Mr. Meaner

Mr. Meaner dresses to the nines

rustles through the halls

and fuels the grapevine

He's got that corner office

and a new suit to match

the chatty girls in purchasing

think he's the perfect catch

With his slick hair

and discriminating tastes

his better than thou demeanor

countless hours he wastes

Mr. Meaner,

man he's greasy

at the thought of him

I get a little queasy

To the max he upholds a policy

and more like the Grinch

he seems to me

Meaner enjoys turmoil

an instigator to the extreme

a well coiffed old dude

within the townie regime

Pure snake oil

saturates his attitude

that Mr. Meaner

a cosmopolitan dude

He only wants to see

and to be seen

Oh yes Mr. Meaner,

did I mention

that he's mean?

Revenge of the Cat

Warring through the window,

they are ever so tough

Deftly they manuever

all over your stuff

With picky noses,

they sniff the air

Feline authority

with an ounce of dare

Winding through

your walking legs

a semi-murderous plot

Making you stumble

right on the spot

Open up the door,

then they just look about

Forgetting for what purpose

they would like to go out

Their preferential taste

for a certain food

Don't blame the felines

for that pristine catitude

Behind the sofa,

you find a little stash

of assorted mice toys, balls,

lids meant for the trash

Sometimes in the morning

perchance your foot will fall

upon a small mistake

a mishap of a hairball

Then as you lift Fluffy

gently from your lap

You might walk away

and receive a random slap

All in a day's work

for a small house cat

See if the average canine

can top all that....

Photo Friday

Fiction Writing 101

Ok back to fiction writing 101....so you finally came up with a story to tell (see previous post on plotting...) now you need a realistic setting. For instance, if you are writing about a fairy princess, you can't really set the story in North Dakota. Why? You ask.... Because have you ever heard of fairies in North Dakota?....Buffalo maybe, but no, you need a forest in Ireland or maybe Louisiana if the fairy thing just has to happen in the states. “One day I was visiting Uncle Bodien so we could make some boudin, when we stumbled upon a bunch of fairies under a bush, and yes we were sober but without boudin...” Ok there may be a lot of problems here, but let's just concentrate on one, the one where we cannot form a mental picture of the forest or the swamp, not only must your audience form a picture, they must feel those intricately woven green leaves, the dampness of the dew, and those little glimmering fairies too, if your fairies glimmer. Secondly, you must indeed: “write what you know.” Yes, it is true. If you want to have someone knocked off on an exotic Hawaiian beach, it's gonna be pretty hard to make it believable if you have never been outside of Post, Texas. What is the beach like? The sand? The heat? Is it crowded? With who? Is Megan Fox there – cause if she is, there is absolutely no reason for any other female in the universe to show up. The second best thing, if you can't experience your setting in person is You Tube. Maybe try ID TV if it is murder, and there happens to be a case, and it's like yours... Scene is important folks, scene as in setting and not “making a scene” like the episode where you are in the grocery store when a rude woman cuts in line in front of you, then you grabbed the woman's hair and she did a martial arts pose, then the both of you knocked down the magazine rack with the sultry, scantily clad Megan Fox on the cover of most of the magazines now scattered across the aisle and covering up the energy drinks... Ok so when is the court date and maybe you can write a jail expose.... No, just kidding, don't forget scene – setting – background, create a scene, don't make one. Create one that people can feel, now get to writing those stories!

Football and Fern Hill

All things end, as they must. Those balmy fall nights turn chilly – the competition amps up for the competitors, the ball finally comes to rest. Football season for us, wrapped up for the year, and for seniors, the finality of it all echoes, first there's an end to the sport most have played their whole lives, then there's the end of high school, an end to childhood, an end to carefree days.

“Time let me hail and climb

Golden in the heydays of his eyes...” *

So that last game, we choose to block out the bad and remember the way it should have been: Riley threw the ball with precision and became the leader his team thought he could be. Mr. Fletcher ran, like the winged Hermes upon green grass, upon fake turf and he scored like he never scored before. He will go down in HHS history as the Running Back (at least, for awhile). Mr. Hunter who played both offense and defense with ease; wherever they needed him, that's where he was – strong, quick, spot-on.

“In the sun that is young once only

Time let me play and be

Golden in the mercy of his means”

The formidable defense who let nobody score (well at least that much anyway), continues the game on and on in a continuum, denying points on so many games, tough at their very center where #42 was the anchor. This was the boy who started out, young and a bit chubby, never very quick, never very good, never getting to play, but always sticking with it until one day when he went out on the field and somehow, it all came together.

“And fire green as grass

And nightly under the stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away...”

This boy made a little place for himself, a sideline news clip here and there, a video shot in a sport where no star stays front and center long – in a game that demands the utmost from the young and strong. No need to feel bad, coming off that field of defeat – the team you played will most likely suffer that next loss.

“In the sun born over and over,

I ran my heedless ways...”

Instead Bearcats, team of black and gold, I say take your memories, particularly these wonderful fall nights, put them inside the trunk of life, open them up some starry night and maybe tell a younger version of yourself about the goals and glories of football back in the day.

“And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea”

*Fern Hill – Dylan Thomas, one of the most beautiful poems in the English language....

Other Worldliness, Snakes and Language

It's a time of the year that I love, but what I hate is that time is zooming by at the speed of light,not leaving much of it free to go out and enjoy the all too few weeks that you can actually be outside here in this great country of Texas. It's like a Garth Brooks' song: in the summer you burn, in the winter you freeze. It's also the Spooky Month and what's scaring me aren't the ones from The Other Side because I think that most ghosts would automatically know that I'm not the one to appear to, otherwise, I would have a complete heart attack and I would be Over There bothering them. The closest thing I've come to seeing anything Other Worldly is Maureen Hancock, who is not a ghost, but a medium with a face like a cherub and a mouth like a sailor. She is one of the most amazing people that could possibly inhabit this planet.

Another frightening thing is garter snakes. 102 of them to be exact, which, I am glad to report, are not anywhere near me, but they were hold up inside a house in Canada. The Great Snake Invasion started in the basement, then as the snakes began showing up in the other rooms, particularly the bedrooms of the house, then it began to be a problem.....”Hey Joe, can you go put these preserves in the basement???” “What's a preserve?....oh wait is that a garter snake in the refrigerator?”

The LOTE is also scary. This stands for something like: Languages Other Than English Exam. I wish I had taken it umpteen years ago when I was fluent in Spanish (why oh why did I not???) Instead I am now navigating through the Brain Fog of today in order to relearn what I used to know. It is necessary for teachers to pass it in order to teach Spanish because it is currently a critically unfilled area in today's classrooms. Anyway, one day at a time here.

The last thing is death, which is more bittersweet than scary (depending where you are on the spectrum). My significant other's grandmother's cat, Sir Thomas, died this week. He outlived his lovely mistress two years. My dear one had to head to the small town of our ancestry and bury Thomas. The journey home, which is 75 miles, did give some time for reflection – about the neighbors that took Thomas in (he was a scruffy, outdoor cat who would not have adapted anywhere else). They loved him as much as the wonderful lady who first owned him. Then there was the kindly gentleman across the street who found him at the end when he was apparently trying to make it home once last time. It was the same old-timer who had seen my love grow up right there in that little town. He laid Thomas the Cat out meticulously in a cardboard box inside his carport. This gentleman of advanced age, was in no position to wield a shovel for the physical labor necessary to break that hard, drought-beaten ground, but he was certainly willing to do it. After going home, reaping the bountiful love gifted from the old-timers, the themselves – left over from the Greatest Generation, and then realizing that some of the best treasures are still right where they were all along. Yes, Dorothy, there really may be no place like home....but when you are young, the world is calling and you go. The Wheels of Time turn, the hourglass empties – and every now and then, it is nice to have a place to go back to....

Hotter N Hell Bike Race and....Emus

 It's almost August, that particularly heated, dreaded time of the year when this little town invites everybody to come and share our misery dealing with said heat and the wind. We do this in the form of a bike race...100 miles...in the unforgiving Texas sun. And it's fun, gosh darn it! All these earnest, sweating bicyclists challenging themselves, attaining a personal best and overcoming obstacles. One obstacle to this mighty race that I have just discovered is, of all things, emus. Yes those big birds with brown feathers who can't fly, but boy can they run. Apparently those cyclists, outfitted in their colorful second skin, brightly attired, attract these large, curious but bored birds who are navigating the outskirts of town, maybe hold up on a ranch somewhere and tired of the run of the mill cows, coyotes and people running around with those water sticks vainly searching for underground streams. Yes apparently the cyclists have piqued their interest. Maybe the emus want a chance to outdo them.

I can only imagine the fear when these vibrant cyclists, suffering from heat stroke look up to see Big Bird barreling down upon them, giant sprawling feet, little head with beady eyes, and that piercing beak agape... and then “Oh Snap!” and a loud scream. If the cyclists are lucky, then there is just one emu, okay maybe unlucky if that particular emu likes the color red they happen to be wearing. Hopefully the sweltering bikers haven't encountered a whole flock on the road, then they might suffer from worse than a little nip.

Some interesting emu facts include:

• Females are in charge, they make the males hatch and care for the babies.
• Did I mention they are curious?
• They have “strongly clawed” feed that can rip metal wire fences (how fast can you pedal?)
• They can go 50 km/h which is described otherwise as a “fast, economical trot.

Does anybody happen to know why we have this little bit of Australia in Texas?..oh well, happy racing folks!

The Moon One NIght

The harvest moon

rose in glory

against a painted sky

and all that mattered was

a moment of she an I

Oblivious I was at first

starting out in the car

The blue-eyed girl and I

never made it far

Lost there in the nineties

in a rapid flux of change

Life was not for sale

and nothing was arranged

Around us paths cut through

swamps and forest

And for the blue-eyed girl

a life full of tests

For there she was in youth

full heart and dreaming

That crazy, giant moon

hung in the sky gleaming

We were just going about,

a small insignificant trip

A miraculous and unplanned

Milky Way dip

In a converible with no roof,

oh time it was thieving

little did I think that

I would soon be leaving

The Moonstruck Moon,

loftily glowed

As we drove onward

down the road

The swamp and forest change,

the city, it would grow

The blue-eyed girl and I

How little did we know

Of celestial heavens,

quite far then so near

That harvest moon for me

will never disappear...

DNA Projct

This week I sent my DNA off for analysis for genealogical purposes. This is a fantastic thing, with just one little sample, the science folks can uncover the mysteries lurking below the skin that make up the individual in all of us. Plus it will allow you to connect with one million of the closest cousins that you never knew you had, which hopefully, they will not be serial killers, stalkers, Charlie Sheen, or Dracula. I cannot wait to see if there are any hidden surprises which maybe my grandmother neglected to tell me. Of course, since I am speaking of my grandmother, I am sure there will not be any surprises. Since I am such a Francophile, I am hoping for some French in my family tree, plus the French have all those cute, little desserts. Then I love spaghetti and Under the Tuscan Sun too, so we could go many different ways here. I love Vikings movies and TV shows, and sometimes I feel really powerful with yard tools on the weekends, so there you go. I just don't know how many different nationalities can make up one individual, but that could just depend, I suppose. Then another question many people might ask: am I related to anyone famous...such as Miss “Don't You Know Who I Am” Weatherspoon” 0r maybe, Mr. “I've Had A Bit Too Much To Drink And Don't Photograph Too Well After A Long Night” Noolte. I mean really, you just never know. And let's not even discuss anyone named Pee Wee. Depending on one's genetic makeup, you might have a propensity to learn some languages easier than others; for example, maybe all those years I spent trying to master Spanish in college should have been spent learning Ancient Romanian Celtic? We just never know, right? The worse thing as always is the wait....something like three weeks. So it could be another month before I try to send Brad a message. “No really Angie, we are related, it says so right here, or maybe I contact the Queen, or maybe....the possibilities are endless!

Desserts and Bandits

It was 1986 when Greg Taylor decided life was limited in small town. After all, he had thoroughly blasted it with Led Zepplein back in the 70s, and there just wasn't much more to do. He had the hair – check, mastered the guitar – check, saved some money....well ok, not saved any real money, but he had $350 and that would at least get him there. Jobs should be plentiful, right?

So with a feeling of both exuberance and a tinge of sadness – he went down to finally announce to his grandmother, Denice, his intentions.

“You know Gran, I think I'm ready now,” said Greg.

“Oh are you sure?” she asked staring at his walnut-stained hands. He had been earning money by sanding and refinishing her furniture when she decided that painted furniture was so 1950s and it was time to get real again in the 1980s with Walnut Stain #253.

“What?” asked Greg, looking at his fingers. “It's like, all over me and a few shirts too.”

Grandmother Denice smiled. She never intended to make this easy for him. Really, he had no business in California. She knew what went on there, she had spent time examining that Robert Plant poster in his room, the one with the shirt open. She knew that lifestyle was no way to live.

“I have some oil that might take it off,” she said. “It's made by Nivea.”

“I don't want to smell funny,” said Greg thinking he sure didn't want to spend his last few days in town smelling nice and fragrant like Gran.

“Now what will you do out there?” asked his grandmother for the umpteenth time.

Greg took a deep breath and smiled. “I'll go out and get a job, I bet they have people who are building out there. It'll be fine,” he said.

“But you don't know anyone, not a soul,” she said.

“It's ok, other people have done it, it works out,” said Greg.

“That music...it's so....loud,” said Gran.

Greg laughed. Gran was no Motley Crue fan, more like Elvis, early Elvis, throw in some Bobby Darin.

“It's supposed to be,” he said.

Gran vs. Greg. First the hair: cut it...cut it...cut it.

His uncle Troy, cowboy hat and all,summed it up standing in his white shirt in the hot sun: “When in Rome, do like the Romans!”

Ha Ha, who cared, it was only a small simile. How could he possibly explain to Gran that he hadn't been the same since Eddie played the Cotton Bowl?

“Don't worry Gran,” he smiled and touched her shoulder.

She smiled back, after all he was handsome and tough.

“You whoo!” said a voice.

They turned to see Camille Winson coming up the walkway.

“Mrs. Foster, I was just coming by to see how ou were feeling,”said Camille.

Gran cast a look at Greg. He looked back. They both knew what Camille was You Whooing about.

“Oh hi Greg,” Camille said.

“Good to see you,” he responded.

“Oh hello Camille, I'm doing fine,” said Gran. “You have really done enough, I so appreciate you.”

“Well if you ever need any help...” said Camille.

“But of course, I'd sure call you. You are such a pretty girl...” said Gran.

Camille smiled.

“Yes,” said Gran. “Pretty girl, pretty teeth, pretty mouth...” with too much emphasis on those last syllables.

Greg felt his face freeze. He knew what Gran was doing, Camille wasn't pretty at

all. She had a mouth like a horse.

“Uh Gran, yeah, Camille, we appreciate it, you are really a big help.”

“You know Greg here is packing up, gonna leave me,” said Gran.

“Oh really?” Camille turned to him.

“Well, I've had it planned, like forever,” said Greg.

“Where are you going?” asked Camille.

“To California,” said Greg.

“That's a long way,” said Camille. “Who ya goin' with?”

“Ummm, I don't know, maybe just me,” said Greg.

“Oh wow.”

“How do you feel about that Ms. Taylor?”

At that moment, Greg was super proud of Gran. She looked at Camille, her blue eyes sparkling, standing on the porch, looking over the crepe myrtles, the brick wall behind her with the no-place-like-home plaque. She looked like a tall, elegant statue with a taste for satire.

“Well Camille, it's okay, whatever Greg wants; he should try it. A lot of people like California, you know...”

Oh the things you think about in the middle of the desert, thought Greg driving along in his 1964 Thunderbird. The car had been a graduation gift from his grandparents. He had taken it to college for a brief few months. Drove it around all over the place and had a blast before he flunked out by joining a rock band, of course. The Welcome to California sign was just ahead of him, that's when he heard it...the “click, click click of the head gasket gone wrong.

Looking on the dashboard, Greg was stunned ...No! No! He got out of the car, it was running hot. He had made it to Ludlow California. The tape deck was blaring, “Back in the USSR...” The T-bird was adamant, she needed water. Greg looked around, it wasn't the California he was aiming for. Cactus, sand, low scrub brush, more sand for miles. No rock. No leopard pants. No Sunset Strip. There was only one thing to do, shoulder up the two guitars, grab the water bottle and walk to town

Daytime TV

Soap Operas, those iconic, once very popular pastime from the days of yore. A couple are still hanging in there, fighting for their place in the land of New & Changing Times. I must admit, for the past eons, Days of Our Lives has been my 60 minute mental health break. Why? Because...its a good way to forget about deadlines, stupid policies, deadlines for stupid policies, busy work, under payment, and no appreciation. In Soap Land, I can be a spectator to watch the unlimited fiascos of the not-possible happen regularly. The soap people have problems and circumstances that help balance the daily grind world. Where else can someone die multiple times but continue to come back AND look even better than before? What about the comas...the hospital equipment ticking, stopping, uh oh – a tearful goodbye, then wait....he's back! Take my girl, Days of Our Lives Kristin. She dies, disappears, dies again, comes back. Thin as ever, as if to say: “Hello dahlings, yes it's me, forever thin and in an outfit that costs more than your house, and let's not forget: ageless. Deceit? Amnesia? It's all still here.

I used to think that I would never watch reality TV, but sad to say, chalk that up on my I-hate-to-admit-I'm-Guilty-Of-It list. Although it is a sort-of reality. Take the Mob Wives, more betrayal, deceit, being quite physical....and well, I'm really not going to say anything about the Mob :) Then there is Southern Charm – inebriated, rich, judgment-impaired southerners with nothing to do except plan their next outing. Beverly Hills Pawn Shop, this is a worthwhile endeavor to check out the manicure colors of the attendants. Lastly Beverly Hills Housewives, this show is genius, these ladies would not know a significant problem if it slapped them. Its tremendous fun watching indecision over the catering list. And while we're at it, enter not one, but two, soap opera actresses from where else? Days of Our Lives, of course. Yes that's correct, these ladies have been through turmoil, car wrecks, comas, kidnappings, six or more husbands, corporate takeovers, baby swaps. Yep, my escape from the everyday doldrums is looking up. Happy winter TV season!

Customer Service Nightmare

Have you ever been in one of those situations where you just wanted to fall through the floor into a colorful world where you can just go about completely anonymous and not be judged by anyone? Such was the case with me just this week. I have cats, and people who have cats know just how finicky they can be. It can actually be maddening, the degree these little feline monsters can go. Case in point: I recently tried a new cat litter made of corn husks or sawdust or something. It was completely “dust-less.” I was very happy. They weren't.

I initially bought several bags. Then I got the message. So I went and bought a different one that was also “new.” The cats were joyous once again. We were living the good life watching tuna commercials. I was restocking and making a shopping list when I noticed one lonely unopened bag of the evil corn husk cat litter. I decided to bag it up and return it. Why not? That's seven bucks I can use toward the new and feline-approved one.

So I toss the shopping bag containing the cat litter in my car and return to the Monster Retail Store. I set it up on the counter at customer service. The clerk smiled. I smiled back. I pulled the store bag down so the bar code was visible. The bag was wet. And sticky. It was....disgusting! Did I mention that the cats really DID NOT like this litter? I wanted to fall through the floor. I wanted to run. I was at a loss. The clerk reached out with the hand scanner. She said, “Ewwe....” I looked at the ceiling. I shuffled from one foot to the other. I had no idea.

I just love these embarrassing moments. I guess they keep us grounded. Now I'm sure that every time I go to the Monster Retail Store, I will probably run into the same cashier as luck will have it. This however; will not keep me from buying eggplant from the freezer section, already breaded, covered in tomato sauce and mozarella cheese. I was thinking that maybe there should be an Eggplant Parmigana Day. Why not have a happy food day where I could possibly forget about the stressful demands of raising picky felines who gleefully sabotage me when they get the chance? Happy shopping folks....

Call Customer Service

Of all the days to live, the best day of all

is when I get to place a customer service call

You can always trust

“Your call is important to us”

There will be some time to weigh

listening to the music play

Finally a customer service rep will appear

to give instructions that are perfectly unclear

While I deftly moan,

he asks “Is the green light on?”

Or maybe, “tell me what you see”

as I balance on one knee

Is it this cable or that?

Nevermind it's the tail of my cat

“Wait,” I say to the phone,

but it's way too late you see

Now passed on

to someone better able to help me

The new guy might be from Yugoslavia

...or maybe Transyvania

My hysterics begin to mount,

He sounds just like The Count!

“Vee vait vor you...”

Now the light is blue

At wits end we stall,

and place that service call

“In two short weeks,”

he says without a smirk

The cable then, will finally work!

Writing Critiques 101

I was digging through my old writing folder the other day to review my older attempts at being interesting and erudite. Instead, I found this critique from a short story entry in 1993 (yes I know, before a lot of you were born :) Anyway, I never got around to revising this story (like, totally) but maybe I shall try again. The judges generously imparted the following advice:

“Stories are subjective to judges' tastes and not your ability to write” (whew!)

“Incorporating all the basic elements of short story writing doesn't always

guarantee the final product will be acceptable.” (that's right...!)

“While many of the entries began well, they fell short along the line...” (story of my life..)

“Another Side” is a Dorian Gray-like story (I was trying for The Yellow Wallpaper...but I have since renamed it: Pink is the New Poison)

“As long as one cares for the azaleas, one remains healthy; neglect them, and you wither as they do. This connection; however, is rather encumbered by a slow plot; and the nightmares do not enhance or promote as well as they could....” (I have got to re-examine hellish nightmares....)

“Characterization of Ron and Abigail tends to be stereotypical” (ok, I've got it...Abigail can become more like Kim Khardashian and Ron can become more like Bruce Jenner when he's sporting the red nail polish!)

“You might consider giving this story more life by changing from 1^st person to 3^rd person. This sort of story is difficult to write in an emotional way that involves the reader...” (Ron was bipolar and flung the shovel across the yard after he chipped his red nail polish attempting to free Abigail's soul from the narcissistic azaleas...)

“In first person an account is told rather than shown....” (I thought the rule was show not tell??)

“Vivid fast paced description and narration would make this story shine, although I have to give a you a fair in every category: premise, plot, characterization, dialogue, originality and writing ability....Keep writing and I hope to hear from you in the future... (Hmmm, I thought it was a tired, overdone story....)

Actually since the eons ago that I wrote this, I am now inspired to take up the pen and make these revisions, let's see how it goes! Take care everyone, and keep on writing, this proves it is never too late to revise that short story.

More Craigslist

Yet another Craigslist scam, which is why I don't advertise there. With my luck, the Craigslist Killer would show up and not Hugh and Ruth with lots of cash to buy my slightly scratched, completely rejuvenated, crazy charismatic table from the 1920s.

This scam involves job ads. These ads are placed on Craigslist soliciting benevolent souls to place those metal signs to advertise X Scam Service by attaching them onto their car, then drive around town: “Woohoo buy this cause you need it now, you just don't know it!” By driving a car around town and getting the word out, ad responders can earn compensation.

By answering the ad, unsuspecting victims then receive a fake check in the mail with instructions to cash it, and keep PART of the money....What? Just Part? I'll bet they are screaming that “Nobody said Nothing about Part....” They are to keep PART, and send another PART to another address. Now even if somebody lives under a rock, something should sound fishy by NOW...

The local police department cautions us...”Nobody should accept a job offer without first meeting their prospective employer, furthermore, any check received through the mail is more than likely fake/forged – any attempt to cash it might result in charges against the person presenting it – reinforcing the tired, time worn saying “there is no free lunch” ...or dinner, or advertising.

Craigslist Jobs Critique

While most people are wasting time on Facebook, I have a different vice: Craigslist. There is so much there, it would take days to cover it. When I'm not busy placing ads for stuff that will never sell in my lifetime, I peruse other categories and have to admit being intrigued by the Employment section.

This is an easy way for folks to hop on board a lucrative opportunity. Such as in Guangdon China where they would like an English teacher – free accommodations, salary, and “free picking up at airport.” Say no more, throw in the airport thing and I'm there!

Another company wants to flaunt their international flair promoting word-wide commerce by announcing jobs for “Rooferos.” This word is made by using the old English word, or maybe middle English, or modern....”Roof” and cleverly adding OS to instantly transform this into fine Spanish grammar which makes all kinds of sense, just as does speaking English slowly or loudly to non-native speakers while they stare blankly and vow to make up jokes about you later.

And let's not forget those old jewels from the classified columns and employment agencies that have found their way onto Craigslist, along with the correct hidden meanings of each entry:

self-starter – someone who can sit in a desk and use a phone system they have never seen before and answer detailed questions about things they know nothing about.

Works without close supervision – this means you will receive no help here – but contrary to the ad, they will be spy on you to watch you flounder.

Team player – they want a yes person, pretend like you like everybody and that everybody does their fair share....

detail -oriented – you like being bored to death, so much that you would do this job for free

problem –solver – you work for idiots and you must make them look good while they wallow in incompetence.

Big Thinkers Only – this is new, they have no idea what to do and you must bail them out for no credit.

Lastly, what about those Fortune 500 Companies that sound like royalty who are now suddenly looking for people with “no technical know-how”....in today's world? Under a rock? Well if you happen to be one of those people who have never learned to program your DVR, you may have a shot at this – report in and give me the inside scoop. Happy Employment :)

Sam is not just a dog,

no he's more than that you see

He's a Border Collie

which means he's smarter than me

The summer brings heat,

a morbid time of the season

And Sam won't take heed

or listen to reason

He is treated for fleas

and multiple woes

Allergies and irritations

too many foes

With all that scratching

the things that bother

His skin can rebel

causing one thing upon another

Green eyes keenly watch me

upon my arrival home

Because he definitely knows

I'll be breaking out The Cone

He hates it with a passion

that you can understand

Sam thinks all those cones

should certainly be banned

He takes for a spin

on a fit to bend and bash

Hoping that his cone hat

will end up in the trash

I have learned that “calming treats”

are not for him, not what he eats

It all ends in a standoff

with the things I have to buy

Determination and Dog Watch

are the reasons why

If I can hold out

to tackle another day

Me, The Cone and The Collie

it's a little game we play.....

Cats, Rodents, Life in General

So I arrive home, all is well. It's a nice day, the birds are singing (at least in my head). I go inside, put my things down, kick off my shoes, and head down the hallway when I look down and SHAZAM!! right in the middle of my good rug (like the only one that isn't from Wal-Mart) is...a small, very dead rodent!

Apparently amidst the pier and beams of my old, but not old enough to be ultra-cool-or-cosmopolitan house are some open places where small, furry creatures can gain access. Unfortunately for this one, now lying at my feet, the cats were inside as opposed to being outside tormenting the neighbors' dog:

“Hey Annie, Woof Woof, I'm thinking of climbing the fence, ha ha - NOT!”

“Annie, let us throw the ball! Oops look behind you, it's the postman!bahahaha”

Cats are like that; you know. I'm just grateful that it was: 1) completely dead and 2) no body parts were bitten off. So as it stands now, Cats = 1; Rodents = Zip.

Cajun Fest

Who will make the crawfish pie

when you die?

Have you asked yourself this?

You will be sorely missed

Not to mention the gumbo

and who will be Bozo?

That spicy colorful cuisine

keeps the figure lean

Or maybe not so,

but we can't let it go

Nobody can scrimp

while loading up on shrimp

Making a plate haul

with a good ole crawfish boil

Fill up a bowl

with a taste of creole

I really can't be seen

hiding behind the boudin

Without the etouffee

it's not the month of May

Simmer the perfect roux

ladle up the stew

What can we do my cher?

But live another day

How do you cope with this

after missing Cajun Fest?

Book Review

Aries girl,

where's that book review

that you promised to do...

Now I see

that I'm way down

in that heap

past cookbooks, travel stories

and novels of dreams

And still it truly seems

A couple years have passed

and there I am

inviting people to

places unglam

Reviews, reviews to

get on a list

the one ebook

not to be missed

My own daughter

was an Aries almost

but ended up as the Fish

with a penchant for the coast

About that book,

I'm afraid I digress

could you bump it up a little

with some glib to impress?

I'm floundering about

in a vast, vast sea

The years I crafted

that book

are well behind me...

Should it be an E-form

or a book in print?

Should I have taken those years

and used time better spent?

Blair Witch

Dead trees line the sides of streets casting scraggly shadows over the town. Two lakes recede like a withdrawn nightmare – leaving nothing but cracked tiles of ground in their wake. The mood is dry and uncertain, to say the least. Some people are optimistic, some are not.

I feel rather like the girl in The Blair Witch Project, which was a successful low budget nineties film that scared the pants off everybody because it embodied the fear of the unknown which, as we all know, is much scarier than what you can see. I identify with this girl when the end is near, when she is holding the flashlight up to her face while she makes a final video apologizing to her family for going out into the woods to look for trouble.

The drought here has been much like the unseen witch – it has left clues, complete strikes on nature, and nasty, bewildering tricks all along a trail of destruction – but we have not yet seen the face of this evil. Some people are much like the girl's companions who fell victim to the Blair Witch in that they have been oblivious and unbelieving the whole time, continuing on in their ways – until maybe, they too will be snatched away at any given moment. Like the witch, the evil atmosphere exerts a supreme power – but remains unseen.

“I can show you fear in a handful of dust,” yes it is true indeed, now I know this fear. Trees dead and dying like lost pilgrims abandoned of hope, hard-hearted incessant winds, those who gather in houses to ask why did we turn away? What is this?...The climate change predicted by men in white coats years ago? Is there no appeasing this omnipotent force? Is there a force, or just a fed up ozone? Will anyone be left to answer these questions or will all be snatched away until the last pitiful person remains hold up, flashlight in hand with their final thoughts?

Streets no more... dead trees, deserted town...over ran by starving coyotes, dust blown, battered tree branches fall in mystical patterns like the witch placed them in the forest. Who will tell our story?

Life is a Beach, and Then...

Earl and I

we were pretty tight

that's when I went on

my summer diet

I thought it best

to get some rest

but....

we took two towels each

and headed for the perfect beach

we wanted to have fun

bask blissfully in golden sun

leave our home turf

and play in the surf

not forgetting to turn

escaping sunburn

just two peas in a pod

me rockin' my beach bod

but that beach date

ended in terrible fate

Earl eagerly drove in and went to park

jumped hastily in....

with a great white shark!

Be Still

Be still

and count the echoes of the night

listen to the darkness

entertain tranquility

Be still

for a moment in the afternoon

watch the distance from the corner of your eye

tune out the constant drone

Be still

in the morning

see the sun rise over a thousand hills to

envelope a weary world

listen to the earth

dare to do

Be still

in those few moments

of “glad grace”

grab and hold existence

In this stillness....

the heart beats

the world spins

and life continues on....

The Bankrobber

Shortie Smith was hold up in a Motel 6. The bank robbery had gone surprisingly well,and he couldn't believe it. It was a small bank, he waited to the customers left, two tellers and a ski mask. All he did was walk in the bank and hand the teller a note: “Put all the money in the bag and hand it over to me. Maintain eye contact, do not attempt to notify anyone. I have a gun.” The teller's eyes opened wide, she looked up. He pointed at the protrusion in his shirt, both women got busy and handed him a bag, and Shortie walked out. On foot, he made quite a bit of progress before he had to hide in an abandoned building waiting until the sirens died down. He changed shirts, discarded the mask, and then he made a stop in the Vietnamese “Discount Store and Payday Loans,” where he called a cab. Now Shortie was pondering the ceiling tiles in Motel 6. He had to have a good plan, sometimes you can get away with things and he wanted to get away with this crime, it was his money, he needed it, besides the government would pay those people back. Sort of a government payday loan.

Shortie got up and placed the money bag on the bed, and he opened it up. All of a sudden, there was a small, but violent, blue explosion. “Damn it!” yelled Shortie. It was blue dye. Everywhere. The tellers had given him a bag full of blue dye! He turned to look in the mirror, he was blue all right. Blue face, arms, hands. What the luck, alright! There was only one thing to do now, Dallas Cowboys or Smurfs?

The radio was blaring the current hit: “When I'm Gone...” and Shortie knew, he had to git gone. They would be looking for him, so he had to get pretty far and fast out of Colorado. What was it that old bum had told him, that he knew a place, a place where not many can get to, a place where people would kill to get to, a place where it was like things never happened. Could there be such a place?

Shortie headed out as inconspicuously as a blue man could, and rounded the corner to the Dollar Store. He had to get a Smurf hat and a a cowboy hat. He had to be able to bounce this blue thing off. The money was blue too, but he would worry about that later. Right now, he had non-robbery money that he could use.

Out on the street he walked, Shortie the performance artist, the kids were having something at the library, that was his story, he was a Smurf acting for the kids. He turned onto Lamar Street, and ran face to face into the woman at the bank. She looked at him, looked at him again, and walked on by. Had she recognized him? Shortie made a bee line for the library, he had to do this thing right. In his bag, the cowboy hat smushed against his leg and the bag of money was now transferred into a trash bag inside the Dollar Store bag. A performance, then find the old man....

Shortie the Bank Robber's real name was Vincent Moscone. Shortie V., they called him; he was named just like his cousin....both were Vinny for short. Shortie came all the way from New Jersey to rob the Arvest Bank of Colorado. He had done his research, and this bank was one of the most lax in security. Now he was a blue man on the run, but not quite on the run yet. He had to handle this blue dye thing right, or he would get caught for sure. Those darn tellers, putting that dye in the money bag. Now he was headed to the Mavis Public Library for a children's performance. Shortie touched his Smurf hat, yep it was perfect; he didn't like kids, but he could pull this off. Cops were searching the whole town. Up ahead a cop car was parked in front of the RX-All Pharmacy. That was ok, he could walk by confidently. He didn't even flinch. Shortie was so ready to get back to New Jersey, he was gonna go into partnership with his cousin, whose name was Vinnie too.

Inside the library, Shortie headed to the front desk, “Hello, I am here for the show,” he told the head librarian. “Oh yes,” she smiled. “A let's see, Mr.?” “Mr. Ernest Owens,” said Shortie. “I don't see your name on the list...” said the librarian. “Oh, I'm sorry, was I supposed to sign up early?” he asked. “Well, yes,” said the librarian looking at his Smurf costume. “Oh gee, I ...” said Shortie. “Well we might could fit your part in, can you fill out take these forms and fill them out, and bring it back to the desk with your ID?” “Sure,” said Shortie, taking the forms. He headed over to the computer center.

Shortie had the forms, and was searching wildly for his fake ID. The place was filling up with kids. Shortie took a deep breath. He didn't like kids much. “Hey look!” Shortie turned around. Two little punk boys were right behind him. “Who are you?” squealed one of them. “I am a Smurf!” smiled Shortie. “What's that?” asked the other kid. “I'm Papa Smurf, Leader of the Smurf village, I'm here to...” Shortie looked outside as two cops were walking down the sidewalk. “Well, we are here to have fun, right?” asked Shortie. “Do you know Dr. Seuss?” asked the original little punk. “Uhh....yeah, yeah I do...” said Shortie. “Are you a Broncos fan?” asked the second little punk. “No, uh yeah, I'm a big Broncos fan...go Big Blue!” said Shortie. “And I like the Cowboys too.” One kid smiled, the other one frowned. “Hey you guys better find a seat, it's about time for us to get started here...”said Shortie.

Shortie turned to take his forms to the librarian, he saw a police officer talking to her at the desk. She was shaking her head. He wasn't sure....was she buying his story as a performance artist? Shortie had to get back to New Jersey with the money, he was going to help his cousin Vinny. They were starting a busines: Vinny & Vinny Business Solutions. They were gonna have solutions for anybody's business. They were gonna have a cash flow. Shortie had a bag of blue money. He was a blue man. A man who was now a Denver Bronco's fan. Now to get a Bronco's Jersey, rent a car and go to Texas. Dallas. The Cowboys were gonna be playin' the Giants. Blue was the perfect color alright, and he was going to get away. No cops were going to stop him now...

Another Side

Another Side

1736 Lamont Street. I knew this was the place when I first saw it. A stately Victorian tucked away in a quiet, tree lined neighborhood. The house looked majestic sitting there bordered by lovely rows of azaleas across the front. Sure, it needed some work, but houses like this don't come along every day.

"It is perfect!" I exclaimed.

My husband, Adam, turned to me and smiled.

"I agree," he said.

Of course the bottom line is that he would agree to anything if it meant not spending another weekend house hunting. Adam loved his free time and he was anxious to get back to it.

We met the real estate agent at the office. "We'll take it," I told her. Then we began the process to purchase the house.

Two months later, it was ours. All 3500 square feet of house and spacious lawn. I was excited, sure it meant a little work, but it would not be that bad. We stopped at the real estate company to pick up the keys.

"Oh, by the way, the former owner of the house, will be finished up there today," said the realtor. "She asked if you could stop by. She has some information about the house and some wonderful tips on maintaining the azaleas."

"Great," I replied. "We would love to meet her."

So there we were, studying the outside of the house. "This will be nice," I thought to myself. I had just recently quit my job as an art director and I was looking forward to working in the house to fill up my days. I was a bit worried about having too much time on my hands and I was anxious to stage a foray into the world of interior decorating.

As Adam and I admired the house, a short, stocky lady of about sixty-five came toward us. She had on a print dress and I noticed how her gray hair framed her face. It was a nice face, with sparkling eyes. She smiled and extended her hand.

"Hello, I'm Abigal Trenholm. I was so pleased to learn that such a nice, young couple bought my house."

"We are pleased to meet you," answered Adam.

"I am delighted, and if I may, I'd like to give you a little history on the house. It was built during the Civil War, so it is quite historic. It has been in my family for about a hundred years. I have lived here for forty years, and my parents before that. So you see, it is quite difficult for me to sell it.

Adam and I nodded in sympathy. Abigal lead us through our new house. I could see from her expression that she was leading us through years of memories, families, and happy times. Many good memories existed for her at 1736 Lamont Street.

Abigal explained that her sister was ill and now the time had come to move away and care for her. So it became necessary to sell the house quickly. It was comforting to see someone who thought so much of the house. We felt secure knowing it had been so looked after.

Two and one-half stories of history spread before us. The front porch was a gathering place supported by two large columns. The windows were narrow and some had tiny paines. Two windows were triangular in shape creating lots of places for dust to hide. Ornate glass sparkled from the french doors that opened into the sitting room and three balconies beckoned evening breezes.

"I have been going to replace that insulation, but I haven't gotten around to it, so you might want to see about that. Martin's Hardware store can order wood if you need to replace any of it. They can also give you suggestions for paint. You know these old houses, they require a little special treatment."

Finally, we walked Abigal to the door and out into the front yard. She looked around and I thought she was a little sad.

"Well, now I have covered the house, the last thing I must mention to you is the azaleas. It is very important that you follow my instructions if you want them to do well."

Adam and I smiled at each other. I could read his thoughts. Just another old lady consumed with showing off her gardening skills.

"You should water them every other day. Just after sunrise is best. Twice a week, pour coffee grounds on them. When the blooms began to die, cut the old ones off. If you follow my instructions, you won't have any problems and they will just grow and grow."

Adam grinned. "Thanks, and we certainly appreciate that, Abigal."

"Now, I'll leave you my phone number so that if you have questions you can call. Also, maybe I can get your number after you move in, so if I get back to Colleyville, maybe I could come see the place."

We assured her that we would love for her to come visit, and with that the taxi arrived to take Abigal to the airport and away from her home of forty years. I walked with her to the taxi. As Adam helped put her baggage in the back of the cab, she turned to me.

"Dear, please take care with the flowers. Promise me that you will, you see, I planted them myself. I don't know if I can make you understand how they enhance the house...and how I was hoping to find someone who would like them."

As she spoke, I thought I saw something in her eyes, which was maybe the fear of giving up her home and heading into an uncertain future. I felt sorry for her and tried to picture myself at that age, alone, owning nothing else, sacrificing the few remaining years of life to do what was right.

"Sure, Abigal, I like plants. It won't be that much trouble."

With that, she appeared to be relieved. Abigal said goodbye to us. She climbed into the taxi, tucked the print skirt around her legs and clutched her handbag at her side. Her rhinestone pendant reflected tiny beams of light as she waved goodbye and the taxi made it's way down Lamont street.

Move in day was upon us. The weather was nice that morning, but the afternoon turned to rain. We watched and tried to maneuver the delivery so the furniture would not be coated with water droplets. The job of moving done and the unpacking began. Adam and I did not have enough furniture for the house and couldn't seem to agree on things to purchase. After being alike for so many years, it was strange that our tastes were going in opposite directions. Two days later, Adam had to

get back to work and I was left to deal with the house.

"I don't care, just do whatever you want to do," he remarked smugly as he took the last drink from his coffee and headed out the door one morning.

So I began. The wood inside had to be stripped and redone. Cabinets had to be scraped and painted. Stairwells and to be sanded and touched up. I found my days to be much too short. The more work I poured into the house, the more work needed to be done. I began to wonder if we had stumbled on a good deal after all. However, I did take Ms. Trehnholm's advice, exhausted as I was, to pamper the azaleas. They did appear to love the attention, and flourish they did. The flowers expanded into a beautiful, full color carpet extending the entire length of the house.

Ms. Trenholm called me one day and I described the flowers to her. She sounded thrilled that they were doing so well.

Not long after the move, the tedious hours spent working in the house and yard began to catch up with me. I started to loose interest and my energy level began to drop. Adam said, "Carolyn, you need to take some time off. This house has survived all these years, it can survive a few more."

I agreed and even though I found this work so rewarding, I decided to take a short trip to visit my parents. While I was away, Adam did what he could with the azaleas, but he worked long hours at the office and he refused to give up his Sunday golf game. He didn't mist them every day or put the coffee grounds on them in the mornings.

My mother was concerned, "You just look awful, dear, can I make an

appointment with my doctor?"

I declined explaining that the long hours of manual labor were probably the culprit. I decided to make arrangements to go home early. When I arrived at the house, I noticed the azaleas were not as lovely as they had been. They appeared to be a bit discolored, and they drifted limply in the afternoon breeze. I told myself that I would pick up where Adam had neglected them as soon as I could get some rest and get rid of the bug I had.

The next day my condition had not improved, so I went to see Dr. Edwards. He told me I was fine, but suffering from exhaustion. He gave me a prescription and said to go home and get lots of rest.

"You should be completely normal in a couple of days," he said.

I went back to the home and climbed into bed. Later that day I arose to find I was really not feeling any better. I noticed the azaleas as I stepped into the yard. It was even more obvious that Adam had not tended to them for some time. I promised to do better the following morning. I reassured myself that I would be better by then. I entered the house and attempted some light housekeeping. As the minutes passed, I became more frail. The telephone rang and Ms. Trehnholm was on the other end.

"Hello, Carolyn, how are you dear?" she asked me.

"I'm fine," I told her. I was slightly bitter. Why did she have to bother me anyway? Something in my tone gave my those feelings away.

"Are you sure?" she asked. A note of disbelief was apparent in her voice.

"Just a little sinus problem," I answered.

"I hope you are taking care of yourself?" Abigal asked. "I just thought I would call to see if you were having any luck with the azaleas?."

"The flowers are okay, I have taken your advice and it is working out nicely," I answered.

I was quite cross when I hung up the phone thinking I might have to cope with that old woman for years to come. I could picture it now, every two weeks or so. Ring, ring..."How's those damn pink flowers?" Ring, ring..."Husband not home...working or playing golf?" I wondered how long the damn flowers would bloom anyway, a few weeks, all summer, or all year? I made a mental note to research azaleas.

The next day, I just couldn't get up. Adam kissed me goodbye on the forehead.

"If you aren't any better tomorrow, we should go back to the doctor. In fact, I'm going to make plans to take off and go with you myself."

"That won't be necessary," I assured him. "I'll be up and around after this morning. I promise." I almost felt sorry for him, and began to feel that I must have been too quick to criticize. He was really worried about me. I lay in bed and listened as he made his way downstairs and out the door. I felt lonely and desolate. I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

As sleep fell upon me, the room appeared to change. Shadows crept across the walls. I was in a field of nice, flowing grass. The grass moved with the wind and everything was so peaceful. I liked it there and felt I could stay in that field in the twilight and the wind and the swaying grass.

"Carolyn, wake up, wake up, you are having a dream!"

"No, I'm not dreaming. There were shadows in here, beautiful shadows in a field and I was just there in the open and everything was so peaceful."

Adam's expression mirrored his concern. "I'm taking you to the hospital. You are not to be alone until you are better."

Dr. Edwards was unable to find anything wrong with me for the second time. I watched his soft, wrinkled face study me.

"I don't understand," he murmured. "There is no reason to hospitalize her," he told Adam. "Let me add another prescription and in two days, I hope there will be marked improvement."

Meanwhile, Adam had phoned my mother. When we drove into our driveway, she came out to meet us.

"You are so pale," she said.

"Dr. Edwards said I should be okay in two days," I replied.

"Well, I'm certainly not leaving until you are!"

There I was, a prisoner in my own house. I gazed out the front windows and I noticed the azaleas. They looked drawn swaying there in the evening breeze. A small shiver ran up my spine. "What if I have some sort of terminal illness or maybe I am going crazy," I thought to myself.

Mother refused to let me get out of bed and I offered little resistance since I didn't feel much like it anyway. She brought me tea and read a books aloud until I fell asleep.

I drifted along in search of the meadow, but I found myself in a maze. Miles and miles of wall-size hedges made passage to the other side impossible. I felt shadows closing in on me. The shadows were not the same as before and took different forms until they combined into one large figure. They became a giant black spider. I ran through the maze, but each route led me to a dead end. I turned and found the spider coming for me. I could see red eyes. I screamed, but nobody came, nobody heard. I began clawing my way through the hedge, my arms bleeding from the thorns.

My mother shook me. "Carolyn, Carolyn! Stop it! Stop it! Can you hear me? It is just a dream, please stop!"

I looked into her troubled eyes and broke into sobs. Later that evening, I could hear my mother and Adam talking hushed tones. I could barely make out their conversation. Sitting there in the dark, fragments filtered through to me:

"Under a lot of stress lately..."

"I just don't understand..."

"Mental breakdown, I don't see how...."

"An Abigal Trenholm phoned, she demanded to speak to her..."

"Some crazy old lady..."

I felt tears form in my eyes. I couldn't understand why I was sick. It was so unfair. Somehow I didn't feel this sickness was something out of a medical book. I resolved to think less of my illness and convinced myself that it was just my frame of mind. I drifted again to sleep, as if I were hypnotized.

I slept peacefully for some time. I vaguely remember faces of people who entered my room. My mother, Adam, Dr. Edwards. They appeared to exist only as memories. Memories to a past I could not longer touch.

I could decipher faint voices at my bedside:

"I've never diagnosed anything like this..."

"Comas can be..."

"....a Mrs. Trenholm died...."

At times, I could see them, but as I reached out, the people I tried so desperately to contact, drifted passed me. It was as though my eyes had vacated my body and were floating around the room.

I continued to drift in this manner until darkness came upon me. I was afraid the spider would come again. Drifting in this manner, I found myself at the edge of a dark lake. Blackened willows bent over the water. The shadows surrounded me. I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. The shadows closed in on me. I noticed they had faces.

I screamed at them, "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

The faces regarded me with expressionless eyes. I wanted to get away. With as much courage as I could gather, I began to run along the black lake. To my horror, I found the shore was slippery and I felt myself sinking into the dreary water. I cried. The lake was full of the shadows, lost souls. Their long, lifeless arms reached for me. This was it. I was on my way to becoming a soul destined to spend eternity in those black, murky waters. The arms groped for me. At one point, I decided not to fight anymore, then I remembered the sunlight, and the happiness I had experienced in another world. With all the strength I could muster, I lunged from the water and grabbed the ledge. Somewhere from within, a desire propelled me up from the abyss and back toward the living.

I awoke from the coma. Adam was asleep beside the hospital bed. He looked sad.

"Adam," I called to him.

"Carolyn! Oh, thank God you are awake!"

I smiled. I had made it after all.

It was only on the way home that I thought of the azaleas. I got out of the car and walked around the corner of the house. They were once again in magnificent bloom.

"Adam!" I exclaimed. "Look at the flowers!"

"Yes, I thought you might be surprised," he answered. "While you were in the coma, I hired a gardener to care for the flowers. He watered them and put the coffee grounds on them just like poor old Mrs. Trenholm wanted."

Adam continued, "You know, I was thinking, maybe we should sell the house, it is just too much. Maybe find a little beach house, you like the coast, right?"

"I thought of it or even a nice townhouse surrounded by concrete and no shrubs. But I don't think so," I answered. "I want to keep the house."

Today, the gardening club meets and I am the guest speaker. The topic is, "Tips for Azaleas." You see, I have come to care for them a great deal and I never intend to neglect them again.