the hornet's nest

I admit it. I’d kick the damn nest if I could find it. The problem is…I can’t find it.

We have hornets in the kitchen. Oh, and in the bathroom. And sometimes in the living room, but I think that’s just because they fly. The thing is I don’t know how they’re getting in, or where they’re coming from. It’s not like I can plan an attack on the nest if I don’t know where to attack.

The dog has protected me from several by eating them. I don’t necessarily think he has the right idea, but who am I to complain when he’s charging in as my furry knight, eating the enemy. I do worry he’ll get stung, but he doesn’t seem to mind. And I imagine in some cultures they would be considered a delicacy…full of protein and whatnot.

Anyway, the hubby has promised to seek out their lair and gas them, and I’m going to hold him to it. There is nothing worse (and trust me, I’ve had lots of crazy things happen in this house) than having a hornet come at you while you’re naked in the shower. They’re bad enough when you’re fully dressed. Naked is a deal breaker. Either they go, or I strike. No more showers with hornets! Get it?

Maybe not my best idea, but I think it just might work.

I’ll keep you posted…as always.

Until the next time…I’ll be prepping for the labor day barbecue!

taking a leap with Lorca Damon

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight.

Lorca DamonTonight’s guest is writer Lorca Damon. For more about Lorca, click on her photo to visit her website.

Writing a book sucks. There, I said it. I’ve done it six times and it’s just plain horrible. I cry, I scream, I forget to feed important things like dogs and children. It’s carnage. So why do I keep doing this to myself?

Notice I didn’t say, “I’ve published six books.” I’ve WRITTEN six books. There’s a difference. PUBLISHING six books means I have an audience and a fan base and I care what they think of my work. WRITING six books means I just have way too much free time between midnight and four in the morning.

But here’s the truth: I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for me. Wow, that sounded ugly even while it was still in my head. But it’s true.

Emily Dickinson apparently wrote tons of stuff on scraps of paper that she shoved in the back of a drawer so no one would ever see them. Harper Lee might be writing new books every week even as we speak, whole volumes of words that we may never see until she dies and even then I hope someone has the good sense to burn all of them before someone can try to make a buck off it.

Those women were writers. They wrote because it felt good or because it kept them from having whole conversations with the voices in their heads at all hours of the day or night. I write because I need someone to read what the voices are telling me to do, then stop me from going through with it.

I learned this really super lesson from my eleven-year-old, of all people. I was lying on the living room floor surrounded by my notes and my laptop. I have no idea why pencils were strewn all around me since I clearly had my laptop, but it added to the writerly look of things. Go with it.

Anyway, I’m lying on the floor in exactly the same position I’d be in if I had just fallen from a really great height. Life has no meaning anymore, I’m on the edge of the cliff, all that stuff. I moaned a little, just for tortured writer effect.

“I’m so tired of these characters!” I cried. “They’re. So. Whiny!”

“So kill them,” my daughter said with a shrug. “It’s your book. Kill them.”

“I can’t! The sequel will suck if I kill them! Waaaahaaa!”

“So don’t kill them. It’s still your book.” And she left the room with the last can of Mountain Dew.

But she was right. It’s my book. Not the industry’s, not the publisher’s, not the audience’s. It’s mine. I wrote it and I like it. And maybe no one will ever read it, if that’s not what’s meant to be. But at least I got it out of my head.

Lorca Damon is a teacher and a YA (Young Adult) writer, currently working on her sixth novel, but please don’t go looking for either of the first five yet since, (acccording to Lorca) no one thought they were any good. Her mother thought the first one was lacking but had nothing but the highest praise for the second one. Thus, her mother has offered to write a review for her hometown newspaper.

You can follow her on Twitter @LorcaDamon. Feel free to Friend her on Facebook since she doesn’t know how it works and therefore cannot stop you. A third cousin of someone she went to junior high school with posts her horoscope on her Facebook wall every day and she is powerless to stop him.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for next week’s guest (could it be you?)

panda bares

It’s taking me a while, but I am still compiling a book from my most popular blogs and some new material.  As I collect my favorites, this particular blog came up and I just had to replay it or update it or whatever, but hey…I hope you enjoy it either way.

The book is called, “Dancing Bare”, and I want a dancing bear on the cover.  So several months ago, I asked my husband (and someone really needs to remind me not to do this anymore, for a variety of reasons) what sort of bear would I be…if I was a bear.

So after a nanosecond of thought, he smiles and says, “A panda…without a doubt.”

Of course, I asked him why a panda. He just smiled and said, “Because you are.”

Lady Panda?What the hell, I thought.  I don’t wear a mask. I’m closer to a polar bear in coloring. And I wanted to be a brown bear because they match my hair.  But no.  He says I’m a panda.  And he won’t say why.

Fast forward a week when I had to pick a topic for the challenge blog. (Yeah, I haven’t done that in a while, but I really need to start again. It was fun.) One topic stuck out like a sore…panda.  That’s right.  Panda bear was a topic! How could I pass up the chance to explore this a little further?  So I went in with another attempt to get my husband to explain why I’m a panda.  I had a challenge blog to write. He had to tell me…right?

He must have agreed…the challenge blog is sacred. 

So here is why my husband says I am a panda (not the brown bear like I wanted to be)…

“Pandas are not technically bears,” he started.

Of course, I already knew this, but I didn’t care. I want them to be bears, so they are. Deal with it.

“No, they’re not.” He likes to correct me.  Pfft. “Pandas are essentially giant raccoons.”

Right. So I’m a bear that isn’t a bear. I’m a non-bear? I actually asked him that.

“Right,” he says. “You’re a pretend bear in a bear world.” 

“Pretend bear…bear world?” I repeat this sentence as a question and he nods. 

I ask him if he realizes I’m blogging this shit.  He does. I start to wonder if he wants the world to think he’s some kind of villain.  I don’t ask him that, but I suddenly struggle with the urge to tell him to fuck off again.

My need to know more about why I’m a panda prevails and I ask him. “Is that all? I’m just a non-bear in a bear world?”

No. That’s not all.

Of course not.

“Pandas are not omnivores.  They eat bamboo and that’s it. They don’t like mayonnaise on their egg sandwiches.  They don’t like pickles on their cheeseburgers.  They don’t want their vegetables to touch their meat or potatoes.  They eat bamboo.” Does he think I eat bamboo? Are Snickers made from bamboo?

So let’s recap… “I’m a non-bear in a bear world. And I’m a picky eater?”

He stares at the bag of oyster crackers I’m snacking from. “Yep. That’s about it.”

“So this has nothing to do with the black and white coat?  Or the cuteness?  The mask?  The cuddly appearance?”

Non-Bear Picky Eater“Nope. Non-bear…picky eater.”

I keep asking him, “Are you sure?  That’s it?”

Finally he makes the “mean” face and says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.  I think maybe I’ve drifted off to an alternate universe, but I know better.  I decide to grab a pair of ear buds to listen to music while I write…the non-bear in me likes music apparently…so I plug them into my laptop and turn up the music.  It’s barely loud enough to hear so I turn it up.  And up again, until it’s at max volume.  It’s still muffled, but I can hear my music, so who cares?

“What are you doing?” he asks…mean face still showing. 

I “Grrr” a little at him…like a bear (or a non-bear)…and tell him “I’m listening to music.”

“Uh, so am I…” he pops up an eyebrow and stares at my laptop like he hates it, so I pull out my ear buds to say, “What?  Oh!”

I plugged the ear buds into the wrong jack. The music was playing loudly into the room. Hence the muffled sound.

“Non-bear,” he says as I switch the jacks.

“Fuck off.”

The music drowns out his reply.

This is why I love a challenge blog.

Until the next time…I’ll be digging into the other blogs for more favorites. Do you have one?

crowing class

Roosters.

Crazy, strange, annoying, funny Roosters.

Clooney, currently on reprieve from being killed and cooked in a pot, is trying to earn his keep by teaching the Silkie rooster how to crow. This has been going on for the past hour and has caused my daughter and me to break down in fits of hysterical laughter on several occasions.

Back and forth they go. First Clooney crows in his classic, perfectly pitched rooster crow, followed by the muppet-looking rooster with his off-key, George of the Jungle bellow. And back to Clooney with his melodious crow. And there it goes…for over an hour…until the younger rooster finally sounds almost like Clooney. Almost. He’s still a bit…pitchy. Sort of like a rooster going through puberty. But I think Clooney has earned himself a few extra points, and maybe a few more days of freedom.

He’s a sneaky little bugger. I’d really hate to see him go.

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

what's in a name?

It’s that time again…time to pick character names. And just so you know, it’s pretty much the same process as choosing a baby name, and almost as important. After all, can you imagine if Shakespeare had gone with his orginal title of, Romeo and Ethel the Pirate’s Daughter? Romeo and Ethel isn’t nearly as romantic…no offense to the Ethels of the world.

So here I am, going back and forth on the merits of character names with my friend and editor Laura, one of my daughters and my husband.

Coming up with the perfect name is hard work…

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

I think Shakespeare missed the target with that line. Names ARE important. A rose by another name might smell the same, but it wouldn’t be a rose anymore, would it? No, it would be a daisy, or a petunia, or a gardenia….or it might just be stinky cheese. And, who wants to get stinky cheese on Valentine ’s Day? Some of us might end up getting little more than that anyway, but it wouldn’t exactly be on our wish lists, now would it? Seriously…a name can define who you are. It says a lot about you. It could even steer your path in life. How many lawyers do you know named Taffy?

Right…zero.

There are just certain names that go with certain positions. I doubt we’ll be hearing stories about President Billy Bob anytime soon. A person’s name should be able to carry them from infancy to old age with a seamless transition. Some names just don’t do that. Baby Ethel  isn’t going to be the center of the sandbox social club with a name like that (pirate’s daughter or not). And there are a lot of Brittany’s out there who made cute little girls, but how well will that name carry them into old age? Someday, someone will be referring to that formerly cute baby as Grandma Brittany.

When I was pregnant with my children, I spent every day of each nine months, laboring (no pun intended) over what name I would bestow upon my unborn child. I tried to imagine every stage of their lives with that name, every possible nickname that could be created from their proper given names, and how the name would roll off the tongue when combined with the middle and last name. And one can’t forget about the initials. I had to be sure their initials didn’t accidentally spell out something horrible, like ASS (which wasn’t likely as their last name started with an L). But you just can’t be too careful. My father’s initials are PU.

Sometimes people just don’t think about the consequences of their choices. As for my name, my father picked it out. As the story goes, he met a girl named Erica while he was stationed in Germany back before he met my mother. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the whole story. How my mother let that one slide I’ll never know. But it does make for an interesting story to tell. “Oh yeah, I was named after some German chick my dad slept with when he was in the Army.” Or not. There are some things I just don’t want to know.

But despite its origins, I had issues with my name from the beginning. It was unusual back then. When I was little, no one had heard of my name, so no one knew how to pronounce it. I had teachers that called me Ureka…Ursula…Ahreeka. My grandmother decided to just call me Rikki, which was fine and dandy except that it was a boy’s name. I asked my mother once why they called me Rikki, and she told me it was because they thought I was a boy at first. To a six year old that seems like an actual possibility. And it suddenly made perfect sense why I had a toy tractor. As I got older, I began to grow into my name. Not right away mind you. I had a very awkward start. I was 17 before I could actually fit into the sexy category that the name demanded. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having a sexy name, and the minute I broke free of my mother’s fashion chains, I was able to live up to those expectations. I learned how to suppress the crazy hot pink sweater inside of me and channel the outward power of the name. I have run across a few Ericas in the course of my life, but never in my immediate circle. so, I have always felt unique. I was always one of a kind. So I was excited a few years back when I saw the newest trend on Facebook. It was the chain letter du jour. A cut and paste status experiment, if you will. The instructions were to go to Urbandictionary.com and do a search on your first name and take the first definition and make that your status.

Hey, I was up for that challenge. I had a distinctive name. I had looked it up before. It means Eternal ruler in its Norse origins. It was a powerful name. And I had seen the other definitions on the statuses of my friends and family. Julie was fair-haired and loved by all, Louise was popular, and June was hot like a summer day. I would be something wonderful too. How could I not be? I was an “Erica”. And “Erica” means something grand. So I opened a new browser window with an air of vanity…ready to show them all. I typed in my name and hit enter with a jolt of sudden pride. And then I just sat there…dumbfounded for a minute or two. I couldn’t post this on my Facebook status. First of all, who would believe me? Who would believe I had actually discovered this without any interference on my part? After all…they all know me too well. And I couldn’t have aspired to have a definition as unique as this. It was priceless. It summed up in one short line what I would have taken several paragraphs to convey. “Erica: the term used for the exact moment a penis enters the vagina.”

I think the definition has changed since then, and I hope it’s not worse. I’m a little afraid to look.

As for my characters, I did finally name them and now I can begin their story.

Until next time…I’ll be creating the perfect characters to go with the perfect names.

do these things only happen to me?

What a freakin week! And they tell me it’s only Monday.

My mother always cautioned me to wear clean underwear just in case of an accident.  I never totally understood that argument.  Shouldn’t we just wear clean underwear because it’s clean and for no other reason?  She never said wear nice underwear just in case of an accident.  The only criteria was that it had to be clean.  Now, just for the record, my underwear is always clean (although frequently inside out) but I won’t say that I always wear the nicest pair.  Depending on the day (and the laundry schedule) I’ve been known to wear relatively unattractive underwear on occasion.  I know it’s hard to believe that my underwear isn’t black lace trimmed in hot pink fur, but we can’t be sexy everyday can we?  

The truth is, I’ve never been overly concerned about accidents and underwear because, I know for a fact that you can absolutely fall hard enough, or in the right way, to tear your underwear.  I have done it! So with that in mind, I figured if I was ever in an accident, I would just blame the condition of my underwear on the impact.  Problem solved, right?

Wrong.

Mom never warned me to wear nice underwear just in case I have to go to the doctor unexpectedly.  That would have been valuable information!  I could have used that advice this morning when I got dressed. 

I looked perfectly acceptable on the outside, but under my clothes I was hiding a solid week’s worth of leg stubble, and my emergency underwear.  The ones I only wear when I have no clean laundry (or in today’s case, when I don’t feel well and I want to be really, really comfortable.)  They look sort of like I stole them from someone’s grandmother at a retirement home panty raid or something.  I didn’t. They’re mine.  They just aren’t meant for show.  I have other underwear for that.  I need to start keeping an extra pair, a pretty pair, in my purse for emergencies.  My emergency underwear is not meant for THAT kind of emergency.

But in my defense, I went to the doctor for a freaking stomach issue. NOT for my legs, or God knows…my underwear.

And it was a brand new doctor. A brand new, sorta cute (if not a little nerdy, but nerdy can be sexy, right?) doctor. And hey, I’m sure the new doctor has seen worse things than baggy underwear and hairy legs, right?  Sure he has!  Still…it made me think of my mother’s warning about the clean underwear.  I think I will definitely expand upon that warning for my daughters!

Who knew the doctor was going to want to see my legs. Specifically my knee and the still present bruising from my nasty fall a week or so ago. And he was concerned. Not because I hadn’t shaved my legs since said fall…no, he was concerned about the swelling and bruising. And he didn’t even mention the fact that my underwear was, not only hideous, but also inside out. I think he might have laughed when his back was turned though. I had to distract him by mentioning I was having chest pains…so he’d check out my chest too. Because that shit is always at its best. Or so they say. Not like I was trying to pick up my doctor or anything. I wasn’t. Really, honey. If you’re reading, I wasn’t trying to pick up the doctor. I was just trying to…you know…cover for the whole hairy legs, inside out underwear, embarrassment.

I might have failed on that…but at least he says I’ll live.

You know…if I don’t die of embarrassment first.

Until the next time…I’ll be shaving my legs before I go to the dentist. Can’t be too careful!

four people in a little car and a funeral

It was the road trip from hell.

Ok, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but according to my husband, I’m prone to exaggeration (insert eyeroll here.)

Yeah, he may be right, but it was still the road trip from hell.

Mike and I had to travel to Florida to his grandmother’s funeral on Saturday. It’s a six-plus hour trip and the plan was to drive there, go to the funeral and other assorted required family funeral related functions, then hop back into the car and drive home. So that’s roughly 13 hours in the car in one day.

Did I mention I drive a Kia Soul? Oh, and we were taking two teenage girls with us? Yep…Road. Trip. From. Hell.

The trip there was only mildly miserable. We listened to music, chatted…I read…napped…the usual car trip stuff. Oh, except for the fact that two of us had to stop every hour or so to take care of “female issues”.

Right, because having “female issues” while on a road trip is life’s way of laughing at us. Especially when the driver (my husband…a guy who stands up to pee) has no understanding of why we might not want to stop at every icky gas station along the way to “take care of things”.

After the first stop, where I had to roll my pant legs up to my knees and completely cover the toilet seat in half a roll of toilet paper, I opted to hold out for better accomodations.

And life, that cheeky bastard, decided to get me with the ultimate road trip prank.

Apparently, one should never hold out during “that time of the month” while on a road trip. This, as I discovered after ruining my favorite pair of linen pants, and giving a YouTube worthy show to the patrons of the local Target, somewhere along the way, is a very bad idea.

Of course, my husband said wearing linen pants was the very bad idea, and I probably would agree with him, if I hadn’t been thinking of ways to dispose of his body along the way for speaking to me after something so horrifying.

But I digress.

Lucky for me, I was traveling in my comfortable clothes, and had funeral clothes to wear for the rest of the day…and night.

And so I did. I wore black for the rest of the hot, miserable, Florida-variety hot, trip. While I was not only dealing with “female issues” but also my possible hernia (or GERD or some other nasty, as of yet undisclosed, stomach disorder) and that pesky kidney stone that has, thankfully stayed put in my kidney only causing me mild discomfort rather than disabling pain. I guess one should be thankful, right?

Right, because this day could only get better. We still had a funeral to attend.

And it was a lovely service. Everyone should be so blessed to have such a nice send off from friends and family. It’s very hard to make jokes about a funeral. And I tried. I really did. I tried to be appropriately reverent during the entire thing. But I couldn’t help myself. I slipped…my thoughts that is. But just for a minute or three…the time it took the man with the lovely voice to sing the church hymn with an upbeat tempo. Because the entire time he was singing, I imagined he was singing dirty show tunes. But seriously, it was a very show tune inspired arrangement. And his facial expressions were way too cheerful for a funeral. And because I, myself, have been known to swap words around to make up dirty show tunes, I decided at that moment to go there. In my head. For just a few minutes. And trust me, I punished myself for it. I had to hold back the laughter for the rest of the service. Because, in my head…the guy was really funny. And I felt very guilty for thinking so.

Ok, I told my husband as soon as we got in the car, and he sort of agreed with me. So I didn’t feel quite so guilty anymore. But one should never laugh at a funeral. Even if someone sings church hymns with the gusto of a dirty show tune.

Just don’t do it!

And then we went back to his grandmother’s house to eat. Because, let’s face it, there is always an abundance of food after a funeral, and if you’re going to be in the car for almost seven hours afterwards, you should definitely eat yourself into a food coma first.

Right?

Wrong. You should never eat yourself into any type of coma prior to climbing into the car for several hours. So instead, we visited with family for a while longer…and then got into the car…well after dark. And then…it was on. Road. Trip. From. Hell.

Four people can NOT sleep in a Kia at the same time. Well…three people. I expressly forbid my husband from sleeping while he drove. And he refused any offers to take the wheel for a while because he wanted, “to get home at some point.” And clearly, the rest of us were not up to the task.

Which was fine with me. I had a fully charged Nook and I was willing to use it.

I also had my favorite pillow and blanket because I definitely think ahead.

The girls in the backseat did NOT think ahead and were, therefore, very uncomfortable. And very vocal about it. But I wasn’t about to share my blanket…or my pillow. So sue me…I’m not sharing. And trust me, they would not have shared with me had the situation been reversed.

But don’t worry…life got me back. I had to stop along the way to use the bathroom (more than once I’m afraid) and after midnight, the only place open was a Waffle House somewhere in Alabama. I won’t go into details because it was just that gross, but I will say, they totally need to fix their toilet…and when I told the girl at the counter that, she just smiled and said, “Oh, it’s always done that.” And I vowed to never ever eat there as long as I live (insert shudder here).

We finally made it home alive. And tired…so tired I didn’t even care that it was the first real internet connection I’d had in almost 24 hours. I just wanted to fall into bed and sleep.

And that’s why this is so late. Don’t judge me…I’ve had a bad few days.

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping.

the perfect storm of sick

Some get summer colds. Some get stomach bugs. Some even get the flu or strep throat. I wish I had one of those. But did I get something ordinary like that?

Hell no. I don’t do anything ordinary.

I dragged my sick ass to the doctor today at the urging of my husband, my mother and finally my sister, who harshly reminded me that, “we’re too old to ignore symptoms like that.” And I guess she was right. But lucky for me, it wasn’t something catastrophic coming to claim me. It was just…well…something miserable and painful, I guess.

Oh, I’ll live. But trust me, I might wish I didn’t…for a little while anyway. So please don’t be mad if I’m a little…out of the loop for a few days. I’m still here, just a little less motivated to blog.

And then, I have a funeral to attend.

Because isn’t that just the perfect topper to the cake of despair? Yeah…life does that to ya sometimes. You still have to love it. Life is a cheeky little bastard.

Until the next time…I’ll be out here dreaming up things to blog about that don’t hurt.

inappropriate humor with Amberr Meadows

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Amberr MeadowsTonight’s guest is writer/blogger Amberr Meadows. For more about Amberr, click on her photo to visit her website and her fabulous travel blog.

I quit smoking five days ago, and I am finally beginning to see the humorous side of things. The way I’ve carried on and moped about my house, isolated from the outside world, made me feel like I was some sort of hardcore recovering junkie.  I’m on Day 5, no smokes, and when I think about the way I’ve felt and acted recently, I can’t help but to laugh. No, I don’t think addiction is funny shit, per say, but I do think the way I’ve carried on is kind of funny.

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism or a comfort measure? Some people turn to shopping or gambling or Jesus for comfort; I tend to default to bizarre humor. I’m just quirky that way and always have been. Even during funerals of people I loved, I found something hilarious. Like the time when prim and proper Aunt Benni came strolling out of the restroom with her dress AND a piece of toilet paper tucked into her pantyhose, looking painfully solemn, walking into the chapel with that crazy TP tail trailing behind her.

 It was totally inappropriate to laugh, of course, but as I regarded her and the weepy faces around me, something broke like a dam within me. I had to bend my head in mock-prayer, bite the insides of my cheeks, and hope nobody noticed my shoulders shaking in laughter. I laughed until the tears poured, which worked as a great cover-up. After that, I was mostly okay about the whole death thing. I’d still have sad moments, but I could, and did, move on.  

Just like early today. Admittedly, all “Haha” aside, the first few days of the no-smoking deal has, no doubt, been the roughest thing to go through aside from losing a loved one. I know, I’m terrible to even think those things compare, but when you’re giving up a longtime habit, whether it is food, gambling, chocolate, or like me—cigarettes,  it’s like parting with an old friend. If you’ve been there, you know exactly what I’m talking about, and if you haven’t, don’t judge.

I’d been in mourning along with withdrawals the past few days, but I’ve lived through it, sharing my progress with everyone I come into contact to, on my blog, and all over social media. Each day I’ve posted on my Facebook wall “Day, fill-in-the-blank, no cigs, going strong…” and when I did it for today, it suddenly seemed hilarious. I felt almost like an alcoholic in an AA meeting, only my status updates have been my version of the Serenity Prayer.

I even went so far as to imagine myself collecting my 90-day sober chip, while tearfully telling some horrible story of something bad I did while smoking cigarettes—nothing major, I can recall in reality, but it was a funny thought—and how I’d ultimately prevailed. Then, thanking God and my family for support, I’d hold my chip triumphantly in the air while everyone clapped wildly. Yeah, not funny stuff to the average bear, but it amused the hell out of me.

You know, the mind is a funny monkey sometimes, and even if the way I handle things is ultimately considered bizarre, it’s really just the way I am. Nor do I think I’d have it any other way.

Best of luck to Amberr on her quest to kick the habit! I might just have to follow suit and give up those cookies once and for all!

Until the next time…I’ll be craving Thin Mints.

the road less traveled

My dad once told me, “Life is a lot like driving a car. If you are careful and make wise decisions you generally, not always, arrive at the destination you intended. However every bad decision or moment of not paying attention risks arriving at a place you didn’t want to go. Just like in real life bad decisions made early in the trip can show up later on. The good news is that if you make a mid-course correction you still get where you want to go.”

I think of his words often.

I know I’ve had to make a few mid-course corrections along my own road.  My first marriage was one.  And that mid-course correction was a doozy.  But as much as I might like to, I can’t change the past, and playing the “what if” game is not productive.  Or is it?

I’ve recently decided that all those “mistakes” along the road are what inspire me to write the things I do. And hey, maybe I need to stop looking in the rear view mirror and start focusing on the road ahead…and maybe I need to use the map just a little more often. But just maybe I need let those mistakes guide my creative side a little more often.

And let’s face it, the course correction isn’t so bad if you discover your mistake early on in the trip and turn back around.  I’ve made lots of wrong turns in my life without heading down the wrong road for long.  As far as my kids go, I need to remind them that they have a decision to make in choosing their course.  I wish I could plot the course for my kids, instead of just teaching them how to read the map.  I’ve managed to steer at least one in the right direction, I can only hope I can do it again. 

With any luck the road we travel is long and winding and we will make the right decision at every fork. But the reality is, we will take a wrong turn from time to time, and we will need to double back or take a detour to get back on track.  I think they refer to that as taking the “scenic route.” 

And maybe we don’t want to get to where we’re going quickly.  Life isn’t a race to the finish line; it’s a marathon through the woods.  Sometimes we need to stop and smell the roses, while still avoiding the poisonous mushrooms along the way. 

And for goodness sake, don’t forget to make a few stops along the way to enjoy the views.  Life is a beautiful place.

Until the next time…I’ll be refueling for tomorrow’s journey.

if you can dodge a turkey

Last night was the scariest drive home ever…

And yes, says the daughter…I’m probably overreacting to the whole thing, but still.

After having two drinks while at karaoke with my 19 year old daughter, I let her drive home. Truth is, I never drive home, but since the hubby chose to stay home last night, I went with my daughter. We had fun. And just so you know, I wasn’t drunk, per se, but since I can’t see well at night AND I had two drinks, I figured it was smart to let her get behind the wheel instead of me.

I’m here to tell you, there is a fine line between smart and scary.

I discovered, quite by accident, that my daughter doesn’t know when to dodge and when to weave. Apparently, my husband told her she should never slam on her brakes or swerve when something runs out in front of her. This is fine on paper, but there are certain things you should never just run over. I mean, sure, squirrels and rabbits aren’t even a blip on the radar. Sad but true. However, as anyone who has ever run across a deer in the dead of night and lived to tell the tale will tell you, deer do not get out of the way. And as it turns out, neither do turkeys.

My sister once totaled her car hitting a turkey. She didn’t even try to avoid it. My mother had always told her not to swerve for birds; birds always get out of the way at the last minute, says Mom.

For the record, that rule doesn’t apply to turkeys. Turkeys will not get out of the way at the last minute.  They will dent the hood, then the roof of your car, shattering your windshield on the way. For a bird, they do a great imitation of a deer when you hit them.  I guess it’s a little like driving fifty-five miles per hour down the highway and having someone toss a bowling ball into your path.  At least that’s what my husband said when he finished laughing at the story of my sister and the turkey.

Needless to say, I told my daughter to watch for deer, and low flying turkeys, and slow down if one should cross her path. It’s sort of like a really intense game of dodge ball. And you know what they say…

If you can dodge a turkey…you can dodge a ball.

Until the next time…I’ll be driving myself for a while.

chocolate doesn't cure everything

Ok, since when did chocolate fail to cure everything? I haven’t felt well for the past three days, and chocolate didn’t help at all. In fact, it might have made my stomach worse.

How is that possible?

Chocolate is supposed to be the wonder-cure for all that ails you. Or that’s what I told myself. I guess I forgot about the day after Halloween, back when I was a kid. You know, after eating chocolate until you puke the night before? Yeah, chocolate didn’t help back then either. But it was a beautiful dream.

So if I can’t have chocolate, I guess I’ll have to chew on a few Tums or take some Pepto Bismol. I have no idea what’s up with my stomach, but I’m feeling a bit betrayed at the moment. Maybe it’s trying to tell me something. Like, stop eating junk.

Silly stomach…

Until the next time…I’ll be eating Tums and dreaming of chocolate.

got milk?

It’s time for a rant.

I’m not going to single anyone out for this rant. He knows who he is. The guy who wanted me to put goat’s milk on my cereal (hell to the no, just in case you were wondering), but conveniently finishes off the cows milk when the goat runs out. Yeah, that guy. The same one who took the car to work, leaving me here to fend for myself with whatever food I might have on hand (pretty much everything but milk). The guy who ate cereal at least four times yesterday (not counting how many times he ate cereal the day before that, and the day before that, and…you get the idea, right?). 

So I wake up this morning after a miserably restless night, fighting off stomach bugs and insomnia, and all I want is a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. It’s not much to ask is it? A little crunch berry to start my day? But did I get that bowl of wonderful? Oh, no. I did not. And why would that be?

No milk.

Now, this might be inconsequential had we not argued over spillt milk not a week or so ago. It might have been one of those things you notice and move on from. Sure, I’ll have toast today instead. Or what about some eggs? I totally have eggs on hand. But no. I wanted a bowl of cereal. Cap’n fucking Crunch, to be specific. And I have a whole box of the Cap’n. But that shit tears your mouth up even after soaking in milk, I can’t imagine what it would be like dry. I’m going to have to eat something else. And I don’t want something else.

I sit and contemplate how far the walk to the store is. It’s far. Too far even on a really nice day, like today. I contemplate calling him at work and letting him have it…just because I’m annoyed, and I want him to know I’m annoyed, even though there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

But that’s the old me. The new me is going to do something much more constructive.

I’m going to plot.

What does he love more than milk? What food item could I deny him that would set him off in epic proportions? Then I think, maybe I don’t limit my scope to food. Maybe I branch out to other things I could take from him…like toothpaste or deoderant. Then I remember, he’s a guy. He might not notice for a few days. I could take away the beer, but since we never actually have beer in the house, that wouldn’t work either. Beer is a resource that is always consumed immediately. Unlike milk that should be available for days after purchase. Unless you live in my house, with people who go through cereal like a chain smoker goes through cigarettes.

So I guess I’m going to pout for a few more minutes and make myself something else to eat.

Wait! One of the kids just came home…with a car!

After a few well spent minutes of intense negotiations, I convince the offspring to make a milk run. I hand her the husband’s credit card (cuz, yeah, he’s totally paying for this) and give her a list of things I might want from the store, because if she’s going for milk, she may as well get donuts…and chocolate syrup…and hey we’re out of ketchup and I can’t forget about lunch, it’s just around the corner. And since she’s making the trip, she may as well get something for herself. On me. Or, well…on him.

It’s the least he can do.

Until the next time…I’ll be having cereal for breakfast.

sex and the married writer

There, I said it. Sex. Shall I spell it out for you? S-E-X.

Sex.

To say I have sex on the brain tonight would be an understatement, but sadly…the brain is the only place I’m having it.

Maybe I should explain…

I’ve been writing the ever popular, highly anticipated sex scene for my current work in progress, and I’m finding it to be a bit more exciting than I remembered from the last time I wrote sex into a book. After all, writing about sex is infinitely less sexy than actually having sex. But maybe I’m just having a bit more fun with it this time. Or rather, my characters are having a lot of fun with it. I’m struggling for different ways to say things without sounding like I’m writing about my rooster again.

And it’s not because I’m afraid of those words…I’m not. Ok, maybe I am. Although, I have no idea why. Though, they do make me giggle a little…and cringe a lot.

It could have something to do with the look on my husband’s face when I let him sample the chapter I’d just finished. His mouth actually dropped open…like mouths do in movies when someone is totally shocked. Then he just stared at me…his horrified expression shifting from me to the laptop and back again. And then he stammered out, “You can’t…I mean…you can’t write this…what if kids read it?” To which I reminded him, “I’m not writing books for kids.”

Then the really embarrassing part happened. He wondered if I’d ever done any of those things I’d written. Because, hey, I put some crazy stuff in there. Things I wouldn’t admit to if I had done them. And just for the record, I’ve never had sex with a magician, in the woods, in the middle of the night, on the coldest night of the year…nope.

Never.

Do you think it’s possible to be jealous of a fictional character?

I suspect maybe I just shocked him. Although, it wouldn’t be the first time. I have a pretty good record when it comes to shock factor. I think that’s the primary reason he steers clear of my blog, if at all possible.

It’s probaby for the best. The inner workings of a writer’s mind are not meant for the faint of heart. Or the analytical husband. My brain is like a maze of scary passageways leading to even more frightening destinations. And sometimes sex. It all depends on what path you choose.

Care to see what’s behind door number three?

Until the next time…I’ll be giggling as I type.

a blog a day keeps the boring away

Never give a dog a bath in the back yard.  Even on a sunny day.  They will always find the closest pile of dried red clay to roll in.  This is much harder to wash out than any dirt that was on the dog prior to the bath.  Oh, and red clay stains everything.  Including the dog.  And the inside of the shower.

Never play ball in the yard with a wet dog, especially if there is still a muddy spot anywhere for them to drop the ball into.  They love this and will always bring the muddy ball immediately back to you and drop it in your lap.

Never announce to the world (while in the grocery store, specifically) that your jeans are dirty because the dogs kept putting their dirty balls on you.  People will always misconstrue this statement to mean something entirely different!  I know this from experience. No one ever assumes you meant tennis balls. Ever.

Never shop for groceries on an empty stomach. This is the first rule of grocery shopping and possibly more important than, be sure your legs are shaved all the way around before entering the grocery store. Cookies are impossible to pass up if you haven’t eaten.

Never say, “Maybe” to a teenager.  In their native language, this is translated directly into, “Absolutely! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Never assume that half of a sleeping pill will only make you half as sleepy—or drool half as much.  For some strange reason, cutting it in half makes it twice as dangerous.  You will still feel hung-over in the morning, and you will probably wear your shirt inside out in addition to your underwear. (Trust me on this one!)

Never agree to taste something that someone else has rejected as being “gross”.  This is never a good idea.  Always take their word for it, just in case.  This may mean the kids will get away with not eating something you wanted them to eat, but it may just save you from tasting something that should never be tasted.

Never wash your sheets on a rainy day.  This will almost always ensure that the dogs will jump on your bed with muddy feet.

Never put the cat box over a heating vent.  This should be fairly self explanatory, and yet, somehow escaped scrutiny until far too late!

More good advice…

Always double check your underwear before leaving the house.  This should be done more than once if possible, especially when you have to go to the doctor.  Somehow underwear can flip prior to putting pants on.

Always hide the chocolate in the freezer behind the frozen turkey burgers and green vegetables.  This is the absolute last place the children will look for something good to eat.  It is also a good practice to save the empty turkey burger boxes to fill with frozen delights. 

Always color-code your clothing to match the food you will eat that day.  Law of nature promises that any red sauce will always find the front of any brand new light colored blouse, permanently ruining it.  Red sauce never drips onto a dark colored blouse.  This has been scientifically proven!

Always keep a pack of gum in your purse to chew immediately after eating chocolate of any kind.  This should also be chewed after eating hamburgers and/or french fries.  Most men can immediately detect these foods on your breath and will catch you in the act of cheating on your diet.  Menthol cough drops will also work for this purpose.

Always use customized ring tones for friends and family.  You will be able to tell immediately if this call should be answered (your mother) or ignored (your ex-husband). 

Always buy toilet paper when at the grocery store.  Even if you don’t think you need it.  You always need it.  And you will always forget to buy it when you REALLY need it.  So just get in the habit of getting some every time.  If you don’t, you will be begging your husband to go back to the store at ten-thirty on a Sunday night because you ate way too many baked beans with your blueberry and pomegranate health food juice for dinner!  Not that this has ever happened to me…I’m just saying.

Always remember to set your alarm before going to bed.  Be sure to make sure you have checked the am/pm setting to be sure the alarm will go off in the morning.  Also be sure you have selected the on/off setting to on.  This is especially important on a Sunday night.

Always share the daily blog with all your friends! 

You didn’t think I’d miss a chance to remind everyone did you?

Until the next time…I’ll be thinking up the next crap to surprise you with.

something to talk about

Let’s give them something to talk about…

Um…maybe not? Yeah, even I have a gag order when it comes to certain subjects. The truth is, sometimes the funniest things in my life are the things I’m not allowed to talk about. Sure, I can spread my own mishaps all over the internet, and even then, I know my husband cringes. But there are certain things I can’t divulge. And sadly, those are the things I most want to tell. I can’t even tell you what it is I can’t tell you, as if that’s not confusing enough.

Let’s face it. Marriage is funny. Pillow talk can be exceedingly funny. At least in my house. I’ve been known to break into song…dirty showtunes, really…without warning. And without the help of alcohol, just so you know. And sometimes, I’m completely unaware when I do something funny, like flashing my cleavage to a crowded restaurant simply because I can’t seem to keep my feet under me when I walk. I’m sure I embarrass the hell out of my husband on a near daily basis, but somehow he loves me anyway. So, how can I possibly deny him this tiny bit of discretion in a world of near full disclosure? Quite simply, I can’t.

But, oh how tempting it is.

Until the next time…I’ll be singing Gershwin in my underwear.

is summer over yet?

I’m torn. Sure I love the lazy days of summer. For purely nostalgic reasons if nothing more. Who doesn’t remember hopping on their bike, destination unknown (even if that was only to the end of the driveway because Mom wouldn’t let you cross the street.) Long days, star filled nights, lemonade stands and  homemade ice cream. Yeah, I used to love summer.

Now, I’m not so sure…

No matter how much money I spend on prevention, my dogs are still scratching at fleas. The hornet’s nest outside my bathroom window has reached epic proportions and now I have hornets joining me in the shower. The neighbor kids are home from school, wreaking havoc like only teenagers can. And my air conditioning runs full blast on a daily basis, causing my electric bill to cost more than that much needed but seldom realized vacation would have.

Can’t we just fast forward to fall?

I love fall. I love crisp cool evenings and hot cider. I love pumpkins, and apples, and soft woolen sweaters. I love the leaves when they change colors, and moon when it glows orange.

And yeah, I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t help it. Maybe I just miss the days when summer meant something different. And maybe I just miss the bittersweet feeling you get when summer ends.

Does anyone have a tissue?

Until the next time…I’ll be enjoying those last days of summer with fall on the brain.

a rooster's tale

Clooney Lives.

Oh sure, you’ve seen the blogs…the tweets…the Facebook pleas. Save Clooney. Friends don’t eat friends. Save a cock, eat meat instead.

But truth be told, he may still get his ass shot if he doesn’t stop wandering the neighbor’s yards in the middle of the night, alerting them of the time like a jacked up cuckoo clock.

And now our Silkie is getting in the on fun. I heard him crow at the crack of dawn…well, if you can call it crowing. He sounded more like George of the Jungle, swinging on a vine on a collision course with a tree. He’s making Clooney look like the smart rooster. And how can I complain about that?

Until the next time…I’ll be waking to the annoying sounds of two broken roosters.

and the gold medal goes to...

If falling down was an Olympic sport, I would surely be a gold medalist.

I’m wearing my medal today. It’s a giant bruise surrounded by nasty swelling. Yes, I’ve fallen and I couldn’t get up. Worse than that…I fell in a crowded barbeque joint in a low cut halter. I can’t even be bothered with wondering how bad or how long the exposure might have been when my cleavage was on display. For the first time in ages, I was unable to laugh at my situation, and only because I was straining not to cry. This time when I hit the ground, I hit it hard, and man, did it hurt.

Of course, people rushed to my aid. My husband was sitting on the patio outside, and a restaurant patron had to go flag him to scrape his “lady friend” from the floor. I would choose that day to leave my wedding rings at home. I was demoted to lady friend, without evidence of being married. It’s amazing how observant the male species is when it comes to things like that. But lady friend, wife, whatever I happened to be at the moment, my husband still came running and pulled me to my feet gallantly while I whimpered and tried to maintain my typical smartass attitude about falling down.

When asked if I was ok, I answered, “I will be, eventually.” But no one laughed. Still, my husband felt the need to tell the entire place that I did that all the time. “Oh, no worries, she does this all the time.” Because, let’s face it. I’m Olympic class when it comes to falling. And I do it so well, I’ve never even broken a bone.

Yeah, that’s skill.

Until the next time…I’ll be buried in ice.

one step closer to nirvana

Today is my daughter’s 19th birthday.

Birthdays are always bittersweet. On one hand, I’m delighted to see my babies grow up. On the other, I mourn the loss of the babies they once were. And I guess if I had three hands, I’d say on that extra hand, I was one step closer to nirvana.

Why, you ask? Well…it’s because once upon a time, I had this epiphany. 

You’re wondering what that epiphany was…I can feel it. Ok…here ya go…raising a child from infancy to adulthood is akin to a difficult labor and delivery.  I don’t know what the catalyst to said epiphany was exactly—it was somewhere in the middle of a conversation with Mike where we were talking about toddlers and teenagers and the comparison—but I remember the moment it came to me.  It was right after Mike said, “I wish their entire lives could be as easy as that first year.”  It made me think about my kids and their lives from the beginning until now. 

And at the beginning there was that first pain of labor. 

I had long difficult labors, but like most labors they started slow.  They started with a few little cramps—not comfortable, but hardly horrible. 

That is sort of like the first year of your child’s life. 

Having a new baby means lots of hours of lost sleep, a fair share of vomit in your hair, and no time to take a shower or eat a peaceful meal.  But it’s hardly difficult…on a grand scale anyway.  My apologies to the new parents of the world, but you will soon discover that this was the easiest your baby will ever be. 

The next step of labor is when those little cramps get stronger and begin to make you take pause.  Your resolve is slipping, and you’re almost ready to accept that shot of pain killers that you swore you would forego in favor of the purity of a natural childbirth. 

This is like the terrible twos and threes.  Your little darling is getting more and more difficult to manage as they become mobile and learn to manipulate their surroundings.  You think this is the worst phase you will encounter, and you can’t wait until it passes and your child becomes the angel you always dreamed about. 

You get over that idea just about as fast as you get over the idea of “natural” childbirth.  Somewhere in the middle there, just as you feel like you are being split in half by some acid dripping little alien, you break into a full on panic, pleading for as much of the damn drugs as they are willing to give you.  Damn the consequences and the purity.  Suddenly, the idea of natural childbirth simply means the baby will come out of the correct hole, as nature intended. 

Because if nature didn’t want us to be fully medicated they would not have invented morphine!

In the hours (or years) that pass once you accept your fate and dull your senses to better manage the process, things roll fairly smoothly.  You don’t mind carting your children to baseball practices, cheerleading tryouts, and birthday parties every weekend.  You don’t complain about having lost your own identity in exchange for being their mom.  In fact, you thrive on the chaos…you are medicated…certain that everything is going to be alright.  The hard part is over, right?

Wrong!

The teen years crash into you at a hundred miles an hour, just as the drugs wear off.  You are pitifully unprepared for the horrors of this delivery.  This is harder than any book described.  More visceral than any firsthand account you had memorized in preparation. This is where the sensation to push that baby out of your body (or out your house) is so overwhelming, you can barely breathe through it.  There is no Lamaze training that can prepare you for the gut wrenching anguish of knowing that no matter how badly you want to push, the doctor keeps telling you, “It’s not time yet.” 

“What do you mean it’s not time?!?” You squeal.  How can it not be time?  You need this creature out.  But they are not ready to go yet, no matter how loudly (or often) they scream to the contrary. There are still very important preparations that need to be made before you deliver this frenetic teenager into the adult world. 

And as you both scream obscenities until the air is tinged a vivid blue, you finally realize that you have come full circle with this little bundle of joy and mayhem.  Nothing alive could create as much grief, pain, and mental anguish…or as much unparalleled love, pride, and devotion as the child that you witnessed taking their first breath on this earth…and will hopefully witness taking their first steps into maturity and self-reliance. 

I love my children with all my heart, and sometimes it takes a step backwards to see what is right in front of me.  They aren’t babies…or toddlers…or children…or even teenagers forever and one day you will look back at their lives—their trials and tribulations…their triumphs and advancements—and you will miss every crazy moment. 

I know I will.

Until the next time…I’ll be embracing the ring of fire with my eye on the prize!