duck you

I am seriously beginning to doubt my sanity. Ducks? What was I thinking? And not just any ducks…Indian Runner ducks. It would appear I acquired the most skittish, nervous, panic ridden ducks out there. Add to that a serious case of Houdini-itis, and I’m stuck with seven jail-breaking ducks that give Rain Man a run for his money.

I wake up each morning to find the ducks have escaped their pen again. I bring them food, fresh water, refill their baby pool, and chase them across the yard for nearly an hour until I’ve managed to trick them into wandering back to the promise land. It’s not bad enough they’re terrified of me, they can’t seem to figure out which way leads to safety. They run on a collision course with danger just to avoid me and my promise of food and water.

Stupid little ducks.

I’ve tried to find the escape route, to no avail. My husband just rolls his eyes and shrugs, content to leave them to their own accord. I can’t do that. I see my mastiff eyeing them like a nice duck dinner. I know he wants to give chase. but I also know my little quackers have no sense of self-preservation. They bob when they should weave. They surge when they should retreat. They are so toast if the dog, and his massive paws, get close.

So I run around my yard, corralling ducks and taunting the dog with blocks of expensive cheese. My husband thinks I’m nuts, but what’s new. As long as no one shows up with a video camera while I’m out there, I guess they can live.

The little ducks, on the other hand…I’m not so sure about them. Those crazy bowling pins with eyes are making me appreciate the chickens more and more every day. I think I might try turkeys next…they couldn’t be worse than ducks, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be hunting ducks!

so...zombies?

Night of the Living Dead. I’m talking about the original, George Romero black and white flick. Scariest. Zombie. Movie. Ever. It certainly scared the crap out of me. I mean, what could be more terrifying than being trapped in an old farm house with an army of flesh eating zombies just outside the doors?

Hey, wait. I live in an old farm house in the middle of nowhere. I have the scariest basement ever. And I have four barely legal adults living in the house…most of which freak me out almost as much as zombies, on a regular basis. I would be willing to bet, at least a few of them plot to feast on my brains at least now and then. Hey, but if you’re reading, kids, I bought the cherry vanilla ice cream. Eat that instead.

But why am I obsessing about scary things like zombies, in the middle of the night? I have no freaking clue. But I do wonder if the rooster will at least warm me of their approach.

Hey, do zombies eat chicken?

Until the next time…I’ll be having nightmares.

so much for the quiet country

Was it just a few days ago I was going on about how cute my little rooster was? Oh, so cute with his cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Yeah…it was cute alright. Until it started going off every hour on the hour (give or take a few minutes) all freaking night long.

Cock-a-freaking-doodle-do.

I’m beginning to understand how they got their name. My rooster is a dick. And oh so attractive for a bird, but isn’t that always the way? The cute cocky ones are always trouble…I should have listened to Mom. (She’s had chickens before, you know.)

People seem to think living on a farm is all tranquil and quiet, but I can assure you, the sound of crowing at three am is not far from the sound of horns honking along a busy road. And speaking of loud…the damn bugs out here are ridiculous. It sounds like a UFO is hovering over my house. Either that or the plagues of Egypt are making a sudden comeback. Are those cicadas or locust? Is it any wonder I fall asleep listening to classical music?

But even Beethoven can’t drown out the sounds of my hundred and eighty pound mastiff snoring at the foot of my bed.

Are you still wondering why I never sleep?

Until the next time…I’ll be shopping for ear plugs.

the return of Godzilla

Have you ever had a really bad headache? The kind that makes you wish the earth would swallow you whole? You try to sleep it off, but it won’t let you go, not even in sleep. It takes over your dreams and suddenly, you’re in the middle of Toyko (or New York City) and Godzilla is stomping buildings.

Yeah, it was one of those headaches. But I had the perfect thing for it. No, not aspirin…Godzilla.

I think back to my earlier years, when Life was a board game you could cheat, the bills were always paid on time (and by someone else), and food magically appeared on the table.  I didn’t worry about global warming, AAA credit ratings, or the price of oil.  It didn’t matter how much gold cost on the open market, because I knew I could find an endless supply at the end of a rainbow, guarded by a little man in a green suit.  I didn’t have a care in the world.  The only things I had to fear were coal in my Christmas stocking and Godzilla.  Basically, Godzilla was the only truly scary thing the world had to offer.  Nothing could even compare. 

No matter what they threw at him, he would defeat it. 

Smog monster?  No contest.  The terrifying Rodan?  Atomic toast against Godzilla.   Even King Kong knew he had met his match in his battle with the giant lizard. 

There was even a time when my giant moth had tried to take out Godzilla…but Mothra didn’t stand a chance against him.  Because when it came right down to it…Godzilla kicked ass. 

I mean, come on, admit it…if you’re locked in a room with rising unemployment, falling stock markets, and potential foreclosures, and Godzilla suddenly comes knocking…does anything else really matter?  Who runs from inflation?  Not Godzilla, I’m certain. 

But I can almost guarantee the world would run from Godzilla. 

Suddenly, societies that despised each other would unite.  There would be an unexpected commonality among different races and religions.  It wouldn’t matter if you were team Edward or team Jacob. Even Mac and PC users would band together. We are talking about the ultimate US vs. THEM…with “them” being Godzilla and his breath of fire.

If you ask me, this crazy world we live in just might need a fire breathing lizard to pull us together…set us back on the path to a common goal.  He would certainly create jobs as we threw up factories to build Godzilla thwarting weapons and fire proof armor.  And he would reduce carbon emissions with every SUV he trampled along the highway. 

Yes, the world needs Godzilla…if for nothing else than to chase the scary moths from my back porch.

Until the next time…I’ll be preparing for the first invasion!

sometimes she just fakes

Yep, it’s true. Guys, don’t let it go to your…um…head. But sometimes, we just fake it. It’s not that we don’t love you…I’m sure we do. Or at least, we must like you a lot if we even bothered, right? But every now and then, we just pretend. Don’t look at me like that, we have our reasons. And don’t even try telling me you’d know the difference, because I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t. It’s been proven!

Haven’t you seen When Harry Met Sally?

Surely, even if you haven’t seen the movie, you’ve at least heard of the infamous scene where Meg Ryan demonstrates to Billy Crystal (and an entire diner full of people) how a woman can effectively fake…you know…*whispers* an orgasm.

Sorry guys, but we’ve all done it…at least once.

And it was that statement that got me in trouble this evening. After an interesting discussion about book/movie characters and their amazing talents, I made the mistake of dropping that bombshell on my poor unsuspecting husband. It was immediately followed by him saying (quite confidently), “You’ve never faked it with me.”

Um…(cue the shy smile and the corresponding look of horror.) Oops? It was just that one time…honest.

You would think I’d just spoiled Christmas.

How do I get myself into these things? I should have just smiled and stayed quiet. Men the world over would have been none the wiser…right?

Sure…that’s what I thought.

Until the next time…I’ll be digging out my copy of When Harry Met Sally...and burning it!

Raine groped a girl and she liked it!

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Raine ThomasTonight’s guest is writer Raine Thomas. For more about Raine, click on her photo to visit her website.

Did I ever mention the time I felt another girl up?  I didn’t?

*glances around* 

Well, we’re all friends here. Allow me to set the stage… 

New Orleans, early February. The height of Mardi Gras. Me, a just-turned twenty-four-year-old from the small town of Fairburn, Georgia. 

I was a last-minute tagalong with a co-worker who had met a group of people in an online chat-room. One of the primary members of the chat-room was a gal named Carly. Carly lived in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment in New Orleans and had invited a select few to come and stay with her during Mardi Gras, my co-worker included. 

Not wanting to meet a group of strangers by herself, my co-worker asked me to go with her. To this day, I don’t know what possessed me to say yes. Mardi Gras to me was a hot-bed of sin and partying. At that point in my rather sheltered life, “partying” meant sharing an entire pitcher of frozen margaritas at the local Mexican joint with friends.

Yet I found myself packing my suitcase for four days of frivolity with my co-worker and the Select Few. We took my friend’s car and, six hours later, arrived at Carly’s apartment. Though my social anxiety was at its height, in we went. I vaguely remember making my grand entrance by tripping over the threshold, but that was promptly overshadowed by the realization of just how many people there were in that little apartment.

All eyes turned to us. I began counting. By the time I got to ten, I gave up. I realized that this had all the makings of one of those “orgy” things I had read about, and began to wonder how pissed off my co-worker would be if I grabbed her car keys and headed back home. 

Then one of the guys in the group approached and introduced himself. My brain grew a little fuzzy when I realized how attractive he was, but I somehow stammered out a reply. I found out he was Canadian and had also come at the last minute with his cousin. He helped me set up a pillow and blanket on the floor right beside his, gentleman that he was. 

If you’re ever wondering, you can fit exactly six adults on the dining room floor of your basic one-bedroom apartment.

Just as it’s nearing my normal bedtime, everyone prepares to head downtown to Bourbon Street. I gamely offer to be the DD, not considering that I will be responsible for driving an unfamiliar vehicle through a foreign city, guided by a plastered hostess with less sense of where we are than I have. But everyone’s thrilled with my offer and we head off in Carly’s pickup truck.

Bourbon Street is…well, if you haven’t experienced Mardi Gras before, let me just tell you to wear shoes you don’t ever desire to wear again. In fact, buy and wear a different pair every single night. You will thank me for this. 

Anyhow, we all held hands to avoid getting mauled by the masses. I was pleasantly surprised when Canadian guy offered to steer me through the crowd (did I mention he was hot?). We made steady progress, so when we came to a sudden stop in the middle of Bourbon Street, I wondered why.

I soon found out. Having indulged in several yards filled with famous New Orleans Hurricanes, our hometown hostess was about to try and earn some “special beads” by performing a Monica Lewinsky stunt featuring a cigar and her pants around her ankles.

In the middle of the street. 

Cameras flashed. People cheered. And my Catholic upbringing reared its ugly head. 

“Carly, you can’t do this,” I said, forgetting about my crowd anxiety and elbowing my way up to her. 

“I gotta have those beads!” she drunkenly declared, contorting her body in a way that told me she really was going through with this. She shoved me away when I tried to stop her. 

“No. There must be another way to get the beads,” I said. “We can buy them.”

“Sweetie,” said one of the equally drunken guys standing around her holding a camera, “you’re new here aren’t you? You don’t earn your beads here on Bourbon Street with money. 

Realization dawned. Negotiation ensued. No, I wouldn’t flash my boobs (didn’t they know it was 40-freaking-degrees outside and I hadn’t had so much as one frozen margarita to curb my inhibitions?). No, Carly wouldn’t be doing the Monica Lewinsky. But Carly had to have those damn beads.

In the end, the bead-boys settled for me posing with my hands on Carly’s breasts in a pose that I will simply have to pray won’t ever hit the internet. But she got the beads…and I got a mask, which I wore every other day I was at Mardi Gras as I drank Hurricanes like lemonade.

Oh…and that Canadian guy? Yeah. I married him.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for next week’s guest!

what do normal people do?

I was laying here thinking about normal. Like is it normal to argue over the toothpaste? I’ve seen it in countless movies. I’ve heard it on many a talk show (back when I watched those) and yet, I don’t think I’ve ever actually had an argument over the toothpaste…other than, “Hey, did you steal my toothpaste?” And I think that’s a completely different argument.

So is it normal?

And if that’s normal, does it mean I’m not normal because I don’t do that? Really, what does normal mean? Do normal people hear voices?

Ok, that might be going a bit too far. I have it on pretty good authority that writers are not normal in that sense, but it’s normal for writers to talk to themselves and hear voices. So within that subset of society, I think I am sort of normal. I guess.

I enjoy the sound of a rooster crowing. That might be normal, right? But crowing back at him probably isn’t. Then again…do I even want to be normal? If normal people have to follow some strange set of rules, do I even want to belong to that club?

I don’t think so. I think I’m pretty happy being how I am, even if that means I’m not normal. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, I’m pretty extraordinary. Yeah, I like the ring of that. It’s way better than normal any day.

Until the next time…I’ll be happy being abnormal.

for whom the rooster crows

And the sound of cock-a-doodle-do lights up the morning. And the afternoon. And the evening. A lot.

My little rooster is all grown up.

Clooney, the rooster, has finally learned how to crow, and my little cock (yep, I said it…couldn’t resist) is an overachiever. He doesn’t just crow in the morning. He crows all day long.  And he does it perched on the highest surface he can reach, so we have a rooster standing on the top of the coop. Then on the window sill. Then on the truck. Then on the duck house. Then…well, you get the picture. He gets around.

I’m not complaining. I love the sound. I’ve been waiting for him to crow since I discovered he was a cockerel and not a pullet. (You know, a boy and not a girl.) It almost seems complete out here on the haunted farm. We just need a few pigs and goats and someone other than me to take care of them. Just saying.

Oh, and we need those damn baby ducks to grow up already. I feel like I’m tending to a bunch of gremlins. They even decided to swim in their baby pool during a torrential downpour at three in the morning! Thunder, lightning, heavy rain, and a group of baby ducks swimming in a baby pool in my back yard. Yeah, never a dull moment around here. And now we even have a herald to announce the new day.

Maybe I can ditch the alarm clock now.

Until the next time…I’ll be waking up early.

the diva strikes again

Last night was another fun night of karaoke. It was going to be just me and my daughter until my husband decided to join us. He can say he hates it all day long, but when given the option to stay home, he tagged along. Ok, it might have had something to do with what I was wearing, but honestly, I didn’t do it on purpose. Much.

Other than having a few tattooed truckers peering down my top (and hitting on my daughter) it was a perfect night. I think I like having fans. Groopies even. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating, but when old guys (like really old guys) come up to my table to say they’ve enjoyed my singing, it’s sort of a rush. The husband might not like that part very much, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t sing.

And it was very nice to have my daughter there for a change. She had her own following, and not just because she was wearing matching cleavage (completely tasteful, I can assure you) but she sang beautifully last night. I was proud.

I think this might be my new Tuesday night thing.

I might even try to get the husband up there to sing. Crazier things have happened.

Until the next time…I’ll be singing around the house.

home again, home again, jiggety jig

I climbed into the car this morning with one thing in mind…home. I missed my dog, my chickens, my kids, my bed and my internet (in no particular order). The ride was long, but I was focused. I could get through it knowing there were rewards at the end of my journey.

Ah, home. I had missed it so.

I lugged my suitcase filled with my computer and power cords, my pillow and blanket, and my empty cupcake wrappers into the house and headed to my room and my comfy bed.

My husband has been known to call me a momma bear from time to time, this is true, but I had no intention of putting that to the test today. And my daughter may not have golden hair…or a sweet disposition…but when I stalked into my room to flop into my bed, I was still huffing out the words, “Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed!” And she was still there.

Goldielocks…errrr…my daughter that is. And in all fairness, I did tell her she could sleep in my bed while I was gone. If nothing more than to keep the dog company while I was away. I just never expected her to be there at dinnertime when I got home. But there she was, passed out cold in my comfortable pillows, and even the grouchiest of momma bears will always protect their young. So I left her.

And I went to go watch TV. Surely that would be almost as restful.

If the satellite hadn’t been out, that is. And of course, I would have LOVED to have logged onto the internet, but that was out too, and I was feeling more and more like a grouchy bear by the moment.

Then I discovered my cereal had been eaten. The whole box! And it was the roar heard ‘round the block.

Welcome home, Mom. We ate your cereal, broke your internet, and your TV, stole your bed and oh, yeah the dog tore up the garbage just before you got home. Hope you had a nice trip!

I guess it’s a good book and a bowl of popcorn for me. Good thing I ate well at the wedding.

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping off my vacation.

hotel hell

Is there anything worse than waking up in a strange city, in a bed that, first of all, is NOT your own, but is also the most uncomfortable bed you’ve ever slept in? After having a horrible nightmare brought on by far too much wedding cake and possibly liquor (I blame the cake, don’t judge me). To then discover you still have a nine hour drive home after getting less than a few hours of decent sleep and you forgot to pack your power cord?

OK, stop right there. I NEVER forget to pack my power cord…but THAT would have been awful.

We had fun at the wedding. We even danced a little…ate a little (ok a lot) and had a few drinks (few…many…who’s counting?). These things happen at weddings. But I miss home, and I’m ready to get back to the crazy chickens, the kids, the ducks, and my dog, who misses the hell out of me apparently.

Oh, and my internet. I really really miss my internet.

Until the next time…I’ll be blogging from home!

road trips, summer weddings, and duck sitters

I think my life may officially be a cliche.

My husband and I are leaving in the morning on a two day road trip to go to his brother’s wedding in Virginia. I’m not a fan of long road trips, or weddings for that matter. Especially when I don’t know the people getting married. Despite the technicality of the groom being family (I think I’ve met his brother once in passing, but we’ve never spoken) we’re essentially strangers. And I don’t know the bride at all. And other than my husband’s younger sister (the one who actually likes me) I’m not anyone’s favorite in-law. This should make for a very interesting two days.

That is if I survive eleven hours in the car with my husband…in July. With no internet.

But, oh…it gets worse.

While we’re gone, we’re having the “grown” children house sit. Or is that duck sit, since the baby ducks need almost constant round the clock attention like the demented band of toddlers they are? Not more than thirty minutes after cleaning them and their pen, they are once again covered in a layer of mud and poop. They’ve spilled their water into their food and have created a paste that they happily trample through with their little webbed feet as they run circles in the pen waiting for us to bring them new water, new food, and more dry bedding.

And this is less than an hour after breakfast.

I almost fear I will come home to find my house wrecked. My chickens missing. My kids hanging from the chandeliers. And my dogs dining on ducks roasted in orange sauce.

Is it any wonder I never leave town if I can avoid it? Especially when I have absolutely nothing to wear (pardon the cliche, but it’s true). This is why I hate weddings, road trips, and sitters. I have no clue how my husband convinced me to go. It may have involved wine coolers and large quanties of chocolate…both impair my thinking equally.

Well, if I’m going to live out the plot in a bad slapstick comedy, I guess I’d better get a few hours of sleep…and charge my Nook. It’s going to be a long trip!

Until the next time…I’ll be at the open bar!

independence day

Remember when Independence Day wasn’t just the title of a Will Smith movie? Remember when we used to think about the significance of the day, not just blowing stuff up in the back yard? Well, actually I remember being a kid and waiting all day for my parents to take us to see the fireworks, but I still remembered the meaning of the day. It wasn’t just about getting drunk and shooting bottle rockets at each other.

Ok, it was about hot dogs and macaroni salad too. And fireworks. And don’t get me wrong, it’s still about the fireworks. The whole rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air thing. It’s in the song, we can’t forget that.

But today isn’t just about celebrating and watching pretty lights in the sky. Today is about a bunch of founding fathers signing a really old piece of parchment and deciding we were a free nation, no matter what the crown said. So yeah, we should try to remember that while we’re stuffing our faces with hot dogs and domestic beer, and shooting off explosives with reckless abandon. People are still out there laying down their lives so we can risk ours with Chinese pyrotechnics.

So put that in your bottle rocket before you smoke it.

Until the next time…I’ll be maning the hose and making sure the pyromanics in my family don’t blow up a chicken.

return of the rock star

Ok, I did it. I did it. I finally went and DID it!

Karaoke, I mean.What did you think I was going to say?

As my husband reminded me last night, it’s been over two years since the last time we went out for karaoke, and he was perfectly fine with that arrangement. He hates it. I mean HATES it. The people, the music, the atmosphere. The whole kit and kaboodle. He really hates karaoke. Despite the fact that we met at a karaoke show. Yeah, I haven’t missed the irony there. But I suppose he figures he can never top that first night, so why tempt fate, right?

I suspect he was trying to “make up” after our bout of disagreements lately by taking me to do something I really like, and there’s no way to say I’m sorry like a night of karaoke!

And people, I was a rock star. I had old men coming up to me after each song like I was Stevie Nicks (back when Stevie was hot, remember that?) I even had a ninety year old man on oxygen ask me on a date. Well, he told me he did karaoke on Friday nights at a different place and begged me to come. Hey, who knows…I just might. Now that I have the fever again, there’s no telling what I might do.

Within reason of course. My husband isn’t going to let me meet up with another man for karaoke anytime soon. Even if that man IS ninety something years old. And on oxygen.

But I’m ok with that. I’m still riding high on the fact that I did karaoke tonight, and had fun. Yep. Fun. Remember what fun is like? I had almost forgotten. But now that I’ve had a taste, I might not what to forget again.

Sorry, honey. You’ve unleashed the monster again. I hope you’re ready for that!

Until the next time…I’ll be dusting off my diva for next time!

paging dr jekyll

I’m beginning to think the women in this house aren’t the only ones suffering from PMS.

Oh, yeah…I said it. What now? Do I duck? Do I hide? Why should I? It’s true, you know. Everyone has mood swings. You (by you, I mean me) just have to remember mood swings are not the kind you find on a playground. I mean, yeah…I guess you could find them on a playground, but that’s not the same thing. Mood swings are dangerous.

As a quick aside, real swings are pretty dangerous too. I once fell off and scraped my face in the dirt. But, I’m going off topic.

So, yeah…mood swings. Those irritably unpredictable moments when one minute you’re up, wiggling your toes in the clouds with a giggle, and in the next, you’re face first in the muddy foot path below. But dudes don’t get PMS do they? It’s not biologically possible, is it? I suppose I’ve never done the actual research, but in my limited experience (as in, limited to my own experiences) I’m going to say, no. So instead of sending up the red (pardon the pun here) flag of the PMS early detection system, I’m just going to be “paging Dr. Jekyll” anytime I feel the swing has reached the sky. If the swing is in the dirt, I’ll be taking cover. I will NOT be antagonizing Mr. Hyde.

Ok, so I said I wasn’t going to antagonize the monster. Yeah, well that was before I discovered I needed to fly that red flag after all. PMS apparently loves company and the minute company is in the air, it shows up. Or maybe it just seems that way. I need to do further research. And unfortunately, it looks like I have plenty of subject material around here.

My own personal Mr. Hyde is sleeping on the amazingly comfortable sofa again this evening (hardly punishment, and definitely self-imposed, either way) while I sleep (or rather can’t sleep) in the bed. I’ve already watched my favorite movie on repeat for the past few hours (something I can only do when Hyde pulls couch duty) and even that isn’t helping. A storm rages on outside, and ordinarily, I would be sleeping peacefully…blissfully unaware…but tonight, I’m just listening to the sounds of thunder and the rhythmic pounding of rain against the glass. And no one is snoring beside me. All in all, not a bad night, really.  Maybe I should piss off the monster more often.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to the rain.

please don't piss off the chef

The last few months have brought many changes in my life. I’ve had to sacrifice modern conveniences (and Barnes and Noble) for the solitude of the country. I must admit, I miss having a metroplex movie theatre close by. I miss human interaction (my main reason for hanging out at the bookstore cafes). And I pine for my hairdresser every time I look in the mirror. But I try to remind myself of all the wonderful things I got in the bargain. I have chickens, and ducks, and a mountain view all for me. And for a few weeks, I had the complete quiet of an existence without my children living at home.

Yeah, about that…

The girls moved back with their significant others, and I have to say…I kinda like this whole family thing. I have boys to order around…errr ummm…sweet talk into doing errands for me. Mike loves having boys to cut down trees and mow the grass. The unpacking is finally complete, now that I have burly guys to lift heavy things and put them away for me. And other than the occasional (ok, frequent) couples arguments, it’s been smooth sailing around here.

Did I happen to mention my daughter’s boyfriend is a chef?

Oh yeah…a chef. And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten my little bet with the hubby. The one where I won a life free of ever cooking again? Yeah, as soon as we moved here, that little agreement flew right out the window like a chicken being chased by my dog. But when the daughter moved in with the chef, well, suddenly I didn’t have to cook anymore…again. And this time I’m not forced to eat my husband’s crazy concoctions (he hates when we call them that, but I doubt science experiments would go over any better). This time, I’m getting the gourmet treatment almost any time I want it.

Now I’m praying my daughter doesn’t muck it up. I mean, she can’t break up with my chef! What would I do? What the hell would I eat? I’d be kissing my chicken parmesan goodbye. And my homemade, hand tossed fancy goat cheese pizzas. And the fettuccini alfredo. (Insert groans and salivating here). The list just goes on and on.

I’ve decided if they break up, she’s got to find someplace else to live. I mean, yeah, I love her…she’s my baby. But the guy is a fantastic cook! AND he does the dishes. Do you hear me? He does the fucking dishes too! Maybe I should just pressure them into getting married. I get to keep him in the pre-nup. That’s fair, right?

Yeah, I hope she doesn’t read this. At least not until she’s over the PMS.

Until the next time…I’ll be stuffing my face with garlic mashed potatoes and fresh sweet corn succotash.

a rant against zombies

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Lisa Magoch JohnsonThis week’s guest is writer/blogger Lisa Magoch Johnson. For more about Lisa, click here for her blog.

This morning I read an article about a huge tantrum.  A woman in Prescott, Arizona attacked police officers by punching, scratching, and biting at their ankles. It earned her a mention in the local paper, but didn’t get even a blip of the nationwide coverage of those in Florida who decided they wanted to munch on other people’s faces.  Those people were probably zombies. This woman? Deranged.

Apparently, the deciding factor of who is and isn’t a zombie is based on what you bite.  

Ankles – Deranged or thinks they’re a chihuahua.

Face— Zombie.

Ear – An ex boxer trying to make a comeback.

It’s 2012 and “zombie apocalypse” has joined the list of overused catchphrases.  I hate zombies! There. I said it. Vampires I can deal with. All you have to do with a classic vampire is wait until sunrise, throw holy water on him, stake him through the heart, and set him out in the sunlight for good measure. Unless he’s one of those weirdo vampires, who has discovered glittering Tinkerbell sunblock. 

Werewolves?  Throw him a steak.  Make a bullet out of silver. It depends on if you want to keep him as a pet or not.

Mummy?  Hold your nose and unwrap his bandages.

Meanwhile, zombies. They’re slow,  have no personality, and they stink. You have to wonder why anyone gets killed in a zombie movie.  If everyone armed themselves with baseball bats and walked in a zig zag pattern, the movie would be over within ten minutes.

So, why do we want to assume every drug user who becomes a maniacal biter is a potential zombie?  I have heard of meth users who displayed superhuman strength.  Never once did anyone wonder if we had a potential super hero/villain running around. 

Just because I hate zombies and don’t believe in them, doesn’t mean I’m not ready.  What I have done is to join a medieval reenactment group called the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) .  They are a group of people who wear funny clothes and dance around hitting each other with sticks.  They will tell you they are doing this for sport or educational purposes, but what better way to practice zig zagging and practicing your zombie shot?  You never know. Weirder things have happened.

Thanks Lisa! But just FYI, I love zombies. I mean, not love love, cuz that’s really gross. But I love to hate them, and that’s kinda love, right? I mean, I’ve vowed to only run when chased by zombies, so that gives them a certain kind of importance in my life. But let’s not delve too far into my love life, shall we?

Until the next time…I’ll be having zombie nightmares!

a ghost in the machine

I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again. My house is haunted. But I’d like to think it’s haunted by nice spirits, not nasty ones. Then again, after the conversation I had with the kids this evening, I’m stocking up on holy water and rosary beads (can you get those at the local pharmacy?)

Apparently, we’ve had quite a few ghost sightings around here lately. The neighbor kids (the Goonies) mentioned seeing a little girl in the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms long before anyone moved in the vacant farm house. My husband and I have heard noises coming from the basement late at night. And the dogs have heard footsteps on the upper floor when no one else was home to be upstairs. I had finally accepted these as normal. No need for an exorcist, right? But then my daughter’s boyfriend saw four figures standing on the front lawn in the middle of the night, staring up at the house. This after a nightmare in which the earth came to an end. So ok, that might have freaked me out just a little.

But, hey…I’m still here. (Stocking up on holy water and rosary beads, remember?)

The good news is, I’m not such a Debbie Downer today after the wonderful words of support from everyone yesterday. Thanks all! Sometimes you just need a reminder of what’s important, I guess. That and a good scare to knock some sense into you.

Not to mention a handsome (and quite flirty) young rooster. I think he’s decided my coop is his coop. I can’t open the doors without him flying right inside to perch on the nearest piece of furniture, followed by the entire flock. Silly bird. I’m starting to feel like the crazy pigeon lady of Central Park. All I need is a big floppy hat with a pink carnation. Yeah, don’t get any ideas.

Until the next time…I need to get the flock out of here. I need some sleep.

diatribe of a debbie downer

I’m lounging in my bed, stuck here because that’s where the power cord for my laptop resides, listening to the obnoxious cries of the baby ducks in the next room, as I try to formulate something to write as a blog post tonight.

I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve been a bit off lately. But everyone has off days, right? I’m not alone in that. Life isn’t a Skittles commercial. Sometimes you go to taste the rainbow and all you get is a mouth full of cloud. I know I sound like a Debbie Downer, and so what. Debbie Downers of the world unite! We need love too.

I think my problem is a simple one. The simple life just isn’t very exciting. Oh, sure, I shoo chickens out of the kitchen at least once a day. Chase off the neighbors dogs three or four times more than that. But interactions with a juvenile rooster (or a young cock as it were) may be stimulating (sorry, I couldn’t resist) but hardly thrilling. Ok, so talking to a rooster is kind of exciting. He bites.

What I need is an adventure. And I’m not willing to venture into the scary basement to find one. I think I need a day trip…or a night of karaoke…or maybe it’s time I broke down and got that bikini wax after all.

Listen to me. Bikini wax? Foolish. Desperate. Crazy.

It could work.

Until the next time…I’ll be weighing my options.

doesn't anybody up there like me?

I’m not going to lie…rejection hurts! Sometimes it hurts bone deep, no matter how much you prepare yourself for it.

Oh, I know, I should be used to it by now. First of all, I’m a girl. I’ve been rejected in my life. And I’m a writer, and hell, rejection just comes with the territory. Writers are supposed to expect it. A lot. And then expect more after that. We’re supposed to just keep on plugging along. Forget the heartbreak…the feelings of inferiority…and just soldier on, right? Well, it’s not really all that easy.

I knew I would be rejected by some, if not all, but I had read an article by a literary agent reassuring new writers that a rejection doesn’t mean they don’t like me…it just means they don’t like my writing. Or something to that effect.

Well, I hate to break it to you…but I have put my entire self into my writing.  I have stayed up so late that it was already early by the time I went to bed, just to wake up a few hours later to start the cycle over again.  I have sacrificed my health, my sanity, and my marriage to write.  I AM my writing.  So if you don’t like my writing…you don’t like me. 

And I’m OK with that, mostly.  It has taken me a long time to accept the fact that some people are just not meant to like me. 

But that doesn’t mean someone else won’t fall in love with me at first read. 

Didn’t someone say something about kissing a whole lot of frogs before finding a prince? Well, sign me up for the kissing booth, because I’m ready to find myself an agent!

Right after I eat a gallon of Ben and Jerry’s and cry myself to sleep.

Until the next time…I’ll be checking my email with a box of tissues!