I need a vacation

Another day…another pig chase. Can I just say I’m getting tired of chasing pigs? I think this may have permanently turned me off on bacon. Bacon! That’s like saying, “Chocolate? Oh, no thank you, I’ve had plenty in my lifetime.” You don’t just stop desiring the delectable taste of bacon. Well, I do. After chasing pigs, I think I can say I’m not interested in pork, ham or bacon anymore. But I am interested in taking a vacation.

A. Nice. Long. Vacation. Somewhere I won’t run into pigs. Somewhere like the beach. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the beach. I think the last time I went for fun was the time my sister and I took the kids to Savannah. And that was forever ago. We had a blast on that trip.  But like most things involving me, it wasn’t without incident. 

We rented a two bedroom beach condo in the sleepy little town of Tybee Island, Georgia.  It was right on the sand, just a bit of a walk through the dunes to the water.

Our plans were to cook most of our meals at the condo so we could splurge on dinner in Savannah a few nights during our trip.  But after a quick outing to the grocery store we discovered we had a little problem. The kitchen was supposed to be fully equipped with everything we would need for our stay but there were no pots or pans.  Only microwave safe bowls.  Nothing that could be used on the stove top or in the oven.  Our lunch plans were ruined.  It is impossible to make hard boiled eggs without a pot of water to boil them in.

Or is it?  There was a microwave. 

Don’t worry. I was smart enough to know that you can’t microwave eggs in the shell to cook them.  They’ll explode. And that would be bad.  Eggs need to be boiled in water in order to reach a hardboiled state.  But of course, you can boil water in a microwave.  I’d done that many times.  So I figured if I boiled the eggs in the water in the microwave it should solve all of my problems. 

So, I filled the microwave bowl with cold water, placed half a dozen eggs in the bowl and set the microwave for ten minutes.  I didn’t want to overdo it. 

I may have overdone it. 

It’s amazing how much power is packed inside a tiny little egg.  When an egg explodes, it sounds like a gun shot, and when more than one egg explodes, well…it blows the door off the microwave!

There were bits of egg literally everywhere.  Egg hanging from the chandelier, egg clinging to the popcorn ceiling, egg on the baseboards…the back of the sofa…in the air ducts…my hair.  And the entire room smelled like an egg fart.

After the initial shock wore off, (and we’d checked each other for bullet holes) we all broke down into fits of hysterical laughter. I called the management company and they sent over pots and pans right away. 

The microwave wasn’t actually broken, but I’m sure it was never the same.  It’s impossible to get that much egg out of the vents. 

Every vacation needs to have at least one catastrophe, and that was ours.  No one was hurt, so we were free to experience the rest of our vacation.  Most of which was spent at the beach. 

Our vacation house was separated from the water by a dune with lots of thick tall grasses.  There was a path every twenty yards or so, but the paths were narrow and long.  You couldn’t see the ocean until you were most of the way down the path.  It would be easy to lose a flip flop or snorkel if it was dropped on the way to the beach, so we had to keep a close eye on the four kids. 

Even then, my sister liked to take midday naps so we made several trips through the dunes each day to the water.  By the third day, we knew the trail like the back of our hands.  Or so we thought. 

I don’t remember which of us had the brilliant idea to trek out to the water after dark, but there we were—kids in tow—walking from the condo to the path with our towels and cameras and not a single flashlight between us.  A security guard stopped us on the way and asked what we were doing.  He was a nice old man with white hair and glasses and he walked a little hunched over, but he seemed to know a lot about the area.  We told him we wanted to see the beach at night, and he offered to walk us to the water by the light of his security guard issue flashlight.  We agreed that it would be a great idea.

He started to the path, and as he led the way, he spoke…

In a very thick, very unusual accent.

“Gotta be kefful out hyar ‘specially at naht.”  He started.  We understood most of what he said, and the rest we picked out by context.  “Gotta watch out fo’ dem snicks!”  

Snicks?

It was dark, but I’m pretty sure we all looked at each other and mouthed the word back to him.  “What’s a snick?” One of us dared ask.

“Snicks!  You know…”  He waved his hand in a slithering motion “snicks!” 

We all stopped moving for a second while it sunk in.

“Specially dem rattle snicks!” 

I grabbed my kids’ shoulders and pulled them closer to me and my sister did the same with hers.  “Rattlesnakes?” We asked in unison.

“Oh yeah.  Gotta watch out fo’ dem rattle snicks.  Day sting a bit!” He went on as if he was talking about a mosquito, or a bee. 

We didn’t have a chance to reply before he went on again.  “And deez raccoons out hyar…Day got da rabies.  Gotta stay away from dem else you be foamin’ at da mouth!” He dragged out the last part of the sentence in grand dramatic fashion and gestured with his hands to make his point. 

We got it!

We broke through the trail finally and we were standing on the beach, the beam from the flashlight barely reflecting off the waves in the distance as they crashed against the sand.  We were out of the dunes, and away from any rattle snicks or rabid raccoons. 

“Ok den.  Y’all be kefful now.”  He waved the light again, sending a wash across the sand before turning and heading back the way he came. 

We wandered away from the dune and headed toward the surf to dip our toes in the warm water and let the kids play along the shore line.  We had no intention of staying out late.  It was actually way darker than we expected.  There was no moon that night, and without the flashlight, it was hard to make out more than the shapes of the waves in front of us.  We hadn’t spent more than ten minutes alone out there—there wasn’t a single other soul other than us on the beach that night—and we were ready to head back.

We quickly corralled the kids and turned back toward the dunes. 

It was very dark.  Very, very dark.  Without help from a flashlight we couldn’t see the narrow opening to the trail we had come down.  The crazy old security guard who had warned us of stinging rattle snicks and raccoons foaming at the mouth had left us out there without a way to get back!

We gripped our children in each hand and walked toward the dunes to find the trail.  We had strayed around the edge of the water long enough to completely lose our bearings.  We decided to hike along the dunes for several yards in each direction until we could find an opening. 

That took a while.  And it didn’t look like the same path we had taken down to the water, but we didn’t have any other options.  With visions of coiling snakes and rabid raccoons in mind, we started up the trail.  We made noise, snapping a towel out in front of us as we walked—with at least two of the children crying “we’re going to die out here aren’t we?”—and we hoped that if anything was in the path ahead of us, we would scare it away. 

When we finally reached the building, we were on the back side.  We decided to creep around the other side so the security guard wouldn’t see us return.  We sort of hoped he wondered if we all drown out there.  Or maybe struck down by giant venomous snakes.  He might be telling that story to unsuspecting guests now…as he walks them down to the beach at night.

“Gotta be kefful out hyar…some folks disappeared few years back.  Got bit by dem rattle snicks and day done drowned!”

Until the next time…I’ll be watching out for the rattle snicks in my own back yard!  I hear they sting a bit!

​

another day closer

I don't remember the first thing I wrote. Probably because I've been making up stories since before I even knew how to write them down. My parents used to talk about my imaginary friends and my elaborate tales, and flights of fancy. Thank goodness they've reached the age where they've forgotten all about those and moved on to other embarrassing memories. I'm sure the first several (hundred) stories I wrote were silly and ridiculous. I say that only because the first few I do ​remember were. Hell, I still venture into the silly and ridiculous from time to time.

My significant other (also known as the IDP, or Imaginary Dead President for those of you out of the loop) likes to tease me about living in an alternate universe...the place I spend most of my time. I try to rationalize it as a writer's prerogative, but maybe I am ​just weird. Hey, if I am, so what. I'm a writer.

Basically, I've always ​been a writer. It's more than what I do, it's who I am. And in just a few more days (four if you're keeping track) for the first time since those first goofy stories, I'm going to see one in print...with my name in bold letters across the bottom. My book.

Come Monday, it's gonna feel pretty damn good. I can't wait to write all about it.​

Until the next time...I'll be looking forward to my last weekend as an unpublished author.​

To Katie With Love - Cover

just another day on the farm

​Here's another photo blog summing up the last few crazy days on the farm.

Chicks dig the dog

Oh no! Another breakout! Whatever shall we do?​

Escaping pig!​ You'd better run...Indy's on the job!

"That piggy's not supposed to be in the yard, is he?"

This little piggy cried, "Wee, Wee, Wee!" All the way home.​

And the mighty hero rests with his fan club.​

chasing bacon

Isn't Monday bad enough on it's own merits without tossing in a game of chase the bacon? And I'm not talking about a breakfast, or the newest thing in porn. I'm talking about five bad little piggies stampeding their way out of their fortress to run rampant in the yard...again.

I was busy working on interview questions at lunchtime, paying little attention to the goings on outside the window, but when my daughter came downstairs and looked out the window, her exclamation of, "Pigs!" had me on my feet and out the door in record time. ​

It took the two of us, and a bucket of feed to coax the pigs from the next yard over back into the pen. But within a few minutes, they were blissfully wallowing in their water trough again, and I was back to work on my interview.

I'd done it. I'd captured them. I'd secured them. All. By. Myself. I was officially a pig whisperer, and those same pigs were happily  locked up, doing whatever pigs do in the daytime.

And then they weren't. Happy that is. In fact, they were downright miserable.​

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening and the sun was heading down over the horizon when the pigs started to stir behind the gate. Their squeals carried into the house like the mournful cries of sea monsters or rodents of unusual size. I didn't know what they wanted, they'd already been fed twice. It was obvious they wanted something because the leader, Napoleon, was bashing his head against the gate in what appeared to be an attempt to break the latch.

It's funny how cute, seemingly sweet, pigs can so quickly morph into raging bulls when they band together with a common goal. That goal being escape. Even as I'd armed myself with a bucket of feed and a broken rake handle (hey, one can never be too prepared around pigs) they broke free and went on a rampage. ​

The first stop was the chicken's feed, where they decimated every bite, stomping on the empty feeder before (literally) heading for greener pastures. ​

I called out to the dogs. I don't know why I did it. It's not like the dogs have been much help to me in the past, where the pigs were concerned, but I was here alone and it gave me a false sense of security to have them near me.

Did I say false sense of security? Because my dogs rose to the occasion this time, running circles around the pigs and barking like junk yard dogs. My beloved Indiana Jones, Mastiff extraordinaire, took it upon himself to herd the wild and crazy party pigs around the property at top speeds, nipping at their...errr...bacon, as they went. ​

I felt like I was in a front row seat at the coliseum watching my mighty mastiff go up against a lion. The dog that was terrified of the pigs just a week ago was suddenly circling and attacking with vigor. He was not about to let these pigs out of his sight until they were back in their paddock.

"No, Indy!" I screamed as panic gripped me. It was a high speed bacon chase, but he was chasing them in the wrong direction. "Not toward the open road!" I ran behind them, still waving my broken rake and a handful of hot dog buns, being trailed by a group of chickens, just waiting for the bread to drop. ​(This is where the film crew would have come in handy.)

Somehow I managed to break the language barrier with Indy and he circled a small group of pigs around again, chasing them toward the pen. I couldn't keep up, but I watched, panting along behind them (chickens running behind me, still waiting for me to trip and drop the hot dog buns) as Indy clamped his teeth into the pig's rump pushing it forward until it ran directly into the former duck pen. ​

Holy crap! He did it!​

I don't know who was more surprised, me, the dog, or the pig. We had one locked up, and Indy went back out after the rest. Once he'd captured the leader, the others followed soon after, and as the sun finally set, blanketing the farm in darkness, all five pigs were back where they belonged, and my poor dog was exhausted. As the chickens feasted on buns.

The moral of the story? It's a dog eat pig world out there, and you pigs better not forget it! I guess it's all in a day's work on the crazy haunted farm, right?

Until the next time...I'll be taking a few Advil and a long ass nap!​

f#@%ing pigs!

​Another day, another pigtastrophe. It's about time we had a pig roast...if you know what I mean.

It's a quarter past eleven at night and I'm just now coming in from the yard where my hus...I mean, the IDP and I ran wire around the unfinished sections of the perimeter fence to contain the pigs.​ I came home a little past nine this evening to find three of the little porkers halfway down the driveway and the other two rounding the neighbor's house on the way to their front yard. Yes, the pigs have escaped again, and my premonitions of zombie pigs terrorizing the neighborhood were suddenly realized.

IDP wanted to shoot them, and he might have followed through with the threat if we had enough freezer space, which we decidedly do not. ​I can't say I blame him...while I was gone today, he spend several hours luring them back to their pen with the promise of tasty treats. Unfortunately for us, the smell of freshly cut grass in the lawnmower man...I mean, our next door neighbor's yard...was too much of a temptation. In a brilliant flash of genius, the IDP decided to mow our yard, hoping to at least keep the pigs grazing at home. It was a good idea, but it didn't work. It would seem even pigs think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.

I'm beginning to wish we'd stuck to chickens and ducks. And I would wager a guess I'm not the only one.​

Until the next time...I'll be preparing for the next jail break.​

furniture interrupted

I know I'm clumsy. It's nothing new. I've always been clumsy...for as far back as I can remember. But I'm beginning to think the universe has it out for me, because not only am I a first class klutz, but a magnet for disaster, too.​

The elusive IDP (Imaginary Dead President, for those just joining the program) left me with a list of things to do today. Lucky for me, the list didn't include, "Climb into pig fortress carrying delicious treats and attempt to escape before being eaten." That was on the list last week. ​Today's list had two major items, the most important of which was, "Clean clear clutter from dining room table."

We rarely eat in our dining room, and I suspect, like many families, our dining room has become the catch all for old mail, magazines, and other assorted debris. The table is one of those old fashioned farm tables with the turned legs, surrounded by assorted Windsor-back chairs collected over the years. the chairs are old and creaky, and should probably be replaced, but since we rarely eat in there, it hasn't been an issue. 

Today, as I was wading through the old receipts, junk mail, and expired coupons, I found myself enjoying the idea of sitting at a clean table. I organized bills, tossed old magazines, filled a jar with assorted screws and nails from projects that stalled out in the vicinity of the dining room, and amassed a collection of lighters that had been missing for goodness knows how long. Once I'd finished with the piles of stuff, I scrubbed the dust from the surface and sat back to admire my handiwork. With a clean working surface, there was no reason not to drag my laptop to the table and work from there.

Well, maybe one reason. ​

The old rickety chair I'd been sitting on off and on while I cleaned gave out as I plopped down, breaking beneath me and sent me crashing backwards onto the floor. I couldn't see it, of course, but I imagine it was like a scene from a movie...a comedy. There I was, sprawled out on the floor, groaning as I attempted to suck oxygen into my lungs while my dog stared down at me with a puzzled expression. ​

My daughter came running to investigate but once she realized I would likely survive...perhaps, a little worse for the wear, but hardly damaged...she left, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. I couldn't hear everything she said, but I did hear something about, "...what you get for eating the last piece of peanut butter pie!" What was it Rodney Dangerfield used to say? Oh yeah..."No respect, I tell ya."

Until the next time...I'll be going on a diet!​

a day in pictures

Marauding pigs. Obnoxious chickens. Haunted attics. Scary basements. This is what I deal with on a daily basis at the farm. Sometimes I'm at a loss for words to explain it, so I figured a picture was worth a few hundred words...right?  ​

The scary barn at the haunted farm...​

From adorable little piglets...​

Ginormous pigs will grow!​

I see you!​

I'm still watching you!

From little chicks...a mother hen will grow.​

From little puppies...​

Giant ponies grow...

From a barren pasture...a fertile farm will grow.

Ok, so I might have cheated today. Not much to say, but I was asked to share more pictures, so here you go! I hope you enjoyed it. ​

Until the next time...I'll be back to writing!​

a hard life

​Let's face it. I'm spoiled. I know it. You know it. We may as well put it out there for the whole world to know it. I. Am. Spoiled.

Front porch of the haunted farmhouse

But I'm ok with that. I live in a modern world filled with modern conveniences, and I like it that way. I like opening the refrigerator and finding cold water inside. I like pushing a button and having an entire meal cooked for me in mere seconds in the microwave. I like flicking a switch and having the lights come on...oh wait. I don't have that here, do I?

It's been several weeks with limited electricity here in the haunted farmhouse and I, for one, am getting a bit perturbed that I'm still having to use candlelight in certain rooms of my house. I'm annoyed that I can't run the microwave and the refrigerator on the same circuit (even though they're both in the kitchen) and I'm really bothered by the fact that I can't use a blow dryer anywhere in the house. Not that I'm ultra vain or anything, but sometimes hair must be dried!

On the upside...after more than a year living on the farm, we are finally making headway on the perimeter fence. My dogs will no longer be able to wander off the property in the dead of night when they claim they have to pee, when all they really want to do is chase small woodland creatures through the underbrush. My chickens will no longer be able to sun themselves on the neighbor's porch. And best of all, when the pigs escape their pen next time (and the law of averages says they will) they'll be stopped by the perimeter fencing before they can terrorize the entire community. ​Now if only I could get the wiring to cooperate.

Baby steps, right?​

Until the next time...I'll be dining in the dark!​

that'll do pigs...

Day two of pig-gate. ​

After a long day (and night) of chasing pigs, we were sure we'd solved the problem, having trapped them in the duck pen, but in the morning we discovered how ingenious pigs really are. ​

We woke up to the sound of a rooster in distress. Chester was pissed off because the pigs had taken up residence under his perch behind the duck house.  I think my rooster is far too involved with his personal decorating schemes, but that's a post for another day. Today, we're going to revisit those pesky pigs.​

I've come to the conclusion that not only is control an unattainable illusion, but we are pitifully unprepared in the event of a zombie invasion. If I can't even defend my yard against a band of marauding pigs, ​how will I ever ​protect myself against zombies? 

Somehow, those pigs had squeezed through an opening built for a duck and proceeded file into the duck house and ram themselves against the door until they broke the latch, setting themselves free. How they knew there was a door on the other side that led to freedom, I may never know. But there they were, wandering the yard again, tearing up the grass...the plants...a garden hose...and a baby pool. They even devoured a week's worth of chicken feed before we discovered them.​

Again, I wish I'd had a film crew getting this down for the world to see. Watching my husband racing from one side of the yard to the other, in hot pursuit of pigs, is something I'll never forget. And I'm sure the look on my face when he told me to "run" after them, was priceless.

I do not run. Not in farm boots. Not on rough terrain. Not unless my life is in imminent danger. It's just not going to happen. Let's face it...it's a damn good thing I'm smart, because otherwise, I'd have been eaten by now.

Speaking of smart...I finally put my own plan in motion while others ​chased pigs around, and low and behold, the pigs were trapped. So yeah...we caught them all. And locked them back up. And fortified the perimeter of the duck...or rather...pig house. And a whole day later, they're still there.

For now. ​

Who knows what morning will bring.​

Until the next time...I'll be looking forward to a nice relaxing weekend.​

This is a pigtastrophe!

This blog post has been two days in the making. Why? Because for the past two straight days, I have been on a quest to capture and contain five wayward pigs on a mission to take over the farm. This is just the first part of the story.

There are so many reasons why people with video cameras should follow me around all day. Today was just one example, and I have to say I'm very sad to report that, once again, we have no video feed. But oh, what a video it would have been.

I woke up yesterday to the sound of utter chaos. I wasn't sure if it was a remnant of the bad dreams I was having, or if perhaps the noise had affected my dreams. I'm used to the clanging and clucking of chickens outside my bedroom window, but it wasn't a chicken banging around this time. It was a pig. ​

Two pigs to be precise. Two naughty, jail breaking pigs. ​And Napoleon is the ring leader of the bunch!

Someone had forgotten to turn the electric fence back on, and the pigs were able to wander out without consequence. ​One big bucket of food, and a few love bites later, I had all the pigs back in their pen and I'd gone about my day.

Fast forward to the evening...​

I'd already captured the stupid pigs three times. Three times I'd played the role of "bait". Three times I'd dangled a bucket of food to capture the runaway pigs. And now it wasn't just two, it was three, and it was getting closer to night. My only saving grace was my husband (yes, I'm talking about him here) arriving home from the office to witness the pigs wandering the yard. He came bearing food (of the livestock variety) and together we ran around the yard carrying sticks to corral the four runaway pigs. Yes, their numbers were growing. Only one of the five stayed in the pen, gorging himself on the food we'd thrown in to bait them.

This is where the camera crew would have come in handy.

I nearly peed my pants as Mike broke a sweat chasing the pigs back and forth across the yard in what reminded me of an episode of Scooby Doo. He was wielding a stick in each hand as he ran circles around the pigs, trying to force them toward the open pen down in the pasture while I shouted out suggestions that he promptly ignored. Then I decided to make myself useful and pulled out the handy dandy strap-on headlamp and secured it to my forehead as night descended on the yard, and the scene took on a very Blair Witch ​appearance, as I shouted for the pigs to "walk into the light". Then I had the bright idea to grab the dog's leash and play rodeo cowboy. The idea was to rope them and drag them off to the pen.

Mike roped the first pig, securing the leash around him, much to the dog's dismay...that's his ​leash! As it turns out, roping even a small pig is very much like lashing yourself to an angry bull. This seemingly tiny pig thrashed Mike around like a ragdoll to the point where the dog (my giant mastiff who is terrified of the pigs) bounded off the porch to engage the pig in a heated confrontation. As it turns out, the dog just wanted his leash back. He snatched it in his teeth and bolted back into the house (where he still holds it in his teeth more than 24 hours later.)

We spent another hour chasing pigs until we had them all locked safely in the duck pen for the night. ​

But with the morning came a new realization...control is but an illusion. ​

Until the next time...I'll be continuing the saga of the pig revolution.​

countdown to release day

I just realized it's only twenty days til my book, To Katie With Love is being released. Twenty days...less than three weeks away. Shouldn't I have started counting down sooner? Shouldn't I feel more anxious...excited...delighted? I mean, sure...I suppose I do. But honestly, it just doesn't feel real yet. It felt real the day I saw the completed cover, but now, it just feels like this far off dream I had that I can't quite pull into my consciousness. And yet, in twenty days, I will have a book out there for people to buy, and read, and hopefully love as much as I loved writing it. ​Because I really did have fun writing this book.

I had no idea when I sat down in a smoky karaoke bar with my drink napkin and a borrowed pen, people watching as I wrote out what would ultimately become chapter one, that anything would ever come of it. And I guess I should thank the bank I worked at for not noticing I wasn't actually working as often as I was scribbling down ideas for the rest of the story, during the business day. And I'm certain I need to thank my former coworkers for allowing me to draw from their personalities to create the zany cast of supporting characters in the story.

And just maybe this little piece of me secretly wishes I was Katie James, and that Cooper Maxwell were real. And maybe in my little world I am...and he is...and happily ever after is just a few pages away.

Until the next time...I'll be counting down!​

the tale of the dimwitted rooster

​I've never been one of those parents who thinks their children are without flaws. Despite their natural born intelligence, I frequently find myself gaping with astonishment at their foolish choices. But as often as they make mistakes, I see progress. I see them growing into mature, responsible adults...and I might even live to see the day they actually reach that goal.

This is the major difference between human children and beloved pets. ​

My dog is like a giant toddler who will never grow beyond his three year old mentality. He knows at least a hundred words, cheese and carrots being two of his favorites, but he'll never have a job. Never move out and live on his own. Never speak more than the rudimentary vocalizations that sound a whole lot like, "Momma." But as simplistic as he is, I love my dog.

My rooster is another story.​

Chester A. Rooster. The name seemed to fit when we gave it to him. He was already grown when we brought him home, but we had high hopes for him, nonetheless. And truly, as roosters go, he hasn't been a bad one. He managed to fertilize the eggs that hatched in January, giving us three lovely chickens to add to our flock. But beyond that, he's the dumbest bird I've ever laid eyes on. ​

This crazy bird clucks like a hen. All day long. He mimics the hens in their clucking as if he's one of the girls. I'm almost embarrassed for him. If we had other roosters, he would undoubtedly be the laughingstock of the bunch. I mean, he does know how to crow, but he rarely does. And unlike the last rooster we had, he doesn't cock a doodle do at all hours of the day or night. That simple fact, and his obvious fertility, are the only things saving him from the chopping block. ​Now he's managed to figure out how to escape from the fenced area, but can't figure out how to get back in. He has all of the remaining chickens roosting with him outside the containment area at night, where the garden gnome/fox can get them. I only hope the fox is fooled into thinking they're all inside the fence.

I guess the moral of the story is don't kill your roosters before the replacement has been fully vetted. The last rooster had his issues, but he was a bad ass chicken that could hold his own in a fight. Not the chicken shit rooster we have now that's afraid of his own shadow, and prances around the yard like...like Big Bird from Sesame Street. ​

Ah...such is life on the farm.​

Until the next time...I'll be watching for missing chickens.​

I'll bet Hemingway didn't have to deal with this crap

Being a writer has many perks. 

I have an instant escape vehicle that transports me to faraway places without having to leave the safety of my bed…or my pajamas.  I can engage in adventures that I would never be brave enough—or foolish enough—to engage in within the boundaries of the real world.  I can be anyone I want to be—from the heroine to the villain. And people actually expect me to indulge in the occasional cocktail, a la Hemingway and his daiquiri fixation. So, pour me a frosty cold beverage, and pass me the laptop, I think I'm on a roll.

But that being said, life as a writer is not without its drawbacks. 

When you are a writer, everyone wants you to help them with their research papers…essays…or dissertations. They ask for help spelling words they've never even used in the proper context before (and with good reason). And they plop down beside you with a ream of paper containing the next Great American Novel (handwritten, of course) and since it's a well known fact you spend your days lounging in your pajamas, they ask you to "take a peek" at it in your "spare time." 

The thing is…I really don’t mind helping.  In fact, I like it.  It makes me feel useful.  Needed.  If I was a mechanic they'd probably ask me to look under their hood, or change their oil. Ok, so maybe I'm not the best person to pass off that handwritten novel, but a little proofreading or helping write a simple paper is much easier, and cleaner, than fixing a loose timing belt.

Until they assume that I'll write the whole thing. 

And hey…my days of having to do homework are long past me.  I don’t want to research a paper.  I don’t want to read a boring book and then do a report on the contents.  Especially when I can’t take credit for the A I'll undoubtedly earn.

Then again…once I get started, I can’t stop myself.  The writer in me takes over.  I start to get excited about the topic.  I suddenly feel the need to make everything sound perfect.  And I’m hooked!  They’ve got me…and the perfect paper begins to take shape.

And I still can’t take credit when I get an A. 

Oh well…I suppose I should just stick to creating interesting characters…and writing blogs. 

And maybe the occasional research paper here and there.  You know…just because.

Until the next time…I’ll be working on a little romantic comedy for a change.

​

better late than never

Today was a beautiful day.

I think we’ve finally navigated completely out of winter and into spring. The weather was perfect.  Not too hot, not too cold and the sun was shining. So, of course, the significant other was itching to do some yard work around the farm. We have a visitor coming to see the farm, so it has to be in tip top shape, which means I had to help.

I love planning the garden, love picking out flowers, love every step of the process…except for the actual planting. I do not like playing in the dirt.  I’ll rake.  I’ll stand out there and point to where I want the flowers to go.  I’ll even help clean up the yard debris.  I just can’t take a live plant and sink it into the ground…not without killing it.  My husband is very good with plants.  And he can stay in the sun all day without turning to dust.  Unlike me.  I’ve already established that I ignite in the sun—like a vampire.  I avoid the sun as much as possible.  It’s really better that way. The sun is bad for your skin.  I like my skin.  It needs to last for my entire life.  I can’t afford to let it burn up in the sun, and you just can’t plant a garden after dark, it’s hard to see what you’re doing. 

But I don’t really mind yard work.  I would like it a lot more if it didn’t involve being in the yard.  There are mosquitoes and ants…and bees in the yard.  And, like I said, the sun.  There just isn’t enough sunscreen in the world to combat spending an entire day in the blazing hot sun. 

The good news is I got an evening out for my troubles. We went to see a live band in North Carolina, then stopped off at a karaoke bar in Tennessee on the way home. If we’d just made one more stop back in Georgia, we could have had a triple header, but I guess I’m just getting too old for the bar hopping. I reached my two wine cooler limit and was ready to head home. And not a minute too soon, either. I almost forgot to write a blog. And we’ve already established how bad that would be.

Until the next time…I’ll be up at the crack of ten to greet the visitors.

another mouse bites the dust

Ok, things in the haunted farmhouse have gotten out of hand. And I'm not just talking about the faulty wiring, but let's just say, I'm tired of living in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. No, what I'm really referring to is the mice. As I sit here, propped up in my bed, surfing the net...I mean, writing my final guest posts...I'm listening to what sounds like the opening scenes of West Side Story going on inside my walls.

"When you're a mouse, you're a mouse all the way, from your first piece of cheese, to your last dying day..."​

So maybe the music is all in my head, but the ​fancy footwork is definitely all mouse. And these are no Disney mice. They're hooligans. I swear, I hear a full-on rumble going on. I can practically see ​them whipping out their little rodent switchblades as they dance around each other squeaking out Stephen Sondheim lyrics.

(Long pause as I listen)

They're going at it again. This time I know ​I hear them squealing. But maybe not the lyrics from West Side Story. ​It might be more along the line​s of a scene from Willard. And Ben is leading the pack. I'm afraid to close my eyes. I may wake up to find them surrounding me, arms loaded with traps and sticky pads, ready to drag me off to the basement. They do that in New York City, you know. The rats there are so big, they've taken entire families out of their beds at night, never to be seen again. I read about that while standing in line at the grocery store.

I'm going to blame my hus...I mean, the IDP for this. It was his idea to set out traps. We even snagged a few of them. But those that got free have obviously sent for reinforcements. The cat caught one in the dining room last night, and made a show of feasting on him, out in the open, as a warning to the others. And now that cat is missing.

I smell a rodent uprising. This might be scarier than the pigs! Ok, forget the IDP, I blame George Orwell for putting these ideas in my head. If I hadn't read Animal Farm in middle school, I might not be having panic attacks about ducks, and pigs, and mice (oh my!) plotting my gruesome demise like an animated version of Tales from the Crypt. ​

Or maybe I just need to lay off the wine at bedtime. ​

Either way, I think it's time we called in a professional to take care of the mice. According to Bugs Bunny, we either need a lion, or an exterminator. ​Or a way bigger trap.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping with one eye open!​

a day in the life of a romance writer

I roll out of bed at the crack of noon when sunlight filters through the slats in the thick black out blinds, waking me from the best dream ever. Seriously, this dream would make an awesome book and I promise myself I’ll write it down later…once I’m fully awake.

But first, I go in search of a bowl of cereal, cursing my family for having eaten all but the last few crunch berries in the box of Cap’n Crunch, forcing me to either crack into the unopened box of Raisin Bran or dig through the cabinets for something more appetizing. That’s when I spy a glint of foil across the room and remember the chocolate chip cookies I baked at three am and stashed behind the stack of mixing bowls. I almost forgot about those. I stumble over the discarded milk carton the dog pulled out of the trash, and nearly trip over the stools poking out from under the island before I reach my destination.

I peel back the foil to discover half the cookies are missing (I’ll deal with that later) but there are still plenty enough to satisfy my need for sustenance, and I down at least three before making my way back toward the fridge for a glass of ice cold chocolate milk.

Once I’ve had my fill of sweets, I contemplate taking a shower before lunch. Ultimately, I decide against it because of the unnecessary effort it would take when I’m only going to be writing in my pajamas all day anyway. So I head back to my office—me and my laptop spread across my bed—and tackle the first project on my growing list of things to do. Guest posts for my upcoming blog tour. But since I’m a professional procrastinator, I decide to surf the net for a while first, and end up engrossed in Twilight fan fiction for half the morning…I mean, afternoon.

After running out of fresh things to read, I actually get to work (mostly plotting out things I haven't written yet, while I try to figure out who does what with whom) then I bang out a running commentary that ends up being useless to the blog I'm trying to write for someone else, but surprisingly perfect for the blog I wri​te for myself. Then I revisit the idea of a shower, and as much as I’d fought against it, I'm glad I succumb to temptation. There is nothing quite as nice as a hot shower on a cold day…especially when it’s Tuesday. Tuesdays mean karaoke. Too bad my ninety-year-old house has equally antique wiring and I can’t use a blow dryer without taking out more than half the circuits.

Somehow, I manage to style my hair and throw on make-up to make my way out the door to the local pub, where, not only does everyone know my name, but they’re relatively happy to see me. This is a big deal when you manage to piss off your significant other on a daily basis.

The evening out is a much needed break after a long day of making stuff up while wearing pajamas. Because that’s essentially my job…sitting around in my pajamas all day while I channel the voices in my head until I come up with something that makes at least a little bit of sense. But to the outsider (or the non-believer) I’m just wasting time, slacking off, lazy…basically one step away from a pot-smoking college student with a White Castle craving.

Nah…I’m none of those things. I’m a writer.

​

April Fool's Day

I decided to abstain from April Fool's Day this year. 

Just call me a conscientious objector.  I just didn't think the morale at my house was up for the pranks.  And with the weather the way it's been, I was just too run down and cold to bother.  In fact, I was so against the non-holiday this time around, I made it my mission to spoil the pranks of others.  Not in a mean spirited way.  Instead, I thought of myself as a sort of Robin Hood...taking from the prankster and giving to the pranked. When I noticed an obvious prank being pulled, I felt I needed to shine a spotlight on it to protect the innocent from needless pain and suffering.

Yes, I was a killjoy. 

I really wasn't that bad.  I kept to myself all day, working on a project that was due at the end of the day.  I can't complain really, I was left alone for the most part.  That's always the best thing to do when you run across a bear coming out of hibernation.

I did drop the f-bomb on an unsuspecting telemarketer in the early hours of the morning.  But in my defense, I was still sleeping, I had a migraine, and I was invoking my first amendment right to free speech!  Ok, that might have been taking things a bit too far...under the circumstances, I felt I needed to reach for the only defense that held any weight on a miserable day like today. 

I muttered out the words, "April Fool's" just before I heard the line go dead. 

I guess she didn't have a sense of humor.  It must be contagious.  Hopefully it's only a 48 hour mean streak, I'm ready for a good mood again.  I hear the sun is coming out tomorrow, that might just be the trick!

Until the next time...I'll be an April fool if it's a nice day tomorrow! 

​

the chocolate apocalypse

Well, we've lived here on the haunted farm for a whole year. I don't remember the exact date we moved in, but I measure our time here by Easter. That was when we got our first bunch of baby chicks and officially became a working farm.

As a young girl I used to get so excited for the arrival of Easter. It always meant a new dress and a pretty bonnet for church. (And of course, a basket of candy from the “giant bunny”.) And when my kids were growing up, I was torn between that same nostalgic excitement, and something akin to horror as roamed the apocalyptic scene at the local Walmart on the night before Easter, fighting old ladies in wheelchairs for the last few chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs in the entire store. This because I’d either completely forgotten about Easter until then, or already eaten the previously purchased candy. And the scene was a cross between a Mad Max movie and the original Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory.

Mad Max and the chocolate apocalypse.

Of all the things I miss…that wasn’t one of them. So as sad as I was to realize last year would be the first year I failed to do Easter baskets for the kids (most of which are actually adults who don’t really care if I buy them candy) I was secretly delighted I would be spared a trip to Walmart on the Saturday before Easter.

Imagine my horror as I somehow managed to find myself exactly there…Walmart! At ten o’clock at night. On the night before Easter. With all the other zombies trolling for chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.

But I wasn’t shopping for candy. I was shopping for a light bulb.

Let’s rewind. Mike and I rolled out of bed (reluctantly) at seven am on the day before Easter. We were having a garage sale (which also means the weather was much better last year than this year...it's far too cold for garage sales) and we were thrilled to be getting rid of our junk…I mean stuff…for some extra cash. It was a good morning…we sold a lot. We even met the neighbors.

This is how I know were really and truly living in the country.

I actually witnessed…as in heard with my own ears…a grown man say the word do-dong. You might remember I wrote about a dongle a few years back, and as funny as the word dongle sounded, it wasn’t what I thought it was. Well, this time it was exactly what I thought it was. The context is somewhat important. My husband was pulling a vine from under the porch when the neighbor (a man in his late fifties to early sixties) said (and I’ll write this out phonetically because it’s way funnier that way) “That thar is posen (not poison…posen) ahvy. You don’t want none a' that. And ya best not touch yer do-dong before you wash yer hands.”

Yep, you heard (err…read) that right. “Ya best not touch yer do-dong…” Well, I agreed wholeheartedly. You do not want posen ahvy (or poison ivy for that matter) on your do-dong. I don’t have a do-dong myself, but if I did, I’m certain I wouldn’t want poison ivy on it.

Funny accents aside, he’s a sweet man, my neighbor. And oh so thoughtful, thinking about my husband’s do-dong like that. Not many men are secure enough in their manhood to mention such things out loud. And here, a year later the man feeds my chickens when they wander to his yard to visit. And hey, thanks to him, the do dongs around this house have been posen free for a whole year.

So, I guess you’re wondering what drove me to Walmart (and a twenty minute drive to reach said Walmart, by the way) for a light bulb, on the night before Easter? Well…with our garage sale proceeds, we went to the local feed store and bought eight baby chickens. We needed a light bulb to keep them warm at night. And they seem to be toasty warm, indeed.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to this year's not-so-baby chickens peeping in the back room.

every friday is a good friday

It’s Good Friday, and I can’t help but feel the sentimental pull toward Easter bonnets, pretty dresses, and chocolate bunnies. I haven’t done baskets filled with candy for a few years now, but I have to admit, I miss it. I miss the days when my kids would wake up Easter morning, squealing in delight to find their treats, and I miss stealing the red jelly beans, and the occasional peanut butter egg.

I’m certain there is no age limit for chocolate or sugar consumption, as I am still fighting constant urges to gorge myself on frozen minty chocolate treats, but I’m also certain I would love to skip the holiday altogether this year.  I don’t need anything else to tempt me from my journey away from the dark (chocolate) side. The jury is still out, and I guess I’m lucky my mom is in Las Vegas with my sister this year, or she would have tipped the scale toward candy. If I’m not mistaken, she still has a fondness for black jelly beans and marshmallow peeps—two things that I despise yet were never missing from my Easter basket as a child.  I have often suspected she put them there solely so she could eat them.  It’s terrible to suspect your mother of such sneaky behavior, but I’m sure I’m not far off.  I would never do something like that myself.  Just ask my kids.  They only got the really good chocolate.  It’s not my fault Alexa doesn’t like chocolate and always gave hers to me. 

I think she might like the marshmallow peeps. 

Here’s hoping it’s a great weekend!  I promise to keep you posted tomorrow.

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming of chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.

​

the case of the missing eyeliner

I drove to Atlanta today to have lunch with my mother. Not because my mother lives in Atlanta. She doesn't. But my sister does, and my mother drove to Atlanta to take a trip with my sister, so I drove to have lunch with her before they left. Complicated, I know. But despite the fact that I live somewhere between point Mom and point Sister, the path isn't a straight shot, and the winding roads on the way to my house give my mother whiplash, so I made the trip to see her.

It was nice. We had lunch, took in a little shopping, and I hopped back in the car to make the hour plus journey back to my little corner of North Georgia. And as long as I was making the trip, I decided to detour to the beauty supply store for supplies. Because, despite the fact that I rarely leave the house these days, when I do, I'd like to look somewhat put together, and that requires upkeep. I decided to stock up on hair color, shampoo, and eyeliner, because for some bizarre reason, I can never hold onto my black eyeliner. 

And it doesn't matter how often I buy it, it's as if there's a gaping hole in the universe that only feeds on black eyeliner, because mine is always missing. ​Not that I have occasion to wear the stuff all that often these days, but one should always be prepared. So I picked up a few, just in case, and I'll stash them where the teenage girls in my life can't find them. Of course, that will merely delay the inevitable. Once I'm seen wearing it, they will seek it out like blood hounds on the trail of a fugitive, leaving no stone unturned, no drawer unsearched, until they find the holy grail of all makeup. Until then, I guess I should live it up and look my best while I can.

Until the next time...I'll be dressing up for dinner tomorrow!​