just call me G

Another Tuesday, another night of karaoke. So why am I not excited? I got dressed up, bared my cleavage, and put on make-up. So why do I feel like I should have been at home knitting or something? 

For starters...I. Do. Not. Knit. Let's make that perfectly clear. Not that knitting is bad. I like knitted things. And if I'm being honest (and maybe I am, maybe I'm not) I wish I knew how to knit. My mother tried to teach me (what seems like) a million years ago, but it was hopeless. I don't have the coordination for detail work involving sharp sticks. So why am I suddenly feeling nostalgic about cable-knit blankets?

Because there is a grand baby out there, that's why. It's not even midnight and I feel like I should be in bed. What the ever loving hell is going on with me? Am I suffering from some crazy psychosomatic illness? Did I imagine this new streak of gray that seemed to crop up over night? I can't be this old. I just can't be! I was young yesterday, and today I'm...I'm...somebody's g-word (I still haven't decided on the proper title yet, despite why I may have said last week.) See? I'm even getting forgetful!

Can women have midlife crises? Is that even what this is? Maybe I simply have low blood chocolate? Will a great big bag of Hershey's kisses solve everything? 

Hey, they can't hurt, right? 

*Deep breaths...in-out...in-out*  

So what if I'm getting old. It's not like I didn't see this coming. Every year I have a birthday, and we add another candle to the cake. And sure, this year we may need to have a fire crew standing by until we finish singing Happy Birthday, but so what? I'm still fun. I'm still playful. I still read YA fiction. I will not go quietly into the abyss while life passes me by!

First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going out to by crayons and grape Kool Aid. It's time to nip this "granny" stuff in the bud.

Until the next time...I'll be grabbing a sweater and taking a nap. 

the evolution of cool

I've had a pretty low key few days. Nothing much exciting has happened, which always seems to give me too much time to think. And let's face it, that's always a dangerous proposition. 

My high-tech redneck hubby got a new smartphone this weekend--not his first, but certainly his new favorite. As we were perusing the options at the phone store, I noticed the new trend in smartphones. They've gotten bigger...like...way bigger, and that made me think back to my very first cell phone, almost thirteen years ago.

Around the turn of the century,  the trend was moving toward, "smaller is better" with regard to mobile phones. My phone was a relatively large, clunky thing with a black and white display. It did little more than make calls and send the occasional text...and I loved it.

A year or so later, I graduated to a tiny phone. It fit into the palm of my hand and could do crazy things like look up movie times as well as making calls and texting. I thought it was the coolest thing ever!  

Fast forward ten years and mobile phones no longer fit into the palm of your hand. They aren't even called phones anymore. They're "mobile devices" that access the internet in high definition. You can send or receive email, take better pictures than the expensive camera I bought five years ago, message your friends via texting, Facebook, Twitter, (insert your favorite social media or messaging app here), schedule appointments, set an alarm to wake you up, and check the day's weather. When you're done with that, you can play and store all your favorite music...and movies, navigate to your destination using the GPS and maps programs, and transfer funds or deposit checks into your bank account. Oh, and if you're so inclined, you can even make a phone call. 

Smaller is no longer better. The mobile device of today is far more advanced than the home computer I paid a fortune for not even half a decade ago. Still, I can't help but feel a warm fuzzy when I look back at that first phone of mine. The phone that didn't have Angry Birds or iTunes. That stupid little phone that did little more than make calls, then charged me a premium for every text message I sent or call I made. Much like my first kiss, my first car, my first house...I'll remember that phone, and how totally cool it was...once upon a time.

Until the next time...I'll be playing games on my smartphone. 

baby Cooper at last

Ok, I know this is going to confuse some people, and for that, I'm sorry. Just try to follow along as best you can.  

Today, one of our girls gave birth to a beautiful baby boy...Cooper. Not to be confused with Cooper Maxwell, the delicious character in my book, To Katie With Love. Both Cooper's are special to me, of course, but today, baby Cooper takes the top spot. 

Since I spent a good part of the night and the wee hours of the morning texting with Lauren while she was in labor, I'm fairly well exhausted, but I wanted to make this announcement just the same. 

Cooper Jackson Beaman was born at 253pm and weight 8lbs 1oz and 21.5 inches long.

Baby Cooper

Now, if you ask Lauren, she'll tell you the baby's name has nothing to do with my characters (Cooper is from To Katie With Love, and Jackson is from the upcoming Suddenly Sorceress) but I'm just going to ignore that and pretend she did it on purpose.  

And for the record, baby Cooper will be addressing me as Nana. We will save the G-word for my mother, and Mike's mother.   They've worn it for a lot longer, so I decided they can keep it. I'll use something different. Something less...old. Because, let's face it...I'm not old enough to be someone's...umm...errr...g-word.

Until the next time...I'll be watching for a constant stream of pictures to come my way! 

birds of a feather

I know this is going to date me somewhat, but what the hell...I can't help thinking about that line from Ghostbusters, when Bill Murray talks about the end of the world. He says something about dogs and cats living together. It was funny. Why did I bring that up? It just seems to sum up my life lately. At any given moment during the day, I can open the back door to find chickens, turkeys, and yes, even dogs and cats hanging out... together.

And just the other day the turkeys decided they no longer wanted to go into their pen at night. No, they would much rather perch on the front porch with the chickens. So now I have ten more birds sleeping on the furniture on the front porch. And for some reason, it just seems right.  Even if it's a little odd to see three juvenile chickens cuddled up with a bunch of juvenile turkeys. Kids will be kids, right?

And my makeshift nesting box (formerly a cat carrier) on the front porch has seen a lot of action lately, as all the chickens have adopted it as egg central. Oh, except for that one chicken that lays her eggs in the flowerpot by the door.  But you can't always control everything, right? Now if we could just catch the fox, or neighborhood cat, or whatever it is that's been taking the odd chicken here and there, I think I could relax.

For now I guess I'll just have to be glad they're all sticking together. On my porch. Making a mess, but safe and sound. It's the little things that matter. 

Until the next time...I'll be cleaning the porch, again. 

dear summer please send fall

Our crumbling old barn

As I sat in the car today, with the air conditioning on full blast--pointed directly at my face--I thought about summer. How as a kid, I couldn't wait for the season to arrive, and mourned its passing each year. As we reach the middle of August and I see September looming in the distance, I brought back fond memories of swimming in my aunt's pond, lazy picnics in tall grass, and catching fireflies in glass jars. And I came to one overwhelming conclusion.

I am so over summer. 

I'm ready for cool nights and frost covered mornings.  Apple cider and pumpkins on the vine. Jumping in leaf piles and late night bonfires. Hayrides and Halloween. A harvest moon and hand knitted wool sweaters.

And for some stranger reason, back to school shopping. I don't even have kids in school anymore, but I feel nostalgic when I see bins filled with Elmer's glue and boxes of crayons lined up along the aisles in the local stores.  I want to fill my cart with reams of notebook paper and bright yellow number two pencils. Pencils I can sharpen again and again until the smell of wood shavings invades my senses, making me forget how much time has passed since I last brought an apple to the teacher on the first day of school.

Maybe I am getting old.  Or maybe fall is just that magical.

Or maybe it's a little bit of both. 

Until the next time...I'll be watching for shooting stars. 

Happy Birthday Alexa

Twenty years ago today, I held my daughter in my arms for the first time, and I knew that my life would never be the same.  It's been a wild ride getting to where we are today, but it's a ride I have cherished through every twist and turn of the way. 

Alexa at 18 months old

I remember the hours before her birth.  I called my mother to tell her to meet me at the hospital--my second baby was on her way into the world.  I didn’t have a cell phone, I don’t think anyone did back then, I had to use a land line.  And I didn’t have the internet or the ability to post it to my status on Facebook.  I had to rely on the old fashioned phone chain to get the word out.  And of course, I had to go into labor at bedtime.  I never do get a full night’s sleep, do I?  But who needs sleep when something as wonderful as a baby is being born?  And I was nothing if not delighted to know that my sweet baby girl was on her way.  Even if the pains of labor may have clouded my thoughts just slightly.

Alexa at 5

My little girl didn’t take as long as her brother to come into the world…she wasn’t as patient.  A lot of things have changed over the years, but she still isn’t patient.  She gets that, among other things, from her mother.

This year, her birthday will be a low key celebration. I'm making a spinach and goat cheese pizza (per her request) and unlike years past, this year we're having cake. And if we're lucky, we'll be blessed with an addition on this birthday and Lauren will finally have her baby. She's beginning to think she'll be pregnant forever.

Alexa at 17

When she says things like that, I just smile and think back to the days when I was waiting for a baby to arrive. After all, we know the baby will eventually be born. And he'll grow up faster than she could possible imagine, because when it comes right down to it, nothing lasts forever. One day that tiny baby will be celebrating his 20th birthday, and she'll wonder where all the time went. 

Like me...today. 

Until the next time...I'll be baking!

The birthday girl all grown up.

closing the book on Christmas

Christmas in better times  

If you've been paying attention to my blog, you know all about my ongoing quest to take down my Christmas tree. Most of you had probably bet I'd done it by now. After all, the last time I mentioned it was back in May.

Well, you would have lost that bet. 

In fact, as of August 1st, I would have wagered I'd end up tossing a cover over the damn thing and dragging it into the chicken room for the last four months before it's time to put it back up again. Unfortunately, this plan didn't sit well with my high-tech redneck hubby.

So, last week he picked up an assortment of fresh boxes, bubble wrap, and other packing materials for my fragile ornaments. The same ornaments I claimed I was unable to pack away for fear of damaging them after someone "accidentally" threw away the boxes they came out of.

I stared at those boxes for a few days, secretly hoping the ghost would just take care of everything for me. Hey, no harm in wishing, right? But like the wishes I made on falling stars as a kid, nothing much happened. So yesterday, while watching Lethal Weapon (a true holiday classic) I wrapped up Christmas--in August.

The house looks different. As if it's missing something. Like a quiet friend sitting in the corner, just waiting for something to happen. Or maybe just waiting for Christmas to come again. And it will. In four short months. I'm sure the time will fly by. I won't even have time to miss the tree.

Until the next time...I'll be counting the days til the tree goes back up. 

all quiet on the southern farm

I walked the yard today searching for a missing chicken. Her feathers were found in the lower pasture, but there was nothing left of the rest of her. I assume it was the fox, but I may never know for sure. She was apparently grabbed as she stepped out of the coop this morning, and I am completely heart broken over the whole thing. She was one of our first chickens, and one of the only ones to roost in the actual coop. By all rights, she should have been the safest of all the chickens. So what happened? Why her? It took me til this evening to realize why.

The pigs are gone.  

For the past six months, the pigs have roamed the rear part of the yard at the opening of the pasture, and right beside the chicken coop. They were contained by an electric force field, but their presence was, nonetheless, a deterrent. The coop was within the protected zone, and the fox knew that. But as of Monday morning, there were no pigs to guard the castle, and the queen was taken right from her roost this morning.

Poor, poor, Harriet.  

The other chickens are still perching on the front porch--far from the pasture, and clearly the safest place to be that isn't inside. As for the pigs, well, they'll come home tomorrow. Wrapped in small packages, ready for the freezer. Despite my initial arguments to the contrary, I sort of miss them. As I walked around the yard tonight, I kept waiting for their little grunts and barks to greet me, but there was nothing but the sounds of crickets in the distance to take their places.

I know I said I was looking forward to the quiet, but I guess the chaos had grown on me. It's obviously time to get more ducks. There's nothing like a flock of ducks to add a little intrigue to the farm yard. 

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for ducks. 

maybe baby

It would seem I've pushed off the inevitable as far as it will go. I've had roughly nine months to get used to the idea, and yet, I still have a hard time saying the word...grand, um...grand...you know...grandthing. But this evening, Lauren, our eldest daughter, texted me to let me know she might be in labor.

I didn't give birth to Lauren, so I can't reminisce about the day she was born, but I can certainly look back over the years since I married her dad and get sentimental about that same little girl having a baby of her own. And I can remember the last time I gave birth, almost twenty years to the day ago.

It doesn't seem possible that our babies are all grown up. Officially. And I'm not sure I'm ready to accept that reality just yet. But I guess I don't really have a choice, now do I?

So as I ready myself for a precious new life about to enter the world, I'm going to look back at the journey we took to get here.

Around the time the girls turned eighteen, I had this epiphany. I realized that raising a child from infancy to adulthood is akin to a difficult labor and delivery.  I don’t know what the catalyst to said epiphany was exactly—it was somewhere in the middle of a conversation with Mike where we were talking about toddlers and teenagers and the comparison—but I remember the moment it came to me.  It was right after Mike said, “I wish their entire lives could be as easy as that first year.”  It made me think about my kids and their lives from the beginning until now. 

And at the beginning there was that first pain of labor. 

I had long difficult labors, but like most labors they started slow.  They started with a few little cramps—not comfortable, but hardly horrible. 

That's sort of like the first year of your child’s life. 

Having a new baby means lots of lost hours of sleep, a fair share of vomit in your hair, and no time to take a shower or eat a peaceful meal.  But it’s hardly difficult…on a grand scale anyway.  My apologies to the new parents of the world, but you'll soon discover this was the easiest your baby will ever be. 

The next step of labor is when those little cramps get stronger and begin to make you take pause.  Your resolve is slipping, and you’re almost ready to accept that shot of pain killers you swore you'd forgo in favor of the purity of a natural childbirth. 

This is like the terrible twos and threes.  Your little darling is getting more and more difficult to manage as they become mobile and learn to manipulate their surroundings.  You think this is the worst phase you will encounter, and you can’t wait until it passes and your child becomes the angel you always dreamed about. 

You get over that idea just about as fast as you get over the idea of “natural” childbirth.  Somewhere in the middle there, just as you feel like you are being split in half by some acid dripping little alien, you break into a full on panic, pleading for as much of the damn drugs as they are willing to give you.  Damn the consequences and the purity.  Suddenly, the idea of natural childbirth simply means the baby will come out of the correct hole, as nature intended. 

Because if nature didn’t want us to be fully medicated they would not have invented morphine!

In the hours (or years) that pass once you accept your fate and dull your senses to better manage the process, things roll fairly smoothly.  You don’t mind carting your children to baseball practices, cheer leading tryouts, and birthday parties every weekend.  You don’t complain about having lost your own identity in exchange for being their mom.  In fact, you thrive on the chaos…you are medicated…certain everything is going to be alright.  The hard part is over, right?

Wrong!

The teen years crash into you at a hundred miles an hour, just as the drugs wear off.  You are pitifully unprepared for the horrors of this delivery.  This is harder than any book described.  More visceral than any firsthand account you had memorized in preparation. This is where the sensation to push that baby out of your body (or out your house) is so overwhelming, you can barely breathe through it.  There is no Lamaze training that can prepare you for the gut wrenching anguish of knowing that no matter how badly you want to push, the doctor keeps telling you, “It’s not time yet.” 

“What do you mean it’s not time?!?” You squeal.  How can it not be time?  You need this creature out.  But they are not ready to go yet, no matter how loudly (or often) they scream to the contrary. There are still very important preparations that need to be made before you deliver this frenetic teenager into the adult world. 

And as you both scream obscenities until the air is tinged a vivid blue, you finally realize you have come full circle with this little bundle of joy and mayhem.  Nothing alive could create as much grief, pain, and mental anguish…or as much unparalleled love, pride, and devotion as the child you witnessed taking their first breath on this earth…and will hopefully witness taking their first steps into maturity and self-reliance. 

I love my children with all my heart, and sometimes it takes a step backwards to see what is right in front of me.  They aren’t babies…or toddlers…or children…or even teenagers forever and one day you will look back at their lives—their trials and tribulations…their triumphs and advancements—and you will miss every crazy moment. 

I know I do.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for that phone call to say, "It's time!"

Indiana Jones and the temple of turkey

"Listen up, turkey...if you don't run, I can't chase you..." 

I watched my dog follow the turkeys around the yard today. It's a slow speed chase through the underbrush, over the porch, and around the house. He never catches them, and you can tell this is by design. He just wants to keep them in his sights. If they run, he runs. If they walk, he walks. If they stop, he nudges them to get them to run again. It's fun to watch. But it makes me wonder what Indy's motives really are.

Is he just enjoying a little playtime with turkeys? Or is he thinking of the future. Is he aware of their true purpose in life? Can he puzzle out the reason they're here? After all, the turkeys of today are tomorrow's leftovers, right?

One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong. 

When the turkeys are out, Indy can be found in their midst, and when they're in their pen, he can be found napping at the entrance, waiting for them to come out again. In the end, I think he's just having a grand adventure. The chickens have become boring--yesterday's news. The turkeys are new and exciting, and they make weird noises. And dogs love things that run around and make noises. Indy practically worships the ground they walk on.

Like he's worshiping at the temple of turkey. I'll be interesting to see what happens as the birds grow up.

Until the next time...I'll leave you with more pictures of Indy and the turkeys.

just another Sunday in the country

Where to begin?  I suppose the beginning would be the best place.

I woke up to the sound of organs and Prince, as the opening strains of  Let's Go Crazy dragged me from the best dream ever. I lost count as to how many times I hit the snooze button, but when I finally rolled over and opened my eyes, a huge, wet tongue and hot breath was what greeted me. And drool. Did I forget to mention the drool? Where there's a hot, wet tongue, there's always plenty of drool.

Indy waited for me to get out of bed before taking his first morning trip to the yard. This is typical. Only the mommy can take him out. The daddy is not allowed. He may not be capable of speech, but his actions tell the tale. Besides, the daddy (high-tech redneck hubby) was busy cooking up something interesting in the kitchen.

And speaking of that...all I wanted was a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, with Crunch Berries. But instead of lacerating my mouth on my favorite cereal,  I found myself with a steaming plate of stir fried chicken and veggies. And yes, I complained. Because a.) I'm still suffering from PMS and therefore require sugar. And b.) I'd been waiting to open that box of Cap'n Crunch All. Night. Long. Oh, and c.) I don't like chicken thighs...but that's a totally different topic for a different time.

Unfortunately, complaining had to take a backseat to errands, because, little did we know, we had a busy Sunday ahead of us.

You know when you go to the grocery store for one thing, and end up spending hundreds of dollars and walking out without the ONE THING you went in there for?  yeah...that.

We needed a wire for the pig trailer. Just a wire. But as we were just about to head out the door, we discovered one of our indoor chicks had died. This was the second one from that batch in two weeks. This meant we needed to swing by the feed store and discuss dead birds. This was the first of many detours.

Lord of the dance? 

We bought chicken medicine and set out to buy the wire. But wait, we forgot we needed to get milk. Detour number two...the farm store. This was a most delightful stop along the way. The farm had new baby goats, and I took my time playing with them as they danced on a table for me. Then I just had to stop off and say hi to the cows...and the horse...and the lady behind the counter inside. Forty-five minutes, and two gallons of milk, later we were heading back toward home, chattering on about how we HAD to get some goats next.

But it was a hot day, and I was thirsty. Lucky for us, the Cartecay Vineyards was right on our way home.

And another forty-five minutes, and five wine tastings later, I stumbled out of the winery to the car. Yes, I know...all five of those tastings only adds up to one regular glass of wine, but need I remind you of my champion lightweight status? No, I didn't think so. But after that, I was REALLY thirsty, and singing the wrong lyrics to songs I barely know, so HTRH stopped at the first farmer's market we passed so I could get a soda and snacks.  

Picking veggies is serious business. 

Thirty minutes and three fried pies, one apple cider donut, a Diet Coke, and a basket of fruits and veggies later, we were back in the car headed toward home.  

We passed a few antique shops with the intention of stopping in, but they were all closed by the time we drove by. Then we made the familiar turn onto the road that leads to home. 

That's when hubby realized we'd forgotten to get the wire.  

We pulled into Mercier's Orchard to turn around. Mercier's has the absolute BEST deli in the area, so of course, we had to stop and have an early dinner...it was about that time, after all. 

An hour later, we pulled into the auto parts store to buy the wire. Which, as it turns out, we didn't actually need to fix the trailer.  

Isn't that always the way? 

Until the next time...I'll be taking the last two pigs to the big freezer in the sky.

IDP talks PMS

High-tech Redneck Hubby here (formerly known as the Imaginary Dead President or IDP, a name I neither sanctioned, nor appreciated, but I digress.) Not that I'm excited about being named after a George Jones song, but when it's that or Mr. Lincoln, I err on the side of The Possum.

Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about names. I came here with a warning. But before I get to that, I'd better explain. And since the wife is not exactly herself tonight, you're stuck with me.

7:35 pm - I entered the residence after a long day at the office to find an eerie calm. Not even the dogs greeted me at the door. The scent of home cooking hit me the minute my feet cleared the threshold, but there was no sign of my wife. Never a good thing.

7:40 pm -  I turned off the fire on the skillet of Sloppy Joe bubbling away on the unattended stove, sauce splattering every nearby surface. Then I followed a trail of empty candy wrappers to the living room where I discovered my wife, the writer, curled into the fetal position on the sofa, hair sticking up in all directions and mumbling something about  chocolate. I approached slowly, using the list of soothing words she'd put on the refrigerator for just such an occasion, but stopped cold as her eyes met with mine.

7:50 - Watched with growing trepidation as my wife bounced restlessly in a chair, whispering curses at her temporary laptop, eying me ever few minutes as if she could burn a hole in my very soul with a single look. Then as if I hadn't heard her voice in ages, she spoke. "We need to go to Walmart." Perfect. The one place in a fifty mile radius where a homicidal female might not stand out in a crowd.

8:30 pm - After a quiet thirty minute drive where I'd deluded myself into thinking things might work out ok, we arrived at our destination and I realized how very wrong I was. The minute we walked through the sliding doors, my wife began her assault on a pair of shopping carts that had gotten tangled up together. The pure evil oozing from her eyes was enough to turn my blood cold, but like a fox in a trap, I couldn't leave. Using my list of soothing words, yet again, I wrested the carts from her white-knuckled grasp and untangled them, carefully pushing a free cart in front of her like a peace offering.

The people of Walmart were clueless as to how close they were to meeting their end as my wife drove the cart through the aisles, growling under her breath about things like sharpies and chalk outlines. I pretended she was talking about markers and chalk boards, but let's face it...that was as far from the truth as I could get.

9:00 pm - Our cart was filled with more junk than Fred Sanford's backyard. Chips, candy, cheese dip, and three huge boxes of sugary breakfast cereal. I wanted to tell her how bad those things were for her health, but feared for my own if I opened my mouth. I simply kept my thoughts to myself and reveled in the fact that I managed to toss a few screen wipes for my laptop and a new 16GB USB flash drive into the cart without her noticing. Her vocabulary had been reduced to mere grunts and growls as she pointed to each thing I should put in the cart, and like the dutiful husband, I complied with each one.

9:16 pm - We made it out of Walmart alive. More importantly, we made it out without anyone else dying. There were a few close calls (namely the woman who refused to move her cart out of the aisle as we attempted to go down it, and the woman who engaged us in a random conversation about her cat while we walked down the pet aisle looking for a new collar for one of our dogs.)  Once we were safely in the car, I gave her a candy bar and pulled my fingers away before I lost one. The night was still young, and the evil was still coursing through her like the mighty Mississippi.

9:30 pm - I made one last stop before heading into the semi-dry county we live in. The liquor store. I know there are drugs out there specifically designed to combat the effects of PMS, but since I had no clue what those might be, and feared for my life if I fell asleep before she did, I went with my gut. After an encouraging smile from the wife, I picked up a bottle of berry flavored vodka, a liter of Sprite, and a sippy cup (what can I say, it's Georgia) and drove as fast as I dared to get home. 

10:59 pm - One drink. Scratch that. One half a drink later and the savage beast has officially been soothed. I'm not sure if it was the liquor or the bag of Hershey's kisses, but either way, I think I have successfully navigated another month and another Ultra-High Red Alert.  If nothing else, I hope I've managed to warn others who may not be aware of the tips and tricks of traveling down that slippery slope of life with a wife. Let's just hope I have fair warning next month too.

Until the next time...I'll be making myself one of those drinks before bed. 

the scoop

Do you remember that scene in Toy Story when Buzz and Woody got stuck in the game with the little aliens and the claw? I'll refresh your memory here... 

So, back to my story.

I was reminded of this scene today, when I went out to feed the turkeys . We've been allowing them to roam a little during the day. You know, enjoy the scenery, forage for bugs, bask in the sunshine.

"Ahhh...the scoop!" 

But when I stepped off the porch at lunchtime carrying the giant green scoop filled with turkey feed, they all came flocking to me like bugs to a windshield. I was inundated by turkeys squawking and flapping wings until they all sat at my feet and got quiet, each of them gaping up at me with their homely little faces, in apparent awe of the green scoop. It immediately made me think of those little green aliens in Toy Story.

Especially after I poured out the food and instead of rushing to their meal, they continued to wonder at the empty plastic receptacle. I could almost hear them, "Ahhhh, the scoop. The scoop is our master."

But that's just crazy. Turkeys can't talk, right? 

Until the next time...I'll be listening to talking turkeys. 

why the world needs godzilla

Yes, I've said this before. But some things just bear repeating.  And I hold to my original sentiments. I think the world needs Godzilla as much now as the first time I said it. So, I'm going to say it again...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1-900-blog

No, I haven't suddenly embraced the dark side. I haven't made some crazy life changing decision that will horrify and embarrass my family. And I haven't taken up new hobbies that I can't post about on Facebook or Twitter. No, those are definitely things I haven't done.  

What I did do? I brought up the topic during a tense discussion at home. I suggested there was a way I could "earn my keep" since being a writer isn't the most profitable profession at the moment. But I certainly didn't think I'd actually deliver on this thinly veiled threat.

The truth of the matter is I'm tired of feeling like an unequal partner. I'm tired of feeling like I don't contribute equally to the household. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do to rectify the situation when you compare apples to apples, or dollars to dollars as the case may be. I'm doomed to an eternity with the words "starving artist" tattooed to my forehead.

The problem is, people are forever making the assumption that being a published author means you're rolling in royalties, but the truth is usually quite the opposite. Having a few books under your belt doesn't always add up to much of anything in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not enough to compete with some of the other fields out there. Oh sure, I have high hopes...but that's all they are right now. Hopes. Dreams. Delusions of grandeur.

In the end, I still don't measure up to the requisite expectations. And maybe I never will. And maybe I'm ok with that. Maybe it's not all about the money. Just maybe seeing your name printed across the bottom of a book, and seeing that book get amazing reviews is compensation enough.

Until the next time...I'll be writing. 

pigs gone wild

I always knew it was a bad idea to get pigs. Ok, so maybe that's a lie. I didn't know.  But I had an idea. Sure they were cute little things with their pink bellies and flat noses, but something told me they weren't going to stay that way. Something told me from day one we were in over our heads. Five baby pigs would grow into five huge hogs. Five destructive baconators, hell bent on destroying fields, fences, and lives.

And then there were two... 

After the high tech redneck hubby (formerly known as IDP) and I took the first group of pigs to the giant freezer in the sky, I felt like a little weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Our pigs had enjoyed life to the fullest. I felt no guilt about that. And finally, I could breathe a little easier knowing we wouldn't have to chase the little troublemakers around anymore when they escaped. And let's face it they were experts at jail breaks.

Then, just a week before the last two would take their final ride, they staged one last prison break for old time's sake. 

What a dirty little piggy! 

We were gone for the day, of course... somehow pigs just know. But when we returned home later that afternoon, our neighbor quickly flagged us down to let us know our pigs had made a break for it not long after we set out on our day trip. They'd made passes through every yard from here to the end of the block, tearing up every inch of turf in their paths.  When they got bored with that, they headed for the road.

Sadly, it was another missed opportunity for my imaginary reality TV film crew.  From what I understand, it was like an episode of Pigs Gone Wild. I almost wish I'd been here to see the cars swerving and skidding into ditches. I can only imagine the sounds of horns blaring and people screaming as two giant pigs left a trail of destruction in their wake. But I have a really good imagination.

And I got to listen to my neighbor (code name: Mr. Kravitz) tell me all about it. I'm pretty sure they hate us.

And the pigs? Oh, they eventually came back, covered in mud from noses to tails. Let's just say a bag of cracked corn and an orange bucket can work miracles. As for me...I'm counting down the days until the last two pigs become bacon.  Sure, I'll miss them...a little. Life won't be nearly as exciting without them. But I think I can live without a little excitement for a change.

Until the next time...I'll be making room in the freezer. 

hide and seek

Chickens are funny creatures. Mine have taken over my front porch. But as I've said before, I can hardly blame them. They've witness murder on the back porch. They're not dumb birds...they know the front porch is covered, and secluded, and safe from predators. Ok, this may be an illusion, but so far they've been right. If I could only convince them they're safe in the coop. Then maybe I'd be able to find the eggs.

In the past few weeks, my chickens have been playing hide and seek with their eggs. Only one out of many is laying eggs in the coop. One is laying in the flower pot on the porch, and one is laying behind the condenser unit outside. The rest? Who knows...

Well, I know. Today, anyway. We finally discovered their hiding place, and man, was it a doozy. We found almost two dozen eggs hiding in a poison ivy patch near one of the giant oak trees. It took the hubby a while to cut back the ivy (carefully) to expose the eggs. Then we collected them, washed them, and put them on to boil. You just can't be too careful with poison ivy. Or wayward chickens.

Now that this spot has been discovered, who knows where they'll hide them next. You'd think it was Easter or something. 

Until the next time...I'll be making a big batch of egg salad! 

vampire for a day

I tend to joke about my ghostly complexion, comparing myself to a vampire, but I'm not really a vampire. I don't sleep in a coffin, drink blood, or burn when exposed to the sun. I mean...wait...I do burn when exposed to the sun. In fact, I burn a  lot when exposed to the sun...even when slathered in my SPF 100, vampire protection level sunscreen.

Yesterday, I was tasked to take my daughter to downtown Atlanta, ironically enough, to be an extra on the Vampire Diaries, TV show. So, after I dropped her off at one in the afternoon, I decided to go visit with some old friends/family while I was in town.

But this is me we're talking about. Things can never be that easy. Just about everyone was either working, sick, or on the other side of town. So after a quick lunch and a shopping trip with my niece--including a heart racing scavenger hunt to find my purse after I left it somewhere in the store--I fled the sunshine for a darkened movie theater.

My daughter expected to finish shooting around nine that night, so as soon as the movie let out, I made my way back through the nighttime traffic into the belly of Atlanta.

There's something totally different about driving in a big city at night than driving in the day. I got lost. Waayyy lost. Several wrong turns, multiple detours, and too many panic attacks later, I found myself in the scariest neighborhood I've ever been in. At. Night.  

Thanks to a GPS app that was obviously designed by the writers of The Hangover, I'd wandered into an alternate reality...a gritty crime drama movie where the stereotypes were running rampant all around me. But trust me when I say, I wasn't laughing. I was too busy controlling my breathing and making up new swear words. I locked my doors, and ran every stop sign...terrified I was going to get carjacked if I as much as slowed down...all the while, cursing the voice on my GPS for guiding me to this part of town.

I couldn't read the screen without my glasses, but I can't drive with them on, so I was doomed to listen to the disembodied voice and her wild goose chase. I was suddenly surrounded by what looked like extras in an episode of The Walking Dead.   

The GPS continued shouting out directions, constantly redirecting me when I refused to drive down dark, secluded street after street, until finally, I'd reached my destination.  I'd never been more delighted to see scary men in Kevlar vests in my whole life. The security team for the Vampire Diaries shoot kept me company in the dark parking lot for the next two hours while I waited for my daughter to finish filming.

By two am, just as my bladder reached critical mass and I was trying to figure out how I was going to maneuver the empty McDonald's cup into position so I could pee into it, I got the phone call telling me she was done. Hurray! Now we just had to escape the city and tackle the two hour drive home. With one last detour--a clean bathroom.

But hey, it's all in a day's work, right? 

Until the next time...I'll be catching up on my sleep.

a dramatic reading

The BAFTA.  The Academy Award.  So few individuals have won either that I
feel obliged to point out that I have won both. 
 
Am I proving a point?  Or merely bragging?
 
Obviously I’m proving a point.  And the point is this:
 
The greatest villain in Disney history.  The greatest hero in Italian.  A dragon-mastering wizard.  The only man to outwite John McClane.  Some guy in that book by Evelyn Waugh. 
 
These are just a smattering of the
challenging, life-changing roles that I have played.  But no role has been MORE challenging (or
life-changing) than that posed to me by the fine individuals at the Red Adept Novels
Publication House.
 
Yes, as an actor I am constantly
challenging myself to evolve.  To
adapt.  To improve.  To master the craft to which I have attached
myself with a workhorse-like dedication.
 
That’s why I chose to take on the most
difficult role of my career: Katie James.  A young, American, female banker who finds herself getting in over her
head in a way such that she may wish she had the magical powers of Profian or
the political acumen of Alexander VI.
 
Sadly, she is possessed of
neither.  But today, through the power of
audio recording, she is possessed of my BAFTA (and Oscar) winning voice. 
 
Please, enjoy my rendition of TO KATIE
WITH LOVE, if for nothing else, then for the estate of Evelyn Waugh.
 
Sincerely,
 
SIR Jeremy Irons
 
Dictated, but not read
 
Sussex County Seat, July the Twenty-Third,
Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Thirteen

Disclaimer: Today's blog and dramatic reading is courtesy of fellow Red Adept Publishing author (and frequent guest) Stephen Kozeniewski NOT actor Jeremy Irons. I figured you already knew that, but since I'm not a fan of getting sued, I thought I should be clear. The audio presentation is a skillful interpretation of what chapter one of To Katie With Love would sound like if actor Jeremy Irons actually DID read it. Which he didn't. But we like to pretend. We're writers.

Get your copy of To Katie With Love today at Amazon.com for Kindle or in paperback. Also available for Nook from BN.com as well as select retailers.

murder on the farm

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the anguished crow sounded from the side yard. I lifted my head from the pillow to listen. My husband did the same.

"What was that?" I asked, as I struggled to focus on the clock. "It sounded a lot like a turkey."

"No, that sounded like Chester!" My husband bolted out of bed, grabbing his pants and boots on his way to the back door, calling out to me as he went. "I think the fox might have gotten him." 

I hurried into my own boots to follow him, but we were too late. We found Chester crumpled in the tall grass, his breathing labored and his neck broken. All but dead, with no hope of survival.  

This was no fox attack. No self-respecting fox would leave such a mouthwatering meal uneaten. This was the work of an unknown ninja attacker.  Poor, poor Chester.

Once Chester's last breath had been taken, we said a few words over his body.

"Should we go ahead and pluck him?" My husband asked.

My mouth dropped open and I stared at him. "Pluck him? What do you mean, pluck him?" 

He shrugged. "Well, we might as well eat him." 

There was no way I was eating that bird. He had just fought off an attacker in the yard. An attacker bound and determined to kill as many chickens as it could. He saved all but one, but suffered a mortal wound in the process.

Chester was a hero. A hero deserving of a eulogy.

Chester A Rooster

Sometime in 2010 or 2011 - July 22, 2013

Devoted husband, father, and friend

Chester A. Rooster was born in captivity. For much of his young life, he knew nothing outside of the small pen he was housed in. He didn't know how to beg for bread, didn't know how forage for bugs and grasses, in fact, he knew very little. But after we took him in, he quickly found his gift. His lush golden feathers and sweet demeanor easily made him the favorite of the hens on the farm. He made friends with the ducks (before the fox ate them) and even befriended the pigs.

In fact, it wasn't uncommon to find Chester perched on the back of one of the pigs for the night. There were times when he spent weeks on end in the pig pen. Oh sure, it was mostly because he forgot how to get out once he'd gotten in, but that didn't seem to dampen his spirits at all. All the way to the end, he was a kindhearted, dingbat of a bird.

Chester is survived by three wives--Henrietta, Henny Penny, and Mrs. McGillicuddy. He was the father to ten children--Lucy, Maude, the late Ethel (also lost to a possible ninja garden gnome) Biscuit, Buffy, Lucy 2, and three as yet unnamed daughters. He will also be missed by several other chickens, two pigs (until next week when they go to the big freezer in the sky) and thirteen turkeys (that never actually met him, but would have loved him if they had.) Taking over from Chester will be Siegfried and Roy, our two young Aseel roosters. They may be fighting game cocks, but they're as docile as Chester, and only half as brave. They have their work cut out for them if they want to fill his...um...feet?

Also lost in the early morning melee was one of our prized Silver Dorking hens. She didn't have a name (they all sort of look a like) but she had a sweet personality. She, and her eggs, will be missed. 

If we could have just a moment of silence for the dead. 

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for a new rooster.