easter in october

I’ve heard of Christmas in July. I don’t understand it, but I’ve heard of it. Still, this Easter in October crap is ridiculous.

My blue egg laying chicken (we call her George) has decided she doesn’t want to lay her eggs in the coop anymore. She wants to lay them all over the yard. Under a tree here. In the bushes there. It’s like a damn Easter egg hunt, trying to find her stash each day. And I, for one, am not interested in hunting for eggs in October.

Unless they’re filled with chocolate…which they’re not. They’re just blue on the outside. Same old egg on the inside. But…and I know this is silly…I just like the flash of color in the basket. Call me weird (it certainly wouldn’t be the first time) but I like a pretty mix of eggs.

I just don’t like hunting in the yard for them. Especially when I have to go digging around in the brush to find them. There could be snakes…or spiders…or snakes in there.

I love eggs, but not enough to risk snake bites to find them.

And don’t get me started on the crazy ducks. Who knows where they’re hiding their stash. If they’re even laying yet. This whole “farm life” crap is harder than it looks in the Disney movies. The only mice around here are the dead ones I find in front of my bedroom door after the cat has “taken one out” for me, like the furry little serial killer he is.

But I’m not complaining. I sort of love it. Every plotting duck, annoying rooster, mice stalking cat, and chicken chasing dog in the bunch.

If only I could teach the dog to search for blue eggs.

Until the next time…I’ll be on another damn Easter egg hunt!

the things we do for beer

I had fun last night. It was a karaoke night, so of course, I had fun. But my brand of fun is definitely a little different than the rest of the crowd. Not to knock them or anything. Their fun was pretty contagious. I didn’t even drink last night, but I was still laughing at the hilarity around me. And there is seriously nothing funnier than watching a bunch of full grown people acting like teenagers after a few beers.

I’ve decided (and this is after years of research on the subject) people do not act like themselves after copious amounts of alcohol. Yeah, I know, my study isn’t new. I’m pretty sure the info has been out there for centuries, but to witness it first hand is eye-opening. I’ve seen middle aged (or older) women dance like strippers around imaginary poles. I’ve seen old men dancing like they don’t need an immediate hip replacement. And I’ve seen people my age cutting up and having fun like they just graduated high school. It’s refreshing. And fun. And when done in moderation…perfectly healthy. Well, they may disagree when they roll out of bed in the morning with a wicked hangover and strange phone numbers scrawled across their chests…but hey, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Or so said my college economics teacher. But I seriously doubt he’s ever been to karaoke.

Well, I’m certainly not complaining today. I have no hangover, no hieroglyphics drawn on any part of my body, and no regrets from last night. And that’s how it should be. I’m so glad I found a nice bunch of friends in my new home town. I don’t know what I’d do on a Tuesday night without them.

Until the next time…I’ll be gearing up for next week’s costume karaoke. What should I be?

the vagina rules

I was thinking about rules the other day. How some rules are important and some are just stupid. Like, don’t eat raw cookie dough. Who listens to that? But isn’t that always the way? I’ve even broken a few of my own rules. But I admit it…if other people break my rules, I get annoyed. Especially the really important rules.

I wrote this guest post for RachelintheOc a while back, and if you missed it, here ya go…this is practically a golden rule.

I was chatting with a friend the other day.   

We were basically having a group venting session, dredging up everything that irritates us about life, and people in general.  It felt really good to give the proverbial “stab” to the things we find annoying.  And when talking about the stuff that bugs us, the conversation always manages to come around to the topic of men…specifically husbands.

So this is how it went…Fake people? Stab.  Snobby people?  Stab.  Husbands?  Stab, stab, stab!!!
Living with a man is often enough to make a girl dream of a deserted island, a bottle of chardonnay, and a dirty romance novel.  And “honey” can stay at home, thank you very much!
My friend finally summed it up by saying, “When it comes to men…honestly, I only like the sex. But I could get that without having to live with them.”

Food for thought, for sure. 

But I had to disagree.  I like having a guy.  I just wish I didn’t have to deal with his shit.
For example…My husband has this really annoying habit of refusing to talk to me just because I don’t understand what he’s trying to say.  I can’t seem to drill it into his head that he needs to explain things.  I mean, really explain things.  I was like…dude, I’m a woman.  We need more words.  Lots of words.  Full sentences if you can manage it.  Hell, if you have time, draw a map.  

The more information the better. 

Did hubby get the point?  Of course not.  Instead, he gave me the cold shoulder for the rest of the evening. And he wonders why I get pissed off.

What is it about guys?  They say they love women.  They claim to want a woman in their lives.  But they refuse to understand the inner workings of a woman. So what’s a girl to do? I just gave it to him straight. 

“If you want a vagina…you have to play by the vagina’s rules.”

And ladies, let’s face it…the vagina has a whole lot of rules. This vagina likes to be talked to.  And listened to.  I don’t mean gaping at me with a dazed expression and the faint sound of crickets chirping in the background.  No, I want real listening.  The kind that might even include appropriate responses from time to time.  I know you’re pretending to listen.  You know you’re pretending to listen.  Let’s just stop pretending and actually talk. 

It’s called a “conversation” guys.  I know…big word.  Look it up.

The vagina also likes attention.  But I don’t mean JUST the vagina.  You guys seem to think there’s only part of a woman that needs attention.  Trust me…that’s as far from the truth as you can get.  I know it’s a foreign concept.  I know the penis is the control center of the man.  But like I said before…if you want a vagina you’d better figure out how it works. 

Think of the vagina as a sink.  It’s a broad generalization, but stay with me here.  If you want to fill a sink with water, no amount of touching the sink is going to get the job done.  You have to turn on the faucet.  The faucet is the control center. 

Are you still with me?

Find the control center in the woman.  Start with the conversation (that’s the talking part, remember?); from there, you can find your way to the other stuff. 

Basically, a vagina is a complex organism controlled by an even more complex organism…a woman. But trust me, if you take the time to figure it out, your life (and ours) will be a whole lot easier. 
So I’m sure you’re wondering how my husband responded to my list of rules.  The same way he responds to everything…in as few words as possible.  Hey, it’s all good.  For as little as he said, I’m pretty sure he got the point.  

A vagina has a whole lot of rules, but what it all comes down to is this…Vaginas rule!

Until the next time…I’ll be breaking a few rules of my own.

things are finally coming together

After more than six months in the scary farmhouse, things are finally starting to come together. I’ve painted the living room, rearranged the furniture, hung some art, and if I could just talk my husband into climbing the ladder to hang the curtain rods, the room would be pretty well finished. So I’m moving on to the kitchen. Or rather, we’re moving on to the kitchen. And the dining room. Because the project we had in mind required a bit of a change in both rooms.

We decided to convert our rustic, 9.5 foot dining room table into a rustic farm-style island for the kitchen. And even though we’ve only completed the first phase, I’m delighted in the change. I now have a massive work surface just in time for holiday baking. And well, perhaps it wasn’t the wisest decision weeks before Thanksgiving to take away the largest table, but we’ll make it work. And I, for one, can’t wait. This place is really beginning to feel like home. Not just a scary haunted mansion. Though, we all know its still that. I find I’m even getting used to that part.

I’ll get some pictures up as soon as I have a minute…and as soon as I clear the clutter so I don’t prove to the world how disorganized I really am.

In the meantime, I decided it would be prudent to announce I wouldn’t be writing a blog on Saturday night’s anymore. After nearly three years of blogging every day, I’ve found myself just a bit burned out, and I needed a rest. I figured Saturday night would be the proper time to take one. I’ll still have the guest post on Friday night, so I’ll have a whole weekend to myself. And that might just be the boost I need to get back on track.

So…there ya have it. Lots of change around here, but I’m pretty sure it’s all for the good. I hope you agree!

Until the next time…I’ll be painting the kitchen!

I saved my banana for you

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

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

When I was a teenager, one of the first presents my first boyfriend gave me was a stuffed gorilla. He’s not very big, maybe only half a foot from top to toe, and he’s dressed in red boxer shorts with white love hearts.

I loved that gorilla. Still do; he turned out to be more faithful than the boyfriend in question, and I’ve still got him. The gorilla, I mean, not the boyfriend.  The relationship was incredibly unstable, and the gorilla eventually came to have meaning to me beyond the person who’d given him to me. Kind of like a toddler’s ‘blankie’. Hey, I was a hormonal teenager, give me a break.

Technically his name is Magilla Gorilla (original, huh? That’s Mum, for you, she also called her cat Mandu) but I just called him my monkey.

Now the monkey has a secret.

When I received him, he came with a tag that read ‘I saved my banana for you’. The tag I cut and tossed. After all, I was fifteen, and it’s maybe unwise to let your parents think your boyfriend is giving you ‘bananas’.

But inside his shorts, the monkey has… a banana! It’s yellow, banana shaped, and even has that black spot at the end – you know, where the banana broke off from the bunch?

Also not something I brought to the attention of my parents.

I was so attached to that monkey, I had a tendency to drag it everywhere with me anytime I was feeling miserable. Sure, break-up moments, but also bouts of extreme sickness and misery. If you found me huddled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, swigging down cold medication with flat lemonade, the monkey was there too.

I was nineteen, maybe twenty, when one evening my grandparents came to visit, and I was sick. Yep, flat lemonade and a basin in case of emergencies sick. Me, and the monkey. Yes, at that age. Right now I’m pregnant, and hormonal, so don’t make an issue out of it, OK? It’s nice to have someone to hug, even if no one’s hugging you back. I tried with the cats, but they run away.

Anyway, I wasn’t feeling too badly, so I shambled out to the kitchen, for more lemonade maybe, leaving Mum in the company of her parents. Mum had taken possession of the gorilla for reasons I don’t recall, and was sitting on the couch playing with it as she talked to her mother.

I came back in the room just in time to see the priceless expression on Mum’s face.

Oh boy, you betcha, she’d been playing with that monkey until his banana popped out of his shorts!

And she didn’t even have a clue until then it was there.

Mum’s eyes bulged out of her head, she cut short mid-sentence and she just sat there and stared at the banana.

‘Debbie, what’s the matter?’

My grandmother was a bit more prudish than Mum, who hastily stuffs the banana back in the gorilla’s shorts, and gasps ‘Nothing!’.

Mum is easily amused. One of her favourite jokes has the punch-line ‘I’m a prawn again, Christian! I found cod!’. What she desperately wanted to do was collapse in a quivering heap while she laughed her arse off (I’m certain LMAO was coined with my mother in mind), and instead she had to sit there slowly turning purple, with the offending monkey in her lap, and try not to let on to my grandmother  that she had hold of a rude monkey.

It was entertaining to say the least, although I quickly relieved her of my gorilla before mirth could get the better of her.

I am sure if my grandmother had seen it, the response would have been ‘Deborah, that’s disgusting!’

Oh god, I love that monkey!

Thanks Ciara! I’m almost embarrassed to say I used to have a stuffed chimp that I carried around like a baby. I called him Mickey the Monkey and I loved him. I wonder where he is now.

Until the next time…I’ll be making banana bread!

eggs, eggs, everywhere

There’s this really tacky pick up line I heard in a movie once. Or maybe it was on a date once…don’t judge me.

The guy says, “Hey Baby, how do you like your eggs in the morning?” And then I come back with…I mean the woman comes back with the zinger, “Unfertilized.”

This has absolutely nothing to do with the eggs I’m talking about, but every time I pull eggs from the coop, that line is running through my head.

Of course, our eggs are fertilized, thanks to resident cock, Clooney. And no, it never gets old calling that pain in the ass rooster a cock. I laugh every time I type it. But as much as he would like to go forth and multiply, the chickens have no desire to sit on their eggs. So we pull them everyday, filling our egg basket to the brim.

I boiled over a dozen eggs today. I gave another dozen to the neighbors a few days ago. I used a few more in a salad. My husband made an omelet for breakfast. And I still have almost two dozen eggs in the basket. I’m collecting egg recipes. I’m contemplating making a pound cake and custard for the hell of it. And I’ll still have eggs coming out of my ears.

But you won’t hear me complaining. I may get tired of eating eggs, but if the zombies show up, I can always chuck the eggs at them to slow them down. Hey, it could work.

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming of eggs.

fun for a girl or a boy

There was a time when toys were simple.  I may be dating myself, but back when I was a kid, there were no such things as video games or home computers.  We played outside when the weather was nice, and when it wasn’t, we were satisfied with a pile of blocks or Legos, a few shades of Play-Doh or an egg filled with Silly Putty…and a Slinky.

I’ve outgrown the blocks and the Legos.  Long since put away the Play-Doh and the Silly Putty.  But I still have a warm spot in my heart for the Slinky.  A Slinky was more than a toy…it was a way of life.  

So maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe it’s not a way of life, but life is like a Slinky…or something like that. 

How is life like a Slinky, you ask? 

You can make life as complicated as you like, but at its core, it’s simple.  No matter how far you stretch it, it always springs back.  I am always surprised by all the wonderful tricks I can squeeze out of one simple spring. 

After all…

What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs, and makes a slinkity sound?

A spring, a spring, a marvelous thing! Everyone knows it’s Slinky.

It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky. For fun it’s a wonderful toy.

It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky. It’s fun for a girl or a boy.

It’s fun for a girl or boy!”

Try getting that out of your head today!

Basically, just holding a Slinky will make you smile every time.  Who hasn’t sat in a chair tossing it back and forth between their hands just to feel the weight change as it shifts through the air?  Maybe you like to grab an end in each hand and stretch it then crush it back together.  Why?  Because as silly as it is, it’s fun. 

Popular since 1945, after all these years, a Slinky is still a cheap source of entertainment. 

My husband and I were on a mini-vacation last year and I ran across a sign that summed it up for me. 

It’s fun for a girl or a boy!

Until the next time…I’ll be bringing back the weekly challenge blog. Topics anyone?

Godzilla for president

I was watching the Presidential debate this evening with the sound off. Why was the sound off? Because I was at karaoke and you can’t exactly listen to a debate while people are singing, right? But I was still interested. I wanted to know what they had to say…or rather, their facial expressions and body language as they spewed their answers. I found myself imagining each candidate in their Halloween costumes. I dressed them as vintage movie monsters in my head. President Obama would make a fetching Bela Lugosi as Dracula, and Mr. Romney would look amazing with a few bolts in his neck as Frankenstein. In fact, the debate might have been a lot more interesting had they dressed like that. But all kidding aside, I know I should be more involved, and honestly, I am in my own way. My issue is, I just don’t think either candidate is being 100% truthful during a debate. They’re both trying to one up the other to win an election. And while each may have interesting points on any given subject, I’m pretty sure there are better options out there.

Like…I don’t know…Godzilla, maybe?

This isn’t the first time I’ve waxed philosophical about the merits of the fire breathing lizard, either. I feel as if we don’t give enough credit to old fashioned monsters in modern society.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murphy's reputation is, yet again, well earned

I don’t know who this Murphy guy is, but if he knows what’s good for him, he will stay as far away from me as possible…because after the day I’ve had, I would like nothing better than to kick his ass!

I looked up Murphy’s Law online.  There are a few variations, and some in-depth descriptions, but at its core, Murphy’s Law states that, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”  

Who knew anything would really be everything?

All three of our cars suffered catastrophic failure this weekend. CATASTROPHIC! As in two blown tires on the Kia, (yes, two because one would have, apparently, been too cliche for Murphy and his sick brand of humor…and far too easily resolved with the included spare.) The transmission pan (whatever this may be) cracked and leaked on the daughter’s Mercury (stranding her in Atlanta all weekend.) And the U-joint in the truck (again, I don’t speak car, so I have no idea what this is or why we need it) broke and needs to be repaired. Of course, the parts for all three vehicles (yes, even the tires for my stupid Kia Soul sport) have to be special ordered and won’t be in until tomorrow.

So, I would suggest Mr. Murphy buy a ticket to some far off destination and hang out there until I calm down. You just don’t mess with a PMSing woman who can’t drive anyone anywhere but crazy!

And that is just a fact.

Until the next time…I’ll be hunkering down, waiting for parts.

I feel the earth move

It’s no secret that I used to live in Southern California. Land of Hollywood, and the earthquake. But in the years I lived there, I never once felt the earth move. I felt a sonic boom once, as the shuttle zoomed overhead to Edward’s Air Force base. But never did I experience an earthquake. Not in all the time I spent living on the west coast.

Fast forward to this weekend.

I was watching a scary movie with Mady when the entire house began to growl and shake, like a monster roaring up from the depths. Then the windows shook and I screamed. I was certain something in the basement had blown up. I never once suspected an earthquake. Not in the North Georgia mountains. But that was, in fact, what I had experienced. It wasn’t my dog farting into an open flame causing a rumbling explosion. And mastiff owners will agree with me, this is possible. But it was an actual earthquake. In Georgia.

Oh, we survived. And I learned it wasn’t the first time this has happened. Next time, I’ll be prepared. Or not. Are we ever really prepared for such things?

At least I won’t scream at the ghosts and blame them for the whole thing.

Until the next time…I’ll be adding earthquake prep to our disaster plan.

doggone kids

Welcome to the Weekly Friday night Guest Spotlight.

Tonya CannariatoTonight’s guest is writer Tonya Cannariato. Click on Tonya’s picture to visit her website.

Stress, thy name is Tonya: These days I juggle the day job, the freelance job, and the getting ready to release my first novel job. I cram my days full, and stumble into bed, exhausted, at night. Of course, perpetual 4-year-old children that are Siberian Huskies remain blissfully unconcerned about my dire need for sleep. To our two pups, night time is the right time for fun and adventure. That’s when my two fur-kids decide they need to ratchet up their midnight hi jinx.

Within five minutes of the lights finally going out, and about 30 seconds after I’ve rolled over into that comfy prelude-to-sleep position, I am attacked with a “woof” bomb. Kyra, the grande dame at 14 years old, drops the “woof” that means: “Oh yes, but of course I just remembered I need to go out one last time.” Natasha, the 1.5-year-old happy-happy, joy-joy playgirl makes a game of joining her—and sometimes one-upping her pranks.

This week, as Milwaukee enjoyed record-breaking summery weather, and I’ve been putting a premium on getting those few extra winks each night, I’ve acceded to their night-time obsession with sleeping outside—in the interest of avoiding the 4th and 5th “can I go out now?” woof requests in the depths of the night.

This worked well the first and second nights, but the third night I was startled awake by a racket that sounded very close to home. I went to the back door, looked out, and saw both girls by the little stretch of fence that spans the distance between my house and my neighbor’s. Natasha was frantically throwing herself against the gate, yipping and yowling in that particular Husky fashion. A quick glance at the clock confirmed 3:30am cacophony was not going to please my neighbors, so I needed to go out and investigate (in my night shirt… I’m only mostly confident I didn’t flash anyone).

Since both girls were fixated on something in the road, I glanced over and thought a neighbor’s cat was teasing them. So I went to Natasha and tried to soothe her. Kyra was fine with just going in the house and handing over the reins now that someone with authority had shown up. But not Natasha. She strained against me, squeaking and nudging, trying to get closer to the beastie in the road.

At this distance, I looked again. That was not a cat all fluffed up: That was a fully grown raccoon in a “hey punk, you want a piece of me!” stare-down with my baby.

This confirmed all my over-protective fears about leaving her outside overnight and I all but wrestled Natasha into the house.

That’s when the fun started. As a whiling dervish, she thought maybe she could see the raccoon from the living room window. Or the front door, open to catch the least breeze of cool night wind. Then she would tear by me on the way back to the back door. She completed at least three of these reckless circuits through the small space, each time brushing by me as if I were the boogey man deserving the extra burst of avoidance speed. She did not want me holding her back from her goal this time.

Oddly, my husband managed to sleep through this all. And I was lucky that once Natasha was no longer available to make eye contact, the local wildlife shambled off down the road. When I finally re-opened the back door for her and she raced out to her previous vantage point, there was no longer anything to be excited about. But all that extra adrenaline meant she had to trot the perimeter of the back yard for much longer than I was willing to watch.

The good thing about the early morning adventure? Not that I struggled and grumped my way to work the next morning, certainly. Instead, our bonus was a slumbering pup, who slept the sleep of the just. Of the working dog who has protected her family.

Until the next time…I’ll be cuddled up to my own snoring pup for a cold night!

chickens, do dongs and a loaf of bread

Living in the country is a constant source of new knowledge. Not all of it necessary. For example, I didn’t need to know what happens when you get poison ivy on your “do dong”. I don’t even have one of those, so it was really unnecessary info for me…and honestly, if my husband has his “do dong” out while in the vicinity of poison ivy, we’ll likely have more trouble than a little rash.

I also found out that people in the country don’t believe in leashes, or fences, or keeping track of their dogs. And that really bothered me…until I ended up with the same problem. Not with my dogs, mind you. No, I can’t seem to keep my chickens in my own yard.

I kind of feel like I’m living in that movie, Chicken Run. Not because my chickens are forced to live like war prisoners, or anything. In fact, they’re quite spoiled, by chicken standards. But just the same, they seem to be on a constant quest for more freedom. And the freedom they seek resides in the neighbor’s yard.

But let’s face it. You can’t call a chicken, like a dog, and expect it to come running, right? I mean, my dogs come running for a treat, but a chicken? That’s crazy talk.

Or is it?

As it turns out, I’ve taught my chickens to speak English. Or rather, to understand English, because chickens can’t talk. I don’t think. That would be a totally different blog, for a different day. No, my chickens understand English.

Just the other day, the entire flock was over a football field away, in the pasture across from ours, when I yelled out, “Who wants bread?”

It was like a zombie movie. Once I had the word, bread, out of my mouth, their little heads turned in my direction like they got a whiff of fresh brains. So I yelled again. “Bread?”

Like a pack of wild dogs spying an injured deer, my chickens started running. Their little wings flapping madly as they hauled ass across the field. I quickly ran to the grab a few slices and met them on the back porch where I tossed bite sized pieces at them before they pecked off my fingers.

Apparently, bread is like crack to chickens. Their own personal brand of crack, in fact.

I know how they feel. I can hardly pass up a nice hot loaf of french bread with whipped butter. Who knows, maybe I was a chicken in a past life.

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to catch those chickens on video.

what the heck happened to Halloween?

It’s the middle of October. I should be seeking out the perfect pumpkin and hanging the rest of my spooky decorations. You know…stretching out artificial spider webs to disguise the real ones I just can’t bring myself to knock down.  And staking out a giant lawn display with vampires and zombies, to scare off all the children who might lay claim to my stash of bite-sized Snickers bars and Tootsie Rolls. But when I hit the big box store to find the perfect fall decorations, what did I find? 

Christmas trees. 

And not just the trees.  It was the lights, the decorations, and the boxes of cards to be mailed.  And what of the giant scary lawn decorations?  Those have been relegated to the back of the store with other unwanted items, like the left over patio furniture and tiki torches.

Are you with me? 

It’s the middle of October, not the middle of November.  I thought we were in the Halloween season.  Time of witches and ghosts. Jack-o-lanterns and ghouls.  Not reindeer or elves…not mistletoe or Santa Claus.

I want tricks and treats, not streets filled with shoppers!

Should I really be concerned with Christmas shopping this early?  Yes, I know some of you have already done all your Christmas shopping, and I’m here to tell you…I hate you.  I do.  Every year I tell myself I will shop early to avoid the lines and the stress.  And every year I wait until after Thanksgiving.  What does this mean?  If you ask me, it means the crazy rush to put up Christmas displays is wasted on the vast majority of us who are still in height of Halloween spirit in the middle of October.

I want things to go back to the way it was when I was a kid. 

October was Halloween.  November was Thanksgiving.  And December was all about Christmas.  You didn’t shop until the day after Thanksgiving.  You didn’t put up your tree before carving the turkey.  And you damn sure didn’t wander through stores fully decked out with Christmas finery smack dab in the middle of October.  Is it really too much to ask?  Isn’t there more to the holiday season than blatant commercialism? Is it just me or do I suddenly sound like Charlie Brown?

I guess I’m just old fashioned.  But I’m warning the stores today…I’ve decided to boycott every store with Christmas decorations up in October. Sure that means I may have to grocery shop at the gas station…I can live with that.  I’m making a statement after all!  Dad always said it only takes one voice to start a revolution. 

Hey…viva la revolucion!

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for pumpkins at the farmer’s market!

beware the 3 S's

Things I’ve learned from my years of going to karaoke.

1. Never sing a song you don’t know.

2. Never make eye contact with the drunk guys at the bar.

And, 

3. for God’s sake, beware of the 3 S’s…scotch, cigarettes and sun exposure.

That is unless you want to look like you’re sixty-five before you’re even thirty. This is why I never have more than two drinks, avoid second hand smoke, and stay out of the sun. (Although, realistically, there is little risk of sun exposure in a bar…still, it should be noted to stay out of the sun, just the same.)

*Side note* I realize cigarettes doesn’t actually start with an S…so sue me. It sounded good in my head, and the advice is still solid, so I went with it (to toss out a few more S words.)

Despite his better judgment, my husband agreed to go to karaoke with me tonight. He may be experiencing a wicked case of buyer’s remorse, however, after being exposed to the dreaded karao-cooties. It was clear to us, at least, that someone (the really old drunk lady gyrating her hips in front of the stage with a big glass of scotch and three straws) could have really used my aforementioned advice…oh…several years ago. And someone really should have cut her off at the bar several drinks ago, while they were at it.

The crowd when wild with laughter as the crazy CeeCee hit the stage, belting out Mustang Sally in her granddaughter’s belly shirt, but it wasn’t so funny when she climbed down to work the crowd, rubbing her way through the entire male population at our little small town pub. My poor hubby got a contact high from her breath, and was begging for hand santitizer for his exposed skin after she made her way to our table.

This is why he usually stays home. And I can’t really blame him, but I can still laugh. That shit was funny, and I only had one drink.

Until the next time…I’ll be filling the tub with Betadyne for my poor hubby.

from little acorns

I often wish I had an on-staff photographer to capture all those special moments my life has to offer. Like today, as I dashed across the backyard, metal bowl on my head, acorns pinging off in all directions.

Yes, I said acorns. Hitting my head. Or rather the makeshift helmet on my head.

My yard is under attack. I had no idea oak trees were so violent, but apparently, they have a wicked streak that comes out right around the same time the leaves begin to change. Our yard, both front and back, is covered in a thick layer of acorns that must make the neighborhood squirrels feel like they’ve hit the lottery. I’ve never seen so many acorns in all my life. And most of them are falling like mortar blasts from the sky. It’s like walking through a battlefield to get to the chicken coop…hence the metal bowl on my head.

I don’t care who laughs at me. I’ve already had my fair share of concussions in this life. And goodness knows, I don’t need to explain that to the emergency room doctors…

“Well, I was walking through my yard when I was accosted by multiple acorns, and then I woke up with a chicken standing on the middle of my chest, head cocked to the side, asking me if I was okay.”

No, I think the helmet/bowl wins this round.

Until the next time…I’ll be prepping my armor for my next battle for eggs.

halloween revisted

So I finally pulled out the Halloween decorations and started getting the house all spooky. Or rather, my daughter’s boyfriend went up to the attic and pulled out the decorations and started helping me decorate the house. We still have hay bales and pumpkins to buy, so this weekend will be filled with such things. In the meantime, check out some of the “Best of Halloween” pictures from my previous decorating endeavors, and I’ll be sure to put up the new ones when I’m done.

 Our skeleton plays the piano for the ghost crowd.

The rats are feasting on Miss Havisham’s wedding cake.

More skeletons and spooky things.

I guess I have my work cut out for me, don’t I?

Until the next time…I’ll be decorating!

more ducking around

Well, it was bound to happen. Much like our resident rooster, Clooney, our ducks are now making their sexual preferences known. Ducks, of course, are far less flamboyant when it comes to their sexuality. There’s no round the clock crowing or fancy colored feathers to show off with. No prancing around like they own the place. No challenging the dog for alpha status.

No, the ducks keep to themselves. They fly under the radar, if you’ll excuse the pun.  But that doesn’t stop them from showing a little tail. And apparently, the boys have a slight curl to theirs. We might not have noticed the difference if it hadn’t been for the whole, mounting the female ducks, thing. That was a dead giveaway. Or, as it turns out, it was four dead giveaways.

Out of seven ducks, four of them are male.

So it looks like we’ll be swapping out some ducks. Or if my husband gets his way, we’ll be eating them. But as usual, I’m not up for eating the pets, so we’ll see who wins this round. The simple fact that Clooney is still crowing his way through the midnight hours shows I’m ahead of the game. Not that we’re playing a game here. Ok, maybe we are. And I’m in it to win it.

Just don’t tell my husband.

Until the next time…I’ll be watching my ducks.

who stole my inspiration?

I used to be brimming over with inspiration. Like a cup of coffee when you pour without paying attention. Come on…you know you’ve done it. And while hot coffee spilling from my cup wouldn’t be at the top of my list of things to do, the idea of my proverbial cup of inspiration cascading over the sides would be more than welcome.

So who took mine? Seriously. Who did it? I’ve been running on empty for months and I’m ready for my cup to runneth over.

Today I felt a spurt of inspiration coming on. You know, like when someone nicks a vein and the blood squirts into the air? Ok, it wasn’t really like that. It was more like a gust of air. Like when the wind suddenly picks up on a calm day, blowing lawn furniture over before it disappears again. No, I guess it wasn’t like that either. It was more of a trickle…like a dripping faucet. Yeah, that’s it. I’m a dripping faucet of inspiration.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It’s constant, but hardly enough to fill a tub. Or a page. Or even a napkin, honestly. But I guess I should be glad it’s still dripping along. And like any good leaky faucet, eventually it will pick up speed. It’s the law of nature. Or bad plumbing. And despite how much I hate the thought of comparing my creativity to bad plumbing, it sort of fits. What I really need is for it to suddenly overflow. Like the damn toilet when we first moved in to the scary farmhouse. And while an overflowing toilet is a terribly inconvenient thing, an overflowing streak of creativity would be pretty cool. I’m all for that.

So if it’s quite alright, I’d like my inspiration back. It’s not like you can use it. It only works for me. It’s mine.  And I miss it. That and the power cord to my PS3. I’d really like that back too. I mean, as long as I’m putting the word out.

Until the next time…I’ll be putting a bowl under my drip to catch the flow of ideas.

welcome to blogtober

Yes…it’s finally here.  I know fall officially started about a week ago, while it was still September, but for me, today is the first day of fall.  October 1^st.  Or as we call it around here—Blogtober.

I had big plans for this day. Plans that didn’t involve rain. But as they say, the best laid plans often get rained out. Or maybe they don’t say that, exactly, but that’s what happened. There was no hay run to decorate the front porch. No stringing scary webs across the porch. No awesome scarecrow in the front yard. Nothing.

Oh wait…there was a pumpkin. One measly little pumpkin from the grocery store. It was just too wet for the pumpkin patch, but there was no way I was going to let October 1st go by without at least getting a pumpkin. And a big bag of apples. Because nothing says fall like pumpkins and fresh apples. And scary decorations, but, like I said…that was a bust.

I guess the outdoor decorating will have to wait until at least tomorrow. Hopefully the rain will let up by then. At least the ducks are enjoying it. I watched them prance around in the mud for hours, whispering to each other and laughing, like crazy ducks do. I wonder what they’ll think of the life-sized skeleton I have for the front porch. I wonder if the chickens will perch on my hay bales. Or if they’ll try to sit on the pumpkin like a giant egg. I guess we’ll see in a few days.

This whole living on a farm thing just got more interesting.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting out the rain.

and I just swept away the real webs too

It’s about that time again, just a few days until October, and I’m so ready for my favorite month of the year. So ready, in fact, that my mission this weekend is to transform the scary old farmhouse into a…well…a scary old farmhouse.

So here I am, just days after I swept the ceiling of all the real spider webs and I’m preparing to string up the fake ones on all the chandeliers. I’m almost wishing I’d left the webs where they were…almost. Besides, the real ones weren’t nearly dramatic enough.  We are going for over-the-top Halloween around this house.   

Is there any other kind?

It seems like every year Mike finds me hanging webs on the chandeliers and makes snarky comments about seeing the wispy webs up there until March.  I’ve vowed to take them down the day after Halloween this year…but I’ve made that promise to myself before, and only got them all down in time to decorate for Christmas.  Still…that’s hardly March. 

Clearly he exaggerates.

Thankfully, my knee felt much better when I woke up this morning.  Hopefully, it will feel even better tomorrow.  I need to get on a ladder and hang spider webs after all. 

The next thing I need to do is to decide what to dress up as.  My choices are wide and varied.  I would like to be Miss Havesham from Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, but Mike thinks I will spend the entire evening explaining my costume.  I’m certain that he is underestimating the classical education of our friends, but he may be right.  I could wear almost the same costume and call myself Norman Bates’s mother.  And who could possibly miss that reference? The other choice would be for Mike to dress up as Elvis while I dress as Pricilla.  I’m still leaning toward Miss Havesham.  What could be more comfortable than wearing a dressing gown and slippers all evening long? 

I still have a few weeks to decide.  As long as I don’t end up dressing as a witch yet again.  I think it’s time for a change. 

What are you going to be this year?

Until the next time…I’ll be picking out a costume and dressing the house with webs!