the rooster of death

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.

I have a certain friend who shall remain nameless, but her name rhymes with Schmerica. She’s made a whole persona for herself about how awesome it is to leave the big city life behind and go find herself in the pleasant Southern countryside. Like Green Acres, but with a Keurig coffee maker. According to her tales of country living, there are presumably barnyard animals running around her property, waiting lovingly each morning for her to scatter seed and grain to them like a pre-royal-kiss Disney princess. I don’t know that she’s actually had to milk anything yet, but if she has, she’s probably written whole chapters about the encapsulated joy of fresh-squeezed milk.

She’s a liar. I’ve lived on a farm, and it’s a bitch.

Okay, it wasn’t the worst existence I’ve ever had, but that’s only because I haven’t been a professional crack whore and therefore can’t compare the two. My mom (retired farm wife and requisite sweetest of Southern ladies) was chatting very pleasantly recently with the Jehovah’s Witnesses who stopped by and even offered them some sweet tea; when she found out that their church’s version of salvation involved coming back to Earth to live off the land, she exclaimed, “You mean I’m coming back as a farmer??? I’ve been a cotton farmer! You can just send me to Hell right now!”

The charming, frightened Jehovah’s couple ran.

All I remember from my childhood living on the hellacious farm was an evil rooster. Schmerica keeps going on about her ducklings and her chickies, but all I had to play with was a Satan-possessed rooster. This feathered demon would actually wait on top of the house right above the door for one of us kids to walk out. He would jump off the roof, dig his spurs into our shoulders for better leverage, and peck our heads until blood ran into our eyes. I swear that rooster was the inspiration for at least three Stephen King novels and one Freddie Kruger installment.

One day, my eldest brother snatched the serial pecker off my other brother’s bloodied head, threw it in a metal garbage can, slammed the lid, and blew the can to pieces with the shotgun we kept above the door for killing rabid coyotes. My father was furious, convinced that egg production was going to plummet without the presence of a male in the hen house. But like all stupid men, the chicks were glad to be rid of him. Egg production skyrocketed and strains of “Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead” could be heard in the clucks from outside the hen house.

So while Schmerica might be spending her days idly lounging in the porch swing with a cold drink in her hand, simmering lightly under the breeze from a fan, I for one am not buying it. I know full well that she’s up before dawn to draw water, heat it on the stove for a bath, and start some lard popping in the skillet to feed the crew before the day’s chores begin. If not, then I just might be willing to come back as a farmer.

Hey, you can believe Lorca’s rooster of death tale all you like…my rooster is a sweet boy who just doesn’t know when to crow. And I think all chickens are friendly Disney-like characters, just waiting for their moment to break into song. I personally break into song frequently throughout the day. In fact, my husband has repeatedly said I don’t actually exist in the real world. I am a Disney character. So there…stick that in your skillet and fry it!

Until the next time…I’ll be frolicking in the yard with my merry bunch of farm animals.

Rexx knows!

Remind me to smack my husband when I get home. This is all his fault. I mean, so what if I have a potty mouth? I’m a big girl. If I wanna cuss like a sailor, that’s my perogative, right? I never should have listened to him when he said to curb my language. If I had just let loose with the F-bomb, I would have been much better off. Instead, I opened my mouth and said, crap.

Unfortunately, for me, that was the last thing one is supposed to say while rolling the dice at an actual Craps table. And when I rolled the dreaded SEVEN immediately after letting the bad word slip…BAM! I got smacked from all sides. After my sister slapped my arm, I was literally swatted by total strangers. For NOT swearing. Un-fucking-believable, right?

So, like I said, it’s all the hubby’s fault. Next time, you can bet I’ll be using my big girl words at the gaming tables. And while I’m at it, I’m going to pay attention to the dealer’s advice.

RexxRexx, our friendly neighborhood dealer, told me to play the nine. He told me after the first time it hit. And again after the second time it hit, then after it hit a third time, I did what he said and won. Trust me when I say, when it comes to Craps, Rexx knows his shit.

So yeah, if I didn’t mention it before, my sister and I were hanging out in Cherokee, North Carolina at the Harrah’s casino tonight, where we met Rexx, John, Elaine and the rest of the Craps dealers. They were a fun bunch, and we learned a lot about the game. I would be going home with a whole lot more money (and a few less hand prints) if I’d only listened to the wisdom of Rexx.

At least my sister paid attention. Long after I’d licked my wounds and crawled off to bed, she was still rolling the dice to the tune of eight hundred dollars richer. The bitch. If I’d just stayed for a few more rolls. If I hadn’t quit while I was behind. It could be me with enough money for breakfast at Paula Deen’s restaurant tomorrow. Now all I can afford is a few sticks of butter.

I will never again doubt the wisdom of Rexx. Dude, if you’re reading this…you rock. I should have found your table several hundred dollars earlier.

Until the next time…I’ll be heading home hungry.

autumnal equinox

I feel like a total failure. I missed the official changing of the seasons. It happened just days ago, but it came and went without any fanfair. I didn’t mark the day with anything special. In fact, I totally didn’t even notice. Oh sure, I noticed I needed an extra blanket at night. I noticed the leaves gradually changing. I even noticed the smell of cider in the air as I pass the local orchard. But I can’t believe I didn’t realize fall had officially started. And I always notice. Fall is my favorite season.

Ok, no more crying over a missed day on the calendar. It’s not like I forgot my own birthday. Now that would be a tragedy. I love my birthday. Almost as much as I love the month of October…you can bet I won’t let that pass me by. I have plans. Great plans. Pumpkins and hay bales piled on the front porch. Scarecrows and skeletons lining the steps. Oh, I have plans for you October.

As soon as I get back from gambling in Cherokee, North Carolina. Wish me luck!

Until the next time…I’ll be at the casino with my sister.

is that fall I'm feeling?

Is it October yet?

I’m watching for the signs. Vibrant red and gold flashes in the trees. Cool evenings. Pumpkins and fresh apples. And I’m beginning to see little bits here and there. The local orchard was so swamped with people this weekend, we couldn’t even squeeze the little Kia into the parking lot. The night air is crisp with the promise of cooler temperatures in the day. And I think I see a flash of color in between the green leaves in the trees above. I can’t wait really. I’m just counting the days until I can pull out my life-sized skelleton and his spooky friends to decorate my 90 year old haunted farmhouse. Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?

Speaking of joining…thanks to one of my favorite people, Kelly Stone Gamble, I was able to perpetrate one of the coolest pranks ever the other day. But since I’m debating whether or not to make it a chain pranking, I think I’ll keep the details to myself for now. Can’t spoil the fun, can I?

No, I need all the fun I can get. Especially when I’m pretty sure someone is pranking me with my internet lately. I spent the entire weekend frantically trying to get online, with little success. I’d blame it on the ghosts, but I think even the ghosts would be too afraid to screw with my WiFi. Especially when they can clearly see the PMS sign blinking high in the sky.

Hey, I wonder if you can prank a ghost…

Until the next time…I’ll be prepping for fall.

nurses rock revisted

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Barbara MackTonight’s guest is writer Barbara Mack. For more about Barbara, click on her photo to visit her website.

I’m sure this comes as a total shock to everyone who knows me, but… I talk a lot. I’ve always been gregarious. As a child, I talked so much that my grandfather would sometimes turn his hearing aid off when I visited. Through my unending chatter, I earned the nickname Barbara Big Mouth from my siblings.

Even when I want to keep my mouth shut, sometimes comments bypass my brain entirely and pop out of their own volition. (Usually at the most inconvenient time imaginable.) I’m not as bad as I used to be (I used to think tact was something you stuck in the wall with your thumb), but I’m never going to sing you pretty little lies.

This isn’t always a bad thing. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that occasionally it’s been to my benefit.

I was going to nursing school, and we were doing our rotation through obstetrics. You would think that everyone – as I was – would be all warm and fuzzy around the newborn babies and their parents. I’m sorry to report that it wasn’t so. One of my fellow students – who I affectionately called Nurse Ratchett – was constantly trying to force people to see things her way.

A young Vietnamese couple had asked my permission earlier to put a rock that her mother had sent them from Vietnam in the baby’s bassinet. It was a clean rock (they’d even soaked it in alcohol to sterilize it), so I said it was fine. They wrapped it in a blanket and put it at the baby’s feet.  I went on my merry way, because I was busy. You do a lot of work as a nursing student. You’re basically unpaid help.

Enter Nurse Ratchett.

About 10 minutes later, I hear a commotion from their room, and every baby on the floor began to wake up and cry.  Nurse Ratchett had decreed that they couldn’t have their ‘filthy rock’ in the bassinet. I grab a passing surgical student who’s a friend of mine who agrees to put the rock through the autoclave, which is the method used to sterilize instruments for surgery. Problem solved.

Au contraire.

Nurse Ratchett takes the rock away again. I give it back. She takes it away. I give it back.

The entire obstetrics floor is in an uproar. I grab a passing nurse, and ask her please, please to make Nurse Ratchett give the effing rock back before I put HER through the autoclave. And yes, I used those exact words, including my own special little nickname for her.

The nurse raises her eyebrows at me, and I begin to think my mouth has once again made trouble for me. Instead, she gives back the rock to the young couple with some soothing words, exchanges biting words with Ratchett, and all is serene once again.

Two weeks later, I’m on break from my classes and I get a phone call at home. I’m offered a job on that same obstetrics floor. I ask in some puzzlement why I’m being offered the job out of all the other students, and the woman from human resources laughed and said that she was instructed to tell me it was because the nursing supervisor loved a smartass woman with good sense.

The passing nurse I had demanded help from was the nursing supervisor, who was working because they were understaffed and over capacity. She’d been going down the hall to see who was causing all the uproar when I grabbed her.

And that, dears, is how I got a job because of a rock.

And because I have a big mouth, of course.

Oh, we’re so glad you have a big mouth Barbara! It was a great post!! And for anyone who doesn’t know Barbara, please click on her picture for her website. She has the very best breadmaking book ever! And I do mean EVER!

Until the next time…I’ll be searching for a new guest for next week.

all I wanted was a #@%! funnel cake!

The fair came to town and I made my husband take me.

What a boring commentary. Unfortunately, that sentence was more exciting than the actual fair. I know. It’s sort of sad, and I was a little mean for saying so, but it really was a very small fair. I didn’t ride any rides (although there were a few rides to ride). Didn’t see any unique animals sporting blue ribbons. Didn’t get a hot dog or a big stuffed prize. But I did get to sing a song to a very small crowd.

And I got a funnel cake.

And honestly, that was enough for me. I really wanted that damn funnel cake. It was my only real reason for going to the fair. And that is a sad commentary all on it’s own.

As far as the rest of my day…at least I finished painting my living room. Thank goodness I won’t be going up the ladder again any time soon. I’ve taken enough chances to last me until Christmas.

Until the next time…I’ll be putting the room back together and taking pictures!

honest, it's not what it looks like

It was one of those days. First, I cut my leg while painting. Who does this, you ask? Me. That’s who. But come on…you should have known that. So yeah, I cut my leg, up high on my thigh. It was a ladder injury. If you’re thinking it was a bad idea from the start…me being on a ladder at all…you would be right. But sometimes you have to take risks. My risk was getting on a ladder. In shorts, no less. And I got a little cut. Nothing major. It just needed a Band Aid and it was all fixed. In fact, I forgot all about it until I ran to the restroom while at karaoke.

I won’t say I’ve never been a risk taker by wearing white pants…or in this case…linen pants when that color is really unadvisable. In fact, just last month, I had a female emergency while wearing those same pants. But there was absolutely no risk of that last night. None. I was in the clear, and safe to wear my favorite light weight trousers.

Until the Band Aid slipped off.

So yeah, there I am, in a public restroom (in the far back of the pub) when I discover, not only did my bandage come off, but the cut is bleeding again. Are you with me so far? So yeah, I’m bleeding…on my inner thigh…and I probably would have been ok if I hadn’t tried to wipe it with a wet rag. Because then, not only did it smear, but my pants were wet and it spread. Who knew just a little water would spread so far in a pair of white linen pants? Not me. Obviously.

So there I am. Trapped in the bathroom with this huge red stain in the back of my pants that looked suspiciously like…well, you know. And who the hell is going to believe me that it wasn’t…you know? And I still had to go out there and sing.

And yeah. I sang. Because when it comes right down to it, I’m a diva. And the diva must go on. A little blood isn’t about to stop me!

I was just banking on the fact that everyone else was really drunk and the room was plenty dark. Maybe no one even noticed.

Then again, I’m never that lucky.

Until the next time…I’ll be retiring my light colored pants for the season.

my life is a sitcom

I should have known better than to paint on a Monday. It should be written on a greeting card…or a fortune cookie. Nothing good will come from painting on a Monday. Especially on a rainy Monday, but really, the weather was never the problem.

No, my problem came in the guise of a pair of super-sized dog paws.

I spent the better part of an hour scrubbing wet paw print shaped paint from my hardwood floors Monday evening. And then, countless minutes scrubbing paint from the actual paws. I have no idea how Indy managed to step in my paint tray without my notice, but he did. And before I knew what was happening, he’d managed to track paint throughout the downstairs. If I wasn’t so horrified, I would have laughed. It was like he was creating a crazy path for people to follow. It circled into the kitchen and bathroom more than once.  Luckily, he didn’t make his way to the leather couch because I’d afraid to even think about how that would have turned out. 

As it was, his foray into the arts put the brakes on my painting project for the rest of the evening. And it’s probably a good thing it did. Just after cleaning the foot prints, I was drawn to a banging at the back door just in time to find the entire flock of chickens and ducks camped out on the porch ready to revolt if I didn’t feed them…again.

It was like an Alfred Hitchock movie as they jumped and flew into the air to snatch bits of bread from my fingers. I’m sure I have little snips taken from my finger tips in their excitement. Crazy damn birds. This is what I get for giving them treats.

Ah…life on the farm. Gotta love it.

Until the next time…I’ll be painting with my dog!

I came, I saw, I painted the hell out of the place

Remember a few months ago I was on this crazy quest to find the perfect white? It was my goal to find the perfect shade to paint my living room and I was bound and determined it would be a warm billowy cloud white. I bought no less than a dozen samples, I painted boards, matched fabrics, annoyed the living crap out of my husband as I set out to find the perfect color. And today, nearly six months later I finally painted the room.

Gray.

Yes, I totally ditched the idea of white on a crazy whim at the paint store. With no samples, no fabric matching, no thought whatsoever, I simply closed my eyes and picked a color.

Ok, so I didn’t close my eyes, but the rest of it’s true. I picked a blue/green gray and painted one wall. The others will follow tomorrow. And I love it…sort of. I’m still not quite sold, but I will be, once it’s all done. I hope. And for what it’s worth, my husband says the color looks like it belongs here. Like it was the color the house would want if it could speak. After all, the house was built in the 20’s and the color is a vintage 1920’s shade, so there you have it.

Now I just have to mourn the idea of white.

And as the kids reminded me (over and over again) white wouldn’t look good with dog slobber on it. And they might be right…probably right. But it would have been worth it. I’m sure of it.

Oh well. We’ll never know, will we?

Until the next time…I’ll be painting!

the secret to life

Sometimes life sucks. Eat chocolate…be happy.

This should be on a bumper sticker. Or a tattoo. On my forehead. You know…in reverse so I could read it when I look in the mirror? It just never fails to surprise me how often I’m shocked and dismayed by the stupid little things.

It’s not like the world is going to end just because my dog’s flea medicine doesn’t work. Fleas are apparently as resistent to death as cockroaches and aging rock stars. And now I have to take extreme measures to run the circus out of town. Shit happens, right? And, yeah…I have giant moths and daddy longlegs spiders (or non-spiders as they don’t spin webs…semantics if you ask me) creeping around me after dark.  I just need to sleep in a bubble of bug netting or something to keep them from touching me in the night, right? And so what if my husband watched a documentary on holistic medicine after a few beers last night and decided to analyze me while I was attempting to sleep. And for the record, I don’t care if my chakra is balanced or not. As long as you’re not drawing a chakra line around my dead body, I think I’ll be fine. Do not even think about telling me I need to give up chocolate for tofu or something equally insane.

Not that he said any of those things. He said my skin was too dry…but, hey, I’m not taking any chances.

When I find myself feeling down because life isn’t fair, I have to remind myself that life isn’t supposed to be fair. It’s not a board game. It doesn’t play by the rules. You don’t get any guarantees or warrantees, and there are no returns or exchanges. This is it. So, you’d better grab all the chocolate you can carry and save it for a freaking rainy day, because it rains a lot.

But on the up side…without the rain, there are no rainbows.

I know…I’m spewing some serious crazy talk. But hey, I’m allowed. I think I’m suffering from PMS. I need a damn PMS sign…like the Bat signal. Something I can flash into the sky to warn everyone in a several mile radius to either suck it up and do my bidding, or just stay the hell away for 5 to 7 days. I have no patience for your crap.

Haha. That would be awesome, wouldn’t it?

Honestly, I love PMS. It’s the rest of the world that seems to have a problem with it.

Until the next time…I’ll be holed up in my room with chocolate and weapons.

modern day clampets

Since moving to the mountains all those months ago, my husband and I have taken on a new sort of people watching. Or rather neighbor watching.

Specifically, the neighbors who live just off the main road, around the corner from our quiet little farmhouse.

I’ve always laughed at Mike when he talks about homesteading, using recycled materials, and living off the grid. For Pete’s sake, he tried to talk me into living in a yurt at one time. But I’m not laughing any more. Not at my well-meaning husband, anyway. No, I’m laughing at the crazy neighbors who live in a house put together with plywood and a fence made from old bed frames (or whatever the hell those things are).

Just the other day, we drove by as they were sitting in the front yard with their goat, having a cook-out. Of course, they weren’t cooking out with a grill. No, that would have been too normal. They were cooking out with the microwave on a folding table. Yes, in the front yard, on a main road, like modern day Clampets.

I wanted to take pictures, but part of me thinks that’s just too intrusive. I mean, if they’re comfortable living in a castle made from landfill finds, who am I to knock it? And the goat doesn’t look like he’s complaining.

He’s probably living like a king.

Until the next time…I’ll be giving my hubby a little more leeway with the crazy ideas.

never too old to be discovered

I admit it. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a famous singer. Of course, I was terrified to perform in front of anyone other than my family. And seriously, thank God no one had a movie camera back then, because I do not want to see the footage they would have captured from those horrifyingly embarrassing days gone by. But as willing as I was to humiliate myself to the background tracks of Sonny and Cher, in full costume no less, I was hardly flaunting my “talent” for the masses. Still…a girl can dream, right?

Well, it looks like my dreams have come true. 

I was invited to perform at a grand opening. Oh yes…on a stage. With an audience. Of people. At least mostly people. There might be farm animals. I mean, it’s a grand opening of a flea market, so I’m not really sure what it would entail. But it’s directly across the street from a tractor store, so that’s the big time…right?

Ok, maybe not the big time, but it was definitely flattering. Not everyone was asked to sing. Just me. And don’t laugh (or do, I don’t care) I’m actually thinking about doing it. Mostly because I’d feel guilty not showing up after such a lovely invitation. Besides, it’s not like the offers are rolling in, you know? This might be the last time someone asks me to sing at their flea market. How can I turn that shit down? And everyone knows I love a good flea market as much as the next girl. I might even find some cool, over-looked antiques there. Or some dusty relics. Who knows. I might run into someone famous-ish. Even more famous-ish than me. Hey, I might even have fun.

And isn’t that what it’s all about anyway?

Until the next time…I’ll be practicing my Patsy Cline.

death masquerades as a beautiful butterfly

That’s it. I’m moving out.

I’ve tolerated ghosts, flies, hornets, idiot neighbor kids, crazy ducks, a backed up septic system and the scariest basement ever. But I draw the line at killer moths.

I mean, what the hell? All I wanted to do was to crawl under my covers and read for a while. I didn’t ask for the monster pair of fluttering wings behind my bed, making me jump higher than I have ever in my adult life jumped…or at least higher than I’ve jumped since the last time this happened to me.

After all, it’s not the first time I’ve had this problem.

I’m a moth magnet

And trust me. Last time was bad enough.

There I was, sitting in my living room writing by the backlight of my computer, listening to Edith Piaf on auto loop for almost an hour.  The music had driven all other humans from the room, leaving just me and the dogs. In my peripheral vision, I saw a moth the size of a pigeon bashing himself against my French doors as if he knew just a few more good hits would spring the doors open.  He did this several nights in a row, so I knew he wasn’t giving up.  All I thought about was keeping that door closed.  I check the lock a few times just to be sure.  And seriously, there was no way dogs were going out, because I had no intention of opening the door and letting that giant moth in to suck the life out of me and turn me into another giant moth.  I saw this happen in a movie when I was eight, and it’s never quite left me. 

I should have known better than to move into a scary haunted farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. I mean, I am totally a magnet for these things—the flies, the ghosts, the hornets…not to mention giant bugs in the night, weird strangers in the mall, the occasional creeper online.

You would think at my age I would know better…that I would recognize the power of the flirt.

I never do.  My family tells me it’s my own fault.  I engage people in conversation in the line at the grocery store. The bank.  Or the DMV.  And apparently, you should never engage someone in conversation while in line at the DMV.  They might be there reinstating their license after years of having it revoked for vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence of some horrible, psychotic substance…they might just have a flashback…or worse! They might still be taking it. And when you walk back to your car an hour or two later, they’ll be waiting in the backseat to take you to their hideaway where they’ll do things to you that you thought only happened in a Saw movie.

Give me a minute while I make sure all the windows and doors are locked. Maybe you should pause here and do the same thing while you’re at it.

I don’t know…I guess I always think I’m being nice. It’s nice to be nice, right? No. Apparently being nice is simply another way of inviting the masses to imagine me in my underwear.  And trust me, I don’t think my husband imagines me in my underwear…they’re usually on inside out. 

That’s just how I roll.

So in an attempt to protect myself from the dangers of the outside world, I go to Twitter.  And here I am, hanging out in the world’s biggest virtual coffee shop…no coffee in hand…talking to writers, and making friends and connections.  I’m having fun, learning new things, and maybe being a little flirty.  Not the bad kind of flirty.  And there is a difference.  I’ve spent hours explaining that difference to my husband over the course of several years.  Sometimes flirty is just friendly.  I’m a friendly flirt.  I mean no harm.  Honest.  But one day, while I’m making my writery connections and new friendships, I meet someone who decides the connection I was making was a love connection.  Eek!  Could this possibly happen to anyone but me? Am I just a magnet for moths and psychos, and online creepers?  What do I do?

I’ll tell you what I do…I run away.  Just like at the DMV.  I lock my Twitter doors up tight and I go to bed, tucking myself tightly under the covers.  So what if it’s four hundred degrees outside and my blankets are filled with fluffy down which basically turns me into a roasted duck?  I stay hidden under the covers until morning.  And when I get up and groggily check my Twitter command center I see no creepy stalkers there.  I see nothing but fun and friendship…writers and agents…and people I like.  So maybe I overreacted, or maybe it was all just a dream caused by a scary moth flitting around my bedroom like the supernatural creeper he is.

My husband says I might just be crazy…but for now, I’ll take my chances.  It’s going to take more than one giant moth to chase off Twitter girl. 

Besides…I have a WIP.

Until the next time…I’ll be fending off creepers and moths alike!

patriot's day

A few years ago, I wrote a passionate rememberance of the tragedy of September 11, 2001. I wrote about where I was, how I felt, and how the world had changed since that day.  Those sentiments hold true today, but instead of writing about sadness and tragedy, I would like to write about humor and perserverance. 

After the attacks of 9/11, it was a long time before people would allow themselves to laugh again.  There was a collective fear that laughter would disrespect the fallen.  That perhaps in the aftermath of such a serious blow to our country and our lives, nothing should be funny again. 

But as hard as it may be, life does go on.  And life is meant to be laughed at. 

Last year on 9/11, the toilet seat in my bathroom was cracked. Someone stood on it to reach the wall above.  That by itself isn’t funny.  Listening to someone yelp in the middle of the night because they’ve gotten pinched in said crack is hilariously funny.  It wasn’t quite as funny when I was the one with bite marks on my behind, but it didn’t stop me from laughing.

Sometimes if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. 

Hard times will come and go.  People you love will pass.  Opportunties will be lost and new ones found.  Change is as constant and inevitable as the wind.  And life will still be meant to be laughed at. 

Last year, before moving to the farm, my husband and I sat at an outdoor cafe having lunch in the shade, the cool breeze blowing my newly copper hair around my face. I ditched the color a few months later, but it wasn’t just because my husband said, in the sun, my hair looked like a fancy dessert.  I’m not sure if that was a compliment, or a snarky commentary on my existance.  I was ok either way.  I liked it, and if it made a statement, all the better.  Because…right…life is meant to be laughed at.

This year, I’m convinced my ducks are out to get me, my chickens just watch them plotting without lifting a wing to help me…not even the rooster I saved from the stew pot…and my dogs steer clear of the crazy ducks, which actually makes me fear them that much more. But when it comes right down to it, when the ducks quack up…and oh, I really do think they’re laughing at me…I can’t help but laugh myself. Crazy, plotting ducks are funny. Funnier because I know they don’t have thumbs, or access to the internet.

Oh, I had a much more elaborate blog planned for today.  I did.  But just as I was sitting down to write it, my computer crashed. I didn’t laugh.  I didn’t find it funny.  But when the dust settles, and my husband restores all my settings to where they belong, I’m sure I’ll laugh.  It’s just another day in what I like to call “my life”. 

And life, my friends, is definitely meant to be laughed at.

cougars, jello shots and a bag of burnt popcorn

Where do I begin?

When I moved to the mountains back in March, I found myself living too many miles from civilization with no decent take-out, no Barnes and Noble, and no friends. Just a bunch of chickens, my dogs, and my husband…a man who would rather socialize with nature than meet new people. Then, one night I decided to hit up the local pub on karaoke night, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I have friends. Oh yes I do. Friends who like karaoke, even if my husband hates it with a vehemence that I can’t quite understand. And on Friday night, I joined my new friends at a new karaoke venue where they introduced me to the joys of multi-colored Jello shots, and I fought off the advances of older gentlemen who wanted to twirl me around on the dance floor, even if that meant they may never have use of their toes again. It felt like I was in high school again. We giggled like a bunch of girls, singing songs and throwing back jiggly shots. Me and my new cougar crew.

Ok, forget I just called myself a cougar. I will totally deny ever having said it. Even if my kids secretly (or not so secretly) call me that for marrying a younger man. And don’t you dare tell those nice older men I wouldn’t dance with them because they were too old for me. The truth is, I wouldn’t dance with them because I’m a total klutz. It’s true. I’m gravity’s bitch, and she will never let me forget that fact.

Besides, I didn’t go to dance. I went to sing. And if I can be a rock star, even if it’s only one night a week, I’m all over that. Sometimes we all need an ego boost.

And a bag of burnt popcorn…because everyone who knows me knows I love a good bag of burnt microwave popcorn and a wine cooler after singing my ass off.

Yeah…life is good.

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to get the charred smell out of my kitchen.

blogger in the raw

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight.

Valerie HaightTonight’s guest is writer, Valerie Haight. For more about Valerie, click on her photo to visit her website.


Someone asked me today if I truly knew myself. To choose two words that encompassed my entire existence.

Well, after 35 years, I suppose I should know who I am. But to sum me up in one or two words? Impossible. I’m a klutz. I talk too much, I say things I shouldn’t even think. I trip over things that aren’t there. I trip people who don’t know I’m there. The list goes on. And I tend to be really tough on men for whatever reason. My husband can attest. He has constant bruises, a chipped tooth and a toe that grows funny because of me. <—-True.

There was the time I worked at a doctor’s office. I answered the phone and rolled my chair over to grab the appointment book, but the cord wouldn’t reach. I leaned farther, almooooost  there, when the rollers on my chair suddenly flipped, standing me delicately on the floor, but sending the heavy chair flying out behind me and into the doc’s shins. Yeah, I brought him to his knees. Not in a good way. Never in a good way.

Then there was the time in my current corporate job I was busting tail in the office while the architects I work with stood around holding up the wall. Mildly irritated and needing to be where they stood, I had the bright idea to slip up behind one of them so as not to interrupt, grab an envelope off the bottom shelf and be in and out before they even knew it. Of course, the tall, lanky one took a step back while I’m crouched behind his feet and over he went in one of those trying-to-break-a-fall-with-whatever-you-can-grab slowmo moves where it took him two whole minutes to complete the crash. When it was all said and done, we looked like we’d just finished a game of Twister and my sophisticated chignon ended up an 80’s side pony. It was definitely one of many WTH? moments I experience everyday.

So, after much contemplation, I’ve decided Passionate Realist would sum up my demeanor, my personality about as well as anything. Passionate? Yes, I cartwheel in the front yard to expel excess energy (to the great disdain of my 12 year old son who likes to point out we live on a highway with passing cars). I cartwheel’d when I landed an agent.  I cartwheel’d when I got my Kindle. I cartwheel just to embarrass people. (I’m not very graceful, so it works.)

And a realist? Yes. I don’t expect the world to change overnight and I’m moderately callous toward the injustices of this world. I’m desensitized to the freaks, the monsters, the hate that wreaks havoc on the happiness of today’s society. I know I’ll never be a sexy siren on the silver screen, but I do have hope and faith. I believe I will be published one day soon and my kids will learn that through hard work and persistence (and a bit of clumsiness and hilarity thrown in), great things can happen. And I will laugh at myself through the entire journey. What choice do I have? It’s gutbustin’ funny!!

I hope everyone will join me in giving thanks to Valerie for a honest, hilarious blog.  And be sure to stay way clear of her if she happens to wander into your safety zone.

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

I'll watch anything but that

My mother once said to me, be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. I don’t think she had any idea it could be so bad.

As I rolled out of bed this morning…ok it was noon…I was faced with the choice no intelligent adult should ever be faced with. I was forced to choose between watching the Maury Povich show or the Jersey Shore. And trust me when I say, it was not an easy choice. There is no lesser of those two evils.

I really don’t care who the baby’s daddy is…or whether or not your mom slept with your boyfriend on your prom night. And please, spare me from watching Snooki wonder if you can get a tan from being too close to fire…or if they have the moon in every country. I tried not to watch, I really did. But, at the risk of being cliche, it was like watching a train wreck. There were moments when I just couldn’t look away. I mean…are people really this dumb? Or are they just hamming it up for the camera?

I fear people are this dumb. And maybe it’s the way it should be. Maybe we just need the stupid people out there so we can understand the importance of intelligence and education. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a snob. But seriously. I’m ok with that.

I am.

Let’s face it. The more people willing to go on Maury and the Shore, the better my odds are when the zombies attack. I may not be coordinated…or fast on my feet…but at least I’m smart. And for that, I am eternally thankful.

Until the next time…I’ll be blocking those channels from my TV.

bugs bunny and the stunt double

I don’t know why, but I was feeling nostalgic today. I popped in an old Bugs Bunny DVD and watched it on repeat. I really miss the days when Bugs Bunny was an afterschool treat and a Saturday morning staple. I have no idea how I can eat cereal without staring at those old Loony Tunes on the TV. I can’t let an opportunity go by where I can watch Bugs Bunny torment the likes of Yosemite Sam or Elmer Fudd, so it shouldn’t be any surprise that I would make sure my children fell in love with the old standards too.

So as I snuggled into my favorite chair, watching Bugs Bunny torture Yosemite Sam, yet again, I found myself thinking back to a time when my 19 year old daughter was barely three.  She was sprawled out on the floor in her favorite dress (she only wore dresses back then) eyes glued to the TV, her little brain working overtime as she immersed herself in the cartoon world.

Like in most Bugs Bunny cartoons, Yosemite Sam is blown to smithereens and stands charred and battered to admit defeat to a smiling Bugs.  This particular cartoon has Sam blown up on a pirate ship several times before the end. 

My little girl enjoyed the episode greatly, and even stopped watching at the end to comment to me. 

“Boy, I’ll bet he used a stuntman for THAT part!” She said with a giggle.

I had to laugh.  I was very careful when the kids were small, making sure they understood that “movie magic” wasn’t real life, and that actors had stuntmen to do all of the dangerous stunts, and no one really got hurt.  It was all make believe.  But, it was funny that she missed the fact that this was an animated feature.  No actors were harmed in the making of this cartoon. 

So I attempted to explain this to her. “Sweetie…Sam didn’t need a stuntman.  He’s a cartoon…they can’t get hurt.”

She just looked at me for a second before replying.  “Oh, I know that Mommy…but did you see that explosion?  He might not have needed a stuntman, but I’ll bet he got one anyway!”

The innocence of youth.

I wish I could still watch a cartoon with the belief that they were flesh and blood creatures (even actors as my daughter clearly understood.)  I miss the magic of childhood…both my own and that of my children.  But I suppose as long as I have the wonderful memories, the magic will live on.

As will Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam…with or without a stuntman!

Until the next time…I’ll be indulging in nostalgia for the rest of the day.

when ducks laugh

Beware the laughing duck.

It sounds like a Chinese proverb or something, but really, it’s just my new motto. Ever since we brought those crazy ducks home, they’ve been nothing but trouble. Oh, they’re cute and all that, but they’re definitely up to something. And I’m determined to find out what that something is, before they can execute their evil plot.

Like tonight. My husband and I came home from the grocery store to find all seven of them trying to break into the house. (They clearly know where the food is kept.) They were huddled around the back door.  It was dark, so I can’t be sure, but I think one of them had a file, and I’m pretty sure they were working the lock.

And that was just the cherry on the top of my day.

It started when my husband left for work this morning. The house was quiet. No TV. No grown kids playing video games or rap music. The dogs were sleeping soundly. And I was reading a book. Ok, I was sleeping. But I would have been reading a book if I’d been awake. That’s when I heard them laughing. In fact, it was the laughing that woke me up.

Quack quack quack.

They may try to pass it off as quacking, but I can tell the difference. Those damn ducks were laughing. At me. 

All day long…quack quack quack. It was completely different from the quacks of hunger, annoyance or fear. It was like they were watching a Will Ferrell movie. And every time I’d peek out at them, they’d quickly disperse and act like they were eating grass roots or bugs.But they were probably conspiring to commit some sort of wicked crime. And it’s going to be a doozy if their raucous laughter is any clue.

Then we discover them and their whole back door operation, and I’ve got to say, I’m a bit concerned. It’s pitch black outside, and as I sit in the quiet living room, I hear them milling around outside…circling the house…quacking every so often like one of them is barking out orders. I can’t help thinking of all the animated movies I’ve seen over the years. I’m pretty sure a whole group of ducks could so some damage. It’s almost scary if you think about it. I mean, if they weren’t little ducks. Like…if they were zombie ducks. That would be absolutely terrifying.

But they’re not.

We could totally eat them if we wanted to.

Lucky for them, they’re cute.

Until the next time…I’ll be locking the doors

cleanliness is next to impossible

The world can now take a collective sigh of relief…I have showered.

Ok, I’m exaggerating. It hasn’t really been that long. But between the hornets and the clogged drain, it had been long enough. Thankfully, for the first time since we’ve moved into this scary old house, the tub actually drained. The entire time I was in the shower. Yep, that’s right…I didn’t have to stand in dirty water as I washed my hair, or shaved my legs or any other necessary bathing ritual I had pushed off over the course of the past few days.

In the case of my legs, it had been much longer.

You discover really quickly what you can get away with when your tub drains ten times slower than it fills up. First of all, shaving your legs is a damn luxury you can no longer afford. It takes way too long, and it’s sort of gross. Washing your hair, while necessary, also takes a long time. There is nothing nastier (ok, there is, but I can’t get into the entire list right now) than standing in a tub filling with gross water while you shower. And it’s even worse when you’re the second person to shower and the person before you took a really long one. And since my husband has to go to the office several days a week, I skipped my shower if it meant standing in his dirty water to do it.

Not today. Today, I emptied the hot water tank all on my own. And if felt freaking awesome! And it was perfect timing, by the way. It’s karaoke night. And I’m in the mood to sing. And I’ll even smell nice doing it.

Who could really ask for more than that?

Until the next time…I’ll be singing.