the back, tossing something 4 or 5 feet up in the air, catching it and then doing it again.

‘Oh, she’s got a mouse! Go rescue it.’

‘Why me?’

‘I’m not touching the mouse.’

So I go out to rescue the mouse. OK, OK, you got me, I felt sorry for it too. Don’t spread it around, all right. You’ll ruin my rep.

Cats don’t like it much when you take away their playthings and the playthings generally don’t appreciate you’re trying to rescue them. So while trying to separate the cat from the mouse, the mouse did a runner. Mice move fast, and you need to think fast to stay ahead of them, and maybe I didn’t do the thinking part so well, but I damn sure managed to stay in front of that mouse.

I put my foot in front of it, you see.

The leg of my pants fell over the mouse.

The mouse ran up my pants.

Yeah, like I said, not so much on the thinking….

The good news was the mouse ran up the inside seam of my pants and not my leg. The bad news was Mum stood inside doubled over with laughter shrieking ‘take your pants off where all the neighbours can see!’ and there was no one else home to help me.

I got the mouse out without needing to strip off in the backyard. I don’t recall what happened to it. I expect I didn’t care. The cat could have run off with the damn thing with my blessing.

But I did learn to be cautious of any requests from my Mum. Even if she wasn’t trying to suck me into anything, I sure knew she wouldn’t help me out if I got into trouble trying to help her out.

Hasn’t got a wicked sense of humour… my arse!

Thanks to Ciara for being a guest again this week. I think she and I have similar moms. I’m pretty sure mine would have gotten a huge kick out of seeing me shriek with a mouse in my pants. I’ll be sure to avoid that just in case.

Until the next time…I’ll be watching for mice in the yard!

getting up with the chickens

Getting up with the chickens. I guess I never really thought about the phrase, or what it meant. I never considered what time a chicken might want to get up. Or if they really care, for that matter.

That was, of course, before I had a mini flock of my own chickens to contend with. Now I know the truth. chickens are without a doubt “early birds”.

The hens impatiently wait for the dawn, to be released from the confines of their coop. The baby chicks start peeping loudly at the first glimmer of sunlight. Their message comes in loud and clear…feed us.

And so goes my morning…

Until the next time…I’ll be rising with the chickens.

sometimes life makes you fight for it

Life is short.  We are here but for a moment, and we have very few opportunities to make our time memorable.  And I don’t mean to say that any of us needs to strive for fame, or notoriety.  But to have an opportunity to touch the people who cross our paths, even for a moment, is a great gift.

I don’t know how long I will be on this earth.  Life is full of mysteries, and I hope that mine is long and full, and that I have many chances to make a difference in the lives of those around me.  I am a writer, so my gift to the world comes in the form of words.  I write for the people, be it one, one thousand, or one million, and if even one of my blog entries has touched someone’s life…made them think…made them laugh…or maybe even made them cry…then I have done what I set out to do over two years ago. 

Of course, I discovered somewhere in the middle that writing a blog about myself and my life is a little like doing a reality TV show in print.  It took my husband a very long time to make peace with my public personna, in fact, he often steers far clear of the blog for fear of what he might read about himself. My children read occasionally, mostly on the days they find themselves featured as starring characters.  And the rest of my family checks in on a fairly regular basis to see what I might be up to next.  I am very lucky to have a wide range of readers who come back day after day (even on days when I didn’t have much to say), hopeful that I will come up with something funny to bring joy to their day. 

Thank you for sticking with me even on those days when the funny is overcome by the drudgery of daily life, and sad news, weighing heavily on my shoulders. We can never let ourselves forget that life will often make you fight for it.

I would like to ask that everyone who reads the blog today please keep my Aunt Joanie in their thoughts and prayers. She needs all the positive energy we can possible send her way.

Until the next time…I’ll be here, enjoying my moment, for as long as they let me!

ahhh...the secrets of marital bliss

After what can only be described as a miserable weekend, I had a lovely Sunday night, followed by a pretty good Monday, and a great Tuesday.

I even shaved my legs!

I’m going to chalk it up to marital bliss. And then I’m going to attempt to deconstruct what that means, exactly.

You may remember reading about me latched onto the free internet at the local McDonald’s late Saturday night, as I sat in my car with my dog and my laptop after an argument with my hubby. My mom called me the next day to make sure I made it home safely (which, of course, I did). I only spent an hour in my car, writing my blog and surfing the net…making a point, if you will. And I think it was a point well made.

The truth is, it takes time and distance from an issue for any true resolution to come out of it. And maybe just a little groveling. I’m pretty sure washing a few loads of laundry, plus a sink full of dishes (and making a home cooked meal) will get most husbands out of the proverbial dog house. Mine included.

Now I just need to convince the dog that all is forgiven. Indy is much less forgiving than I.

Once upon a time, I had to contend with toddlers climbing into bed after a scary dream. As they grew up, it was the assorted issues kids seem to have right at bedtime. A drink of water, a trip to the bathroom, a story. And after that, it was teenagers out with the car that created stress and worry, effectively squashing any chance of romance.

Indiana Jones, the mastiffNow, living on the farm…kids grown and out…it’s the dog who wants to climb into bed with us.

Indiana Jones, the mastiff has decided to challenge my husband for my attention. And let’s face it, there’s nothing like a little competition to get a man to step up to the plate, right?

That and freshly shaved legs.

But I’m not going there…

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping in the middle.

so much for a good time Saturday night

It’s a Saturday night and I’m sitting in my car, in a McDonald’s parking lot, using their free internet without ordering any food. Ordinarily, that might make me feel slightly guilty, but not tonight. Tonight I have more important things to worry about.

Maybe I should back up?

I had an argument with my husband…the subject matter isn’t really all that important…the end result was that he handed me the keys to the car and told me to leave. At almost eleven o’clock at night!

I’m sure he was being dramatic. Even men can be dramatic from time to time. But I decided to do exactly what he said. So I left.

He stood open mouthed in the kitchen as I gathered my laptop, my phone and my Nook, grabbed my purse and my dog and headed to the car. He even followed me out to the driveway, probably expecting me to turn right back around and come inside. But not me. Nope. I was determined to go. The only problem with that is I had no where else to go.

And that’s exactly why I’m at McDonald’s…the only place still open this late in the country. Go figure…

So much for life being simple in the country. As it turns out, your problems go with you wherever you go…whether you pack them or not.

Oh, not to worry. I’ll go home eventually. I sort of feel like I’m five again. Packing my little suit case and running away to the sidewalk because I wasn’t allowed to cross the street. But before I head home, I might get some fries first…I know the dog has been eyeing the menu since we got here. Until then, I’ll go ahead and write my blog and finish reading my book. Why not? The car is full of gas and the internet is free. And it’s not like I don’t spend my share of money at the local McDonald’s…right?

Until the next time…I’ll be wasting gas in the parking lot!

ageing isn't for sissies

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Toby NealTonight’s guest is writer Toby Neal, author of Blood Orchids. For more about Toby, click on her photo to visit her website.

Ageing isn’t for sissies.

Yeah, I know. Not an original thought. Yet I find that, like death and taxes, it’s a shock that it’s happening to all of us, all the time, as we read this—but only if we’re lucky enough.

Some people, with fabulous genes and tons of money, can cheat it for awhile… but ageing, for women, is a real bitch.

Hell, male ageing is a mean bastard too.

Somehow I didn’t think it would happen to me, and I know The Hubby didn’t think it would happen to him—and the shocker is, if the TV ads and changing media themes are anything to go by, we’re just statistics in a huge population bulge, all of us horrified and angry about the onset of these indignities.

Let me list some:

• ·         Having recently had a close encounter (very close, mind you) with a Mammogram machine, I’m in a position to tell you it was designed by a man. No woman would leave corners on something like a giant, freezing waffle iron that squishes your tit and then say, “Don’t breathe for at least a minute while we get this image” while dragging your boob around like it’s a piece of Silly Putty.
• ·         The phrase “just relax” as applied to a rectal exam is not really helpful.
• ·         The hot flashes of menopause in women often coincide with the onset of Viagra in men (but only if you’ve managed to stay married that long.)
• ·         Arthritis hurts and get this—there’s no cure. I know, shocking right? Just get used to being in pain and creaking around until it’s so bad you have to have a giant joint replacement operation that may or may not work. The alternative? Not having the operation and getting more and more crippled and in pain. But hey, you won’t die from it. That’s the good news.
• ·         Skin is highly underappreciated until it all begins heading south and erupting in cancer as a result of all that frolicking you did in the ocean when you were young and thought you’d live forever.
• ·         Wrinkles as the result of smiling most of your life end up making you look grumpy. I find this particularly ironic as I contemplate the deep hooked lines beside my mouth. Yep, I got those sad hound-dog grooves  from SMILING.
• ·         Hair—where do I begin? For women, the debate of dyeing vs. not dyeing. For men, the manscaping of areas that should NEVER have hair growing out of them while Rogaine-ing areas that SHOULD have hair.
• ·         Tight waistbands- apparently as you age, you have to eat less and work out more to stay the same. How fair is that, I ask you?

All these things combine to make me even more committed to escaping into writing crime/suspense romances where the protagonists are young and fit, the sex is hot, and the fights don’t pull any punches for potbellies.

***

Check out my fast-paced crime novel Blood Orchids—it’s FREE April 28 and 29!

http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Orchids-Lei-Crime-ebook/dp/B006FBDHG2/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1322808926&sr=1-3

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/blood-orchids-toby-neal/1107759000?ean=2940013517806

also, my website!
http://www.tobyneal.net/

About Toby Neal:

Toby Neal was raised on Kauai in Hawaii. She wrote and illustrated her first story at age 5 and has been published in magazines and won several writing contests. After initially majoring in Journalism, she eventually settled on mental health as a career and loves her work, saying, “I’m endlessly fascinated with people’s stories.”

She enjoys many outdoor sports including bodyboarding, scuba diving, beach walking, gardening and hiking. She lives in Hawaii with her family and dogs.

Toby credits her counseling background in adding depth to her characters–from the villains to Lei Texeira, the courageous and vulnerable heroine in the Lei Crime Series.

Thanks to Toby for another fantastic guest post. I’ll be back tomorrow night with more of my usual…errrr…crap from down here on the farm.

Until the next time…I’ll be making an appointment to have my roots touched up!

oh, it's hit the fan alright...

I have a giant yellow piece of digging machinery in my yard. I think it’s called a caterpillar, but truthfully, I don’t know for sure. I know it’s menacing and it digs giant holes in the earth. So far three of them. It’s searching for buried treasure. But don’t go getting too excited. I haven’t found the map to One Eyed Willie’s pirate ship or anything. I wish.

They’re searching for my septic tank. Gross, I know. But the worst part was when the guy told my husband that back when my house was built (in the 1920’s) they used to use all sorts of things for septic tanks. He once dug up a sealed up Volkswagon (or so he says, I’m still trying to Google the truth out of that one.) They’d better find the damn thing soon. It’s not functioning properly and it’s backing up into my basement. Yeah…when the shit hits the fan, as the saying goes. Oh, don’t get me started on that one…

Let’s recap my first month in the country, shall we?

I moved in to a house with no hot water for almost two weeks. My washing machine is finally hooked up, but my dryer isn’t, so I can’t really do laundry unless I hang it to dry, and let’s not push my luck with this whole country thing, shall we? My  dishwasher has power, finally, but no water (another long story), and now my septic is backing up into the scary basement (which was already ripped directly out of The Ring and didn’t need any help being terrifying.)

Let’s not forget we might discover someone’s old Beetle, sealed up in a hole serving as a raw sewage receptacle. What the hell…maybe we will find One Eyed Willie’s treasure out there, and if we do…treasure can be washed in super hot water with lots of antibacterial soap, right?

Is it any wonder I’ve decided to disappear into a racy good book or three?

Until the next time…I’ll be knee deep in treasure with a book in my hands!

fifty shades of wow

Call me inattentive, but I had no idea what the fuss was all about. I had never heard of Fifty Shades of Grey, by E.L. James. I avoid fan fiction (I’m not sure why), especially Twilight (which I loved, by the way). But from what I could gather, this story wasn’t Twilight related…or was it? I’ll admit it, I was intrigued. I did a bit of research and bought the book on my Nook Tablet.

I can definitely say, my Achilles tendonitis was well-timed. I’ve been trying to stay off my feet until the inflamation does down, and it’s given me time to read this very provocative book trilogy. I’m in the middle of book 2 and quite obsessed.

I’m always up for a good romance, and this one everything. The characters are compelling, the story intriguing, and the naughty parts are perfectly delicious. It’s really too bad my husband has to work all day. Oh well…the weekend isn’t far off. But I’m slipping off topic here…

It’s been another rainy day. The dogs have been stuck in the house…bored. Bringing me toys while I’m trying to read, so I set the Nook down to throw the ball, or the stuffed bear, in the living room until they seem placated, then go back to my book. The chickens have been fed (they love graham crackers of all things), the dogs have climbed into bed beside me (as have the cats) and we fight over real estate in my shrinking king size bed as I try to read.

I haven’t once thought about unpacking a box, doing a dish, or washing laundry. Everything is on hold until I finish my books. A good book deserves my undivided attention…and it has it.

Hey, that’s just how I roll.

Until the next time…I’ll be reading.

my love life is going to the dogs

When I told my husband that after several weeks of exhaustion, it would be nice to get a bit of attention, this was not what I had in mind.

Maybe it’s just all the excitement around the house these days. All the moving boxes. The new chickens. Neighbor kids in and out of the yard. All this has caused Indy to act more than a bit frisky this evening.

Believe me when I say, I adore my dog, but you know that old saying, “You can love your dog…just don’t love your dog.”

I admit it…I’ve laughed watching a dog hump a stranger’s leg. Giggled at movies where dogs hump stray stuffed animals. Even other unsuspecting dogs at the park. But I can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it is not funny when a 180 pound dog decides to make you the target of his amorous attentions.

Ok, I lied. It’s a little funny. Until you realize he’s quite determined…and he has your legs pinned under him. But I was too smart for him…bruised tendons or not, I wriggled safely away.

And when he gave up on me, he tried to hump my husband. And I have to admit…that was pretty funny…(to me anyway.) Thankfully, the dog has worn himself out with his unsucessful attempts at romance and he’s snoring on the floor by the bed.

Isn’t that just like a man?

Until the next time…I’ll be icing my ankle.

ice ice baby

Ah…living in the mountain. The fresh air…the relaxing atmosphere…the gorgeous views…the aches and pains!

Between feeding the chicks, tending to the new hens, chasing the dogs when they forget their boundaries, entertaining the neighbor kids (the Goonies), and trying to unpack everything I freaking own…I hurt so bad.

And I do mean soooo bad.

I’m ready to stick my feet in a bucket of ice. And I’ll need an ice pack for my knees too. And while we’re at it, can I get one of those for my back? And what’s that cool stuff you spread on sunburn? Cuz, I need some of that too. I’m seriously trying to calculate how much aspirin I can take before I risk overdosing.  Maybe I should just fill the tub with ice water and climb in.

I took a break today. No unpacking. No neighbor kids. I did chase the dogs, but regretted it as my tendons screamed at me for overuse. I need a few more days like today (minus the run-away dogs.) 

Because aches and pains aside, after living here for weeks, Mike finally got the flat screen mounted on the wall in the living room. It’s funny how something so simple can make such a huge impact. I actually feel moved in.

Maybe I can tackle more boxes after all. I might even hang the art work…organize the pantry. You know…the stuff normal people do when they move in.

Right after I feed the chicks.

Until the next time…It’s ice packs for me!

who needs a vacation anyway?

Living in the mountains is like being on vacation every day.

My feet hurt. My shoulders hurt. I have a sunburn. Me. The girl who avoids the sun like a vampire on spring break. I have a sunburn…on my skin. The skin that rarely sees the sun for more than fleeting moments on any given day. Yeah…about that.

I’m thinking I might be ready for a break from vacation. I’m almost looking forward to the weekend being over so I don’t have to have another bonfire. Or entertain Goonies…for at least a few day. Or build giant tents for the entire neighborhood to sleep in my back yard.

It would seem we’re the cool neighbors. Oh, I sort of knew it already. Eccentric Yankee writer and her engineer (farmer) husband move into the spooky old manor house with a wide assortment of animals, including a giant dog, an owl dueling ghetto cat, a bunch of newly hatched chickens, and after today, three full-size laying hens. Who wouldn’t be drawn to that?

Right…so I have a yard full of kids (the Goonies brought a little sister and a girlfriend today, plus Mike’s youngest is here for the weekend) a freshly lit bonfire, and a giant tent that took three of us to construct and can easily sleep ten juvenile sized humans. Thank goodness there are only five actually out there. And all this after getting pooped on by the new chickens while helping Mike build their coop. By the way, chickens poop way more than I ever realized.

Is it any wonder I’m ready for a shower then bed?

But I can hardly hit the hay (farm joke) until I get the kids settled into the tent (and plan some sort of scare for them, because what sort of cool neighbor would I be if I didn’t try to scare the shit out of a bunch of kids sleeping in my yard?)

Right…that would hardly be cool of me to skip such things. Too bad my daughter and her boyfriend went back to Atlanta. They would be perfect to both supervise and terrorize the teens and preteens out there. Me? I’m just too damn old for this crap. It’s a good thing I have a few vampire cardboard cut outs and a life-size skeleton in the closet for just such occasions.

Maybe after just a quick nap.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking forward to a day of rest.

building a bathtub

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight.

Christina EsdonTonight’s guest is writer, Christina Esdon. For more about Christina, visit her blog here.

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale

Of a complete bathroom re-do

That started with excitement and hope

In a home that was not new

The contractor was an arthritic man

The electrician was a useless hack.

The team started in mid-December

For three weeks max, three weeks MAX!

Three weeks passed and there was something askew

The bathtub? There was none.

If not for the slow construction crew

The bathroom would be done. The bathroom would be done.

…

So this is the tale of the dream bathroom

That took a long, long time.

I had to make the best of things,

By singing this silly rhyme.

Ahoy! And welcome to my (almost complete) bathroom! ‘Tis I, Christina Esdon, your Captain speaking to you direct from my bathtub! Don’t worry, I’m clothed. I always make sure I am in appropriate bathing attire when I am expecting company. Especially when invited to guest post on Erica’s blog!

As my Gilligan’s Island-inspired prose suggests above I recently had my bathroom renovated. I was initially told it would take three weeks. Happy that this renovation wouldn’t interrupt my life too much I shook the hand of my newly-hired contractor and excitedly browsed home renovation stores for tile, taps and tubs.

Once the crew got started, I quickly realized this wasn’t going to just take ‘three weeks’. One day, months after said deadline had passed I mentioned to my contractor that I was still showering at the gym, to which he responded, “oh right. You don’t have a shower or a bath here, do you?”.

Seriously???

Does he not know the type of pathogens I could have been exposed to showering in a women’s changeroom? Not to mention the dance I had to do to keep my towel on and get changed without scarring the other women in the changeroom for life? I don’t feel comfortable carrying on with my normal shower routine in public. I mean who wants to see me sing and dance around while I’m streaking? You all do that in the privacy of your own homes too, admit it.

About six weeks into the renovation I was feeling angry and really impatient. I have since learned that this is not a good combination of emotions to harbour as it led to stripping the wallpaper in the downstairs bathroom. When the haze of rage lifted I realized I now had two bathrooms under renovation.

Then the Snowball of Expensive Justifications started to roll: Well the paint colour I like won’t match the floor, so I guess I should just rip up the floor and put down new tile. That old linoleum floor was old anyway. And if I’m getting a new floor, might as well put in a new vanity. I mean, it’s the best time to do it, right? And I’d get a new tap, of course. Since everything else was new, I just HAD to buy a new mirror, which ended up being too tall, but I liked it so much I called in the electrician to raise the light fixture.

The realization that I had taken on too much occurred about eight weeks into the reno. I was left in my house for the weekend - toiletless. That’s right, between the upstairs bathroom demolition and the ‘surprise downstairs bathroom renovation’ there was about four days when I was without a toilet. No toilet. No shower. No bubble baths with lavender. But most importantly, no toilet. So I did what every self-respecting woman would do in this situation: I packed my bags and left. There was no way I was considering ‘toilet alternatives’ just to stay in my house. I considered staying at a hotel, but I had somewhere else to stay and really, by this point my accommodation standards were pretty low.

“Do your hotel rooms include a toilet?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take it.”

It is usually at this stage of stress and frustration that I would long for a hot, steamy, bubble bath. Put on some good tunes, pour a glass of wine, open a good book and forget about all of the day’s stress. However, I would think about having a bath and was reminded that I don’t have one, which further contributed to my stress.

Plaster covered every inch of the house. My gleaming, original, 75-year old wood staircase was taking a beating by the work boots stomping up and down on them day after day. My house was a wreck. So was I.

A couple of weeks ago I came home and found the plumber had (finally) showed up and installed everything. My tub. My shower. The vanity. The toilet. I rubbed my eyes and checked again. Then I pinched myself. Then I screamed with joy. Then I cried with relief. Then I did what I wanted to do for 3 months: I ran a bath - with bubbles!

Since then my bathtub and I have become inseparable. I still go to my day job, but as soon as possible, I run home to my bathtub, grab a book and settle in to utter bliss.

I am in Bathroom Heaven.

All is well.

Until I receive the bill from my contractor.

Here are some renovation pictures of my bathroom:

Christina Esdon is a contemporary romance author currently working on her first novel…in her new bathtub. She has also been known to tweet from the tub using the hashtag #tubtweets and #TubReads. Sometimes she also blogs in the bathtub here: http://authorchristinaesdon.blogspot.ca/

Until the next time…I’ll be jealously drooling over Christina’s bathtub images.

everybody duck...the Goonies are back!

You know how baby ducks will follow whoever happens to be there when they hatch? This phenomenon can apparently be transferred to humans.

My three little baby ducks…errr…Goonies…errr…neighbor boys spent the day in my back yard again. Oh, they earned their twenty dollars doing a lot of yard work. But when they weren’t mowing their initials in the neighbor’s yard (oh, yes…they did!) or hacking through the thick brush with machetes (because what teenage boy doesn’t fantasize about slashing this way through the jungle with a big knife?) or sneaking cigarettes near the fire pit (don’t get me started on that one!) they were at my back door asking for water…or paper towels…or to visit the dogs, the chicks, the teenagers…you name it.

Yesterday, I worried their mother was missing them while they were gone.

Today, I suspected she squealed with glee as she collected her bath oils and thickest towels to camp out in her bath tub while they were gone. In fact, I suspect she woke them early and reminded them they had grass to mow and brush to cut at my house today.

But all things aside, they were a joy to have around. Other than being typical pre-teen and teenage boys, they were fairly well behaved and good-mannered. Of course, my standards are those of a brusque, vulgar Yankee (per my Southern in-laws) so I may not be the best judge. I certainly didn’t have to worry about corrupting them with newly learned swear words…they appear to know them all (as most teenagers do.)

I did have to draw the line when they came for the evening bonfire smuggling beer in water bottles (I made them pour it down the drain immediately) and reminded them that I may cuss like a sailor, but I’m not in the business of corrupting minors (or encouraging illegal activities).

They didn’t put up a fuss, and I imagine that beer was as hard to get as the liquor in Superbad (forgive the shameless movie reference, but it’s a favorite of mine, and fitting under the circumstances.)

You might suspect I sent them packing after the beer incident, but I didn’t. I secretly congratulated them on a valiant attempt at fooling me (but you’d have to get up way earlier in the morning for that, boys!) and sent them on a mission to find brush to burn in the fire pit. After all…their spring break is almost over, and a nice bonfire never hurt anyone. Um…but just in case, I sent the husband, the daughter, and the daughter’s boyfriend to supervise.

I had a very important blog to write.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the Goonies next adventure to unfold.