having a friend for dinner

I can't even count the number of times I've said, "I'm having a friend for dinner." But I can say, without question, this is the first time I've actually had a friend for dinner. And I'll come right out and admit it, my mouth was watering at the delectable smells coming out of the kitchen while poor Clooney cooked.

Mike went all out, marinating him in red wine before putting him in the oven. He even mashed potatoes with horseradish and cooked fresh green beans as side dishes. But as beautiful as the presentation may have been, I couldn't help feeling like I was on an episode of Fear Factor as I took the first few bites of the little guy. Not because he wasn't delicious (he was), but because I knew him. It was like eating a friend for dinner.

A very tasty friend.

And so it would seem, the life cycle of dearly departed Clooney has come full circle. You were a fine rooster Clooney, and a fine dining experience as well.

Until the next time...I'll be having Clooney leftovers.

it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas

Cue the music...

I have a tree!

And not just a tree. I have a decorated tree. With lights and ornaments. And I have a wreath on the door. And a few assorted decorations scattered around the house. I think I’ll even hang a few jingle bells from the antlers on the wall. Why not? It’s Christmas!

My terrible funk has miraculously lifted, thanks to my new book deal and all the excitement that brings, and just in time for the spirit of Christmas to work its way under my skin. What does that mean in the grand scheme of things? Well for starters, it means I went shopping today. I picked up some gifts for the kids…a few shiny silver jingle bells for the tree.  Oh, and some socks. It’s getting cold out there.

I even made cookies.

I have a sudden urge to decorate and bake. I might even paint something. Well…maybe not paint. But I’m definitely going to hang wreaths on all the windows, and some lights on the porch.

And more shopping. I have so many to shop for this Christmas.  I’m making a list and checking it twice. Gotta figure out who’s naughty…who’s nice.

And for my readers? Well…I have a few surprises in my stockings for you too! But you’ll have to wait for Christmas.

Ok…maybe I’ll let you peek….next week.

Until the next time…I’ll be at the mall!

no coal for the fire

I feel a bit like Bob Cratchit, hovering near a pitiful little fire this cold December night. And like Bob Cratchit, I'm unable to add more coal because a crotchety old spend-thrift has the coal box under lock and key.

Ok, so I'm not sitting by a coal fire, I'm sitting by a kerosine heater...so close I'm almost afraid I might combust, and deathly afraid the dog will fart and send the whole house up. Even perched close enough to touch the sad little flame, my fingers are too cold to type. It's been like this all day, ever since my husband, we'll just call him Scrooge, decided we needed to "find a new level of comfort." To practice for the zombie apocalypse, whatever that means.

Apparently, that means we freeze to death, all in the name of "saving money and resources."

Coincidentally,  this is the coldest day since I moved into this drafty old farmhouse almost ten months ago. Outside temperatures hovered around the mid-thirties all day long, and the temperature inside my house has held at sixty-five degrees, according to the thermostat on the wall. But I don't buy it for a minute. My thermostat is either a liar or it's been tricked. My house is practically cold enough to store milk. The refrigerator hasn't cycled on all day. And I think I saw ice crystals in the toilet bowl. This idea of "a new level of comfort," simply means I need to get used to being cold.

I think the husband referred to it as roughing it.

Well, I've never been a "roughing it" sort of girl. I can't help it. Sure, I live on a farm. And yes, I fraternize with chickens on a daily basis. Okay, so I'm on a first name basis with a bunch of ducks. This does not mean I'm ready to time travel to the days before electricity and central heat. I'm not going to suddenly take up knitting or spinning my own wool. I don't even like wool that much. And don't get me started on sheep. What I need is a plan.

All day long, I appealed to Mr. Scrooge, begging him for another lump of coal for my sorry ass fire. Making him fill the kerosene heater, because, basically, it scares the crap out of me. I'm convinced I'll somehow set myself on fire. And as cold as I am, I'm not quite that desperate...yet. Instead, I wrapped myself up in fuzzy socks, sweat pants and my favorite Eddie Bauer sweatshirt, refusing to shower because that would mean I'd have to undress, and hovered near the heater like I was seducing it, as I waited him out, throwing out subliminal messages all day to remind him of how cold it was. 

It was like playing a game of chess, and it was his move.

He couldn't fool me, he was freezing his ass off too. I could see it in his eyes...he was wavering on the whole, "new level of comfort," crap, until finally, somewhere around dinner time, he admitted defeat. "I'm too cold to concentrate. I can't work like this," he said, pulling on a woolen hat and a pair of gloves.

I just smiled, my teeth chattering. "Does this mean we can we turn the heat up now?"

He nodded and adjusted the thermostat before leading me through the house to the car, where he quickly cranked the heat to full blast and drove us to the closest drive-thru for hot food. 

The car was like a sauna. It felt so good, I was giddy. We sat in the car with the engine running for almost an hour, bringing our body temperatures back to somewhere above the hypothermia range, as we scarfed down fast food and waited for the house to warm up.

The thermostat is holding at sixty-eight now. Three degrees is a small victory, but I'll take it, and I'll work on sixty-nine tomorrow. Maybe even work him up to seventy by the weekend. Until then, I'm keeping the heater. I sort of like it. All I need now is a nice mantle to go around it, and I can hang stockings by the fire. It's still Christmas, after all.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping in my sexiest sweats to stay warm.

Christmas in Nakatomi Plaza

I love this time of year. And I'm especially partial to the classic holiday movies and shows airing on TV all through December. Just yesterday I watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, and Frosty the Snowman, all thanks to the magic of satellite TV and the DVR. But it's not just the shows from my youth that make me feel all festive and Christmasy. There are a few other movies that make the holiday season for me, as well. And I'm not just talking about the Home Alone movies. No...I'm taking Christmas uptown just a bit.

I'm spending Christmas with John McClain.

When Die Hard originally hit theaters back in 1988, it was a summer blockbuster, but for me, it's a Christmas classic. I mean, what holiday could possibly be complete without blowing up Nakatomi Plaza?

Before he was Professor Snape, Alan Rickman was even more diabolical as the slick Hans Gruber, holding a building full of 80s era yuppies hostage on Christmas Eve. Leave it to Bruce Willis to save the day and deliver Christmas to all. Even now, I find myself humming, "Yipikaye motherfucker," as I bake cookies. And when we're finished watching Die Hard, it's time to pull out Lethal Weapon. Seriously, who doesn't want to find a circa 1985 Mel Gibson under their tree Christmas morning? Sure, the haircut needs to go, but the rest of the package can still pass the test of time. And yeah, I may share the sentiment felt in Danny Glover's signature line, "I'm too old for this shit," far better now than I did back then, but that doesn't take away my enjoyment of the movie. Not one bit.

So while the rest of you may be perfectly content with a little boy and his Red Rider BB gun wreaking havoc on the holidays, I'll be out here dialing it up a notch and looking for plastic explosives, diabolical villains, and hot sweaty guys in my stocking this year.

And sure, I might toss in a few singing rodents while I'm at it. It is Christmas after all.

Until the next time...I'll be dreaming of a hot Christmas.

At long last...a publishing deal

While I'm sure this information is old news by now, I figured I'd at least toss it out there for anyone who missed it. To Katie With Love, my fluffy romance with a twist, has been picked up for publication by Red Adept Publishing and should be available sometime in early 2013. Of course, I'm thrilled. In fact, I'm having a really hard time refraining from dancing around with scarves, singing, "I got a book deal, I got a book deal," at the top of my lungs at all hours of the day and night. It's like someone slipped me a bag of sugar and a few pots of coffee. That's how excited I am. And it wouldn't have happened without the tireless efforts of my friends, and editors, Laura Kolar and Kelly Gamble. Neither of whom held back with their critiques...or their red pens. And to Raine Thomas and Lorca Damon for insightful thoughts during their beta reads. I love you all, from the bottom of my fluffy little heart. Without your help and support I might not be dancing around singing at all.

Erica

and then the voices said...

Listening to the voices again...

I think it's official...I've gone off my rocker. Then again, my husband would probably say, "been there, done that." Several times over, in fact. But really, I think I've lost it this time. I've re-done my website more times in the past few days than I can keep track of. I've agonized over the smallest detail, like should I use sunshine yellow or daisy yellow? Should my name be in a cutesy font, or a professional font? (I went with cutesy, of course.) Should I add this here or that there? Finally, I'm done. It's perfect. Well, as perfect as I'm going to get for the foreseeable future. There's only so much perfection out there...I need to leave a little of it for the rest of the world.

So I'm sure you're wondering why I chose to stay up all night long and revamp what I'd already revamped several times over. Well, the voices made me do it.

You know them...the voices? The ones in my head that tell me what to write and when. They've apparently gotten together and decided that since we (they do most of the work, after all) have a book deal now, we needed a better website. They always get me into trouble. I have no idea why I still listen to them.

But listen to them I did, and like always, they were right.

Now if they'll just tell me how my next book ends we can all go back to being friends again. Do you hear that voices? Get cracking. I have a job to do.

Until the next time...I'll be listening to the voices in my head.

santa vomit

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Tonight's guest is Rachel Thompson, author of the bestselling A Walk in the Snark and the Mancode. Click Rachel's picture to visit her blog.

People approach Christmas decorating in three ways.

The bare minimum – a few lights, hang the stockings, perhaps an artificial tree. Easy, done. As long as the fridge is stocked with eggnog and the cupboard has brandy, life is good.

I call that MY KIND OF PEOPLE (of course, I don’t live in that house. More in a moment.)

There’s normal – gets the tree, spends a nice evening decorating along with decking the outside lights, bakes cookies for the neighbors and the kid’s teachers, sends out the Christmas cards the day after Thanksgiving…ya know, everyday people.

I’ve met them. I know they exist. They don’t live in my home, either.

Finally, we have over the top. You’ve seen those homes – blow up Santas, lights that can be seen from space, poinsettia-lined driveways. You enjoy the pretty lights as you drive by and thank the lord you don’t have their electric bill.

I live in Category Number Four: Santa Vomit.

See in my home, Santa has vomited his red and green jolly shit over every square inch of every single surface to the point that we hand out maps if you come visit so you can find your way back out.  

I didn’t know, when I exchanged vows that fateful October nineteen years ago, that the man I’d known for only five months and therefore had yet to spend a Christmas holiday with, was in actuality Buddy the Elf.

Surely it was a Jedi mind trick.

Though I suppose his idea of one our first dates in NYC: “First we’ll make snow angels for two hours, then we’ll go ice skating, then we’ll eat a whole roll of Tollhouse cookie dough as fast as we can, and then we’ll snuggle,” should have been a warning sign.

It’s not just that the ten-to-twelve foot tree (I withhold the penis jokes here ‘cause I did marry the guy and that area is not elf-sized. I know. Mazel Tov) has to be just so. Always a Noble Fir by the way. No other tree exists in our universe. It must be perfect. We visit at least three lots in our small town to be sure we’ve (and by that I mean he) has picked out the most perfect Noble in all the village.

I gird my loins with vodka first. And bring a flask, just in case.

I grew up Jewish. We had a few gifts on the fireplace and candles. Prayer, presents, done. When husband had our first tree delivered and I saw all the mishigas with the ‘watering mechanism’ and the drilling and the needles and…oy. I ran for the brandy and hid in the corner until he found his little jew girl and talked her down with promises of wine and chocolate. And a new Louis Vuitton handbag.

Not much has changed, really.

There are stacks and stacks of fabric-lined (yes, I did just write that) boxes lining every corner of the living room, filled with delicate, hand-blown glass ornaments collected over the years. (My Santa has a special storage unit JUST for the holiday stuff.) As he decorates the tree (placement is key), he has either traditional Christmas music on or one of the three Santa Clause, Deck the Halls, or Christmas Vacation movies on a continuous loop.

There’s also a small tree for the kids. Cause ya know, nobody touches the big tree ornaments. #gasp

One friend came by to pick up her daughter from a playdate and after she lifted her jaw from the floor (that is covered in sleighbells ringing), she said felt inadequate in her own decorating abilities. I said no honey, you’re just normal.

The table full of at least twenty-five Santas he’s collected over the years, staring at me with their beady little eyes, late at night while I’m up, writing, alone.

You might think I’m being harsh. Shut up. You don’t have fifty beady little eyes staring at you as you write this. Then talk to me.

So why is my husband such a Christmas psycho? I could go on and on but I’m just easing you in. I haven’t even discussed our four advent calendars, elf presents, the two Elf on the Shelf(s), the daily crafts and cookie baking (not by me. I repeat, I’m Jewish), and the daily trips to the m…m…mall.

His mom. His mother passed away years before we ever met. She adored Christmas. She went all out, cooked amazing meals, fed all the stray kids who had nowhere to go, and was, from what everybody says, the most generous person they all had ever known. This is his homage to her.

So while I tease him a bit and call it Santa vomit and feel like stabbing myself in the eye if another Santa Clause movie comes on, I indulge the man his collection of Radko ornaments, little villages, trains, and other stuff. He’s making memories for our kids just like his mom did for him.

Now go have a nog and wrap something, would ya?

Merry whatever. 

Thank you Rachel…for reminding me why I keep my decorating to a minimum. But I have to admit…in my head my house is an explosion of Christmas. Just like yours.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Until the next time…I’m going to have a nog or whatever and hit the sheets!

arachnids, reindeer, and roosters past

It all started with a spider.

For whatever reason (and I'm sure someone out there will have an answer) I've noticed a sudden onslaught of giant black tarantula-looking spiders scurrying across my living room floor at all hours of the day and night. So, while it's always a shock to see a spider, I wasn't overly surprised when I saw this particular one out of the corner of my eye as I sat down to work on my laptop. But surprised or not, this spider, just like all of his arachnid friends, had to go. So, I jumped up from my chair and bolted for the closest bottle of spray cleaner to disable him long enough to stomp. I squeezed the trigger again and again until his little legs stuck up and he stopped moving.

That's when the phone rang.

Can anyone tell me why I can never find the cordless phone when it's ringing? I run across them all day long when I don't need one, but the minute it starts to ring, I can't seem to locate a handset. And the genius who designed my cordless system decided it would be a good idea to have the charging station ring when a call comes in. So here I am, running from charging station to charging station, thinking I'll find a phone that never seems to be where it belongs when I need it.

I finally find the missing handset next to the stove in the kitchen (the first place any logical person would look, right?) and after a few minutes convincing with my local phone provider that I really and truly don't want they're lesser quality internet service over the high speed product I'm currently using, I discover something delectable cooking on the stove. (This would be a perfectly normal occurrence if not for the fact that I'm the only one home and I didn't cook anything today.) So at the risk of stumbling across something horrible in the pot, I lifted the lid and took a deep breath. Mmmm. Stew.

A quick phone call to the hubby solved the mystery of the stew (delicious deer meat courtesy of my mother when she came to visit.) So, as much as I'd like to feel bad that I'm serving myself a nice bowl of Bambi stew...no, it's Christmastime...we'll call it Rudolph, no, Donner stew, because Donner was such a jerk in the classic Rudolph Christmas special it somehow seems fitting we cook him in a pot.  So as I dish up my Donner stew, I remember I had work to do and I take my bowl and spoon and head back to my laptop in the living room.

And that's when I realized the spider was gone. Nothing but a wet trail left behind as he miraculously pulled himself out of the puddle of bleach cleaner to flee the scene. I lost his trail somewhere near the dining room table and gave up.

I just didn't have the heart to hunt him down. Maybe we've had enough killing around the haunted farmhouse for one week. I still think about poor Clooney every time open the refrigerator doors. He just doesn't look the same without his feathers...or his head. Oh well, no use crying over dead roosters.

Besides, I have to keep a look out for my wayward spider.  I have no doubt I'll find him again, and when I do, I won't hesitate to spray and stomp. And I won't feel a bit of sorrow for his loss. Hey, that's just how I roll. Don't judge me.

Until the next time...I'll be hunting spiders.

death of a rooster (clooney's last crow)

Well, it finally happened. Clooney’s number was up, his days ran out, and his chips were cashed in. I’d like to say he went out like a man, but the truth is he went out like a crazed chicken, screeching like a little girl staring down the business end of a spider. And, well…I would have tried to save him, but the whole thing happened so quickly I didn’t even realize it was going down until the deed was done.

The first scheduled execution at the haunted farmhouse.

Baby ClooneyThe sad end to Clooney’s tale (or tail depending on your point of view) was actually set in motion last weekend when Mike and I ran across a full grown rooster for sale in the breed Mike wanted (a buff orpington for chicken lovers out there). Chester (the new resident cock) will make perfect chicks with the ummm…errr…chicks around here. So for the bargain price of five dollars cash (counted out in coins because who carries cash anymore?) we had ourselves a new stud for the fock. Unfortunately, this addition didn’t go over so well with the current big man on campus and we witnessed our first ever cock-fight in the yard. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, and I found myself torn as to who to root for. In the end, it didn’t matter. Chester was in. Clooney was out.

As it turns out, poor Clooney’s days were numbered from the minute he came out of his shell. He wasn’t supposed to be a rooster. And like Mike said from the day we realized he was exactly that, “Well…he’ll make a good crock pot meal.”

Of course, I fought for the big cock right from the get go. He may not have been the right kind of rooster, he might have even been a big dick most of the time (crowing at all hours of the day and night with no regard to normal rooster schedules) but he was my rooster, and I wanted to keep him.

Clooney last weekSo the Save Clooney campaign was born. People from all over the world wrote in, begging for Clooney’s life (and a few asking for the recipe we intended to use if we cooked him). The neighbors even seemed to like him, despite his tendency to go off like a broken alarm clock.

But sadly, in the end, no amount of petitioning or begging would save the little pecker from the executioner (my husband). And now it would seem instead of feeding Clooney dinner, we’ll be having Clooney for dinner sometime in the near future.

So here’s to you Clooney. You were a damn good rooster…I hope you’ll make a damn good chicken stew too!

Until the next time…I’ll be making room in my refrigerator for one of my favorite pets.

the fall from a sugar high

Remember when you were a kid and you’d eat your whole bag of Halloween candy before bed, then you couldn’t sleep because you were bouncing around the room on a wicked sugar high, then you’d pass out around three am from the crash? Well, maybe that was just me, but yeah, I kinda feel like that today. And not in a bad way, like I’m sad or miserable. I’m not. I’m still super happy, but I’ve mellowed out a little. Other than the little bursts when I remember I got a book deal.

Yay! I got a book deal!

And then I calm right back down, because at the crux of it, it hasn’t really sunk in yet. I’m thrilled…don’t get me wrong. But I seem to have burned through that first burst of energy, and now I’m floating on a happy cloud. In my pajamas, because I have absolutely no reason to get out of my pajamas today, and it’s really cold.

But I really need to pull myself together, hop in the shower and get dressed so I can get moving. I still have Christmas decorations to hang, and chickens to feed. Honestly, I can do all of that while still wearing my pajamas, but my husband frowns upon me wandering the yard looking like the walking dead.

Oh, and I need to write a bio today…and find an appropriate photo…both tasks are harder than I expected they would be. So far all I have is,

Erica lives in the North Georgia Mountains in a 90-year-old haunted farmhouse with her husband, her 180lb lap dog, a collection of chickens and crazy ducks and at least one ghost. When she’s not writing, she’s either reading bad fan fiction or singing karaoke.

What do you think? Sounds like me, right?

Ok, I really have to get to work.

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to find a decent photo of me.

the ghost of christmases past

I watched a modern adaptation of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol this evening and it got me started thinking about my past Christmases and what would happen if a ghost were to come and take me on a journey to revisit some of the more memorable ones. 

Where would I begin?  Which Christmases would I include?

Of course it would only be natural to include a few of my first Christmases.  My ghost would undoubtedly catch me in the act of meticulously unwrapping my presents under the tree to peek and then carefully rewrapping them and tucking them back in their places so my mother wouldn’t know.   I wonder if she has any idea that I have been doing that for years.  I suspect my children might do the same thing (it could very well be a genetic trait.)  This may be the main reason I don’t put presents under my tree until Christmas Eve.

Or maybe I don’t put presents under the tree because of that one childhood Christmas when the dog tore through all the presents about two weeks before Christmas.  We thought we had been robbed…until we saw teeth marks in the packages. 

Surely the ghost would take me back to my first Christmas after marrying my ex-husband.  My mother, my sister, and my sister’s husband (Uncle Paul) traveled to New York to spend Christmas with my new in-laws on Long Island.  It was interesting at best.

Like the Osbornes spending Christmas with the Obamas. 

Uncle Paul wreaked havoc with the water lines, ensuring that everyone got a nice little shock in the shower at least once. And my sister’s morning sickness, combined with my former mother-in-law’s dictator-like regime with regard to the kitchen, sent my family trekking through the backs of yards to the closest McDonald’s at all hours of the day and night. 

The only worthwhile moment of the entire trip came in the form of a tour of New York City in the back of a beat up pick-up truck driven by my ex-husband’s crazy Uncle Jimmy. 

Uncle Jimmy was not my ex husband’s real uncle, but rather a very close family friend.  I believe he had served in World War 2 with my former father-in-law.  He was in his sixties, and missing a few teeth as I recall, but he was a live wire who enjoyed life to the fullest. 

It was December in New York, and the city was covered in snow.  This particular night was especially cold, and even with a camper top on the bed of the truck, it was still freezing cold.  Because my sister was pregnant she was allowed to sit in the front of the cab, and I was allowed to ride up there with her.  That might have been a perk if the passenger window hadn’t been stuck in the open position.  The heater was turned up to full power to keep the frostbite from setting in, but we were still wrapped up in wool coats and scarves like foreign immigrants landing on Ellis Island circa the turn of the twentieth century. 

My mother rode in the truck bed with her sons-in-law, and had to listen to them whining about dying from breathing in exhaust fumes, despite the fact that the back window and the window to the cab were both wide open.  I remember looking through the small opening at the three of them, shivering in the back as they sat against the side walls of the truck like a load of illegal day workers.  My mother laughed the entire time as the men complained.  

In the front of the truck, Uncle Jimmy narrated our journey…loudly…with more than a trace of Jack Daniels on his breath.  We were introduced to every sight the city had to offer. 

Uncle Paul shouted from the back that he wanted to see a real prostitute, so Uncle Jimmy drove us to 42^nd Street to find one.  As we set out on foot, Uncle Paul approached several women dressed in flashy winter attire and inquired, “Are you a hooker?”  

He was asked to leave two separate topless bars for similar questions.

We even ran across a religious zealot, shouting for us to save ourselves while we still had time, and carrying a sign that promised the end of days was nigh.  Twenty two years later we’re still here, so I gather his timing was just a bit off.

There were many Christmases before that year, there have been many Christmases since, and hopefully there will be many yet to come, but I will never forget that night in New York City.  It was the best tour I had ever taken, and the best tour guide a person could ask for.  We even got to see the heart of Harlem and Lady Liberty from afar. 

Uncle Jimmy past away several years ago, but he will never be forgotten, I am certain. 

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the spirit of Christmases yet to come!

all it takes is a little determination

So, if you’ve been paying attention, you know I’ve been having a bit of an issue with my printer lately. And seriously, how hard can it be to print something, anyway?

Harder than it would seem, apparently.

Remember how over Thanksgiving, I trudged out to Walmart…twice in one day, twenty miles in each direction…to get ink, only to run out of the one color I didn’t buy. Well, fast forward a week or so, and my need to print something became more than just pressing…it became life changing. Overly dramatic, you say? Perhaps, but work with me for a minute.

So, on Friday, I asked my husband to pick up the black ink on his way home from his unscheduled (yet unavoidable) trip to Florida to visit family. Unfortunately, he didn’t get home in time for me to print and rush to the post office, so I had no choice but to wait until Monday. So first thing Monday morning, I flew out of bed and ran to the printer. (Yeah, I’m lying again. I dragged myself out of bed around 10:30, but that’s still morning. Don’t judge me.) I plugged the printer into the power, then connected the USB to my laptop, loaded it with paper and pulled up the file I needed to print. (I’ll get to this in a minute…be patient.)

What I didn’t do was realize I had an unfinished print job from when I ran out of ink. I also didn’t realize the paper tray was shut, thus preventing the printed pages from escaping the machine. Yep…paper jam. Wicked awful paper jam, in fact. But I had this…I snatched the trapped papers, yanking them out without missing a beat. And without turning off the power like the warning message said. Apparently, that was very bad. All attempts to print after this were blurry. And not just blurry, but sort of like drunken ramblings. The words were all over the page.

And it was now creeping up on afternoon and my document had to be printed, notarized and mailed before the post office closed.

I won’t bore you with the torturous measures I put my poor printer through, but I will say, it won’t screw with me again.

So, an hour (and several unusable copies) later, I rushed out the door, with my perfectly legible document in hand, to find a notary public in this one horse tourist town I live in. After calling the only mailbox store, the local grocery store and a few other usual suspects, I was informed the only place to get a notary done would be at a school or a bank, and since I wasn’t about to wander the halls of the local high school, I decided to visit the bank. Lucky for me, they weren’t picky about helping a non-customer. I should have asked them for directions to the post office, because the last stop on my little journey turned into a scavenger hunt. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good scavenger hunt, but not when I’m on a tight schedule.

With my letter finally signed, notarized and safely mailed away, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and hit up the local Sonic for a smoothie and some onion rings. (Hey, scavenger hunts always work up a good appetite.)

So, I’ll bet you’re wondering what was so damned important that I had to wrestle an ornery printer, visit a bank I don’t do business with, and drive around like a rat in a maze searching for the post office on a Monday afternoon.

Remember last week when I said I had a secret, but I couldn’t announce it yet? Well, I can announce it now. That little document I worked so hard to print and mail just happens to be the contract to publish my book, To Katie With Love. So yeah, it was worth every eff bomb I dropped and every calorie in those onion rings. I’m going to be a published author. And that is just the coolest thing ever.

Until the next time…I’ll be buying a back up printer.

Oh Christmas tree

My husband went to bed angry last night. Oh, I suppose that’s nothing new, despite my original plan of “never go to bed angry”. I wonder if we were married a week when that flew out the window. But last night’s argument was hardly the blow out of epic proportions one would expect from us (we do have a history of fiery verbal exchange). It was more of a quiet burn…like a candle, or a string of Christmas lights.

Right. Christmas lights. That’s exactly how we got into this mess. I decided to put up the Christmas tree. It was time…December first…and I was more than ready. I’d been itching for days to pull out the decorations and get down to business. I may have been a bit overzealous. Ok, more than a little.  I was like a rabid chipmunk hepped up on coffee and sugar. So, I like Christmas, a lot. Don’t judge me.

The husband does not like decorating for Christmas. He avoids it as fiercely as he avoids setting foot in a karaoke bar filled with single cougars.  I might be exaggerating…slightly. After all, he agreed to help me with the lights last night.

Ah, regret. Yes, I regret asking for his help, at all. The longer we tangled with lights, the more annoyed (and annoying) he became. But the nail in the Christmas coffin was when I plugged in the tree to discover more than half the lights didn’t light.

A Christmas catastrophe of the worst kind.

I won’t go into details (they’re far too painful and fresh) but suffice it to say, he went to bed angry and I stayed up, staring at the randomly lit tree from across the room, willing it to fix itself.

It didn’t.

I used to laugh at my parents and their annual Christmas tree fight. I used to think they were overly dramatic and silly. I used to think decorating was a team event and everyone would help out with big smiles and frothing mugs of cocoa as we moved in tandem, listening to classic Christmas music as we worked.

Yeah, right. People bitch and moan as they untangle lights, then storm off to find brown liquor to drown their sorrows. 

This is why I start decorating early. I need time each year to cool off and enjoy the season after the whole tree debacle.  My tree is still bare. Or at least partially bare. My husband woke up early, grumbling like a bear with a thorn in his bottom, trying to find swap the broken lights with fresh ones…with little success, unfortunately. I guess I’ll be making a trip to Home Depot today if I want Christmas lights tonight.

Maybe I’ll pick up a bottle of that brown liquor while I’m out. I might need it.

Until the next time…I’ll be making Christmas.

what's wrong with a little harmless obsession?

I admit it.  I collect magazines.  And not just any magazines…home decorating magazines.  You’ve heard of them…House Beautiful, Country Living, Cottage Homes, Traditional Home, Southern Accents…and the list goes on.  My husband has repeatedly asked me to pick a few and get a subscription rather than picking them up for full price at the store.  I keep telling him that I will narrow the choices down after sampling them just a few more times.  I just can’t decide which ones to get.  Why can’t I just have them all? 

Because the magazines are piling up all over the house, that’s why. 

And my wonderful husband spares no opportunity to remind me of that fact.  I have vowed to weed through the current selections (some of which date back as far as 2005) and recycle the ones I don’t want anymore.

Again, a very difficult decision, I sort of want them all. 

Oh, sure…I’ll weeded a bunch out when we moved to the haunted farmhouse, but I couldn’t exactly get rid of them all when I obviously had a need to decorate the new (old) house, right? Can my husband really expect me to toss out such a wealth of decorating resources? Oh, yes…he can.  So, not so long ago, I actually tossed quite a few of them into the recycling bin, only to fish them out a few days later.  You just never know when I’ll have the opportunity to remodel my Paris apartment…right? That is, if I had an apartment in Paris…which I do not.

But I can dream can’t I? 

My dreams notwithstanding, I believe my husband has enlisted the help of an accomplice to rid himself of my magazines. 

Enter Indiana Jones, the accomplice.

Indy has developed a new habit of shredding magazines, more specifically, my magazines.  I found a Country Living torn up on the living room floor yesterday.  Two different Traditional Homes bit the dust in the days before that.  And I lost a prized Martha Stewart Living to the powder room toilet just this evening. 

Don’t ask me how or why my 180lb Mastiff put a Thanksgiving issue circa 2008 into the toilet, because I have no idea.  But I really liked that particular issue.  I’ve decided to attempt to dry it out.  I know…I know…yuck…but there are some really good recipes in there! 

I am convinced my husband has told him to do this.  What other excuse could there be?  I have had this dog since he was 10 weeks old and only now; coincidentally coinciding with my husband’s requests to “throw some of those damn magazines away,” my 2 year old dog is tearing through my magazines faster than I can replenish them.  He’s not going for the newest issues—the ones I can replace—he’s going after the out of print issues! 

And it’s not like he found them lying on the floor…he has fished them out of magazine racks!  Pulled them off the coffee table!  Taken them from my bedside table! 

It is a conspiracy.  And my husband is the head conspirator.  The next thing you know, he’ll be convincing the cats to push the magazines from their new perch on the top of my dresser so the dog can get them. 

I suppose in the grand scheme of things I can’t complain.  If I try hard enough, I can look at the positive side of things.  Perhaps this is just Indy’s way of helping me make room for more new magazines.  Maybe it’s time I actually sent in those subscription cards after all.  I think I can pare it down to four choices.  Well, maybe five. 

I’ll do that next month.  I want to make sure I get all of the holiday issues first.

Until the next time…I’ll be pulling out the blow dryer for Martha’s stuffing recipe!

the time capsule

I’m sitting here trying to figure out why I’m still awake at 3am. I’m not watching TV, I gave up on reading, and I couldn’t muster the energy to work on anything important, so what the hell am I doing in my chair in front of my laptop in the wee hours of the morning?

Oh yeah, I’m debating the merits of 80s music with my son. And we’re doing this over Facebook, because nothing of significance happens unless it happens on Facebook, right?

I keep telling him I lived the 80s, the decade just before the internet. The bygone era where shoulder pads weren’t just for linebackers and gloves didn’t come with fingers (and some of those were only worn on one hand). A time when people wore their sunglasses at night while cruising the streets in sleek sports cars, blasting the Miami Vice soundtrack into the air. Oh sure, it was fun the first time, but that doesn’t mean I want to dredge it up again, thereby triggering memories best left buried in the dusty old time capsule with the bones of REO Speedwagon and the Thompson Twins.

And leg warmers. By the way, thanks for the tweet early this morning reminding me about leg warmers. I can almost smell the sweat from the aerobics classes. No thank you, I’ll gladly leave the 80s music where it was…happily hidden in my bottom dresser drawer, under the Purple Rain VHS tape, with all the other embarrassing mementos of my youth.

Now if you ask me about the movies from the 80s, we’ll be getting into a completely different sort of debate. And I’ll leave that for another time.

Until the next time…I’ll be purging the Duran Duran earworm with a Brady Bunch marathon.

give me a reason

“Things happen for a reason.” My husband’s words as he packed his clothes to leave this afternoon.

Oh wait…not leave leave. He’s going out of town for family reasons and I’m staying here, which is more than fine with me. But still, this is cutting his vacation in half with barely anything fun having taken place. And I had such plans for vacation time. Well, ok…I had no plans. I was going to paint the dining room, and he wasn’t going to help me do that anyway. I was going to get up early and…caught me again. I wasn’t going to get up early. I’m lucky if I’m even in bed when normal people get up early. No, I was going to sleep in like always and maybe organize some things. You know…finish putting away the Halloween decorations and take out the stuff for Christmas. I probably would have begged him to hang lights on the house. Well, I can scrap that plan…for a few days anyway.

But, like he said, things happen for a reason. If he hadn’t been on vacation, he wouldn’t have been able to leave town for his family emergency.

And when it comes to perfect timing, I have to agree. Life always seems to give me what I need, just when I need it. Like that phone call I got today. The timing couldn’t have been better, and the news was…well…life changing. But that’s a secret for another day. You’ll just have to come back to find out. We’ll call this a cliffhanger, ok?

I love a good mystery, don’t you?

Until the next time…I’ll be digging out the decorations by myself.

a tale of broken dreams and billowing sails

Life is a struggle. It puts up a fight and rarely plays fair. But you can’t let it get the best of you. You have to ride it like a tornado, into the sunset, gripping onto your dreams with all you have…and never let them go.

My father once told me we have to hold onto every bit of happiness we can because life will work hard to take those moments away from us. And although, admittedly, it’s not always easy, I have strived to live by these words, digging every last drop of positive out of all the negative thrown at me along the way.

So I can’t help but wonder what happened to me? When did I become this person who crumbles at the dark clouds? What happened to embracing the rain?

Life happened, that’s what.

For those who don’t write, being a writer may not seem like an important goal. It may appear as if it doesn’t benefit the world at large, or bring anything significant to the masses. But for those of us who do…it isn’t just a lifeless thing we dabble in. It is very literally the first and last breath we take and every breath in between.

Even though I know this with every fiber of my being…little Miss Positive in the face of negative…I listened, instead of sticking my fingers in my ears and humming when I was told to put a deadline on my dreams.  So, rather than locking my doors and closing my blinds, I let the negativity walk right in and set up house. And before I knew it, the fight was wrestled out of me while I slept.

I don’t even recognize the person in the mirror anymore.  Who are you, and what have you done with the determined, stubborn girl who could argue herself out of just about any situation? Where is the girl who could find the silver lining on every cloud…the prize at the bottom of every Cracker Jack box?

She would have never given up so easily.

The truth is I think I’m still in here…somewhere. I can feel the flicker of light fighting its way through the darkness.  Even despair can’t let the air out of my sails…not completely. As long as there is the tiniest gust of wind, I’ll catch it, and I’ll be off. You’ll see. You can’t tell me to give up that which is like the blood flowing through my veins. I may shed a few tears but I won’t do it…not without a fight.

The voices inside me will always fight to be free.

Yeah, I totally sound like a nut job, don’t I? But my fellow writers will surely understand what I’m talking about.  Let’s shout it from the rooftops for the world to hear…

A writer is not what I do…it’s who I am.

And you can’t take that away from me. Not ever.

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming the same dreams with determination.                                             

black friday

Today was the biggest shopping day of the season, and what did I do?  I stayed in bed until ten, when my mother dragged me up saying we had things to do. Thankfully (see, I have been thinking up more things to be thankful for)  I wasn’t up at three in the morning standing in line at a Wal-Mart (no matter how much money I could save on a 32 inch television.)  That sort of thing is something you do once in your life, and I already did my time.

It was a lifetime ago.  At least it seems that way.  It was Christmas 1998 and it was the year the Furby—the furry little talking robot toy that looked like one of the Gremlins before they ate after midnight—hit the store shelves.  It was the most popular toy that year, and nearly impossible to get your hands on one.  The only surefire way to get one for Christmas was to stand in line at any toy store at three am when the doors would open on Black Friday. 

I wasn’t overly interested in a Furby, myself.  My kids hadn’t requested one, so I had no intention to lose any sleep on the day after Thanksgiving just to buy an overpriced toy. 

My sister had other ideas.  And she was determined to pull me into her plans. 

My younger sister has always found inventive ways to earn extra money, and this particular year her idea was to buy as many Furbys as we could get our hands on, and sell them for more than what we paid. 

On paper it sounded ingenious.  In reality, it was horrible.

We were not the only ones who were planning on turning a profit on Furbys.  There were hundreds of people standing outside the local Wal-Mart.  I lost count of all the people whispering about where they would sell their treasures.  The rest of the crowd was there to fulfill the wishes of their own children.  And then the store manager risked life and limb to squeeze out the door to inform the growing line that there were far more people in line than Furbys in the store, and we would be given tickets in order of our place in line.  Each ticket could purchase one Furby. 

Just one.

This meant that we would only have two Furbys to sell on the black market.  That is, if we survived the running of the bulls once they opened the doors to let everyone in. 

Somehow we survived.  It was a close call…there was more than one scary woman with a black belt in shopping pushing her way through the jam packed aisles.  But we got our Furbys and escaped Wal-Mart.  And with several hours left before sunrise, I was more than ready to head back home and crawl into my nice warm bed. 

Again, my sister had other ideas.

The toy store at the local mall didn’t open until five, so we had plenty of time to get there for another chance to buy a few Furbys.  We piled back into the car and headed to the mall. 

The line wasn’t as long at the mall, but the stash of Furbys was even smaller.  Somehow we still managed to get our one Furby per person and make it back home just before dawn. 

I don’t remember how much the Furby’s sold for, but I do remember that it wasn’t the huge profit my sister was expecting.  Certainly not enough to stand in line for hours in the middle of the night.  Definitely not enough to withstand the pushing and shoving by women with rollers in their hair at the local Wal-Mart. 

But I suppose it was one of those things you just have to do…once.  And then never do again.

Sort of like pole dancing…or self bikini waxing.

Until the next time…I’ll still be cleaning up the kitchen from Thanksgiving!

giving thanks

Thanksgiving is almost over, and I have yet to list all the things I’m thankful for. But in my defense, it’s taken me a few hours to recover from the turkey coma…and the pie coma that followed the sugar rush. I’m ok now, but I probably won’t sleep tonight. The good news is, I’ll have a lot more time to think of things to be thankful for. For now, I’ll have to settle for this meager list…

In no particular order, I’m thankful for:

My family…all of them (I listed them first because if they found out they actually come somewhere between chocolate and cheese, they’d be pissed)

Chocolate (see above comment)

Cheese (who doesn’t love cheese?)

My dog (because he’ll keep me warm on a cold night even if he’s mad at me…and as it happens, he’s never mad at me)

My chickens (they have a way of making me smile just because)

My mother (she gets a special shout out because she did the dishes every day while she’s been visiting, even when asked her not to)

My ducks (because everyone should be thankful for anything that keeps them on their toes at all times)

Warm sweaters (because not only are they warm, but they camoflage the damage caused by too much chocolate and cheese)

My friends (both old and new…I don’t mean old…I mean, ok yeah…old)

Reversible underwear (I don’t think they make this yet, but they would be cool, because it wouldn’t matter if I wore them inside out)

Turkey (I really love turkey, and it’s sort of sad we don’t eat it all year round. I mean, is twice a year sufficient for something so magically delicious?)

Toilet paper (I don’t think we give thanks for this often enough. Imagine the world without it. Seriously…imagine)

Butter (yes, I’m thankful for butter…get in line Paula Deen, you’re not the only one in love with butter)

Pie (did I forget to say pie? Pumpkin, apple, banana cream…the list is endless, the thanks are many)

Eyelashes (I didn’t know how important they were until mine started to thin out. I miss thick eyelashes)

Sweat pants (this doesn’t really need an explanation after eating turkey all day, does it?)

High speed internet (endlessly thankful for this on a regular basis)

My KitchenAid mixer (because it did everything from mashing my potatoes to whipping the cream for pie)

Fuzzy socks (because it’s cold as I type this)

You (if you’re reading this, I’m infinitely thankful for you…Thank you! Really.)

Until the next time…I’ll be heating up leftovers and watching late night TV.

the printer ink blues

All I needed was blue ink. My printer told me so. The display was very specific. I needed blue ink. Not pink. Not yellow. Not black. Just blue.

How hard can it be to find a blue ink cartridge?

In a town where the closest Walmart is a whole county away, finding a place that sells ink is like searching for a sliver in the bottom of your own foot. It’s not impossible, but it’s certainly not easy or fun.

So we hopped in the car and headed out to Walmart. It’s a twenty five minute drive each way, so we decided to take advantage of the trip and pick up a few things for Thanksgiving dinner while we were out. An hour or two (and $150 later) we were back in the car, trudging through the holiday travel traffic to our home in the mountains. When I opened the packaging on my new blue ink, I discovered I’d bought the wrong one. Why do they have to number them so closely together? My printer will take a number 68 in black, but in the colors it has to be a 69. You’d think I’d remember 69, but I didn’t. I bought 68. So after a mini temper tantrum (don’t judge me, it was the day before Thanksgiving and an almost hour long round trip the first time) I climbed back into the car to head to Walmart to return the ink.

Now let’s just say, the last place I wanted to be on the evening before Thanksgiving was the customer service aisle at Walmart, and yet, that’s exactly where I found myself. Luckily, the wait wasn’t bad, and I was quickly able to grab the correct ink and head home again.

Before I knew it (you know…an hour or so after my first attempt to print) I snapped the ink into the printer and smiled at the familiar whirr of the paper loading into the machine. After the first few pages, my printer came up with another warning light. I was almost out of the pink ink now. With a self-satisfied grin on my face, I pulled out the spare pink cartridge I already had and loaded it into the chamber before returning to my print job. A few more pages came out before another warning light flashed. Yellow? Now I’m running out of yellow? I was printing black and white, I didn’t even understand the need for colored ink for a black and white print job.

Speaking of black…I didn’t get further than a few more pages when the warning light went off for black ink. I was running out of black ink too.

I’d already been to Walmart twice in one day. Twice in less than a few hours, in fact. I wasn’t prepared to make another trip. I held my breath, crossed my fingers and toes, and watched as my pages spit out of the printer, hoping my document would finish before I ran out of ink. I couldn’t be so unlucky, right? It was a day before Thanksgiving. I wanted to put up a Facebook status saying I was thankful for having enough black ink.

No such status will be created. With one page left to go, my printer stopped cold, the message “out of black ink” flashing at me like a cocky smirk. I hate my printer. Hate it. And I hate Walmart. And I hate that I was standing in the printer aisle at said Walmart, staring at the black ink cartridges, certain I could escape buying one this time.

I’m sure there’s a lesson somewhere in there. I don’t really want to think about it, but I’m sure my loyal readers will dig it out for me, and let me know. And I’m also sure I’ll find myself at Walmart on Friday…the absolute worst day of the year to step foot into a Walmart. I may need to self-medicate first. I’ll need an IV of chocolate and a liter of Diet Coke to go with my leftover turkey and stuffing. This had better be the best damn document I’ve ever printed. And you know…with my luck…I’ll run out of blue again before I’m through.

I wouldn’t be surprised at all.

Until the next time…Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!