bare today...hair tomorrow

Another crazy Tuesday night of karaoke. Another reminder that even if my eyelashes are falling out, I still have to shave my legs. And another reason to replay one of my favorite blogs from last year. I think you’ll agree.

Fashion is a fickle friend.  Whether we’re talking miniskirts, skinny jeans, or platform shoes…long hair on men, short hair on girls, or the question of whether or not to shave. 

And I’m not just talking about beards here.  Well…maybe I am. 

I’ve done a lot of crazy things. I would be the first to admit it.  Not only did I attempt to wax my own bikini area, and with disastrous results I might add, but I went ahead and wrote it down for all the world to see. Or rather read.  So why not take it a step further.  Why not discuss the other popular options?

I spent the better part of last night chatting with a bunch of women about that very thing.  

It would seem I’m not the only one with a disastrous waxing tale.  Apparently horrible things can go wrong even when a professional is in control of the hot wax.  Especially when talking about a Brazilian wax.  I don’t know about you, but sending a strange Brazilian into my nether regions with boiling hot wax is NOT something I will be adding to my bucket list. I burned my mouth on a barbeque chicken sandwich the other day and walked around sucking on ice chips all day…my tongue still hurts.  That is not something I want to experience anywhere in the vicinity of my crotch.

So yeah, hot wax is out.  But laser hair removal treatments might just be in. 

It was brought up in the conversation last night, and I remembered it was an option at my doctor’s office.  I mean, I’ve been known to remove my pants at the doctor’s office for medical reasons, right?  It’s a yearly thing, in fact.  So how much of a stretch would it be to put my legs into stirrups for fashion?  Well…fashion, hygene…hey, in some circumstances it could actually mean going down a size in undergarments, and let’s face it, ladies…any opportunity to go down a size should be seized!

But the more I thought about this whole, permanent hair removal thing, the more I started thinking about fashion and her fickle moods.  How many times have styles changed in the course of my life?  Eyebrows have gone from pencil thin to thick and bushy and back to groomed again.  Skirts have gone from long to short to even shorter in the blink of an eye.  How can I be sure bare down there will always be in style?  I mean, I remember the seventies and the popular back to nature bush-fro of the era.  Sure, it was a little National Geographic, but you just never know when I might feel the urge to go all retro and sport a vintage look…it could happen.

Besides, who knows what all the grannies in the nursing home will be wearing.  Sure, that’s a very long way off, but one has to be prepared for anything that may come up.  I certainly don’t want to be the only one who isn’t up with the current trends.   I’m nothing if not trendy. 

So I guess for now I’ll be sticking with the expensive five blade shavers they keep behind lock and key at the grocery store…even they know the value of fashion…that is until someone comes up with something a little less dangerous, or the tide turns again and the retro bush-fro comes back in style. 

I won’t be holding my breath.

Until the next time…I’ll be lathering up!

that's a whole lotta wishes

I know I’ve talked about this before, in fact, it always seems to come back to the topic of hair removal with me, doesn’t it? I mean, who hasn’t heard about my disasterous attempt at a self-bikini wax? If you haven’t, you just haven’t been paying attention. And that’s ok. Not everyone likes horror stories. I know I don’t. And speaking of horror stories and hair removal…age is the most evil karma I’ve ever run across.

Ok, I’m going to break it down simply. What the hell has happened to my eyelashes? I used to have the thickest, longest, most luxurious eyelashes ever. And now…nothing. Well, almost nothing. I even find myself browsing the false eyelashes in the make-up aisles, but my history with things found in the beauty aisles at the local grocery store freaks me out a little. That is where I found the home waxing kit, after all. No, I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to do about the situation, but I can definitely say, if I had to have hair fall out somewhere, this is not where I would have chosen.

Ok, I know I’m lucky the hair on my head is still lush, but so is the hair on my legs and bikini area, and people, that shit could fall out tomorrow and I wouldn’t shed a single tear. Not one. Hey, I’d be happy if the hair under my arms would cease to grow. Or those stray little hairs that crop up in weird places where they never grew before…yeah, those can go too. But my eyelashes? Seriously? What did I do in a past life to deserve this? And does this mean I get a wish for every lash that blows away? Surely that’s a fair trade off, even if I do waste them wishing for more eyelashes.

And as I try to make sense of what’s happened, I find myself wanting to blame Obama…everyone seems to blame him for something these days, but I just can’t come up with a cool enough scenario…and yeah, I’m a writer. Surely I can come up witih some valid argument for why Obama is the reason my eyelashes don’t seem to want to grow and cooperate anymore. 

Otherwise, I’m going to have to blame my age, and that totally sucks. I keep telling myself I’m not old, and the evidence against my theory just keeps building up. I can lie to myself and color the gray all I want, but nature simply won’t play fair.

Eyelashes. Seriously? Karma, you got this round. I’ll buy the next.

Until the next time…I’ll be feeling sorry for myself.

life with a writer

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Michael DeanTonight we have a replay of our visit with guest Michael Dean. Although, he’s not a writer per se…he does have a blog of his own…and he has his very own special brand of insight. He’s my husband. For more about Michael, click his picture to visit his blog.

It’s not easy being married to a writer. Especially one with some degree of public notoriety, and who occasionally likes to tell all.

You know Erica’s antics and the things she writes about. I’m unfortunately going to divulge that they are all true. I don’t always read her blogs. Mostly I’m afraid to know exactly what the world knows. What I do read is sometimes a little close to home, and I’m certain I wouldn’t have painted such a vivid picture of our lives.

I’m a private person living in a fish bowl.

I suppose you could say my role in the fish bowl is that of the sucker fish. I lurk in the background and corners of the tank, doing my duty, not really asking for much attention. I don’t have flashy colors. I don’t do tricks or chase the other fish, or make bubbles (unless we’ve had Mexican food). And I definitely don’t order food in the drive-thru…using a fake accent…and asking for my food to go! (And yes…she really did that once.)

I do get annoyed sometimes when folks come along and tap on the glass…it sounds like baseball bats on trash can lids to me.

Erica doesn’t seem to mind the crowd standing outside the glass. And I guess that’s good for someone trying to make a living in the public eye. Sure, Erica is interesting, and creative, and a walking encyclopedia of useless trivia, and sometimes a bit flighty even if she’s always funny…even a bit odd sometimes. She’s also a fiercely protective mother and leader of her family when needed. It doesn’t seem to matter that she didn’t give birth to, or even meet the rest of us until not so many years ago…all factors that made me love her. I had no choice.

So, in the end, I guess it’s not that hard after all having Erica for a wife. I do get to meet a lot of interesting people (vicariously) and discover their angles on life.

Besides, I suppose it’s not always easy being married to me.

I told Erica, not so long ago, if it weren’t for the simple fact that she lives in different world than most people, she’d have gotten rid of me a long time ago. She hasn’t noticed many of my flaws…yet…and the ones she has noticed, she just labels them as quirks.

Like the time I paid a LOT of money for a domain name I thought would be a good investment…but it wasn’t. Or the time I insisted on buying a piece of land in North Carolina that we didn’t do a thing with…but I still might someday. And then there was the time I had the idea I could build a shed in the back yard cheaper than what Home Depot could sell me a kit for…and make it better.

I ended up spending four-times as much on the materials, with the end product being a tornado-rated structure. But I’ll bet a lot of people build a $8000, 12ftx 12ft military bunker-style shed in the back yard…sure they do!

Afterall, when your wife has Salem witches in her lineage, you don’t want any loose houses flying around.

That just goes to show how she puts up with my antics just as much as I put up with hers. I guess you could say we have an interesting life. Sometimes I have to meditate on a saying of Helen Keller’s to help get me through.

“Life is a grand adventure, or it is nothing.”

I’m sure I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the pict…errr…the idea.

Until the next time…I’ll be tapping on the glass.

the lost art of negotiation

Who hasn’t cringed at the words, “Mom, can I stay up just a little longer?”  Or, “Mom, can I take the car and drive to Mexico with my friends for spring break?”

Those might be completely different scenarios, but they can both be resolved by using the exact same technique.  It’s the art of negotiation, and I am the queen.

In my previous life as a business banker, it was no secret I knew how to negotiate with business owners, corporations, and executives.  I don’t think anyone who has known me for more than a few minutes would question my ability to negotiate my way through almost any situation.  And not just for myself.  My family considers my skills invaluable.  I have negotiated better prices for my sister on a number of occasions.   My mother took me with her furniture shopping so I could get her the best price at least once.  My aunt once drove to almost three hours, specifically for me to take her to garage sales, so I could negotiate her deals. And I even managed to negotiate a free year of cable thanks to my superior skills.  I have always been the one that gets put into the game when a price negotiation was required.  I’m like the clean up pitcher of the shopping circuit. 

After I managed to get a department store to lower a fixed price on an item I desperately wanted, my son told me I had a black belt in bullshit— and what mom doesn’t want to hear that?  I can’t help it, I take these things seriously. I’ve even made a car salesman cry (and I’m not talking about my ex-husband.)

Today’s negotiations started the minute I put on my favorite pants and discovered that they were a little more snug than the last time I’d worn them.  I managed to half convince myself they were only tight because of the dryer.  Everyone knows the dryer makes everything shrink a little.  You just have to wear it for a while so it will stretch back out.  Never mind that they aren’t made of stretchy cotton or that I only threw them in the dryer for a few minutes to chase off the wrinkles from being on a hanger.  Still, I had to allow that it was possible—although highly unlikely—it wasn’t the pants that had gotten smaller, but my butt that had gotten larger.  Even if it was only slightly.  So the negotiation turned in the direction of the kitchen and the sweets hidden within. 

The problem with negotiating with one’s self is it is far too easy to switch sides. I have been debating all day about cookies, pies and assorted other “non-essential” food items.  I won…or maybe I lost.  Either way, no sweets for me today. Oh, and no more Diet Coke…right after I finish what’s left in the fridge…cuz waste not want not, right?

See how good I am?  I even managed to beat the Diet Coke addiction with a few well placed arguments.  And it’s a good thing I am that good.  I have to engage in the most challenging of negotiations on a daily basis.  I have…

Teenagers.

Ok, so they’re currently adult teenagers, but legal or not, living with teenagers is living a life of constant negotiations.  And when you are negotiating with teenagers you have to approach the task the same way you would an auction.  You have to start your bidding low, and let them try to drive you back up.  Such as with curfews. 

“Be home by eight-thirty!” 

See?  Bring that first offer in low.  Don’t give away the store right from the get-go.  Is eight-thirty an early curfew for a pair of sixteen or seventeen year olds?  Probably.  But if I had said be home at ten, they would have still come back with another offer.  They would have been pushing for eleven.  By starting with eight-thirty, I could give up nine o’clock and they felt like they’d won a battle.  I would have given them ten, but because I started at eight-thirty, they felt like they’d gotten over on me by coming in at nine!  And don’t forget to make it seem as though giving in was difficult or they’ll smell a false victory.  It was a sad day for me when my teenagers caught on to the logic, but by then, I’d already taught them a very valuable lesson. 

Now if I could only take my negotiating skills to the next level and convince my obnoxious rooster that seven o’clock is a perfectly good time to crow…rather than every fifteen minutes between the hours of midnight and seven. If I could somehow manage that, I may even make it into the record books or something.  I think even Donald Trump would bow down to my expertise if I could pull off that feat. 

Until the next time…I will be negotiating with my ducks for some nice duck eggs.

the pretend life of a writer

When I was a kid, the highlight of most days was the fort my sister and I threw together with an old sheet, dining room chairs and the cushions from the couch. We’d crawl in with a flashlight, a bag of Cheetos and plastic cups filled with Kool Aid. We could sit in there for hours just scribbling into a coloring book, arguing over who got the red crayon. Life was simple then, and daydreams were grand adventures that took you to far off places without leaving the comfort of your own home.

Yeah, the life of a writer isn’t much different. I just don’t build the fort anymore.

I was having a particularly bad day yesterday. Reeling from the accusations of family members, angry because I couldn’t “fix” things out of my control. And I hated it. I hate not having control of my entire world, because in my head, I control it all. If I was a character in one of my books, this is the part where I’d off the rest of the characters and bury them in the backyard. You can do that in fiction. No one will arrest you, like they would in the real world. Or you can just pop into another dimension and fall in love with the supernatural (literally).

Being a writer is just like being a kid. There are no boundaries the imagination can’t conquer. An empty tube from a roll of Christmas wrap becomes a sword you can wield in an epic battle. The little garden around your house becomes a deep, dark forest filled with amazing creatures and untold dangers. And a pile of cushions and a sheet becomes an oasis you can hide out in for days.

I just need to find the red crayon, and I’ll be set.

Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out in my fort.

countdown to Thanksgiving

Let’s define Thanksgiving. It means to give thanks, right? It’s a day to remember what we’re thankful for in our lives, and to honor it. To surround ourselves with family, love, and football? Wait just a minute. When did football become a part of Thanksgiving? And sure…I’m thankful for my family, and for love, and for the internet, and all that good stuff. But isn’t Thanksgiving about turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes? Pie…and hot rolls, and more pie? I’m not knocking the whole “give thanks” thing. I want to give thanks. But I want the food too.

Today marks a week to go. A week to go before I’d better have everything I need for the yearly feast. And so far, I have nothing. Not even a list of what I need. Hubby and I haven’t even come to an agreement about who lives or dies.

Put down the phone. No need to call in the authorities, I’m not planning an execution…well…not a human one anyway. And for the record, I’m not the one planning to kill anyone, or anything. I want to buy my turkey already dead, like everyone else does. I don’t want to knock off one of my little farm creatures as a sacrifice to the Thanksgiving gods, or whatever. But the hubby? Oh, he has something evil up his sleeves, and I’m on a mission to stop him.

But is it Clooney, the resident cock, who’s neck is on the chopping block? (Yes, I rhymed) Why no, it’s not. My husband has it out for one of the ducks, and I feel like I’m trapped in another Looney Tunes episode with Elmer Fudd, and this time, it’s duck season.

I don’t like duck, by the way. Hate it. It’s greasy. It’s fatty. It’s all dark meat. And I’m not eating it, even if he cooks it. The year he had the brilliant plan to cook a rabbit (again, not my idea) I steered clear of the bunny too. When it comes to Thanksgiving, I’m a traditionalist. I want turkey. That’s it. No ducks, no rabbits, no Bambi. But the husband? He likes to experiment. And that usually means trouble.

So my mission, if I choose to accept it, is to not only make a grocery list of what we need for Thanksgiving, but also to keep my husband occupied long enough for the ducks to be taken off the table, both figuratively and literally. With a ten day vacation coming up for him, that task will be more difficult than it sounds. But I never back away from a challenge…unless it involves dancing…or waxing…or jumping out of a plane…ok, I run from lots of challenges but I won’t run from this one. Little ducky, I’ve got your back.

Until the next time…I’ll be shopping for turkey and the trimmings!

I am writer, hear me type?

I used to daydream about the day I would see my book in print.  I planned the party right down to the menu and my wardrobe.  The guest list was a veritable who’s who in the industry…total strangers, but since it was just a daydream, I didn’t care.

The problem was I hadn’t finished a single book at that time.  I had started several, but I hadn’t finished even one.  I was young…and probably not very disciplined…and I had pie in the sky dreams of book signings, cocktail parties, and hobnobbing with other “famous” writers. 

Boy, was I naïve.   

These days I have a better understanding of the business side of things—lessons learned in my days as a business banker—and I no longer daydream of parties and book signings.

I will again, I’m sure…someday. 

But for now, my dream is to get a reply to a query letter that doesn’t say, “No, thank you.”

As of today, I’ve seen my share of rejections. They used to make me cry. Ok, so they still make me cry. But for a minute there, I forgot I was a writer. I put the pen down, I saved the manuscript to a file and let the proverbial dust collect.

And boy did the dust collect.

Then a friend gave me a nudge. Or a push. Whatever. She reminded me that rejection is painful for a brief moment…brief only because it’s an expected and necessary bump along our chosen path.  Speed bumps designed to keep our heads from swelling. 

Reminders that I need to continue to perfect the writing…even when I’m certain I’m good at what I do.

So I sent out a new bunch of queries. A new set of hopes and dreams into the great beyond. And low and behold, I got a reply that wasn’t a, no. It was a maybe. Or better yet, it was a, so far so good. And I can live with that for now. It’s all just a big waiting game anyway.

And maybe…just maybe…it’s time to resurrect the dream from the place I buried it, thinking it wasn’t really attainable anymore. Because dreams are what keep us going when life starts to throw knives at us while we’re strapped to a spinning board, balloons popping all around our heads like gun shots in the dark.

And why dream if you’re not going to dream big, right?

Until the next time…I’ll be pulling out that guest list.

carbo loading 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.

Carbo Loading…Just in Case

I’ve run a total of nine marathons, not counting the one I dropped out of because apparently the race organizers measure your vomit and keep up with how much you lost during the event. I got booted from the course after the second liter. There was also this one marathon where I accidentally-on-purpose ran thirty miles instead of 26.2; there was really no use in renting a car to get myself from the hotel to the starting line and back, so I ran the two miles there, ran the event, and ran back to the hotel because how do you run 26 miles then complain about running four more? I’ve come in almost dead last in some marathons, and I’ve won my division in others. I qualified for Boston in one event, and there have been others where I almost crawled across the finish line.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: marathon running sucks. It’s tedious, it eats a few hours of your life (well, some people take a few hours…I took three hours and forty-one minutes at my best and just under six hours at my worst), and the training leading up to it can really take its toll on your body.

The only bright side to marathon running is the carbo loading. Unlike what non-runners might think about the process of gorging yourself on pasta the night before an event, carbo loading can actually take a week or more if you do it right. I do it over-right and go for about a month.

Sadly, the best thing ever happened to me: my writing career took off, and my running career fell by the wayside. I never did learn to stop carbo loading though, and that’s what took its toll on my body lately. That, and the fact that wine loading has always been a part of my life. I decided recently that it was time to get the old running shoes back on try to make it a part of my life.

Oh my god, it was horrible. I ran all of four minutes, telling myself the whole time that I used to do this for hours at a time on purpose. I saw spots swirling before my eyes and the sound of my own pulse drowned out my ear buds. There are rumors that I actually died for a couple of minutes before I was revived, but I can’t find anyone willing to confirm those.

The beautiful thing about my history as a kick-butt athlete is it more than prepared me for the world of writing. Writing is a marathon, too, and even though it’s not necessary to tape my nipples to write a book, I do it just because I think I should. And because I like it. But I digress.

Writing in any form takes discipline, training, and dedication. And carbo loading. But mostly wine loading. It takes a strong mind to make it all the way to the finish and not to quit, no matter how much you throw up. And at the end, you don’t even get a finisher’s medal, but you do get to brag to all of your friends and co-workers about how much you accomplished. More importantly, you know deep down that you did it.

That’s worth all the spaghetti you can eat.  

Lorca Damon is the author of several YA books and two titles about her autistic daughter. Her most recent book, Knowing Autism, is available now.

what's thong?

My daughter was in a car accident today. Before you get all worried, she’s fine. The car, not so much, but cars are just things, and my daughter is more important than a car. Even if we did just buy it, and only got the tags on it yesterday…but priorities aside, I just realized forgot to ask her the most important question after such a catastrophic event. 

Was she wearing clean underwear?

My mother always cautioned me to wear clean underwear just in case of an accident. I never totally understood the argument.  Shouldn’t we wear clean underwear simply because it’s clean and for no other reason?  She never said wear nice underwear just in case of an accident. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have been bad advice. But that’s not what she said. Her 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. This trait is, again, something I inherited from my mother…a recessive gene for bad fashion that shows up in the most inopportune moments.  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? Sure, it would be ideal, but hardly realistic.

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’ve unfortunately 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’ve been valuable information.  In fact, I could’ve used that advice on more than one occasion. All too often, I’m caught wearing the emergency undies, the ones I only wear when I have no clean laundry or don’t feel well. They look sort of like the dog gnawed on them after years of wash and wear. But at least they’re clean. Mom would be proud.

Still…I should have done a better job making sure my girls know the importance of clean underwear in case of emergency. For all I know, Lauren was wearing her boyfriend’s gay brother’s underwear again. (That’s the favorite brother by the way, and not just because he’s willing to share his underwear, either.) But I guess as long as his Fruit of the Looms are clean, she followed the rule. And they’re probably still sexier than my laundry day panties.

Maybe I should start wearing Mike’s underwear on laundry day.

Or maybe I should just go shopping.

Until the next time…I’ll be going to Victoria’s Secret online.

pumpkins aren't just for fairytales anymore

Pumpkins. Are they a vegetable or a fruit? Jack-o-lantern or pie? Halloween or Thanksgiving? No matter how you see them, they’re not just a mode of transportation to the ball anymore.

And as I discovered tonight, they make for a wicked good bread.

I found an awesome pumpkin bread recipe today and made three loaves of the stuff (two of which are still wrapped in foil on my kitchen island…the third, all but crumbs on the counter). Anyone who knows me knows I love pumpkins. I’m a bundle of excited energy from the moment I see that first fall pumpkin hit the shelves or side of the road, despite the fact that I can’t seem to get my seeds into the ground on time no matter how well thoroughly I plan for them each year. I just can’t grow a pumpkin to save my life, but it doesn’t stop me from stocking up on them throughout the fall. And my pumpkins aren’t just sacrificed to the jack-o-lantern gods. No, my pumpkins are cut up, cooked, and baked into scrumptious delights throughout the holiday baking season. And tonight’s bread was just the first step.

Bread today…pie tomorrow. Or something like that.

Hey, if I’m ambitious, I might even try a nice savory pumpkin soup while I’m dabbling.

Until the next time…I’ll be baking.

wednesday is pajama day

I spent the entire day in my pajamas. Not because I was sick, although I do still have a lingering cough. And not because I was hung over, but someone needs to remind me not to accept drinks from friends at karaoke. And it wasn’t because it was cold and rainy all day, although, let’s face it, that’s reason enough all by itself. No, I wore my pajamas all day because I have henceforth decreed every Wednesday to be pajama day.

And I’m a smart girl, I know you’re thinking about how nice it would be to wear your PJs all day. And what better day than Wednesday for pajama day, right?

Right. Especially when you’re hung over from Tuesday night.

I seriously should have passed on the whiskey shot I was offered last night. Really. It was the last straw for an already wobbly camel. And I’m pretty sure the creepy dreams I had all night long should have been punishment enough, but no, I woke up with a wicked headache too. And my husband had zero sympathy for me after all the times I’ve made fun of him for overindulging. The good news is, I’ve learned my lesson. And created a new day of fun while I was at it. It’s a win win if you think about it.

So, pajama day it is. Are you in?

Until the next time…I’ll be spending the rest of my Wednesday in jammies.

the first tuesday in november

My dad sent me a text this morning. It was short, sweet, and to the point. “Don’t forget to vote today…” followed by a quick, “I love you” because dads can’t forget that part, no matter what the message. And the message, no matter how short, was powerful. “Don’t forget to vote today.” Because isn’t that what we should all be doing…if we’re able? There are those who, for whatever reason, aren’t able to vote, and that’s a shame. But those of us who are able, we need to be out there, making the most of our hard fought after right to vote.

I’m not here telling anyone who they should or should not vote for. That’s not my purpose today. There are others better suited to do that. I’m just here to tell you not to forfeit your rights for foolish or selfish reasons. Some of us didn’t always have the right to vote. Women for instance. And when women were fighting for their right to vote, never once did they complain about long lines, or other frivolous inconveniences, getting in the way of their quest.

Once a week, I hop on a stage and sing at the top of my lungs because I feel the need to express myself. I think it fitting my karaoke night falls on election day. I get to express myself at the top of my lungs (or with the click of a box) twice today. And I count myself lucky to be able to do so.

Happy voting all!

Until the next time…I’ll be watching the news for the results.

oh what a beautiful morning

Ah, Monday. A fresh start to a new week. The first Monday since the end of daylight savings time, and I must say, I enjoyed seeing the day from this angle. I might have to try it more often. Especially with the leaves falling from the trees, exposing the beautiful views of the North Georgia mountains. It almost makes me want to become a morning person.

Almost.

Don’t freak out just yetThe view from my porch. I’m not giving up my night owl status. People don’t change overnight. I’m just reveling in the beauty that is fall, and wondering if maybe I’ve been missing out on something. It’s too soon to tell if this is just a by-product of an extra hour of sleep, or if I’m really making progress. But don’t get too excited. It’s not like I’m going to miraculously transform, or something. I still love the night life. I just adore autumn and I want to wrap myself up in a sweater and stare off at the distance, soaking it all in.

And…I’m done. That was nice but it’s time to take a nap. I got up way too early this morning.

Until the next time…I’ll be enjoying the season.

when did it become November?

They say time flies when you’re having fun. It’s true. Time does fly when you’re having fun. It also flies when you’re not having fun. And when you’re getting one more year older. And when you’re remembering how things used to be so many years ago. The only time it doesn’t fly is when you’re waiting for something to come…like your tax return check…or your period that’s been late for a day or two already.

Not mine, by the way (Mom, if you’re reading, I was just using that as an example.)

It seems to me like it was just June. Maybe July. Possibly August. But not November…when did it become November? 

I know it was just October. I enjoyed it very much. But the Halloween decorations aren’t even down, and it’s too soon to decorate for Christmas, so that must mean its November.  And for some reason, this November seems to have more importance.  Maybe because the kids are grown, or maybe because I feel like I’ve suddenly gotten so old.

The clocks go back an hour this weekend, but I swear it’s already getting dark sooner. The crunchy leaves cover the ground and the trees are nearly bare so the mountains are visible in the distance, and it just makes the scenery so different. I feel different. Like I can feel the season change. And not just the seasons…but the years. It’s just days away from another Presidential election, and even that hasn’t registered in my foggy brain just yet. I’m sure it will. It has to, right?

Just not tonight.

Tonight, I’m craving a nice warm fire, and an old movie. It is a pretty cold November after all.

Until the next time…I’ll be pulling out the extra blankets and watching for snow!

think like a cartoon

The weather outside has been frightful. And despite temperatures at night dipping below freezing, our crazy birds (chickens and ducks) have stubbornly decided to brave the cold and snub the shelter. This has forced my husband to catch them and force them into their warm houses. Or should I say try. That’s the key word. He’s trying to catch them. They aren’t cooperating with that plan. In fact, we now have four rogue chickens roaming the yard. Four hens that refuse to be caught.

I threw my hat into the ring this evening and pulled out the chicken crack (a loaf of bread) and attempted to coax them into the coop with the others, to no avail. Those broads are totally not interested in warm and cozy. They want to be free.

It’s time to break out the big guns. And no, I’m not suggesting we shoot them. But we need to catch them. And soon.

We need to start thinking like a cartoon. You know…like Wile E. Coyote.

And trust me, I’m on it. But I really need an Acme chicken trap…or a giant net maybe. Because seriously…these chickens have totally studied the Tao of the Road Runner. I’m on a constant look out for an anvil to drop out of the sky and squash me where I stand. Don’t laugh…it could happen. I can only hope I would survive as gracefully as the coyote has over the years. Somehow, I don’t think I would.

From here on out, I need to tread lightly. Think carefully. Plan thoroughly. And look up Acme products online. I’m not taking any chances.

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

happy halloween

the Halloween crowd at the Whistle Stop in Blue RidgeWhat an uneventful Halloween. But you won’t hear me complaining. I mean, since we didn’t have any trick or treaters (not one) I get to eat all the candy, right? Who would complain about that? Well, maybe I’ll complain a little. I couldn’t find a single bag of miniature candy bars at the store today. None. No little Snickers, no mini Milky Way, no tiny Kit Kats or Reeses. Nothing. I even went to several stores. Either they were sold out, or people actually like lollipops and pop rocks in the country, because that’s all they seemed to have. I had to settle on two bags of tootsie rolls and a bag of tootsie pops. I know…tragic. But at least I had my fun last night.

JimmyMasonIt took a few alcoholic beverages to fix my strained vocal chords, but after two vodka cranberries I didn’t care how I sounded. Besides, I was too busy playing with my witch hat to keep it erect. Seriously, who wants to see a limp witch hat?  Not the two old dudes who propositioned me coming out of the ladies room…if their comments were any indication. They were very interested in my hat…among other things. It’s a damn good thing I was carrying a broom. I literally swept the floor with them.

So I guess it’s a good thing today has been so quiet. I can crawl into my favorite chair with a bowl of popcorn to watch It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown for the millionth time. It just wouldn’t be Halloween without it.

Until the next time…I’ll be putting away the decorations and getting ready for the next holiday.

life's a witch

After a miserable bout of the flu (or something equally icky) I’m feeling more myself. Not 100% mind you, but I am feeling up to a night of karaoke…Halloween style.

After hours of self-reflection, and several rounds of digging through my closets, I decided to be a witch. It’s my “go-to” costume, and my kids say it’s the one day of the year I can show my true self…jerks. Yeah…I’m calling my kids jerks, but they know I love them anyway. And if they were taking bets on what I’d be this year, they would have all won, because they know I almost always fall back on the witch thing. So here I am. Dressed in my costume and ready to go.

As soon as I take some nasal decongestant/cough suppressant. Something that won’t react badly with alcohol. Right…so I’m not taking anything, because I have every intention of drinking at least one alcoholic beverage. And I’ll probably indulge in a few pieces of chocolate while I’m at it. A perfect night out, if you ask me.

Until the next time…I’ll be singing like Elmer Fudd, but enjoying the hell out of it!

ain't that a kick in the head

Ok, this whole being sick thing is getting old. It’s been days. Tomorrow is my karaoke Halloween party, and I not only want to sing, but I want to dress up too…as something other than a zombie, thank you very much. But as far as that goes, my voice is shot, and the rest of me looks a little too much like the walking dead. I guess if I’m looking at the up side, at least I’ll save money on a costume.

But all this talk of zombies sort of freaks me out. Especially after Mike watched that documentary on the zombie apocalypse the other day. I wasn’t watching, but it was hard to tune out. I didn’t want to see the screen, but I couldn’t look away. Sort of like that part in the movie Wild Things when Kevin Bacon steps out of the shower and you can totally see everything. Are you paying attention? He flashed EVERYTHING. Right…I sheltered my eyes that time too.  Sure I did. 

But this time, there was no naked Bacon in a shower.  This time I was transfixed by a world filled with flesh eating zombies.  A world where no one was safe from the madness. Dogs devoured dogs. Husbands devoured wives (and not in a good way either.) 

Somebody make it stop!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…we need to prepare. 

Well, I’m not much for preparation, but I’ll happily oversee.  My son is the zombie warrior and my husband is the one who prepares for the apocalypse.  I basically stay out of the way for fear of breaking something. 

But I don’t want the world to disappear.  I don’t want to be eaten by zombies.  I don’t want to be a zombie. I don’t find brains the least bit appetizing. Not cow brains. Not monkey brains. And sure as hell, not people brains. First of all, they’re really messy, and everyone knows I hate getting my hands dirty when I eat. I would need a whole lot of napkins…just saying. And while it’s true, I like my steak on the rare side…ok, I like it practically mooing…I’m still not up for munching on raw neighbors. No. I want to turn back the clock to a simpler time.  A time when Frank, Dean and Sammy were the coolest cats on Earth. 

Come to think of it, I’m certain the Rat Pack would have been the coolest zombies in the world, but the coolest zombie hunters on the planet.  Sinatra would never run from a zombie.  He would walk right up to one (singing Witchcraft, of course) tip his hat with a grin, then Dean would take him out with a swift kick in the head.

I think a zombie apocalypse would be almost fun if Frank, Sammy and Dean were out front, killing zombies in the desert and driving around in a baby blue convertible, stopping off to do a show along the way.  Of course, the old Sand’s hotel would be their base of operations, and they would report directly to President Kennedy. 

I don’t know about you…but I’d totally buy tickets to that show.

Until the next time…I’ll be watching the original Ocean’s Eleven while I get ready for zombie karaoke.

the zombie mailbag

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Dan DeWittTonight’s guest is writer Dan DeWitt. For more about Dan, click on his photo to visit his website.

In honor of Halloween, I’m reprinting Dan’s guest post from March.

My fellow zurvivors: 

Another St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us, and I think that it’s important to honor a great man for his epic accomplishment of single-handedly saving the Emerald Isle from aggressive beasts. Now, legend would have you believe that the beasts were snakes but, as the zoological record indicates that Ireland has never had snakes, legend is wrong. This is most likely not a result of intentional misinformation borne of malice, but of the caretakers of such knowledge being afraid to pass on the truth for fear of nationwide panic.

I think it’s finally time to tell that truth.

I’ve been in possession of a handful of St. Patrick’s letters; I will never reveal how I obtained them.

There may or may not have been sex involved.* 

“St. Patrick getting ready to open up a big ol’ can of whoopass.”St. Patrick was, in fact, the world’s foremost dispatcher of the undead.

With that in mind, I want to pay tribute to St. Patrick for everything from his hard-earned knowledge (which has literally kept me alive this long) to his indirect involvement in the creation of the Shamrock Shake. The best way I know to do this is to help you out as best I can. Many of you have managed to get messages to me in one way or another, so here are some answers. (Paul in Louisville, the carrier pigeon was missing a leg when I found him. Scout’s honor.)

From Jen Lyn: “Would animal meat distract as well as human? Should I sacrifice the neighbor’s dog or the neighbor?”

Jen, it’s important to note that sacrificing only works in chess and the occasional pagan ceremony. Zombies will only eat what they or one of their kind has recently killed. They can sense the difference between a fresh kill and plain old dead flesh. Having said that, unless your neighbor is exceedingly skilled at something, spare the dog. Dogs are a great early-warning system. Also, I’m glad I’m not your neighbor. 

From Erica: “Can the zombie virus be transmitted through kissing?”

Sounds like a helluva party. Anyway, there’s no scientific or anecdotal evidence that I’m aware of to suggest that a person who hasn’t yet been reanimated can pass on the virus through saliva or other bodily fluids. On the other hand, if someone’s kissing an actual zombie, well … they’re really not going to have much time to worry about it.

Laurence asks: “My zombified wife is chained up in the basement, and her incessant moaning is keeping me and my new girlfriend awake. Any soundproofing tips?”

First of all, congrats on moving on. Your wife would want you to be happy. Possibly. Regarding soundproofing, I can’t help you. However, if you have electricity, I have a simple workaround: hook up a DVD player and set it to repeat. Even in undeath, female zombies still manage to sob uncontrollably during “The Notebook.” Slainte! 

D.C. (the person, not the district) wonders: “Will a zombie chew on its own arm if it gets bored enough?”

Hmmm. I had to think about this one for a while. Zombies don’t get bored like you or I do, because they are driven by the need for palatable flesh. But, I suppose if they ran across an insurance salesman or Joan Rivers they might start at their own fingernails and just keep chewing.

Question from Warren: “I found a misspelled note telling me that Lawry’s Seasoning Salt wards off zombies, and that I should cover myself in it and go out. Thoughts?”

That’s an obvious trap, Warren. The only substance on Earth that can mask the living from the undead, if only for a short time, is patchouli oil. If it can cover up decades of hippie stank, it can cover up anything.

Next question from Jeremy: “Our farmhouse is just about surrounded, and we’ll have to run soon. How do I identify the slowest person in the group, because I really only need to outrun them, right?”

Listen closely, Jeremy. I want you to look at all of the other people you’re with. Everyone has a role. Leader, Fixer, Cook, Wiseass, etc. So you want you to find the Slowest Bastard Among You? Everyone else does, too. If you haven’t figured out who that person is by now, I have some bad news. You are that slow bastard. If I were you, I’d start convincing everyone that it would be safer to stay and fight.

Dave asks: “Can a zombie infect you if they wear dentures, or does it have to be with their real teeth?”

Great question. The virus is transmitted via saliva through open wounds, so if the dentures are still capable of drawing blood, I think you’re screwed. Regardless, if we ever bounce all the way back, I’ll be heading up Poligrip’s new ad campaign.

Finally, a lament from Penny: “I understand that it’s difficult to find time to shave during the zombie apocalypse, but I hate that all of the men have Paul Bunyan beards.”

Preaching to the choir, Penny. My other neverending battle is the one against my own hirsuteness. Fun fact: The very first thing to truly die in the zompoc is metrosexuality.

Until the next time…good luck, and don’t be sorry for zombie rockin’.

* Not with him. You’re nasty.

invasion of the snot monster

Ugh. I’m sick. I’m not sure if I have a head cold or if I’m the victim of a full on enemy invasion, of the bodily kind. It’s hit me harder than a $2 bottle of wine. My nose is stuffy. My throat hurts. My eyes are watering. And every time I sneeze I have to prepare myself in the event I pee my pants (a very real concern with a few strong sneezes). In short, I feel like death…lightly warmed over.

Oh, no worries, it’s not really life threatening. But it’s bad enough that I’m skipping my Halloween party tonight. And I love dressing up for Halloween. 

All I want is a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a chocolate malt. Oh, and my mommy with some cold medicine and a big glass of cold orange juice. Is that really too much to ask for?

Maybe I should just send out for that bottle of wine and hunker down for the weekend. It seriously couldn’t hurt.

Until the next time…I’ll be in bed with a box of tissues and a fuzzy blanket.