Donna Ison's Blog, page 9

J is for Jezebel Jackson

According to Truman Capote, "You can't blame a writer for what the characters say." I hope like hell this is true, because Jezebel Jackson, the main character from Hemlock Holler, is perhaps the most raunchy and raucous dame ever put on a page. 

*However, she is not anti-feminist or mean-spirited, as some of these quotations can be if taken out of context. Many are being made toward The Morality Maidens, a hypocritical, Evangelical group who preaches celibacy out of one side of their mouths and hatred out of the other...and tries to kill her. 

Here are a few Jezebelisms:

*Bitch wears so much make-up I bet it takes a metal cheese grater to scrape it off at night.

Well, that’s about as unfortunate as a Dominatrix developing a latex allergy.

I’d rather douche with Tabasco.

You're not a midget? Well, that’s too bad. Every bar needs a midget.

Ain't nothing that a bath and bourbon can't cure. 

Blood is thicker than water, but gravy is thicker than both.

I'd rather attend an orgy in a leper colony than brunch with her. 

Codswallop. As long as it covers nips and cracks, we’re good to go,

*She's one of those pathetic women that keeps a stack a bridal magazines under the bed and has an "I Do" board on Pinterest even though ain't nobody asked her to marry them. 

I’ve been very productive today. I shaved my snatch. It’s as smooth and shiny as fresh, waxed linoleum. Want to see?

*That Jesus on the crucifix around her neck looked downright embarrassed to be hanging between those fake boobs.

I’m a firm believer in working hard and playing hard…sometimes I just forget the working part. 

Lord, my twat is all over Twitter...again. 

Swine flu...I think they should call it donkey flu cause it makes you feel like ass.

*If she'd stop thumping that Bible and actually read it, she might act better. 

I prayed about it, and God told me to tell you to shut your big, ugly pie hole.

I is for Ironic

Throughout the song, “Ironic” Alanis Morissette asks, “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?” The answer is, "No. Hell, no." Most of the examples she gives are not ironic. They are just unfortunate. And some are just outright asinine. 

Here are a few examples: 

And isn't it ironic... don't you think
It's a black fly in your chardonnay…I can't even begin to see how this is ironic or even could be. I suppose if the brand was Spider Web Chardonnay it might have a bit of irony to it. 

It's like rain, on your wedding day…ironic, NO. Unfortunate, yes. 
Your parent’s divorce becoming final on your wedding day… that's ironic.. 

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day...okay, maybe if the lottery numbers he played were also the day of his death like 04-10-20-14.

It's a free ride, when you've already paid...This is not irony, just ask for a refund. Now, getting cat scratch fever from a feline named Lucky. That's ironic. 

It's like ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife...First of all, why are their 10,000 spoons? Secondly, what do you need a knife for that badly? Third, this is not ironic. 

Mr. Play-It-Safe, was afraid to fly 
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye 
He waited his whole damn life, to take that flight 
And as the plane crashed down he thought, "Well, isn't this nice"? …nice, NO. ironic, NO.
If Mr. Play-It-Safe insisted upon driving and a plane crashed into his car killing him, then that would denote irony.

It's a death row pardon two minutes too late. This is definitely some very bad timing, but irony would be if the death row inmate had invented the electric chair that he was going to be executed in. 

It's meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife...no, meeting the man of your dreams and and finding out he was your brother...closer...but still not completely ironic, 

I need to calm down and pour a cocktail. This song came out in 1995, I think it's finally time for me to let it go and move on, don't you? 

H is for Hemlock Holler

For today's blog, I'd like to share the first chapter of my new novel Hemlock Holler , which will be out in June. 

CHAPTER ONE     

 An ancient power swam beneath surface of the earth like an electric octopus. It tentacled out to sacred spots around the globe and summoned both men and monsters back to Hemlock Holler. The strange souls drawn there were prone to regularly committing a litany of unsavory sins ranging from murder to moonshining, pornography to petty theft, and everything in between. But, the Holler and its residents had an unspoken pact. It would keep their secrets, if they wouldn’t reveal the extraordinary events they witnessed within it.

In the not so distant past, it was as common to look out your window and see a man morphing into some otherworldly creature as it was to spy a common grey squirrel. Chants of covens of witches casting spells to the full moon drowned out the cicada’s harsh chorus. And ghosts were as abundant as the Golden Ragwort that grew wild through the woods.

The force seeped out into nearby small, Kentucky towns causing occult occurrences and imbuing the inhabitants with unusual talents. Its influence reached as far as the outskirts of Lexington. In the seventies, a scientist from Transylvania University spent six months prying information from the locals and documenting the phenomenon. He vanished before the study was ever published. And life went on as normal…or abnormal, as the case was.

Then five years ago, for reasons unknown, all things supernatural stopped. Now, an ennui as dense as kudzu blanketed the forest. The only break in the boredom came every summer when punk-country sensation Jezebel Jackson barreled into the region for her yearly homecoming concert. She had moved away to Nashville two decades ago where she started breaking chart records, laws, hearts, and a fiddle at the end of each show, but still considered the Holler home.

So, each June, for three days, she came back and hosted Hootenanny in the Holler, a music festival of bacchanalian proportions. Hordes of hippies with backpacks full of energy drinks and hallucinogenics descended upon the land. They surfed in on a wave of patchouli and transformed the fields and forests into a colorful tent village. The drag queens that made up a significant portion of Jezebel’s fan base erected the elaborate Glitter Dome as their weekend home. And, her punk following showed up with nothing but booze, partied until they passed out on the bare ground, and used leather jackets for blankets and rocks for pillows. Peace, love, music and the unique odor of high-grade marijuana permeated the air for a full seventy-two hours. Bands ranging from Bluegrass to Metal Funk played back to back. Dancing bodies filled the fields. Then, as quickly as they arrived, the Festie Folk were gone back to jobs where they were forced to hide their tattoos under long sleeves and go by their proper, God-given names instead of Starshine or Bubble Boy. And again, for another year, tedium regained its reign.

From deep within its fiery core, Hemlock Holler yearned for something more to happen...something sinister and spectacular…luckily,it didn’t have long to wait.

G is for Gorilla

In our household, gorilla is a verb. It is usually being yelled at my husband, Frank, when he is in the midst of attempting to open, fix, or adjust something. "Don't gorilla that" means "Please take your time and stop manhandling it...or rather ape-handling it...before you crush it like a coconut."

Here are a few other nouns, which I think make pretty groovy verbs as well. 

He ran through the glass door, shattered it, and unicorned himself with a shard. 

I got no sleep last night, so I am zombied today. 

I don't feel like walking. Will you backpack me?

That bitch totally Judased me. 

He drank way too much and throw rugged.  

He totally Titaniced the test, and now has to attend summer school. 

I don't like being fishbowled; stop judging. 

I need to get a solid eating plan, so I don't Kirstie Alley anymore.

I am so mad, I am going to Zippo on someone. 

The glass of spilled wine tentacled across the floor.

Shhh....I need to light bulb and come up with a plan. 


Let me know if you have any words you like to use and abuse.

F is for Freak Flag

Image by RainbowLoveGraphics. Contrary to popular belief, I have been keeping my Freak Flag at half-mast. But I am ready to raise it to the top of the tallest flagpole and let it whip in the wind for all the world to see and judge if they feel so inclined. 

I've written a diatribe on "Fuck What People Think," and sworn to make and hand out rubber bracelets with the "FWPT" logo. I've declared my liberation and vowed, "I will flee to the forest, 
To be reraised by wolves" in a poem entitled, "Feral."   I've read every self-help book on the shelves on the topic. And still, I struggle on a daily basis with allowing other people's opinions to stop...or at least slow me down...from living the life I want to lead. 

After losing a friend to a heart attack last week at the age of sixty-two, I realized with every fiber of my being that life is too short to hesitate, for even a moment, in pursuing a passion or grabbing a good time. This ends TODAY. Here are the five steps I'm taking to free myself from the foolishness: 

1) Fun Over Fear. Whenever I start to make a decision, I'm simply going to ask myself, "Would it be fun? Would it make me happy?" If the answer is yes, I'll ask, "Will it hurt anyone else? Like actually cause them pain or distress?" If the answer is no, then I'm doing it...regardless of being ridiculed or reviled. 
2) Feel Fat? Screw that! Since gaining thirty pounds, I have postponed trips, activities, photos, and shopping until I get thin again. No more. I will never let feeling fat get in the way of participating in the feast of fantastic experiences that make up a well-lived life. 
3) Find a Fetish.  So now that I'm feeling fine naked, I can fully express myself in the boudoir by exploring my freak there, as well. I am going to indulge my desires and find a fetish that suits me. Right off the bat, I'm thinking a combo of Stigmatophilia (tattoos and piercings) and Trichophilia (body hair). 
4)  Focus on Friends and Family...and friendly strangers. I can't be obsessed with what others are thinking or saying about me, it I'm focused on what I can think, say, or do to make a positive impact on them. The easiest way to take your mind off your own troubles is to help someone else overcome theirs. 
5) Forget Failure. Just because I fell on my face in the past does not mean it will happen this time. Even if it does, the fact that I'm still here means failure isn't fatal. What folks call failure is actually just an experience that chose not to follow the rules. 

I close with words from the fabulous Lucille Ball, 'I'd rather regret the things I've done than regret the things I haven't done." Now, look out your window, you should see my Freak Flag flying high.

Welcome to my words! Join me for your daily dose of Bourbonista madness.as I attempt to complete the Blogging from A-Z April Challenge. 

E is for Elementary Education

Second Grade, Math Monday.

When students went head to head
For the coveted title of Multiplication King.
There had never been a Multiplication Queen on the scene,
No girl had ever won, but I was determined to change that.

Finally, it’s my turn.
I’m going up against Walter the Whiz.

Ready to make it mine,
I step to the line,
Lucky pencil in one hand,
Determination in the other.

The teacher flips the flash card…hard.
6 x7=…
42, I scream fast and first.
But in the excitement,
I’ve released my pencil.
Spiraling through the air, like a missile it flies,
And hits Mrs. Wilson square between the eyes.
“Donna Jane Ison, you could’ve blinded me.”

I decide right then and there,
That numbers are dangerous.
I decide right then and there,
That I will stick with words.
Pencils that are busy with sentences and such,
Do not put people’s eyes out much.

For years, I lived this lie.
But, recently, I realized that as a girl,
You gotta’ get good at math.
Because, ladies, life is a numbers game.

We are judged by our weight, our bra size, the width of our thighs.
The number of sexual partners, the number of husbands, the number of children.
Hours spent at work –vs- hours spent at home.
Hours spent with a man –vs- hours spent alone.

To understand the damage that numbers can do,
You gotta’ get familiar with fractions and percentages, too.

80% - the number of women who will have HPV by the age of 50.
1 in 50- the number of women who admit they actually like their bodies.
$11 billion dollars- the amount spent by American women on plastic surgery last year.
17% - the number of congressional seats held by women.
1 in 3- the number of women who are sexually assaulted within their lifetime.
77 cents to one dollar- the amount that KY women are paid as opposed to KY men.

In addition to the somber statistics,
There is magical and malevolent anti-feminist formula.
No matter what numbers you put in the answer is always the same.
Allow me to demonstrate:

Subtract the ideal from your actual weight and age,
Divide this by the discrepancy in wage,
Subtract the number of hours in each day,
Spent on self-loathing, regret, and shame,
Add in the year you first came,
Divide yet again by ten.
Subtract the double standard in morality,
Add in acts of brutality…
That you’ve committed against other women,
Give or take a few and divide that by two,
And the answer is less than and never enough.
That’s powerful stuff.
I’ve called a truce with the times tables.

In order to stop the epidemic of conquer and divide,
I have to learn to add and multiply.

One girl + one girl united in the common cause of mutual advancement.
Two voices speaking out  x four hearts hearing = eight
Eight who are greater together than alone
Eight women, two hands each… that reach

To others offering support and guidance.
Sisterhood squared…
Until millions are standing side by side exponentially expressing
Their belief in themselves and each other.
Girls, we have got to get good at math.

D is for Dragonfly House Designs

Today, we'll have a little Bourbonista Banter with Designer Joanna Haberman of Dragonfly House Designs . 

Joanna began creating original pieces at the age of twelve with a pair of crocheted slippers...only one was completed. That was when she realized she wanted to make hats instead, because you only have one head. As a Designer and Fiber Artist she focuses on upcycling, repurposing, and fulfilling others' visions through custom commissions. Her first venture in vending was selling friendship bracelets with her best friend from a card table in her front lawn in 1990. Her items still continue to be sold at Terrapin Hill Harvest Festival, Good Foods Market, and various other fairs and events. 

The Bourbonista: If you could be any animal on the planet, including those of the cryptozoological variety, what would you be?
Joanna:  Dragonfly. They go through a painful metamorphosis, but they are skilled hunters, and have an appealing grace to them.

The Bourbonista: Painful metamorphosis...I don't like the sound of that. I prefer pleasurable status quo. What six people, they can either be alive or dead or a combination, would you invite to your perfect dinner party?
Joanna:  Newton, DeCarte, Einstein, Tesla, Hawking and Masaru Emoto.

The Bourbonista: Just thinking about that dinner conversation makes my head hurt...or maybe the headache is due to the copious amounts of bourbon I drank last night...either way. If your house were to catch on fire, what is the one possession you would grab?
Joanna:  Wallet/Purse. Replacing your identity is a process!

The Bourbonista: Someone stole my identity once. They brought it back. Being me ain't as much fun as it looks. If your life story were turned into a biopic, who would play you?
Joanna: Anne Hesch

The Bourbonista: I can totally see that. I think I would want Robert Downey Jr. in drag. I think with his life experience he could capture the essence. If you were a booze, which would you be and who would you want to drink you? Joanna: Absinthe. I'd want people to experience an altered state of reality in order to open their current perspective.

The Bourbonista: The last time I took a trip with the Green Fairy I woke up in a barn wearing nothing but tap shoes and a Mardi Gras mask, but that's a whole different story. What is your favorite word and why? 
Joanna: Synchronicity. We are all interconnected, with gifts to share together, and recognizing synchronicity is the act of acknowledging those connections and feeding them so that they can thrive.
Joanna's latest venture is Newsboy Caps, made from upcycled materials such as suit jackets, dress pants, and dress shirts. Having recently expanded her retail exposure of them to four stores in the downtown Lexington area, she is very excited to offer a variety of creative headwear options for many different tastes and personalities!

You can find examples of her hats at the following locations starting now and expanding over the next few weeks:

Bleed Blue Tattoo             Meg C Jewelry Gallery               Mulberry & Lime                        The Hive
527 S. Upper                    119 N. Mill St.                           216 N. Limestone                      156 Deweese St.
Lexington, KY                   Lexington, KY                           Lexington, KY                           Lexington, KY
859-255-4465                                                                    859-231-0800                            859-243-8545

Contact Joanna about custom orders at  Dragonfly House Designs .


Welcome to my words! Join me for your daily dose of Bourbonista madness.as I attempt to complete the Blogging from A-Z April Challenge. 

C is for CPR Certification

I had never witnessed a heart attack until Monday night. But now that I have, the memory and the questions will never leave me.

We were at the lake, on his boat, watching old Westerns as we have so many times before. He seemed distant, so I asked if he’d had his daily nap. He smiled and shook his head “no.” Five minutes later, he slumped over on the couch. Another friend and I tried to rouse him and get a response to no avail. 

“Get an aspirin,” the other man yelled. I ransacked cabinets, searching, finding them, realizing he couldn’t swallow.
“Do you know CPR?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, “Do you?”
“No.” I knew the basics of what I’d learned in Girl Scouts years ago and seen on medical shows, but no, I did not definitively know CPR. “Call 9-1-1. They’ll walk us through it.”

I got my husband from where he was working on the back deck. He ran inside. We moved the victim to the floor. The instruction began and Frank started CPR, but five minutes had passed. Five minutes is too long. It took another excruciating fifteen for the ambulance to arrive from the nearest small town. My friend is now in critical care breathing with the assistance of a respirator while his family struggles with the decision of whether or not to remove him from life support because of the time his brain was devoid of oxygen. 

In the wake of this event, yesterday’s blog was trite and ridiculous, but after attempting and attempting to pen a post, I just gave up and pulled a poem that was written five years ago. Every time I tried to think of a “B” word, the only one that came to mind was “Breathe.” Breathe, breathe, please, breath—what we had begged him to do. Now, breathe, breathe—what the medics had advised Frank to do between compressions. Breathe, just breathe—what I had to remind myself to do all day yesterday.

I spent Monday into the wee hours scouring the internet for information and hope. What I found was that there are conflicting studies on how CPR should be performed—some propose a compression/breath combination and others a hands-only compression. Though not every site agrees on the method, all, including the Sarver Heart Center, agree that you should "Just do your best. If you do nothing, the person is likely to die. Studies have shown that there is almost no chance that you will hurt the person. While it is rare that a rib will be broken during CPR, doctors are able to repair broken ribs, but they cannot repair death."

There are many articles, including  “Un-extraordinary measures: Stats show CPR often Falls Flat” from CNN, on the low efficacy of CPR and its influence on survival. But for me, even if the statistics are not in my favor, I want to have the knowledge and confidence to do everything within my power to give a person the chance to be part of the winning percentage.

I will forever wonder if things might have turned out differently if I had been able to administer CPR immediately. I never want to feel that helpless, scared, and ignorant again. Nor, do I ever want anyone else to feel that way. So, below, I have included links to videos on how to properly perform CPR and where to find classes in your region.

Video: Watch Hands-Only CPR in Action
Video: Adult CPR
American Red Cross Class Schedule

Welcome to my words, as I attempt to complete the Blogging from A-Z April Challenge. Wish me luck and join me for your daily dose of Bourbonista madness.

B is for Beyond Bourbon

April is National Poetry Month. So, I give you...


Beyond Bourbon: A Poem of Love and Loss

After an evening of slurring and screaming and slapping and unprotected sex,
Bourbon and I agreed to an amicable divorce.

We did it for the children.

Our eldest, Vladmir, who was accidentally left out all night long to fend for himself.
Doc Grizzly, the middle, who didn't get his daily walk because mamma was hung.
The infant, Next Novel, who’s certain to be snatched by child welfare for failure to thrive.
And lest we forget little Liver, who has worked so hard night and day to keep us together even to his own detriment.

After twenty years, it is going to be hard to walk away.
I know nostalgia will try to override common sense,

And fill my mind with memories of all the good times.
The whorey, glory days,
Those halcyon years spent in a happy haze,
And, the bleary and cheery holidays...

Halloween on the gay party barge,
Dressed like Snow White and ready for a fight,
Saint Paddy's Day with a green beer chaser,
Christmas with me splayed the twinkling tree,
Amidst the wrapping scraps and turkey bones.
And the Easter egg hunts...
Bourbon always made the basket seem so much fuller.
I'll never forget the first time I met bourbon and tasted his timeless charms.

He was sitting on the bar at a Sig Ep party,
Red wax running down his thick neck.
Surrounded by adoring fans,
Laughing and lapping up his every word.

All the girls wanted him,
Most of the men too.

He indulged in his share of dalliances and one night stands,
But in the end those light-weights just couldn't hang.
Bourbon belonged to me.
And I had the proof....90 proof be exact...of his daily devotion.

Bourbon wooed and finally won me with intoxicating promises and extravagant gifts.

Bourbon gave me…
The audacity to blurt out exactly what I thought when I thought it to whoever was within earshot.
Bourbon gave me...
The balls to be the first on the dance floor and last one to leave the party.
And it was Bourbon who gave me ...
The guts to quit my job with a 401K to go write myself a story.
There, I go with the sloppy sentimentality. 

To keep from rushing back into bourbon's warm embrace,
I must bask in the bad times.

Like the night I slipped in my own vomit,
And cracked open the toilet bowel with my head.
The morning I awoke naked in a room full of strangers,
Wearing nothing but a Mardi Gras mask.
That long weekend when I got locked up,
And spent Memorial Day in the madhouse.

Lest I should again drown in his amber eyes and lush lies,
I'll force myself to linger on the losses...
Two husbands
Three jobs
Four days back in '98
And more expensive earrings, self-respect, and brain cells than I care to count.  

But our break-up has not made me bitter.
I still believe in true love.
Why, just the other night at this party,
I met this guy named Ghanga.
He was visiting from Jamaica.
He was so different from bourbon...
So much more mellow.

I know that rebound relationships don't usually last,
But I have a good feeling about this one.
Who knows...Ghanga could be my soul mate.
This could be forever. 

Welcome to my Words! I am attempting to complete the Blogging from A-Z April Challenge. Wish me luck and join me for your daily dose of Bourbonista madness.

A is for Alien Abduction

I am fairly certain that last year in the first week of December I was abducted by aliens. My reasoning is thus...

1) I woke up naked in the yard missing a large chunk of time. However, it was a Sunday morning after a bourbon infused Saturday night...and, I have found myself in that predicament before. 

2) The next day I discovered a perfectly circular, dime-sized mark on my ankle. I think it's some sort of transmitter.

3) Every night since I have been waking up at exactly 3:43 AM. I speculate this was when I was snatched. 

4) I am suffering from a reoccurring dream about being kidnapped by a trio of "little people" who resemble dwarfed versions of the Three Stooges and taken up to a cloud. After forcing me to listen to smooth jazz while they probe me, they put me in a giant washing machine on the delicate cycle. It washes and rinses me, then shoots me down a tube that reaches all the way from outer space to my bedroom. 

5) My nipples now glow in the dark.  Welcome to my Words! I will attempt to complete the Blogging from A-Z April Challenge. Wish me luck and join me for your daily dose of Bourbonista madness.