No, that's not Springsteen you hear. It's me. Val. And I'm not engulfed in trouser flames from being a liar, liar. The fact that I finished the second Hunger Games book, Catching Fire, on Wednesday night has nothing to do with it.
I'm on fire.
I'm in the groove. I've got the itch, and it's not something that needs scratching with a neighbor's spatula after the long-fingernailed coffee shop waitress breaks up with me.
I sat down to write a submission yesterday, and it was like a long-awaited spark in the dry tinder of a Survivor contestant's fire-making challenge. One idea led to another. Even a six-hour chair nap last night did not extinguish the flame. I went to actual bed at 4:00 a.m., and could not sleep. Perhaps it wasn't so much the ideas bouncing around in my noggin as the fact that I'd already had a full (for me) night's sleep in the recliner.
This morning I arose at 5:30, all fired up. I have another submission ready to go. It's all over but the proofreadin'. Now three more stories are licking at the straw stuffing of my brain. An out-of-control gambling bus, a crazed chipmunk, and a doorstop scandal are shoving the severed skeleton and the devil with no dress on to the back burner.
Is it hot in here, or is it just me?
Unbagging the Cats 1
Friday, June 8, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Some Might Call Me "Breathtaking"
Have you ever heard the expression that something is so ugly, it's cute? I'm sure you have. Hopefully, not in reference to yourself, or your offspring. But to be more gentle, let's simply refer to the following fellow as breathtaking.
I'd like to say it's a matter of the picture, taken by the phone and hand of Hick, not being very flattering. But it's better to use a soft focus with this guy. He's half turken, which is a chicken that has a neck like a turkey, and half regular chicken. That flapping wattle is hiding his bare neck.
To add ear insult to our eye injury, he does not so much crow as he groans. It's a curious sound. Like a growl and a moan. Perhaps that's what groan means. I never put two and two together until now. This little misfit struts around the grounds, getting plenty of action from the hens. We've had a spate of turken-looking chicks hatched this spring.
Sometimes I think my writing is like this feathered phenom. It ain't pretty. But it gets the job done.
I'd like to say it's a matter of the picture, taken by the phone and hand of Hick, not being very flattering. But it's better to use a soft focus with this guy. He's half turken, which is a chicken that has a neck like a turkey, and half regular chicken. That flapping wattle is hiding his bare neck.
To add ear insult to our eye injury, he does not so much crow as he groans. It's a curious sound. Like a growl and a moan. Perhaps that's what groan means. I never put two and two together until now. This little misfit struts around the grounds, getting plenty of action from the hens. We've had a spate of turken-looking chicks hatched this spring.
Sometimes I think my writing is like this feathered phenom. It ain't pretty. But it gets the job done.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Fourteen Faces of Val
If you are seeking a picture of the ever-elusive Val, you need go no further than the next edition of Merriam-Webster. I'm sure my photo will be under the definition of altruist.
I stopped to put gas in my Tahoe this afternoon. A tad less than half a tank, just to top it off for the trip to take Genius to have his wisdom teeth removed on Thursday. The total came to $39.40. I went inside to pay. I don't trust those scammable card-sliders on the pumps. The clerk greeted me cheerfully. Probably because it's not a gas station that I frequent. She didn't know any better.
"That'll be thirty-four ninety, Hon."
"Uh...I'm pretty sure it was thirty-nine forty."
"Oh. Well. That's right. Thirty-nine forty. Here's your sixty cents."
"Thank you."
"You have a nice day."
"You, too."
See that? I saved the poor girl from eating $4.50 when her register didn't balance. Because I was honest. That's how I roll. Sometimes. When people are polite.
You might also look for my photo under conspiracy theorist, megalomaniac, Rubenesque, boorish, short-temper cook, gas-station-chicken-eater, Seinfeld enthusiast, procrastinator, braggart, snooze-inducer, quipster doofus, recliner whiner, and nerd.
My face, it seems, is a coat of many colors, wearing a lot of hats.
I stopped to put gas in my Tahoe this afternoon. A tad less than half a tank, just to top it off for the trip to take Genius to have his wisdom teeth removed on Thursday. The total came to $39.40. I went inside to pay. I don't trust those scammable card-sliders on the pumps. The clerk greeted me cheerfully. Probably because it's not a gas station that I frequent. She didn't know any better.
"That'll be thirty-four ninety, Hon."
"Uh...I'm pretty sure it was thirty-nine forty."
"Oh. Well. That's right. Thirty-nine forty. Here's your sixty cents."
"Thank you."
"You have a nice day."
"You, too."
See that? I saved the poor girl from eating $4.50 when her register didn't balance. Because I was honest. That's how I roll. Sometimes. When people are polite.
You might also look for my photo under conspiracy theorist, megalomaniac, Rubenesque, boorish, short-temper cook, gas-station-chicken-eater, Seinfeld enthusiast, procrastinator, braggart, snooze-inducer, quipster doofus, recliner whiner, and nerd.
My face, it seems, is a coat of many colors, wearing a lot of hats.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
I Could Sell Sunlight to the Tanning Mom
I spent the day cleaning a plastic container that was stained by years of barbecue sauce.
That sounds so wrong. In several different ways.
I did not stand over that plastic tub all day. I set it out on the corner triangle where the rails join on my back deck. The little platform Hick built in to set his barbecuing supplies on. The guy who started this whole problem, barbecuing too much food so that it has to be hermetically sealed and stored in the refrigerator for later consumption. Okay, that refrigerator part is against Hick's wishes, apparently, ever since he shouted that I am the one who thinks food must be refrigerated or it spoils.
The container is rectangular, with rounded corners. Clear, with a country-blue lid. It's not Tupperware. That would imply that I had spent good money on it. Or attended a wild and crazy party. No. I'm pretty sure my plastic container is Walmartware. It doesn't even burp. I would hate to put a liquid in it and turn it over. But for barbecued pork steaks and hot dogs and hamburgers, it does the job.
Somewhere, probably the reliable internet, every source above reproach, filling the noggins of the masses with infinite knowledge to apply to any situation, I read that you can make stains on plastic containers go away if you place them in direct sunlight. So I tried it. Of course, I had to be careful that the cats didn't hop up there and lay in the container. "Oh, new cat bed! That woman rocks, I tell you!" Not that I'm so germophobic that a cat laying in my plastic container will send me into conniptions. I simply did not want them to knock it into the green water of the fake fish pond that is directly below that corner. Because it might hit one of the two large frogs who never move, yet croak threats at each other all the livelong day. One from the spray of a broad-leafed grassy plant, and the other from below the surface at the other end, with only his bulbous eyes above water.
This container has been with me a long time. Don't go thinkin' that I never wash it. I do. Every time I toss the leftover meat to the dogs after several days. But you know how plastic is. It wants to hold onto red sauces. Even soaking did not bring my plastic container back to its pre-barbecue days. So I left it outside from ten-thirty until five-thirty.
The Pony found it when we arrived home after a bout of after-school shoe-shopping. "Hey, what's this?" He picked it up and carried it in the house.
"Oh, I put that outside to see if the sun would take the stain out of it."
"I think the answer would be 'Yes,' because there's no stain!" The Pony was impressed with my mad stain-scrubbing skillz.
A seven-hour dose of ultraviolet light is better than a Brillo for cleaning barbecue stains out of plastic.
Now all I need is my own infomercial, to sell sunlight to naive plastic-stainers.
That sounds so wrong. In several different ways.
I did not stand over that plastic tub all day. I set it out on the corner triangle where the rails join on my back deck. The little platform Hick built in to set his barbecuing supplies on. The guy who started this whole problem, barbecuing too much food so that it has to be hermetically sealed and stored in the refrigerator for later consumption. Okay, that refrigerator part is against Hick's wishes, apparently, ever since he shouted that I am the one who thinks food must be refrigerated or it spoils.
The container is rectangular, with rounded corners. Clear, with a country-blue lid. It's not Tupperware. That would imply that I had spent good money on it. Or attended a wild and crazy party. No. I'm pretty sure my plastic container is Walmartware. It doesn't even burp. I would hate to put a liquid in it and turn it over. But for barbecued pork steaks and hot dogs and hamburgers, it does the job.
Somewhere, probably the reliable internet, every source above reproach, filling the noggins of the masses with infinite knowledge to apply to any situation, I read that you can make stains on plastic containers go away if you place them in direct sunlight. So I tried it. Of course, I had to be careful that the cats didn't hop up there and lay in the container. "Oh, new cat bed! That woman rocks, I tell you!" Not that I'm so germophobic that a cat laying in my plastic container will send me into conniptions. I simply did not want them to knock it into the green water of the fake fish pond that is directly below that corner. Because it might hit one of the two large frogs who never move, yet croak threats at each other all the livelong day. One from the spray of a broad-leafed grassy plant, and the other from below the surface at the other end, with only his bulbous eyes above water.
This container has been with me a long time. Don't go thinkin' that I never wash it. I do. Every time I toss the leftover meat to the dogs after several days. But you know how plastic is. It wants to hold onto red sauces. Even soaking did not bring my plastic container back to its pre-barbecue days. So I left it outside from ten-thirty until five-thirty.
The Pony found it when we arrived home after a bout of after-school shoe-shopping. "Hey, what's this?" He picked it up and carried it in the house.
"Oh, I put that outside to see if the sun would take the stain out of it."
"I think the answer would be 'Yes,' because there's no stain!" The Pony was impressed with my mad stain-scrubbing skillz.
A seven-hour dose of ultraviolet light is better than a Brillo for cleaning barbecue stains out of plastic.
Now all I need is my own infomercial, to sell sunlight to naive plastic-stainers.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Backroads Survivor: Life is Not a Beach
As a connoisseur of reality television, I am eagerly awaiting the premier of Redneck Island. It will begin Saturday, June 9, on CMT. Yeah. It looks like a Survivor rip-off. But you know, there are only 36 basic plots in literature. Or 20. Or 7. Or 3. Or 1. Depends on which reference you use. So it would stand to reason that all reality television is just one big ol' rip-off of the original reality concept.
Because I can vary that original concept without ripping off the ripper-offers, I am going to pitch my own reality game show: Backroads Survivor. Thanks to Sioux for the idea and title. She will get nary a penny for her inspiration. Not even a credit. But she IS welcome to apply as a contestant. Just submit a video showing me why you would appeal to my show's demographic, Sioux. Maybe we can even get it on a network that you can watch without pay channels. See? I treat the people I rip off right.
Backroads Survivor will pit husband against wife. City slicker against country mouse. Tailgaters against slow drivers. Shoppers against clerks. Cat people against dog people. Missourians against Missourahans. Toilet paper over the rollians against toilet paper under the rollians. Vegans against face-eaters. The publisheds against the non-publisheds. Killjoys against knee-slappers. Bigfoot Truck drivers against Chevy Volt drivers. Introverts against extroverts. Dry-rubbies against sauceys. Moonlanders against Area 51ers. Good Snippers against long-haired Vals.
I think you get my drift. Contestants may be divided into categories at my whim, to suit viewer ratings. Now let's all lift our half-full or half-empty glasses to toast Backroads Survivor: An Exercise in Countrified Self-Sufficiency.
Here is the basic premise. Twenty-four contestants (twelve from each of the above subgroups) will vie for the title of Sole Backroads Survivor. The prize will be announced after the competition, depending on how well Val likes the winner.
Don't expect a beach. In fact, I'm going to use that as the title of the first episode: Life's Not a Beach. Contestants may procure water and bathe in the creek at the back of the property. Here's a hint on how to find it: go downhill. No need to waste resources on tree-mail.
Two camps have been set up. And for the first challenge, teams will be divided into Arachnophobes and Herpetophobes. The Arachnophobe team will sleep here:
Team Herpetophobe will sleep on just across the gravel path in this facility:
It's a sinkhole with the side eroded that Hick made into a clubhouse for the boys. Yes, I know that's all kinds of messed up. He put limbs over the top as a roof, and expected me to let them play in a sinkhole. Do you get that? A sinkhole! Which may not have done all of its collapsing yet. But that is neither here nor there, as it will make a dandy shelter for Team Herpetophobe.
The winner of the first challenge will be the team that accumulates the largest number of ticks, spiders, reptiles, and amphibians by sunrise.
Good luck. May the best team win, and the worst team face an elimination campfire.
Anybody wishing to apply for Backroads Survivor can leave a comment describing their audition video.
Because I can vary that original concept without ripping off the ripper-offers, I am going to pitch my own reality game show: Backroads Survivor. Thanks to Sioux for the idea and title. She will get nary a penny for her inspiration. Not even a credit. But she IS welcome to apply as a contestant. Just submit a video showing me why you would appeal to my show's demographic, Sioux. Maybe we can even get it on a network that you can watch without pay channels. See? I treat the people I rip off right.
Backroads Survivor will pit husband against wife. City slicker against country mouse. Tailgaters against slow drivers. Shoppers against clerks. Cat people against dog people. Missourians against Missourahans. Toilet paper over the rollians against toilet paper under the rollians. Vegans against face-eaters. The publisheds against the non-publisheds. Killjoys against knee-slappers. Bigfoot Truck drivers against Chevy Volt drivers. Introverts against extroverts. Dry-rubbies against sauceys. Moonlanders against Area 51ers. Good Snippers against long-haired Vals.
I think you get my drift. Contestants may be divided into categories at my whim, to suit viewer ratings. Now let's all lift our half-full or half-empty glasses to toast Backroads Survivor: An Exercise in Countrified Self-Sufficiency.
Here is the basic premise. Twenty-four contestants (twelve from each of the above subgroups) will vie for the title of Sole Backroads Survivor. The prize will be announced after the competition, depending on how well Val likes the winner.
Don't expect a beach. In fact, I'm going to use that as the title of the first episode: Life's Not a Beach. Contestants may procure water and bathe in the creek at the back of the property. Here's a hint on how to find it: go downhill. No need to waste resources on tree-mail.
Two camps have been set up. And for the first challenge, teams will be divided into Arachnophobes and Herpetophobes. The Arachnophobe team will sleep here:
Team Herpetophobe will sleep on just across the gravel path in this facility:
The winner of the first challenge will be the team that accumulates the largest number of ticks, spiders, reptiles, and amphibians by sunrise.
Good luck. May the best team win, and the worst team face an elimination campfire.
Anybody wishing to apply for Backroads Survivor can leave a comment describing their audition video.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
At Least it Wasn't Chucky
I am sorely lacking in blog fodder this evening. So I am gifting my readers with a random photo from my whirlwind Backroads lifestyle. The item in this picture was posed by my rosebush for camera purposes. But it was not my item. I found it on the porch one morning, much to my chagrin. A dog was involved.
Some people might think finding a random devil on their porch is a good omen. I am not one of those people. It creeped me the not-heaven out.
I have other photos with the subject and the canine culprit. There's a story there somewhere. I am considering submitting it to Not Your Mother's Book...On Dogs. And since I am a firm believer in Even Steven, I could also throw in a story on my rescued pup, Juno. The sweet to balance the sour. Like those Sour Patch Kids in literary canine form.
Feel free to leave me a comment about what, in your opinion, this little devil could be thinking.
Some people might think finding a random devil on their porch is a good omen. I am not one of those people. It creeped me the not-heaven out.
I have other photos with the subject and the canine culprit. There's a story there somewhere. I am considering submitting it to Not Your Mother's Book...On Dogs. And since I am a firm believer in Even Steven, I could also throw in a story on my rescued pup, Juno. The sweet to balance the sour. Like those Sour Patch Kids in literary canine form.
Feel free to leave me a comment about what, in your opinion, this little devil could be thinking.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Backroads Surveillance System
Did you ever have a feeling someone was watching you? Just a hunch? No reason for it, really, just an inkling that made you turn your head and assess the situation? Yeah. Me too. Today, in fact. The Pony and I were returning home from town. We were a mere quarter-mile from our house, going up the lumpy bumpy gravel hill by our nearest toward-town neighbor. A hill so bone-jarring that I have a habit of driving on the wrong side of the road.
We often see squirrels darting around here. One time, we saw a deer looking back at us from the treeline. And today, as I eased my Tahoe (with its hillbilly hood ornament made of a cat hairball still intact) up and over an exposed boulder in the middle of the road, I had the urge to turn my head. To see what nature might provide for my entertainment. I was not disappointed.
Looking back at me, a scant two feet away, with only a thin pane of tinted auto safety glass between us, was this fellow:
We gazed at each other. I resisted the urge to squeal like the slugs in Flushed Away. I don't have a snake phobia. He simply startled me. I am, however, happy that our road is so dusty. Because I always keep my windows up. That said, I immediately put The Pony's window down. And passed him my phone. "Look at that snake! Get a picture of it for me, while I watch for traffic." I was, you know, on the wrong side of the road.
The Pony eagerly took the phone-camera. He enjoys wildlife. But he usually has his nose in his laptop unless I tip him off like a safari tour guide. "Okay. Where is it?"
"Right there! In the tree."
"I'm looking. But I don't see it."
"THERE! In front of you!"
"WHERE?"
"How can you not see that? Right by my window. I could reach out an touch him."
"Oh! There!"
I pulled the car forward a bit.
"Wait!"
"I'm not driving. I'm getting your window even with him for the picture. And anyway, you didn't even see him. If he was...a...snake...he would have bit you!"
"He IS a snake!"
"Yeah. I thought of that in the middle of my saying. Get me a couple of pictures. Wow! Look how long he is! Make sure you get his whole length. I bet he's four feet."
The Pony took my photos while shiny, muscle-rippling Mr. Snake posed. He turned his head a bit to follow my gaze when I drove forward.
The Pony took one of the magnificent specimen stretched out on his limb.
And a final one as we bid a fond farewell to our herpetological friend. Unfortunately, The Pony cut off Mr. Snake's head. Photographically. Not physically. But you can see that he stretches from one side of the picture to the other, from cut-off head to tiny tail tip. Oh, yeah. He's a black snake.
I would have loved to see Mr. Snake climbing the trunk of that tree. I don't normally think to look overhead when I'm in the woods. Who knows how many times I've been watched from above. I wonder what Mr. Snake was up to today. Was he merely finding a safe place for sunning? Eating a nest full of eggs? Swallowing baby birds? He had a little lump in his belly, about halfway down.
Dang! This is the outskirts of Backroads. Not the Amazon Rain Forest. Not a primeval swamp. It's almost civilization!
Welcome to my world.
We often see squirrels darting around here. One time, we saw a deer looking back at us from the treeline. And today, as I eased my Tahoe (with its hillbilly hood ornament made of a cat hairball still intact) up and over an exposed boulder in the middle of the road, I had the urge to turn my head. To see what nature might provide for my entertainment. I was not disappointed.
Looking back at me, a scant two feet away, with only a thin pane of tinted auto safety glass between us, was this fellow:
We gazed at each other. I resisted the urge to squeal like the slugs in Flushed Away. I don't have a snake phobia. He simply startled me. I am, however, happy that our road is so dusty. Because I always keep my windows up. That said, I immediately put The Pony's window down. And passed him my phone. "Look at that snake! Get a picture of it for me, while I watch for traffic." I was, you know, on the wrong side of the road.
The Pony eagerly took the phone-camera. He enjoys wildlife. But he usually has his nose in his laptop unless I tip him off like a safari tour guide. "Okay. Where is it?"
"Right there! In the tree."
"I'm looking. But I don't see it."
"THERE! In front of you!"
"WHERE?"
"How can you not see that? Right by my window. I could reach out an touch him."
"Oh! There!"
I pulled the car forward a bit.
"Wait!"
"I'm not driving. I'm getting your window even with him for the picture. And anyway, you didn't even see him. If he was...a...snake...he would have bit you!"
"He IS a snake!"
"Yeah. I thought of that in the middle of my saying. Get me a couple of pictures. Wow! Look how long he is! Make sure you get his whole length. I bet he's four feet."
The Pony took my photos while shiny, muscle-rippling Mr. Snake posed. He turned his head a bit to follow my gaze when I drove forward.
The Pony took one of the magnificent specimen stretched out on his limb.
And a final one as we bid a fond farewell to our herpetological friend. Unfortunately, The Pony cut off Mr. Snake's head. Photographically. Not physically. But you can see that he stretches from one side of the picture to the other, from cut-off head to tiny tail tip. Oh, yeah. He's a black snake.
I would have loved to see Mr. Snake climbing the trunk of that tree. I don't normally think to look overhead when I'm in the woods. Who knows how many times I've been watched from above. I wonder what Mr. Snake was up to today. Was he merely finding a safe place for sunning? Eating a nest full of eggs? Swallowing baby birds? He had a little lump in his belly, about halfway down.
Dang! This is the outskirts of Backroads. Not the Amazon Rain Forest. Not a primeval swamp. It's almost civilization!
Welcome to my world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)