eight little ducks

Six little ducks
That I once knew
Fat ones, skinny ones,
Fair ones, too
But the one little duck
With the feather on his back
He led the others
With a quack, quack, quack…

I used to sing that song to my kids when they were small. It didn’t really have much significance at the time, other than the fact that it created a bit of a love affair between my children and ducks. At their insistence, I sang the song over and over again until I started making up my own lyrics to hold my interest. I even sought out new duck songs to keep things exciting. I started taking them to the local pond to feed bread to the ducks every chance I got. I spent more time quacking than talking, it seemed.

And today, the song flooded back to me in a rush as I collected our new baby ducks from the farm store, and carted them home (peeping the whole way).

Someone told me that ducks make people happy, and I couldn’t agree more. Everyone living under my roof found themselves thoroughly enchanted by those eight baby ducks and their duckling shenanagans. It’s moments like these when I remember how much I love living on a farm. I can almost put away the sarcasm while do dishes (because my dishwasher is STILL not connected to the water) or while I peer down the creepy basement stairs, longing to have easy access to my washer and dryer. Or even when I climb into my ancient shower, shuddering at the thought of another daddy longlegs falling on me while I wash my hair. Well, maybe not THAT…but the rest is all good.

I have baby ducks now. Life is pretty amazing.

it's just a little chocolate

I think it might be time for an intervention.

No, I’m not drinking wine again. Although, a glass of wine might not be a bad idea. My problem is chocolate. I love chocolate. I have often lobbied for chocolate to be considered as a separate food group. It’s sort of good for you even…if you take it in small doses. But when you find yourself skipping entire meals so you can have extra chocolate, you might just have a problem. I’ve even contemplated switching to sugar-free chocolate.

And then I remembered why that would be a very bad idea.

I was very excited a few years back, when the candy manufacturers came out with sugar free chocolates—specifically, sugar free peanut butter cups—because my favorite food combination in the whole wide world is chocolate and peanut butter. 

This was around the time just before my husband and I got married, so we were still in the perfect “don’t do anything gross in front of this guy” phase.  It was also during the phase when I was most conscious about my appearance.  So of course, I wanted to stay away from all things fattening.  Chocolate was definitely on my bad list.  But sugar free chocolate was way lower in calories, fat, and sugar…so I would be able to eat as much of that as I wanted!

Or so I thought!

I planned to take the kids to an afternoon movie, and before heading to the theater we stopped off at the grocery store to fill my purse with snacks for the show.  I know, bad me, smuggling in candy!  But trust me, karma caught up with me that day!

I was starving! I didn’t have time to get lunch, so the candy and a shared bucket of popcorn would have to hold me over until dinner.  

We settled down in the dark theater and I passed out the snacks to the kids.  We each had our own candy—mine was the sugar free peanut butter cups and another bag of sugar free mini dark chocolate bars.  It was so convenient that the sugar free candy came in the small bags just like the candy they sold in the concession line!  

I ate several hands full of popcorn and munched away on my sugar free candies until my stomach started to feel funny.  It was sort of like when I was pregnant.  It felt like something was moving around in there.  I could feel little flutters like the second trimester kicking of tiny baby feet.  I knew I wasn’t pregnant, so I just ignored it and grabbed another hand full of popcorn and a few more sugar free candies.

I loved the candies.  They didn’t even taste like they were sugar free.  In fact, if I had done a blind taste test, I would have failed miserably, because I couldn’t tell the difference between the diet candy and the real thing.  I had gone through the entire bag of peanut butter cups (it wasn’t a huge bag) and popped open the bag of sugar free chocolate bars when the funny feeling came back.  But this time, it wasn’t funny.  It was painful. 

Whomp…whomp…whomp

That’s what it sounded like.  Whomp…whomp…whomp…as the sensation of a large piston driving fluids through my intestines made me feel like I was a rusty piece of machinery in an old factory.  It felt and sounded like there was a far off chamber being loaded.  I didn’t even want to know with what!

The movie was loud, but I was certain that the sound of the factory piston hammering within me was louder.  Whomp…whomp…whomp…it continued.  I could feel my insides percolating like a coffee maker.  After about thirty minutes, the whomp…whomping slowed down and the seismic activity began.  

I could very distinctly feel the deep rumbling of a distant volcano, and the slow building of a lava river coursing through my already ravaged intestinal tract, and I did NOT want to be in the movie theater when it erupted! 

I kept looking at my watch, and fidgeted in my seat.  The kids told me to be quiet more than once and at that point, it was all I could do not to burst into hysterics as I was not making a sound, it was my stomach!  It was Cirque du Soleil in there!  

That was when I looked at the empty bag of candy and used the light from my cell phone to read the fine print on the back.  “Serving size 5 pieces…” and further down the bag, “Individuals sensitive to sugar substitutes may experience a laxative effect.”

I was going to be in very big trouble!

After what seemed like days, the movie finally ended.  I scooped up my purse and the kids and ran out of the theater as fast as I could.  My stomach was bubbling and rolling like a boiling pot of chili.  Once we were outside, the kids could hear the noises my insides were making, and their faces told me that they were horrified. 

“What is THAT?” My daughter asked me.

“I don’t know.”  I whispered my honest answer.  Because I honestly didn’t know.  I was almost ready to call an Exorcist.  My stomach was speaking in tongues and it was telling us to “Get Out!”

We piled into the car so I could race home.  At this point, I knew the eruption was imminent, and I wanted to be home when it happened. 

I don’t know any other way to describe what happened next.  I was no sooner buckled into my seat when the next phase started.  It was as if someone was blowing bubbles inside of me. 

Glass bubbles. 

And as the delicate glass bubbles came in contact with the walls of my intestines, they shattered and sent millions of tiny glass fragments everywhere.  And they hurt.  A lot!  Wave after wave of glass bubbles splintered inside me, until I was in a full blown state of hysterics.  I know I must have a sick sense of humor, because as horrible as it was, I found it immensely funny. Or maybe it was just nervous laughter.  It felt as if my insides were liquefying, and I was terrified that it was not far from the truth.   As the glass bubbles got more and more frequent, the whomp…whomp…whomping…was back.  As each glass bubble burst, the piston loaded with a resounding shudder, and my stomach growled and roared like a circus lion.  The kids were laughing (and holding their noses) because it was clear that I was only moments away from what could be my most embarrassing moment ever!  I have often said that I only run when being chased (specifically by zombies) but I was prepared to make a run for it when and if I made it home!

I did make it home finally, and made it to the bathroom in what would be the nick of time, as they say.  I won’t elaborate on the final blast of Mt. Saint Sugar Free, but I will tell you that after almost an hour in the bathroom with my soon to be husband standing outside the door asking me if I was going to live,  I will never, ever, EVER make that mistake again! 

I will, however, reserve the right to switch the wrappers on the sugar free candies to share them with an unsuspecting ex-husband if the need should ever arise.  Which I’m sure it never will…

Until the next time…I’ll be eating my chocolate the old fashioned way…au naturalle!

the mind of a chicken

Ah…the sun is up and I’m ready to set forth and forage the yard, but alas, my pen is still closed. I must wait for my release.

I stand perched at the window, rustling my shiny black feathers trying to draw attention to myself…it doesn’t work.

My head tips to the side all of it’s own accord as I hear the door to the house creak open. I look, and squawk as I see him. “It’s the man!” I cry out to the others. “The man who feeds us sometimes!” I wonder if he’ll feed us this morning. I don’t remember when we were fed last…seems like ages.

“Here he comes,” I squawk. “Look natural,” I tell the others.

The man lifts our pen, then releases the juveniles and we race across the yard to the feeder.

Nothing. He’s left us nothing this morning. We’ll have to wait for the bread lady to awaken.

Hours go by. So many hours we can’t even count them. The sun is high and the water is getting low, so we flock to the back door and draw attention to the giant dog. He’ll plead our case to the bread lady, and she’ll bring us fresh water and treats. She’s a push over. Not like the man who feeds us sometimes. He sticks to his miserable schedule.

We don’t think he loves us.

Ah, pecking at the glass and taunting the giant dog has worked. His barks have woken the house and the bread lady has stumbled from her coop and is heading our way. Her hair stands on end and she looks like one of us. We like her.

The foolish juveniles flock to her in a rush as she steps outside. I peck at them to warn them. “If you trip her, we get nothing!” But they don’t listen. Especially the young rooster. He seems hell bent on our mutual destruction. I chase him until he runs and the dog gives chase. Foolish child!

The rest of us race to the fresh water and drink before the children can take it all.

The bread lady vanishes for what seems like days before coming back to toss sweet treats to the yard.

We love her…even if she does steal our eggs every day.

More time passes. We are forced to hunt for food…pecking the earth for bugs and grasses. I send the juveniles to take turns pecking at the glass. Surely someone will throw treats if we do. The little rooster pushes his way into the house and causes a well-timed ruckus…this gives us a chance to slip in and eat the crumbs under the table. Stupid rooster has no clue he’s been played again…and he’s off running as the dog chases him out of the house.

Finally the people come outside. I hear the bread lady tell the man who feeds us sometimes that they’re going to the bread store.

The bread store?

I call to the rest of the flock and we give chase, running circles around their feet on our path to the car. If anyone is going to the bread store, we’re going too!

We’re not going. They shoo us off and drive away without us. And we wait by the door until they return.

With new bread!

Once we’ve had our bread, and our evening meal, we spend the day eating more bugs and grasses, evading the giant dog as he trails us around yard and hiding from the giant hawk that circles above us. Life is dangerous on the farm.

Finally, as night begins to fall, we wander into our coops to perch for the night. We can’t complain. We have it pretty good…even if we do have to live on bugs.

Until the next time…I’ll be waking with the chickens!

I really need to sleep more

Morning. It slides over me like an icy glove, shocking me awake in the eerie light of dawn. I know I’ve forgotten something, but I can never quite remember what.

Have you ever really looked at a bug? The big creepy outdoor kind you discover in summertime. They have antenna that make them look like they must surely get HBO. But if they do get cable, why do they insist on walking across my television screen while I’m watching? It’s not like shooing a fly away, or even simply squashing them. They’re big, and crunchy, and full of juice. They’ll leave a nasty mark on the screen, and I’ll be forced to remember them forever. So I leave it, hoping it will get it’s fill and wander off. But it doesn’t. It decides to watch along with me…and I wake up with their image burned behind my eyes.

I really need to sleep more.

Until the next time…I’ll be taking a nap.

zombie chic

It’s that time of the year again.  The time of the year when I contemplate a fresh new youthful haircut.  The inspiration came, perhaps not coincidentally, right about the same time I cruised down the magazine aisle at the grocery store this evening and discovered all the new hair style magazines.  There is almost nothing more exciting than new spring fashions on display! 

So I parked my cart filled with blueberry yogurt and wine (ok, so I had food too) along the aisle and leafed through the pages of three different magazines.  It was much of the same thing in all of them.  And it would seem that the new “in” style is to have that “long since dead” appearance.  And by that I don’t mean, resembling some famous starlet who has passed on to the next place, ala Marilyn Monroe, or Audrey Hepburn.  I’m referring to “dead” as in “the walking dead” or “hey, you look good for a dead person.” 

Zombie chic.

So, of course, I find myself wondering how I can get that look.  I want to look chic and zombie-like if that’s the new style.  I already have the proper pallor—vampire pale.  I just need a few more dark circles.  And I’m sure I can handle that, with my current “lack of sleep” situation and all.  But then I started thinking—do I really want to look like a lifeless wax statue of myself during the hot and sunny summer? 

Probably not.

Wax melts in the sun, and it will most definitely be a sunny summer in north Georgia.  So, I guess it’s just a new hair cut for me instead of a totally new “look”. 

I went back to leafing through the hair magazines.  Aside from the striking fashion statements of the pale, lifeless (in desperate need of a sandwich) models, the hairstyles were all very ordinary.  Boring even.  I didn’t see anything that was perfectly…me. 

So what did I decide?

I decided that I don’t need to make a decision tonight.  There’s nothing really wrong with my current haircut.   And why should I find some starved fashion model to copy when I have such an enviable style all my own?  I’m all about bed head chic for my hair.  It’s has the look of someone who has just had to pick herself up off the floor after an unexpected fall.  Or perhaps someone who has just caught her hair in the car door, or on a low hanging tree branch.  My hair works for me, and I’m not really ready to change that.  Besides…I’m a trend setter now.  Wouldn’t you agree?

Until the next time…I’ll be tousling my hair while driving fast with the windows open!

yeah, about those chickens

I really need to get screens for my windows…probably a few screen doors too. And not just because of the bugs, even if it could be argued that this is a good enough reason all on it’s own (it definitely is.) Bugs are the least of my worries. Don’t get used to me saying that…bugs are almost always the MOST of my worries when it comes to open windows and doors. Not today. No, today I had bigger problems to deal with.

First off, I don’t have any pictures. Not because you don’t deserve pictures, you certainly do. And if I hadn’t been so busy, frantically trying to rectify the situation, I would have gladly snapped as many as I could, but as it was, I was far too busy chasing chickens to take pictures of them.

It’s not the first time a chicken has wandered into my house. We keep the window open in the kitchen when it’s hot. It’s just convenient. I don’t have to let the cat in and out when he can use the window. But frequent trips in and out in front of the nosy chickens proved to be too much temptation.

Don’t let anyone tell you chickens are stupid. Just watch that movie, Chicken Run, and you’ll realize they’re plotters…chickens. And my chickens were plotting to get inside from the first moment they watched the cat do it. But still, they stayed out for the most part.

Until today.

Today was one of those insane days that makes the theme song to Benny Hill play inside your head on a constant loop. It was like an old keystone cops silent film…only way louder.

I turned around, while eating my breakfast, to find the little rooster wandering in the back door. The dog just looked at him like he was crazy. I tried to shoo him out, but he was determined to look around first. He hid under the table where the dog couldn’t reach him, or theoretically couldn’t reach him, because the dog is taller than the table. But one should never underestimate a determined dog, and like an episode of Looney Tunes, where Foghorn Leghorn torments the barnyard dog, my little rooster, Clooney, was teasing my mastiff until he could take it no more and he wedged himself under the table, lifting it off the ground like a saddle.

The sounds of a rooster squawking could be heard all the way in the yard, which apparently drew a crowd, because before I knew it, I had several more juvenile chickens running around in my kitchen…and the neighbor’s puppy too!

Cue the Benny Hill theme song.

Dogs chasing chickens…kids chasing dogs…barking…squawking…shrieking. And this was just the first act! As one chicken was shooed out the door, another came in through the window.

And then I heard it…the yelling from deeper within the house. “Hey, Mom…did you know the Henrietta’s are in Mike’s office?”

Ummm…no?

Cue more Benny Hill music.

I ran down the hall to my husband’s office to see two large chickens flying around, landing on the computer monitors, the grandfather clock, my husband’s prized guitar…and my daughter and her boyfriend trying to catch them like some sort of bizarre video game come to life.

I was shouting instructions on how to catch an errant chicken as each of the kids grasped a bird and rushed them through the house to the back door. But not before at least one of them left a calling card.

Isn’t there a saying about bird poop being good luck? Yeah, it’s crap…just so you know…the saying, I mean. Bird poop is just messy.

But, hey…life is messy, right? That’s what makes it so much fun.

Until the next time…I’ll be cleaning the floors!

father's day revisited

I had a really nice talk with my dad this evening. It was nice. We don’t do it nearly often enough. It reminds me of how much I miss having him around. It also reminds me of where I get many of my most interesting quirks.

I know I’ve printed this story before, and heck, it might even be a Father’s Day tradition, at this point. But here we go again…because simple words can’t convey how much someone means to you, especially your Dad. But a funny story never fails to bring a smile to my lips.

Love ya, Dad.

I haven’t been in the same city as my father for some time now. We talk quite frequently. Thank goodness for modern technology, and Facebook. Still…I wish we lived closer, and that life didn’t always pull us in different directions, but I am very lucky to have a father who has imparted great wisdom, and great humor into my genetic makeup, in addition to the kidney stones (and the gall stones…yeah, far too many rocks in my plumbing.)

I decided that instead of coming up with a montage about my dad over the years, I would just share one particular story that sort of came to me this morning. It brings back a lot of fun memories, and sums up a very important time in our lives.

Back before my figure filled out, and while my sister was still considered a sweet little girl, we played a sport called Racquetball. It’s still played in certain circles, and it’s still pretty popular in many places, but where I live now it’s virtually nonexistent. I haven’t played in many years, but once upon a time, it was intricately woven into the fiber of our lives.

I wasn’t a bad player. My balance may have hindered me somewhat—I had a lot of twisted ankles back then—but I could hold my own in a competition. My sister, on the other hand, was a champion. She lived and breathed the sport, spending hours practicing and strategizing her game plan before every tournament. And we played in a lot of tournaments. If memory serves, we may have played at least one tournament every month.

We lived in Rochester, New York at the time, and we would frequently travel several hours to other cities to compete. These tournament weekends usually required an overnight stay, and those were almost always spent in a local motel.

One noteworthy weekend found us in Syracuse, New York. I would have been about fifteen years old, and my sister would have been about twelve. As usual, the tournament started on a Friday night and would continue for the next two days. I don’t remember the specific reasons why my father had not reserved a motel for the night; I just remember that we didn’t have a reservation anywhere that night.

Syracuse was only a little over an hour away, so Dad may have planned on driving back home for the night, and coming back in the morning. But as it turns out, our matches were scheduled for very early the next morning, so we had to stay the night.

There were no vacancies at any of the local motels. We were very lucky to find a little motor lodge close to the racquet club and I remember it being a rainy night when my father ran into the office to reserve a room.

It wasn’t a chain hotel. It was one of those little family run places where the rooms lined up in a long row facing the road and the doors opened directly to the parking lot. It reminded me of the Bates Motel. I even joked with my father about Norman Bates renting him the room, and he joked that it must have been Mrs. Bates, because it was an old woman who took his money in the office.

I didn’t know it then, but looking back, it was probably one of those types of motels that rent a room by the hour as well as the night.

Dad got the key and let us into our room.

The three of us—my dad, my sister, and I— stood open mouthed in the middle of the spooky little room surveying our surroundings. A layer of dust covered every surface of the room. The carpets were darkly stained. The curtains were drawn to block out the view of the parking lot and the main road beyond.

My father decided to relieve the tension by turning on the television, but when he turned the knob all of the controls fell inside the TV cabinet. There would be no TV that night.

My sister and I put our bags on the bed and she sat carefully on the dirty bedspreads while I checked under the bed for a body.

I didn’t find a body, but I found several empty beer bottles. That discovery drove me to investigate the rest of the room.

In the main room there was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts on the nightstand. In the bathroom, the sink was covered in rust, a line of ants trailed from one crack in the floor to another across the small room, and the toilet had not been flushed since the last person had used it.

It WAS the Bates Motel!

My sister and I slept in our clothes with our racquets in the bed beside us. I later found out that my father didn’t sleep at all. He lay in the other bed with one eye open the entire night.

We were pretty tired the next day when we had to play. I don’t remember if we won or lost. It doesn’t really matter anyway. The thing I remember most about that weekend was laughing for days about the scary little motel we stayed in. It was one of the moments in my life where I learned that you have to find something positive in the most negative things. And if you laugh at the bad things, they really aren’t so bad anymore.

It’s a pretty good lesson in life I think.

Until the next time…I’ll be celebrating father’s day with my husband.

a visit from Kelly Stone Gamble

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Kelly Stone GambleTonight’s guest is writer, Kelly Stone Gamble. Kelly has visited before, and she is easily the most popular guest I’ve had on the blog. Please enjoy a re-play of Kelly’s Playing Dirty post. For more about Kelly, click on here to visit her website.

I’ve always been open to new experiences and the stranger the better.  I’ve swam with sharks. I’ve been slammed in a mosh pit. I’ve performed in a pickle costume.  It’s fun to say, “oh, yeah, I’ve done that,” and I say that a lot.  But I’ve yet to be asked if I ever mud wrestled, so I’ll just answer that for you right now.  Oh, yeah, I’ve done that, too.   

Twenty years ago, I worked as a Nurse in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  My good friend, Sue (name changed to protect the innocent) was a Physical Therapist.  That was her day job. On the weekends, she mud wrestled at a local bar dressed as a medieval princess.  One night, her designated opponent had called in sick, and she asked if I would step in. 

Female mud wrestling was not new to me.  In my early twenties, one of my roommates mud wrestled for extra money. Twice a week, she would put on her French maid costume and prance around a mud filled ring, then strip down to a skimpy bikini and roll around with another girl to the delight of a bar full of men.  A bar full of men with a lot of money, I might add, as she would bring home more in her two hours than I brought home all week. 

I had my reservations.  It wasn’t the rolling around in the mud, or the googling eyes of horny men that bothered me. It was the bikini.  Although I was in one of my ‘thin’ stages at the time, I had never worn a two piece bathing suit. Call me a prude. But after being told I would be paid one hundred dollars for a five minute bout and a promise that I could wear a low cut, side out onsie, I said sure, why not? Always willing to help out a friend.

I met most of the other wrestlers in the dressing room, very normal young ladies, most with respectable day jobs.  They went over the rules with me, keep it safe, no ripping off bathing suits (it was a high class bar) and make it a show.  It was all very…nun-like, and I use that particular word for a reason.  Yes, after putting on the costume I was to wear for the evening, I would soon be making my mud wrestling debut as Sister Sludge, the One Fun Nun. 

The plan was to wrestle for five minutes, then to let Sue pin me for the win.  She would then move on to the next round and my work would be done.  But as the crowd cheered, my competitive nature kicked in and I got serious. “What are you doing?” she whispered to me as we rolled in the muck. “You don’t want to win.” Oh, yes I did. I slammed her a little too hard and crawled on top. Nuns rule.

After taking my celebratory hosing down, I went back to the ring, ready to take on the cute little daycare worker I’d met backstage. But it wasn’t her that showed up. It was the Cave Woman. And not sweet little Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear.  It was Andre the Giant in drag. 

I turned to Sue who was standing in my corner.  “What the hell? She wasn’t in the dressing room!” 

“No,” Sue replied. “She has her own dressing room.” 

I reminded myself that this was a show and there were rules.  Confidently, I turned back toward my opponent, just in time to be hit in the face with a mud ball the size of a small dog.  “Start prayin’, Sister,” she snarled. And, that I did.

The Neanderthal picked me up and twirled me above her head like a baton, then threw me to the ground and stomped me with her size 13’s. I rolled to the side of the ring as she grunted through bared teeth, and lumbered toward me with her arms raised high, exposing underarm hair that would shame a Sasquatch.  I was trembling, I feared for my life, and raised my hands to cover my face.  And that’s when I noticed. 

I had broken a nail. 

This bitch was going down.

I remembered my Dad always said that everyone has a weakness. I went first for the testicles.  The Wookie was not pleased.  She picked me up and wrapped me in a bear hug.  I had no choice but to hug back. Then I remembered another bit of fatherly advice: Cheaters sometimes win.  I quickly untied her bikini top and held on to the strings. She slung me to the other side of the ring, but this time I was the one that came up laughing. 

That match was quickly called, and I was forever banned from the mud wrestling ring for ‘breaking the nudity rule’. Whatever.  I had two hundred bucks in my pocket and an undefeated record.

Groovy.

Until the next time…I’ll be searching for our next guest blogger!

boys and bugs

My husband glowers at me for waking him by screaming at the top of my lungs at such an ungodly hour. But I couldn’t help it. It was touching me! All those hairy legs crawling across my skin were just begging me to scream.

So as I lay, cowering, after my most recent “spider invasion”…I have to wonder what’s worse, boys or bugs?

After all, I spent the entire evening alone in my bed, listening to disco music on satelight radio (again) while my husband sat on the back porch with the boys (our daughters’ boyfriends) discussing sports, politics, and chickens. The girls were equally annoyed, as we all felt somewhat abandoned by the men in our lives. How could a basketball game be more exciting than a girl? And since when do guys back down from killing a spider?

I mean, really?

Times have changed. And it’s definitely time to call the exterminator. I can’t go on much longer like this. I haven’t slept a single night in the past month. I fall asleep as daylight breaks and sleep until lunch, somehow convinced that spiders only come out at night. Every loose hair, speck of dust, or bit of fluff coming in contact with my skin is suddenly a bug, in the dark of night. This is bordering on a major phobia. Bugaphobia (or whatever it’s called.) And having bugaphobia when your husband won’t bother to slay the dragons is even worse! He chased off a grasshopper, trapped in the kitchen, when the one of the boys was freaked out by the giant bug, but he won’t stay awake on spider patrol for me. What gives?

Like I said…what’s worse? Boys or bugs?

I might have to get back to you on that. Right after I pull out my platform shoes and dance to a little Bee Gees in the bedroom.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking up the bug-busters!

I love the nightlife...

There is absolutely nothing better for the blues than singing at the top of your lungs…repeatedly.

I spent the better part of the day listening to satellite radio tuned to the seventies station, singing along with the oldies but goodies, involuntarily reminiscing about my childhood. I was transported back to the days when Force was always with you, and Saturday night was all about the fever. Elton John was the shit, David Bowie was young and cool, and John Travolta rocked the white suit.

Ok, so I was way too young in the seventies to party like a rock star, but I can still remember the time fondly…now that I’m old enough to understand the ramifications of what was really going on back then. And so what if the clothes were horrible (admit it…they were) and the hairstyles were worse (don’t even argue with me on this one). But, love it or hate it, the music takes you back to a time before home computers, cell phones, and Facebook. Sure, I’d miss them, but the older I get, the more nostalgic I get, and I’m kind of itching to watch a Star Wars marathon white wearing a pair of platform disco shoes and bell bottom jeans, with my Farrah Fawcett hair fanned out around my head like an over-sprayed mane.  I’m digging around in my unpacked boxes for my copy of Donna Summer’s Last Dance so I can rock the house down and freak out the kids.

Work with me here. It could be fun!

After completely immersing myself in the disco era for an entire day, I’ve decided what I need is an evening of karaoke. It’s been way too long. So what if the hubby abhors the entire scene? So what if it only seems to happen in smoke filled bars filled with drunken vacationers? So what if I don’t exactly fit into my favorite disco jeans anymore and the mere thought of platform shoes gives me a concussion? I’m ready to boogie, people and there’s nothing like the present to go back to the past. I’m ready to belt out 70s music like it was yesteryear. I’m ready to feather my hair and wear too much blue eye-shadow!

Who wants to join me?

Until the next time…I’ll be searching for a karaoke venue for Friday night!

this message is brought to you by...

The hangover from Hell.

Have you ever had one of those days where you misread a label?  Maybe you put a cup of salt where a cup of sugar was supposed to go?  Or perhaps you poured dish soap where the dishwasher detergent belongs. 

Both would be equally bad. 

An apple pie filled with salt is not a tasty treat.  And a steady stream of bubbles pouring from the sides of a dishwasher makes for a very soapy kitchen floor.  Still…neither of those things are life threatening, just messy.

I know I’ve had my share of “oops” moments.  I was the one who left the pot filler faucet running to flood my stove.  And just last night I had two glasses of what I thought was plain old wine, only to discover it was port wine with more than double the potency of regular wine. When it comes to drinking, I’m as much of a lightweight as one can get. So my husband didn’t find it all that amusing as I crawled across the floor to reach the bathroom in my pajamas. I would probably have been embarrassed had I not been so completely out of it. And I certainly paid the price for my mistake this morning with the world’s worst hangover.

But a misread label can also lead to tragedy.

Some time ago, my daughter had a case of the sniffles.

She went to the medicine cabinet to find something for cold symptoms.  She settled on an allergy relief medicine that is also recommended as a sleep aid.  She read the label and took the recommended dose.

Or so she thought.

What she read was, “Take four every six hours.”  What was actually printed on the label?  “Take every four to six hours.” And the dose was one or two capsules.  Not to exceed six in a twenty four hour period.  

When I discovered that she had taken twice the recommended dosage, I (for lack of a better phrase) freaked out!

It had been more than an hour since she had taken the medicine and she was barely able to keep her eyes open.  But she was able to tell me how much she had taken, and she was still able to do that with the snark and sarcasm one would expect from a teenage girl.  

After she drifted off to sleep, I debated calling an ambulance, but when I poked her, she would whine and bat my hand away, so instead, I checked on her every few minutes for about six hours. 

She slept for almost seven. 

When she was finally fully awake, I explained to her why I had been so worried, and why it was so important to read the label before taking any over the counter medicine.  After a few moments of quiet reflection, the girl who sarcastically informed me that she was supposed to take four capsules every six hours, laughed and told me that it was a good thing she wasn’t going to school to be a pharmacist.

I concur.

Until the next time…I will be double checking the labels on my wine (if I ever drink wine again!)

sometimes we all need to escape

“Why do you read so much?”

I may be paraphrasing, but it’s the basic question I hear all the time. “Why does your nose appear to be permanently glued to the inside of a book (or a Nook?)” And the answer isn’t glamorous, or exciting, or even educational. Sometimes the answer is actually sort of sad, but the truth often is. Sometimes I simply read to escape. In books, I can go somewhere safe. To a place where nothing can hurt me.

As a child, I would lock myself in my room for hours on end reading adventures, one after the other, for no other reason than to experience the magic of reading. To spend time in a world I could never go to in reality. And don’t we all need that from time to time? I find I need it more, now that I’m grown. When the stress of the real world weighs heavy on me I can disappear without leaving my jammies. I don’t have to pack a lunch, or leave the house. I don’t have to let the sadness take me when I have the perfect place to hide.

And sometimes I just need to hide for a while.

I have no idea why I’ve been an emotional basket case for the past several weeks (possibly months). I can’t exactly blame PMS for everything (although I do try). I suppose I could analyze it, and I probably wouldn’t like what I found, but instead I choose to disappear into the pages of a book. Yesterday, I found the inspiration to disappear into one of my own books…to work on a project I’d put down for too long. But today, it was back to the escapism of someone else’s words. I’m ok with that…for now. I know I can’t continue to wallow here for all eternity, but maybe I just need to wallow for a little while longer.

Besides, I have writer friends who would like me to read their books, and now I have the perfect excuse to dive in. I’m all about finding the positive in everything.

And I’m positive there’s a book calling my name at this very minute.

Until the next time…I’ll be catching up with a few of my favorite vampires.

welcome back to the muse

Writers…all artists really…need a muse. I’ve written about mine before. She has a habit of taking off on vacations without telling me. Off spending time on sunny beaches or snowy mountain escapes. I have no clue where she goes, but she always comes back, ready to get down to business.

Always.

Until lately. I have no idea where my muse has gone. I think she missed the memo about the move, because ever since I got here at the end of March, my muse has been completely out of pocket. No notes, no calls, no contact whatsoever.

I sort of wondered if she was afraid of chickens or something.

But low and behold, she showed up today, suitcase in hand, begging me to take her back.

Of course, I did. I’ve missed her. And I’m not saying she’s fully moved in yet…my muse is very much like me with the feet dragging…but she’s at least peeking her head out now and then. Glass of wine here…piece of cheese there. And I feel like a writer again. Yes, I’ve picked up my dusty manuscript and put fingers to the keys again after many long months of nothing. It feels good. It feels right.

But it’s still a work in progress.

And that’s ok. Life is a work in progress, after all. It’s all those revisions that make things exciting. If something doesn’t work for you, just tear that page out and start over. That’s how it’s done.

And that’s what I’m doing. Trudging along, my muse by my side, turning words into art.

As it should be.

Until the next time…I’ll be burning the midnight oil. Writing for a change.

the name game

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Justin Bog (and Zippy)Tonight’s guest is writer, (and all around great guy) Justin Bog. For more about Justin, click here to visit his website.

I was born Gregory Justin Bogdanovitch, a twin, on July 23rd, 1965, a bit reddish, squalling at the world, but probably silenced in quick fashion. I was an inquisitive child of Ukrainian descent. My unknown grandfather, my father’s father gained entry to the USA by fighting in WWI. He had been a troika driver, horses harnessed to taxi people around. As a new citizen he worked in New Jersey, for the water department. His relatives, who also came over to the States, owned a liquor store. When my father was nine, his father fell from a water tower to his death, and my father told me recently that he still wishes he could know this man. I do too. 

My father grew up close to Seaside Heights — now made famous by those MTV reality show boozers. Yes, my father also took his dates to the boardwalk, rode The Octopus, and reveled in telling his five little Bogs the story of one date who lost her cookies on that ride. He was an artist. He went to several Universities pursuing his painting dreams, and accomplished many creative goals; met my mother in art school at The University of Iowa grad school — home to what is touted as the best creative writing program in the country, Iowa was the first American institution of higher learning to accept creative work for academic credit, and developed the Master of Fine Arts degree. I followed in my parents’ huge creative footsteps. Even though my mom has passed, my father’s still painting at almost 80 years of age, producing 100 smaller paintings in his Assisted Living Home this past year alone. He’s always been driven to create. I share this drive. We had family vacations, but they were short so my father could get back to painting and teaching at Denison University in Ohio. 

In the fifties, to make money, my father applied for a job at a prophylactic company. The Red Scare decade made the interviewer demand that my father shorten Bogdanovitch to Bogdan. My father refused, walked out, and got a job in an insane asylum. His favorite novel is The Magic Mountain. Today, my father supports my decision to shorten Bogdanovitch to Bog as my pen name. He gets it. 

I grew up a bookworm of epic proportions, a child named after two martyr popes, one stoned for speaking his mind, and I keep up with the heritage of this name. There has always been a search for justice in my make-up, and this search is unfulfilled in the majority of instances, past moments of angst. Bogdanovitch means “gift of God” and I love the way people try to say the name at Safeway when I’m checking out. No one who has tried to pronounce Bogdanovitch gets it right. Even after I say it with the accent on the third syllable, the way I was always taught, people cannot duplicate the word. Twelve simple letters strung together: Bog - da - NO - vitch. Try it! 

If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me if I was related to the director, Peter Bogdanovich, I’d be a wealthy man. Because I’m in the writing field, some people don’t believe me when I tell them I am not related. I say, “No, I’m the son of the artist, George Bogdanovitch (see his art here: www.bogdanovitch.com)” Only once did I lie and say, “Yes, but I don’t really talk about him much. He’s directing a movie somewhere and it’s always hush hush.” Didn’t make me feel good lying. Forgive me. I was drunk at a college party, drinking way too much, and while stumbling home I almost knocked myself out after hitting my head on a street sign — that’s karma. 

But the questions about my last name never stop. I took a horror film class at the University of Michigan, undergrad, and one of the early films shown was Targets, Peter Bogdanovich’s first film. The professor in the large class was terrific, found the nuggets of greatness in the horror genre, showed all the classics, from Dracula, The Haunting (the 1963 Robert Wise version), The Exorcist, on up to Alien and Halloween. Loved the class, and even though the professor promised that no Teaching Assistant would ever grade our essays more than once, I found myself stuck with a TA who didn’t appreciate me, my writing, or my name. When I spoke with her about her grading, she mentioned my name and assumed I was related. I met with the professor before the Final. I did fill him in on the lack of family connections.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like you to be the one to grade my final. No one else. No TA. Just you, if at all possible.”

His curious look had a tight edge to it. “Why is that? That’s a strange request.”

“I don’t believe I’m getting a fair shake with ______.”

“Why?”

“Because of my last name.”

“What is that?”

“Bogdanovitch.”

“Oh. I see.”

A funny coincidence: My favorite comedy of all time was directed by Peter Bogdanovich — What’s Up Doc? I just watched it again, maybe for the 50th time, two weeks ago, and laughed just the same.

So, I had trepidations when I finally told my father I was shortening Bogdanovitch to Bog as my pen name. He said, “Good for you, just this morning, one of the nurses mangled the hell out of it.” We laughed.

My new eBook is out, Sandcastle and Other Stories, and it will also be published by Green Darner Press sometime in the near future. 

Erica, thank you for allowing me to blather all over your wonderful blog. I love you and your writing very much. 

Justin 

Just a side note…I knew Justin and I would become long-time friends from the moment we discovered our mutual love of What’s Up Doc…among other things. I hope you take the time to check out Justin’s new book, and his blog, so you can discover why he’s one of my all-time favorites.

Until the next time…I’ll be enjoying a lazy weekend at home!

internet sweet internet

I can’t remember a time when I spent as many days without a proper internet connection. I mean, who would have guessed the big hotel I was staying in wouldn’t have free WiFi? I guess people on vacation in North Carolina don’t require constant access to the internet? How odd.

I’m just glad my vacation is over. I don’t know if I can stand another day in paradise. Ok, so maybe paradise is a stretch. I was in Cherokee, North Carolina, not the Bahamas. Still, either way, it’s nice to be home.

Home, where the kids bicker…the dog drools…and the husband glowers. Ah, yes. I’ve missed it! The minute I drove up in the drive-way, the chickens came running to greet me. My trio of black Henriettas greeted me with a chorus of “brrreeaad?” as I stepped out of the car. Of course, my hands were empty and my hens dejected. But I hurriedly rectified that situation and ran headlong into my dog. He was so excited to see me, certain I was never coming home again. He slept at the back door the entire time I was gone…waiting for my return. The kids said he barely ate for three days. Poor baby.

And my bed…how I’d missed it. Well…I have to admit, the bed at the hotel was pretty nice. It was a swanky place. I might have liked to bring that home with me. Too bad it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase with the Hillbilly Taffy, the Indian beaded jewelry, and the hotel soap I’d picked up as souvenirs.

I had to bring something home, since I left my money behind.

Until the next time…I’ll be taking a much deserved nap!

beating the house

They say you’ve got to stay up pretty late to beat the odds in a casino. But I didn’t make it back to my room until almost 5am…and I’m here to tell you, that ain’t nearly late enough!

Ok…so it wasn’t my idea to burn the midnight oil at a Craps table, where I easily drank half my body weight in diet coke and orange juice, then had to make a mad dash to the ladies room at 2 am while my sister held my place at the table. No, not my idea. It was my sister’s brilliant plan to beat the house. After spending more hours at the craps table than it takes a normal person to birth a baby…in fact, longer than it took ME to birth a baby (and that took forever!) we discovered it takes more than a brilliant plan. And probably more than luck…or money. She’s pretty sure the place is rigged.

We had more ups and downs while playing than the planes in an aerial show. One minute I had a hundred dollars, the next I had thirty five, then I was back up to ninety. I was lucky to walk away with enough to buy a damn donut on the way back to our room. I doubt I’ll be able to eat lunch before we leave tomorrow…I mean, today. And I don’t think I’ll be visiting a casino again any time soon. I probably had better odds of running into a hungry vampire while I was here than winning big. But at least I’ll have the memories of my mom calling us at 4 am asking us where the hell we were when she discovered we’d never come back to the room. The other players got a kick out of that. It’s not every day your mother interrupts your winning streak to tell you it’s past your bedtime.

Until the next time…I’ll be getting what sleep I can before check out time!

why vampires love casinos

It’s elementary, I’m sure. Where else can one find such a perfect environment for a vampire? The complete absence of sunlight…of time even. Casinos are both dark (day becomes night as secret passageways and dark shadows lurk in every corner)…and light with their bright, flashing neon lights . They purposely remove the clocks to further the illusion.

It’s simply a bonus that the confusion of lights and sounds causes chaos for even the most attentive individual.

It’s so confusing, my mother got lost in the casino today. She was supposed to meet me at the base of the escalator, but when I called her on her cell to find out where she was, she said she couldn’t find the one I was standing at. This, in and of itself, alarmed me, as there was only one escalator in the casino. I wondered where she could have gotten off to if she was standing at the base of one and I wasn’t there. She’s lucky I found her when I did. Vampires thrive on just this sort of confusion.

And did I mention, drinks are free while you’re gambling? Vampires live and breathe for drinking. And everyone around you is drinking too, so that just ratchets up the confusion factor another notch.

Just this evening, my mother, my sister and I stopped off for a donut before heading to bed. It didn’t matter it was after one in the morning, or that we couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Had we run into a vampire at that moment, we would have been very sorry, indeed. But admittedly, the raw need for a fresh Dunkin Donuts Boston Creme donut was far stronger than any fear for our safety at that moment.

And clearly, we survived, so it worked out in the end.

We even managed to find our way back to our room in the tower (after successfully dodging the elevator Nazi, who was bound and determined to see our room key before he would allow us to board the elevator. As if merely possessing a room key was any kind of proof we belonged in the hotel. He’ll never know how close he was to having me explain to him exactly how I could circumvent his precautions.

Lucky for him, my family hurried me away from the scene.

And now I’m settling down for a good night’s sleep. At least, I think it’s night. Do I really know for sure? Was that donut the first meal of the day or me or the last? Was I having breakfast or a midnight snack? I may never know.

Until the next time…I’ll be rationing food so I can afford to gamble!

a three day mini-break

This is it. The night before the first mini-break I’ve taken without my husband since the day we said, “I do”. Now that I think about it, it may be the first time I’m leaving him behind since the day we met.

He’s left me behind…oh dozens of times. He went to visit his grandmother a few times (I could hardly begrudge him a family visit, even if I couldn’t accompany him) he’s gone on a few business trips (those pesky job commitments, you see) and he even stomped off once to spend three days in the mountains without me after a fight (sometimes you just have to let them go, you know?) But this will be the first time for me. And I have no idea how to conduct myself.

I will be alone in the wild!

Ok, so not alone, per se. I’m going with  my mother and my sister, and we’re hardly party animals, but we’re going to a casino for three days of gambling, so that definitely qualifies as the wild. I might drink wine…I might eat desserts…hell, I might even be able to talk my mom and my sister into doing karaoke.

This trip is beginning to look better and better all the time.

Too bad I can’t bring my dog.

Until the next time…I’ll be living it up playing blackjack!

just another saturday night

I give myself a hard pinch on the back of my arm…similar to the one I was instructed to give while learning lamaze so many years ago. It hurts. I hate it. It’s definitely a last restort. But I have to stay awake just a little bit longer.

I have no idea what’s come over me. I’m supposed to be the night owl….barn owl…one of the children of the night (creepy zombie movie examples to the side), a vampire…right?

I’m not supposed to be drifting off to sleep just after eleven. Who does this? Not me.

Yet, here I am…one crazy, under-caffeinated, over-tired, barely recognizable, wine cooler lightweight. I’m surprised my own vampires can stand the sight of me, these days.

That might have been a bit extreme.

But sometimes you have to get extreme with yourself. Nobody likes a candy-ass, right? Wait…did somebody say, candy?

Maybe, if I just took a short nap…just shut my eyes for a few minutes…then I could wake up refreshed and ready to blog. Sounds like a good idea, right?

Wrong. I fell asleep for two hours, and when I woke up, to the heavy breathing of my mastiff, steaming up my eyelids, I was not any closer to being rested…and I was hungry.

Ah, the great outdoors. Thanks to you, this is what I’m reduced to. I’m becoming an Amish housewife. Next thing you know, I’ll be baking bread (while I quilt) in one hand, and milking a freaking goat in the other…while I churn butter with my feet.

The mere idea is making me crave piping hot bread with fresh whipped butter.

So much for writing a blog tonight. Sorry all…I’m heading into the kitchen to bake bread. Or maybe I’ll just make some chocolate chip cookies. I mean, baking is baking right? As long as I’m happy, what difference does it make?

Until the next time…I’ll be wallowing in flour!

may flowers

I have absolutely no idea where the time has gone. You know how sometimes you blink and the party’s just over? Maybe you were having so much fun you lost track of time. Hey, that’s what happened to Cinderella at the ball. She was so wrapped up in her handsome prince, she didn’t notice it was creeping closer to midnight until she heard the first strike of the clock. Or maybe that party was so boring you just sat on a sticky sofa, shoveling chip after chip into your face, until you had dip dribbling down your chin. Maybe you were just too freaking drunk. It doesn’t really matter how it happened…one minute you’re walking in the door and the next, the party’s over.

But I’m not talking about a party. I’m talking about the month of May. I suppose I could be talking about almost anything. Life. Love. Youth.

The last brownie.

And while I’m thinking about that brownie…craving it long after someone else has eaten it…I knew I should have grabbed the damn thing and hid it away before going to bed last night. But delicious brownies aside…how the hell did June sneak up on me? I know I wasn’t drunk…or seduced by a handsome prince. Was I just not paying attention? I felt the rain…watched the flowers bloom…and yet somehow lost track of the days on the calendar.

I’m not going to let that happen to me again. I have plans for June. In fact, I’m going out of town with my mother next week. Three days without my kids, my husband, my dog, or my chickens.

How the hell will I survive? How can I resist?

I feel like quoting Ferris Bueller. “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Until the next time…I’ll be packing!