Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 7, 2023

All the Furs and Feathers by Eileen O'Finlan

 

I am super excited to annouce the release of my new novel, All the Furs and Feathers Book 1 in the Cat Tales series!

All the Furs and Feathers is the story of two cat sisters, Smokey and Autumn Amelia. Smokey is an architect working for Fluffington ArCATechture. Autumn Amelia is a chef savant. When Smokey get the assignment of her dreams to design Faunaburg's first ever cat park, she quickly realizes it could turn into her worst nightmare. The land parcel for the park is adjacent to Rodent Way. Given the long-standing animosity between felines and rodents this can only spell trouble. She'll need the help of her adorably quirky sister to convince the rodents that the cats' good intentions are for real.

I'm often asked what age group best suits All the Furs and Feathers. Middle graders and up would certainly understand and enjoy it. However, I actually wrote it with adults in mind. Several years ago I was a member of an online community where all participants were cats. Each member's cat had its own page with pictures and a link to that cat's diary if they chose to keep one. The cats could all friend each other, send each other virtual gifts, and message each other. Very popular were the threads in which cats got together for virtual parties, trips, games, and weddings. Most of the humans behind the cats were adults. And we had a blast! Some folks who were good at photoshop would put the cats in clothes and include pictures of them in the threads. My Smokey even got married on the site. It was these people I had in mind as I wrote the story. So, while I will be thrilled to hear that kids are enjoying the book, I am also very gratified by the many adults I've heard from who are delighting in it as well.

If you're wondering what a cat wedding is like, here's a picture of Smokey's:

Thursday, September 9, 2021

Nobody likes a Shady Beach by Vanessa Hawkins

 

  Vanessa Hawkins Author Page


So every month I say I'm going to get a head start on this blog so's alls I gotta do is sit back and eat Cheetos on the 8th, and every month here I am, arse in chair, struggling to figure out what I could possibly write to inspire/entertain my small train of followers who are now used to being disappointed in me...
Deep inhale... she'll get it right eventually...

But this time allow me to let you know why I am late. This time I actually have an excuse, believe it or not... I was on vacation! My family and I went to PEI which, if you are unfamiliar with Atlantic Canada, means Prince Edward Island. It's a small province east of New Brunswick, home to red 
sandy beaches, lots of potatoes as well as hay bales the size of three cows tipped together.

Hay there!


We stayed in a cottage somewhere within the middle of nowhere, saw beach goats and had a grand ol' time with family. At one point I think there was a bonfire, and we did go see Ripley's Believe it or Not, but honestly I thought the attraction was pretty... uh, well... BELIEVEABLE to say the least.  

Sorry Ripley...

The real horror story was when I found three spiders, an earwig and one beetle from dimension enormous in the bathroom over the course of a few days. Also, when I was packing, I had one spider--not included in aforementioned army of nasty cottage bugs--run over my leg in its desperate attempt to flee the premises. I actually went to bed thinking of it that night... I have spider PTSD... 

It's a joke!

But despite the mental AND emotional anguish of fending off so many minibeasts, Prince Edward Island was a fun time. I brought my spawn, who got to see her cousins for the first time, and despite being a Covid baby she was NOT super awkward around other human beings that she hadn't had the fortune of meeting before. Success! And what a heartwarming sight! My cardiovascular unit at least tripled in weight and height before it leapt up out of my throat at the sight of the beetle from big town...



So all in all, a good trip and WITHOUT having to take any... uh... medical grade enhancers... *ahem keep it kid friendly, Vanessa...* 

Wait... if you knew you were going on vacation why didn't you just plan in advance and write the blog a bit EARLIER in preparation for the intended time away? If you were any sort of decent human being with even a MODICUM of forethought, you would have prepared SOMETHING for those people who continue to drag themselves through your hastily scrawled drivel every month! How do you expect to ever make it as a writer if you can't even commit to THAT? How do you expect people to keep putting up with you? How do you--


And so did those Cavendish potatoes... Till next time!

Friday, July 9, 2021

Why Write Fan Fiction When You Could Write Something that REALLY Blows? by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page


Get it? Blows... if not then read the title again, and strap in for a punderful time with your favorite fun-loving blogger/extrovert, needs-to-get-out-in-the-sun-more, weirdo. 

I know, I know... I only have one... and it's in my room.

So for those of you who don't know what fan fiction is, allow me to explain. Fan fiction is when you watch the first four seasons of Supernatural, realize that the subsequent seasons suck and Dean is obviously meant to be with Castiel, and finally after a stupid amount of time writing alternate realities in your mind, you post these alternate realities--which are obviously better and why the producers of the show didn't contact me about my ideas, I'll never know-- on the internet. 

Did you catch that? No? Okay... how about this!


Though I must admit I never actually posted my fan fiction on the internet, in retrospect I'm glad I didn't. It was entirely the fault of dial-up, mind you--the age old tradition of using one's phone line to obtain a crappy internet connection. But it was enough to keep my alternate ideas away from the public eye or becoming something like Fifty Shades. 

Yes, that's right. I'm old. PlayStation 1 old...

There's a PlayStation 5 now?!

Also yes, Fifty Shades started out as a fan fiction... and yes... UGH! I still hate it.

So, I'm not saying that fan fiction is lame. I mean a lot of it is... and a lot of it's just smutty bullhump that some people like ejaculating online, *COUGH!* E. L. James **COUGH COUGH!** but not all of it's bad! I promise! In fact, my first foray into writing fanfics--that's a little word we pros like to use to seem like we know a thing or two--was definitely what got me on the path to published writer bliss! And despite my fan fiction being anything BUT cool, it was practice, and practice makes perfect...

or at least it made me a less crappy writer...

Ahem! You weren't supposed to laugh at that...

But my point--and yes I sometimes DO have one--is that although fan fiction is a self-indulgent mess that we love developing and getting into, sometimes we ought to turn off Pornhub, go out into the world, and find a human being by ourselves that we can love and cherish and make ours forever and ever and ever!

Buffalo Bill gets what I'm sayin'!

I mean, copyright aside, I'd be cool with peeps writing fan fiction of MY work. It meant I had a fan! But then again, I'm not so sure I'd recommend any aspiring writer to get one foot in the door by doing that unless you want to change pretty much everything to avoid lawsuits. 

Did you know Christian Gray was really Edward Cullen? Did you know what's-her-face was really Bella Swan? E. L. James proves that anything can be possible! But I wouldn't bank on those re-written fanfic bucks just yet...

In fact, some writer's vehemently oppose it. Look at ol' George...

We would the blog be without George? 

He believes that it's a bad route to being a professional writer. Build your own worlds and characters! he says! I tend to agree with him... though I also agree actually finishing what you started to write is good advice too... *hint hint George* 

So! I guess the moral of the story is: Write Fan Fiction! Make bucks! But be sure to change just enough around so Lionel Huts doesn't come knocking at your door...                                                                                                Or!--the alternative--Don't Write Fan Fiction! Don't even finish your series! Make bucks! Sell out and help produce a great series on HBO that ends like a blind date with bad breath. 
Yes... I signed the Game of Thrones Petition...

And no, I have no idea what I'm doing. No one does. At least that's what I tell myself at night to feel better. 

Just do you and have fun so later you can go back to crying over your manuscript in peace...

Where are my fan fiction or didn't finish my work in progress BUCKS? *cries*






 





Friday, April 9, 2021

Covering Up!

So as the title and the picture suggests, I have received my new cover image for my upcoming novel Ballroom Riot! Isn't it pretty? Don't you just want to hold it in your hands and admire all art deco involved? 
Assuredly not... But one can dream

Don't you? DON'T YOU?!

Ahem...

Our cover designer Michelle does an amazing job in working with the authors of Books We Love Publishing to ensure our literary vision is presented with the best cover art imaginable... and believe me, we're writers! We imagine up some pretty strange stuff sometimes...

Believe me folks, get a cover designer.
Not even Stephen King could sell
a book with a cover page as terrible
as this....

  
In fact, this isn't even the first image she's done for me. She also did the design work on The Curious Case of Simon Todd, another book I wrote and published with Books We Love back in 2018.


In the grand scheme of things, book covers are pretty important. We've all heard the old adage of don't judge a book by its cover, but sticks and stones break bones and names hurt too, dammit! So not every maxim is true 100% of the time. 

This is why every good book needs an amazing image to covey the general theme of the plot or main characters within. I mean, unless you're a big wig author like George R. R. Martin or Dean Koontz... then you're name's probably enough... Right?

When's Winds of Winter coming out
George? Huh?! WHEN, GEORGE!?

But assuming you aren't famous yet, and if you are, Hey! How about an endorsement? Then your name broadcasted in the middle of the page isn't likely going to cut it. Unless you're name's Isa Goodread or something. 

This means research is needed. What makes a good cover? In my humble opinion less is usually more. I tend to focus on a few key elements that encompass the story. Take Ballroom Riot for example. There is a girl, a dragon and some stylistic elements that hearkens back to... say the 1920's? 

A reader should know by a glance the general themes they will encounter in the story. If it's too busy, or there are too many images, the point can become lost. Remember, you're competing for attention out there. You don't want your amazing story overshadowed by sexy Fabio with his shirt off, do you? 

Honestly... this image is 
still too busy for my taste.
Well maybe you do, but unless you can go back in time and contract young Fabio to pose for your amazingly written romance, readers will be drawn to the main elements you authors seek to showcase. 

Give them an interesting focal point. If they are into naked men, and your story is about naked men, give them a half naked man! But don't surround him with a myriad of other stuff we don't care about! 

...or at least, don't care about as much as we care about naked men... 

Don't get me wrong. We don't want to entice the wrong audience. We don't want to mislead the reader. We want to pull them in at a glance and make them pick up the book
Gimme that cold, hard cash, baby!

Then they can read the blurb at the back, see if it's their cup of tea, and hand over that sweet, sweet money... 

Sure! There's a market for busy images. But unless your Waldo, or know somebody like him, I'd strongly recommend sitting down, having a think, and figuring out a few choice themes your book is about and how best to showcase them on the front cover.  

Don't forget about colors and fonts! Or your sexy little author name somewhere where we can all see it and be proud of you! Talk it over with a cover designer too. Again: having someone like Michelle is a Godsend. You definitely won't regret it.   

I'm proud of you and find your story a-peeling!

 






 

Thursday, October 1, 2020

Make Believe World

 



I live in a make-believe world. Okay, not literally, but vicariously through my characters.  I decide where they live, name their towns, or sometimes I let them live in a real city/town.  I prefer small towns, maybe because I’ve always wanted to live in one. I especially like towns with Victorian houses and apparently so do my characters, because I use them a lot.  I often say I must have lived during the Victorian area, probably as a mean old nanny. I’m sure I wasn’t the lady of the house, and by house I mean mansion. Queen Anne Victorian homes are my favorite. I love the round turrets, all the gingerbread, and wrap around porches. It was always my dream to buy one and restore it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be and I’m past the point of wanting one now.

Back to my make-believe world. I’d like to say I choose my characters, but truthfully, they choose me.  Sometimes I even get to name them, but if they don’t like the name, well believe me, they misbehave until I change it. And, yes, that’s happened several times. Just because I like a name doesn’t mean they do. The last time it happened it wasn’t even a main character. She was only in the story for a short time, but boy was she stubborn. She refused to talk to me and anything I wrote was garbage, better known as dreck in the writing world.

As I’ve said previously, I write many different of genres, from Women’s Fiction to Romance to Mystery and even Paranormal. Most of my books are a combination of romance and another genre. As a reader, I’ve always favored mystery and romance, so it only made sense to combine them.  Mine would be classified as cozy mysteries; the gory stuff takes place off scene.

 I also love ghost stories – not evil mean ghosts though. One such story is Shadows in the Attic and another Time to Love Again. I’ve always been fascinated by ESP, hence my story Entangled Minds,

My character’s ages range from their mid-twenties to middle age and into their seventies. Yes, seniors need love, too. Geriatric Rebels is a favorite.  It’s fun working with different characters, and I especially like when they add a bit of humor. I really form an attachment to them. Once a character chooses me, I make a character worksheet so I know everything about them, not just what they look like.

I love creating my characters, picking their careers, anything from housewife, authors, teachers, floral designers, and interior designers. Sometimes their careers play a part in the story, sometimes not. The character in my work in progress (WIP in the writer’s world) is a former teacher. It’s not a big part of the story, but it’s something I needed to know. She’s a real character in the true sense of the word. She came into being in a previous story, All in the Family. It started out with her having a small part, but Aunt Beatrice Lulu (ABLL) grew into a big part of the story. Once I finished that book, she popped up again and demanded her own book. Problem is, she takes fits and goes into hiding every so often, which is where she’s at right now and has been for some time. Sometimes she pops up for days of writing. Other times, I get a paragraph or two. I’ve never had a character do that before.

Oh, I’ve had writer’s block a time or two, but once I’m over it the writing flows. Not so with ABLL.

  It’s also fun describing my characters, their hair and eye color, height, even their weight. I’m often asked if I’m a plotter or punster. I tried plotting once and ended up blocked for almost two years. For me plotting doesn’t work. I usually know the beginning and end of my stories. What happens in the middle is as much a surprise to me as it is to my readers. ABLL is full of surprises. What that woman doesn’t get into. So even though she goes into hiding, it’s generally worth it when she reappears. I’m not sure where she came from, but I’m sure enjoying working with her. Okay, I’ll be honest, a little bit of her is me, a little bit my sisters, and even my mother. She’s a combination of all the people I love and it’s so much fun living in her make-believe world.

You can find all of my books here.

Wednesday, April 8, 2020

9-1-1 by J. S. Marlo



Aside from staying home and eating too much, I've been painting my bathrooms and babysitting my five-year old granddaughter whose parents need to work. Every day, my granddaughter gets virtual homework from her kindergarten teacher, which is really cool, but I've also been teaching her other things, among them how or when to call 9-1-1.

She's known for years how to unlock my phone, so I told her there was a special number to call in case of emergency. Then, I made sure she understood what an emergency was:

- Grand-maman dropping a full gallon of paint from the top of her ladder is a catastrophe, but NOT an emergency.

- Grand-maman falling from the top of her ladder and not being able to get up is an emergency.

 So, what's the first question she asked me: why did they pick THAT number, grand-maman?

Good question, I thought. I did some research and stumbled on an article written on February 16, 2017 in the Smithsonian Magazine about a 9-1-1 festival.

 "On this day in 1968, a phone rang in the police station of Haleyville, Alabama. But unlike all the days before, the caller—Alabama Speaker of the House Rankin Fite, who was not in an emergency situation—didn’t dial the local police number.

He dialed 911, a three-digit number that would go down in local and national history.

The idea for a universal emergency phone number didn’t start in Haleyville, a town of fewer than 5,000 inhabitants that was dry until 2010. It started with a 1957 recommendation from the National Association of Fire Chiefs, writes Carla Davis for the Alabama News Center.
Their recommendation was prompted by a serious problem, she writes: before 911, anyone who needed emergency help had to figure out if they needed the fire department, the police, or medical help, and then call the appropriate local number. Not easy to do when someone is bleeding, a baby is being born, or the building’s on fire.

It took more than a decade before the fire chiefs’ recommendation was put into effect, Davis writes. Haleyville came into the picture when the president of the Alabama Telephone Co., an independent telephone company, fought to have his company launch the new system.

The call was picked up at the police station on a special red phone, wrote Hoyt Harwell for the Associated Press on 911’s 25th anniversary in 1993. At the receiving end of the call was Congressman Tom Bevill, Alabama’s longest-serving congressman—who was still in office when Harwell interviewed him 25 years after that first call.

Haleyville still celebrates the event that put it on the map with an annual 911 Festival."

So, why 9-1-1? These are the major reasons why AT&T chose the number 9-1-1 in 1968:

- because it was short & simple
- because it was easy to remember
- because it was quick & easy to dial
- because of the middle 1, which indicated a special number that worked well with the phone systems in place at the time.

That being said, 9-1-1 is an emergency number used mostly in North America (Canada, USA, Mexico). In Europe, you would dial 1-1-2 in case of emergency.  And in Australia, 0-0-0.

Here are some funny and disturbing (and hopefully false) 9-1-1 calls:

Female caller: There are alligators in the river.

9-1-1 operator: Yes ma’am, this is Florida.

Female caller: But my kids play and swim in that river.

9-1-1 operator: Why do you let your kids play and swim in alligator infested waters?


Stay safe. Hugs!
JS


 

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

The Treadmill is my Enemy by Stuart R. West

Great to read while on the treadmill!
I hate the treadmill. Yet I try and get on it three to four times a week. Obviously I must be some sort of masochist, because, honestly, how else do you explain how something so horrendous is supposed to be good for you? Pure agony.

Whoever said exercise is good for you is a huge liar.
Every morning I wake up, knowing I should exercise. "Just five more minutes," I tell myself. It's particularly hard to rouse on those dark Winter and Fall mornings when the only ones up are insomniac serial killers and vampires. Yet, eventually, I get up.

You know, the magical number of "50" is usually a milestone to be celebrated. The human body, on the other hand, has very different ideas. If there's a party being thrown, it's purely a pity party, the body mocking its host all the way to the grave. It's like one of those charts detailing the state of our economy; the one with the arrow plummeting down into the red zone.

Anyway, after twenty to thirty minutes on the "monster machine," I'm done. And it's not pretty. Buckets of sweat roll off me. I look like a wet T-shirt contest reject (doubtful I'd garner any votes, but you get my drift--just, um, stay downwind because I smell like canned spam). My heart is galloping to burst through its cage. I'm leaning over the cursed machine, panting, hyperventilating like a pneumatic air compressor. My back hurts. And my knees! Oh, my knees! When I walk, they emit an unhealthy squelching gelatinous sound. I swear it sounds like aliens replaced my kneecaps in the middle of the night with fish bowls.

The worst part? After all this torture, the treadmill's electronic face taunts me, registering joy that I've burned off a mere 100 calories. 100 lousy calories. If I were to eat half of a small donut, I'd break even. Any more food over the day, though, puts me back over the top. The demonic treadmill is laughing at me

You know, there's gotta' be a more pleasant method of exercising. Maybe I'll try yoga. Now...where's that leotard?
I imagine the character Zach loooooves the treadmill!

Sunday, January 19, 2020

The Waiting Game by Stuart R. West

Click for comedy, mystery and murrrrrderrrrrrrr most dumb!
Recently, I encountered surely one of the world's worst waiters at a Mexican restaurant. Let's call him "Nelson (because that was his name)." Combative, non-communicative, just plain bad table etiquette. He mistakenly delivered baked beans instead of refried. My wife told me to let him know about it. No thanks. After the fight he put up over his bringing flour instead of corn tortillas, I didn't want things to escalate to violence. Still, he got the last laugh. When he swept my plate out from under me (without asking), he dropped my knife an inch from my hand. No apologies.
Now I'm no waiter, never have been one, yet I do have empathy for those plying the fine trade of waiting. And, as always, I'm here to help. Hence, Stuart's Easy School of Good Waiting for the low, low price of three $39.99 installments . Order now and you'll receive a free doily.

Waiters, kindly remember these rules:

1) Hairnets. If you have hair like the lunch-lady of my nightmares, hairnets are appreciated. Soup served with croutons and curly black hairs is simply not an option.

2) For God's sake, give me time to take a bite! Overzealous behavior doesn't suit the art of waiting well. Sometimes, before I've even jammed a fork in my mouth, a tip-starved waiter will ask how everything is. And keep coming back. Again and again. It's a weird time-space conundrum. Can't comment until the food's in me. Just...no.

3) Waiters, please don't chortle at a customer's menu selection. It doesn't exactly instill culinary confidence.

4) And do we really need to know your grandmother just passed away? When the waiter starts crying, my appetite starts dying.

5) When I ask what's good, don't respond with a generic shrug and say, "everything." I don't believe you. On the other hand, when a waiter says, "I eat next door," the honesty is appreciated, but gives me pause.

6) Don't be the invisible waiter, the guy who takes an order and vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle. When a different waiter brings out a milk carton with my waiter's visage on it, I know I'm in for an even longer wait.

7) Know your customers. Do I REALLY look like a guy who wants to eat the Kale platter?

8) "Oh, I see someone's hungry."  Well. When a waiter says that, I fire back, "I see someone's hungry for a tip." Puh-leaze.

9) If you're gonna' serve up witty patter, make sure it's at least borderline amusing. And don't deliver your patter like a robot. Bring your material to life. When you bury your face in the order pad, reciting lines like "you say tomat-oh, I say ta-mah-to (and I know you've recited it a kazillion times before)," it makes me wanna' use the steak knife for other purposes. Bad jail-bound purposes.

10) Finally, don't overdo it. When a waiter sits down at my table, drops an arm over my shoulder, jabs a toothpick between his teeth, and says, "You know, I'm not really a waiter...," dessert is definitely off the table.

Gang, the next time you go out to eat, recite these rules upfront to your waiter. Trust me. I'm sure they'll appreciate the advice. Absolutely positive.

What does "waiting" have to do with writing, I hear you ask? Quite a bit, actually. A waiter has to guide his/her customer through an entire meal before any kind of feedback is given (and hopefully a tip). A writer is in the same sort of unknowing vacuum until reviews come out (and hopefully sales).

There will be a test later.

Speaking of waiters, my dunderheaded protagonist of the Zach and Zora comic mystery series isn't exactly a waiter (and maybe the world's a better place for it). No, no, Zach has chosen to study and practice the fine art of "male entertainment dancing." Just, whatever you do, don't call him a "stripper." So gauche.

Click for wacky murder mystery hijinx.

Thursday, December 19, 2019

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Year by Stuart R. West

Warm your holidays up with some chills!

Sing with me, everyone! Huzzah! The holidays are nearly over!

No more fruitcakes (no, no, not the food...that ONE uncle. Yeah, you know which one I'm talking about). Say goodbye to the wrasslin' wranglers of the store aisles, the ones who give soccer players a run for their money. So long to false smiles when you open a box of tighty-whities (I killed the snickers when I threatened to model them). And no more uncomfortable hugs. Especially uncomfortable hugs.

I think I'm the only one who has a problem knowing when to hug. Hugging protocol isn't in my armory. In my family, if you accidentally touch someone, the knee-jerk reaction is to jump like an Olympic kangaroo. Yet, there's my wife's family, the huggin'-est family around. No problem with that, as I love 'em all, truly I do. I think it's nice, actually. So I studied and watched them. Maybe it's an Oklahoma thing, I naively thought.  When the Fed Ex man rang the doorbell, I put what I'd learned into play, welcoming him with a big ol' bear hug.

Well, turns out I still have a bit more to learn.

Anyway, Christmas time. I used to look forward to the holiday. Not so much anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a realist, I'm okay with both.

Several years back, our Christmas was different in many ways. For instance, I only heard the cloying "Santa Baby" song whenever we went shopping. Usually it's a mainstay that digs into your head like a dentist's drill. But on Christmas day, the song of choice seemed to be "Let It Snow,"  a song I loath because the sentiment is treasured only by children and drunk television weathermen. Obviously the singer lives in Florida.

This particular holiday was filled with more than its fair share of excitement, not the particularly good, cozy gather-around-the-fireplace type, either.

A niece I adore decided to get married on December 21st in Midwest Kansas, home of winter blizzards. So, that Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. (my wife's a hard-charger), we set off for Hays, attempting to stay one step ahead of "Storm (I think they named it) Dumbledore." You know, the storm that blew the socks off everyone in the States (Canada, I'm looking at you!).

We got there okay, albeit bleary-eyed, delirious, and pumped up on caffeine and sugar. My daughter woke up in the back seat, yawned, and with a happily contented tone said, "Wow, that trip wasn't so bad." Even though she was 21 at the time, I I still grounded her for life.

BOOM! Flat tire after lunch. 22 degrees outside. (Merry Christmas, everybody!) Freezing, yet determined to show my masculine side, I changed the tire in, say, fifty-five minutes. Much cursing ensued. Icing on the cake? My wife ("accidentally," she says) kicked me in the nose. Grease-stained, sniffing, and broken-nosed, we're just in time for wedding pictures.

The next morning (6:30 a.m. again) I'm dreary and suffering a bad back from the lousy hotel bed. And the ice machine, birthing baby cubes right outside our door, kept us up all night. (Happy Horror-days!) But I pulled up my big-boy britches 'cause it was time to go to Oklahoma to celebrate Christmas with my wife's family. 

At one stretch, the highway was covered with huge chunks and stalactites of snow. It felt like we were four-wheeling (it's a Midwest thing, folks, don't worry about it). And we nearly got stuck in the parking lot of a "Pilot" store getting gas.

And these stores...you know, I never knew there was such a variety of "quick in and out stores." I think we visited them all across the Midwest. There was the aforementioned "Pilot," the downtrodden "Stop-Shop (home of the world's filthiest bathrooms)," numerous "Kum-n-Go's (tee-hee)," and, of course, my personal new favorite discovery, "The Wood Shed." I'm telling you, "The Wood Shed" is Nirvana. It's what the Stuckey's of my childhood used to be. Their logo is great, a Beaver or something glaring at you with googly eyes. When you open the door--just like a carnival funhouse--a ginormous fan blasts you with a ghostly groan and a seriously threatening whirlwind of heat. (While I was waiting for my wife, I amused myself by watching newcomers freak out when they crossed the Barrier of the Damned.)  After you survive tornado alley, a giant blow-up snowman with an evil grin looms over you! Fantastic! And the bathrooms...the glorious, wondrous, old-fashioned, smelly bathrooms with antiquated machines boasting of  mysterious treasures such as "Big Wally" and other enticing sundries. Plus there was a plethora of crap for tourists to get suckered into. Gave me Christmas chills.

Then the trip turned nightmarish. My wife ran over a red squirrel in the highway. His eyes still haunt me. Took me seconds to shake it...

Had a great time with my wife's family. But I was sleep-deprived and loopy the whole time (kinda' like how I was during college). I found myself drifting off on many occasions--taking a Scrooge-like trippy side-trip--looking down on the proceedings as if I'd died or something. Maybe I did for a minute. With a turkey leg in my mouth.

Finally...it was over! And this Christmas shall to come to pass.

Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!

In fact, you know what I think? I think Peculiar County would look mighty nice under a Christmas Tree this year... 
Click For Thrills, Chills, Mystery, Nostalgia, Romance, and Laughs

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

The Dreaded Black (Socks) Friday

More Fun Than Shopping on "Black Friday!"
One Thanksgiving, not too long ago but far, far away from home, I realized I forgot to pack socks. A family member suggested I could borrow socks. Well, no. Thanks, anyway, but, um, no.

Socks are important. They're a crucial component of life. I mean, really, without socks, society would break down into violence. We'd be nothing more than savages without socks.

So, I ventured out, looking for socks on Thanksgiving night, the worst possible time to go sock shopping. Because "Black Friday" has now turned into "Deep, Dark, Blacker Then Black Full-On Week Friday," a week long orgy of no holds barred, sometimes violent, shopping free-for-alls.

At Walmart, folks scrabbled, pushed, screamed and raced toward what they perceived as good deals. The sock aisle was relatively barren, yet the over-all ambience of the store was one of menace. Agonized howls rang out through the aisles--not children, but older folks who should know better. Lines were longer than the wait at the driver's license bureau. Menacing glares were exchanged over the last video game available. Eyes were void of hope, yet full of greed. Sam Walton won this round.
It got me thinking about the true meaning of Thanksgiving. It's an American holiday based on how the Pilgrims gave thanks to the Native-Americans for basically saving their lives. And, of course, we know how well that turned out for the Native-Americans. Greeting card companies and big business want us to forget that little tid-bit. From the depths of a wiped out culture rose a Hallmark moment. Thanksgiving now means familial togetherness and love. We get together with our families for one day, get it all over in one fell swoop and move on with our lives.

Yet...it's come around again. Thanks to Corporate America, Thanksgiving's returned to its roots. Once again, it's about violence and survival of the fittest. Weak shoppers will be trammeled over and forgotten. Those with the strongest stamina, pocketbooks and pepper-spray will persevere, no matter who has squatter rights.

I did come away from my Black Friday experience with socks. It took a helluva' long time. While my feet stink less, I feel like a pawn in the Big Plan Of Things. Next Thanksgiving to protest, I'm going to defiantly wear dirty socks. Join me if you will.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Speaking of disorganized chaos, Boundless Book Reviews calls Murder by Massage: "Chaotic, fun and hilarious." It's book #2 in the ongoing Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Collect 'em all!
Avoid those holiday shopping lines, by clicking!

Tuesday, October 29, 2019

Poop Detail






"Women's work is never done" goes the old saying. Women's work also, seems to me, to be heavily oriented toward cleaning up stuff that comes out of other people (or pets) in one form or another. Tina Faye told Jerry Seinfeld on a recent "coffee date" that at her house "I am in charge of feces." 

I burst out laughing when I heard that, as it's all too familiar to me, and, I'm sure, to women everywhere. At least, familiar to the kind of ordinary women who don't have servants.
Back in baby days, I was the caregiver--as the task is now called. Husband at work, Mom at home, that's the way it was for some years. I cooked, cleaned, washed dishes and clothes and wiped away spit-up and freshened adorable baby butts--which become far less adorable when they are covered in you know what and need a good wash and dry before you can begin to contemplate putting a diaper back on. In the meantime, the boys might also send a high pressure jet across the room, a hazard I (an infant care novice) learned about the hard way.

These days it's just the usual housework--babies and their cute butts are long gone from my life--but that doesn't mean my woman's work poop detail has ended. There are still bathrooms and more particularly toilets that require not-that-pleasant close up work. As I scrub, I often remember working as a waitress long ago in a little restaurant where we had to clean the bathrooms after closing. The ladies who didn't sit could make quite a mess. The gentlemen's room, though, could be extra special sometimes, despite a sign over the hopper which admonished: "We aim to please. YOU AIM TOO PLEASE." 
Long ago

Besides human clean up, there's cat clean up too, at our house. We have three cats, all indoor these days, for their safety and for the safety of the local chipmunks, squirrels, moles and birds. There are other outside cats around here devouring everything in sight, but at least my three are no longer part of the general extermination. Our newest, Tony, is a small healthy young cat, but, I swear, this guy counts as at least two cats when it comes to his box filling abilities. I may miss days at the gym, but as long as I have to lug kitty litter into the house and then back out again on a daily basis, I think I'm nevertheless keeping up with my weight lifting.



Whenever I'm inclined to feel sorry for myself, I tell myself to imagine what the "good old days" must have been like for women. Today, most of us have hot and cold running water in good supply; we have washers and dryers and laundry products galore. But in the 18th Century this was not the case. A diaper change is the kind of day-in-a-life task a middle class woman might have to regularly undertake.

So here's a little slice of A Master Passion, where Elizabeth Schuyler tends the newest Hamilton baby, James. It's already a busy day when her sister Peggy visits unexpectedly.



The whining from the next room suddenly grew to a wail. James, when his first grumbling summons hadn’t been answered, was angry now. With a sweep of skirts, Betsy marched into the room, scooped her howling son from his cradle and plumped herself down in a comfortable wing chair. Her mother would never have undertaken such a task in the good parlor. After all, with a new baby, the risks of spills from one end and leaks from the other were high, but Betsy couldn’t bring herself to walk another step. As a piece of insurance, however, she snatched up his flannel wrap.
Unbuttoning her dress, she got bellowing Jamie in place, experienced the sharp tug and the answering flesh gone-to-sleep prickle of the let-down. Then, one end of the cloth pressed to stem the flow from the neglected breast and the rest tucked strategically around James, she watched her newest son’s jaw work as he mastered the initial tide. He was round and fair, even balder than Angelica had been, but a similar halo of red fluff had begun to rise upon his pink skull. As different in some ways as the children were, there was a certain sameness in the general outline: gray eyes, long heads, a kiss of red in their hair.
Betsy leaned back, relaxing into the comforts of nursing, when she heard a knock at the door.
“Davie!” When she called out, James startled. “Una! Gussie! The door!”
In stretching for the bell on the end table, she dislodged James. He promptly set up a renewed cry at this sudden, rude interruption of his dinner.
“Temper, temper!” Betsy rubbed his open mouth—and the yell—against the nipple. She noticed, with amusement, that his bald head instantly went scarlet with rage.
She decided to ignore whoever it was. If they wanted in badly enough, they’d go around to the kitchen. Then she heard rapid footsteps in the hallway, the sound of Davie running, followed by voices. Soon, the parlor door opened and Peggy poked her head in.
“May I?”
“Of course, Peg. Heavens! I didn’t know you were in town.”
“It was spur-of-the-moment. Stephen is having trouble with Mr. Beekman and decided to come down and straighten it out face to face. I thought I’d come too and see what’s in the shops. The first of the London fashions are arriving.”
During this speech, her younger sister settled on the facing sofa. She was very much the lady of leisure, in a gown of peach satin layered over an ivory petticoat upon which hundreds of tiny birds in flight had been painted. As she removed the long pins which held her broad-brimmed straw hat, she revealed a wealth of chestnut hair.
“Davie says I just missed Colonel Hamilton.”
“Yes. Not half an hour since he rode off with John Jay and Cousin Bob Livingston. I confess I’m worried about what will happen in the legislature. There are only nineteen men who are for the new Constitution.”
“I am concerned, too, though I’ve never really understood politics. Still, we’ve all had an education in the science of government. Papa, for one, is absolutely relentless on the subject.”
“Yes, that’s all Alexander ever talks about, too, either to me or anyone else.”
“Well, thank heaven there are women to keep the day to day world going ’round.”
Peggy moved closer to get a good look at the new baby. He was now happily gulping again.
“What a big strong fellow! I swear, Sis, you’re as good at this as Mama ever was.”
Although their eighth anniversary wouldn’t come until Christmas, James made the fourth little Hamilton. Peggy, on the other hand, had carried only one, Stephen, the precious son and heir to the ancient line of van Rensselaer. There had been nothing afterward but a sad string of miscarriages.



The very elegant Angelica Schuyler Church, maid and baby

Mindful of her sister’s feelings, Betsy simply said, “Thank you, Sis.” She sat Jamie up and patted his back. As he slumped into her hand, his big eyes goggled.
“That one is going to take after Mr. Hamilton for sure. Look at those blue eyes.”
“Well, perhaps. But our babies seem to come fair and then darken up, all except for our Angelica.”
“Are she and Phil upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in a minute send one of your girls to bring the darlings down to their adoring aunt.”
Tea came in, with Una’s thoughtful addition of some fine English sweet biscuits that had recently arrived from London, sent by Angelica Church.
“Shall I take James, Missus?”
“No, he’s quiet and you’ve got enough going on. Where is Alex?”
“He be watchin’ Gussie scrub.”
“I’ll take care of Jamie,” Betsy instructed, “but if you hear Fanny squawk, let me know.”
Peggy poured tea while Betsy laid the flannel upon the upholstered sofa and then proceeded to quickly change James atop it.
“You are a lucky girl, you know.”
Betsy looked up from wiping a pasty yellow smear from Jamie’s cherub’s bottom.
Peggy giggled. “Why, I mean Alexander the Great, of course. He’s a kind of knight of the round table in our benighted modern age. Papa is quite tiresome on the subject.”
“True, but being the wife of Alexander the Great isn’t easy. I mean, look.” Betsy gestured at the little parlor with its few furnishings.
“Money isn’t everything.”
“Only to those who have enough.” Betsy wrapped the diaper up carefully before setting it on the floor. “And I don’t think I shall ever get used to living in this city. There are times when I do so envy you. Your husband is with you almost all the time instead of riding off on crusades. Even when Hamilton is at home, half the time he’s tied up in knots and might as well not be here at all. Day and night are the same to him when he’s working. This whole winter and spring it’s been nothing but those Federalist Papers..."

~~Juliet Waldron



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