Stuart R. West's Blog, page 62
March 22, 2014
Water For Old Folks
My nieces went to McDonalds with my mom.
She ordered a "senior water."
Huh. Being older, and presumably wiser than me, my mom must have been hipped to a secret about water I wasn't privy to. Is there some sort of distinct water recipe reserved for senior citizens? Specially distilled and aged like a fine wine? A mummified keg of water on tap, blended with nutrition and laxatives? Lawrence Welk bubbles popping off the top of the barrel? And cheaper than free? Can't beat that bargain.
I dwelled. Came up blank. Perhaps she was asking to speak to the assistant manager, Senor Water. But that didn't sound right.
She received her senior water. Discounted at extra free. I bet it tasted like liquid gold.
I can't wait 'til I can order a senior water.
She ordered a "senior water."
Huh. Being older, and presumably wiser than me, my mom must have been hipped to a secret about water I wasn't privy to. Is there some sort of distinct water recipe reserved for senior citizens? Specially distilled and aged like a fine wine? A mummified keg of water on tap, blended with nutrition and laxatives? Lawrence Welk bubbles popping off the top of the barrel? And cheaper than free? Can't beat that bargain.
I dwelled. Came up blank. Perhaps she was asking to speak to the assistant manager, Senor Water. But that didn't sound right.
She received her senior water. Discounted at extra free. I bet it tasted like liquid gold.
I can't wait 'til I can order a senior water.
March 14, 2014
Due To Unpopular demand! More Christian, gay, werewolf, erotica! Part the third...
Because absolutely no one demanded it, here's the return of Christian, gay, werewolf, erotica.
Arrooooo!
I must be doing something wrong, as I lost two followers due to my past two posts detailing my CGWE epic. Yay. Controversy warms my darkened soul.
Hold on, folks, it's time to get Hawt ....
Barney nuzzled my cheek, his nose wet, a cold lump of coal in my Christmas dream stocking. I lapped at his face, choked, spit up a hair-ball. A true gentleman, he ignored it.
Then Barney hopped out of bed. He twerked a dance, his tail hard, rigid, pointed straight up to Heaven. He teasingly turned to me, asked, "Have you found God yet?"
I said, "Yes, and he's here now. Wasn't really aware he was lost. But, anyway..."
He pounced back in bed, his paws scraping at my chest.
As if driven by angels, the words spilled out of my mouth like demonic vomit. "My fiancée won't be happy about this." Couldn't help it, God guided my voice like a Heavenly choir coach.
Barney straightened--in more ways than one--and said, "Wait, you have a fiancée? As in a female? Is she a wolf?"
I hooked a paw behind my ear, scratched, killing time. "Um, yeah, did I not mention her?"
Biting a pillow in his jaws, Barney shook it like a rag-doll. "No, dangit! Thought you were somebody else! And, now, you say...you have a fiancée?"
"I'm sorry! I never meant to misrepresent who I am. I'm torn! Part wolf, part homosexual, all Christian, yet not quite whole! Not the way God and the Moral Majority say I should be!"
"I knew I should have gone home with that vampire..."
"Don't be that way, Barney."
"The only way is my highway! Get on it, in it, or take off and don't pay the toll!"
"Um...don't think I understand--"
"It doesn't matter! You hurt me! I don't know what to think!" Barney turned, dropped on all fours, growling. But I couldn't help but notice his wagging tail. Hopeful. And Lustful.
Arrooooo!
I must be doing something wrong, as I lost two followers due to my past two posts detailing my CGWE epic. Yay. Controversy warms my darkened soul.
Hold on, folks, it's time to get Hawt ....
Barney nuzzled my cheek, his nose wet, a cold lump of coal in my Christmas dream stocking. I lapped at his face, choked, spit up a hair-ball. A true gentleman, he ignored it.
Then Barney hopped out of bed. He twerked a dance, his tail hard, rigid, pointed straight up to Heaven. He teasingly turned to me, asked, "Have you found God yet?"
I said, "Yes, and he's here now. Wasn't really aware he was lost. But, anyway..."
He pounced back in bed, his paws scraping at my chest.
As if driven by angels, the words spilled out of my mouth like demonic vomit. "My fiancée won't be happy about this." Couldn't help it, God guided my voice like a Heavenly choir coach.
Barney straightened--in more ways than one--and said, "Wait, you have a fiancée? As in a female? Is she a wolf?"
I hooked a paw behind my ear, scratched, killing time. "Um, yeah, did I not mention her?"
Biting a pillow in his jaws, Barney shook it like a rag-doll. "No, dangit! Thought you were somebody else! And, now, you say...you have a fiancée?"
"I'm sorry! I never meant to misrepresent who I am. I'm torn! Part wolf, part homosexual, all Christian, yet not quite whole! Not the way God and the Moral Majority say I should be!"
"I knew I should have gone home with that vampire..."
"Don't be that way, Barney."
"The only way is my highway! Get on it, in it, or take off and don't pay the toll!"
"Um...don't think I understand--"
"It doesn't matter! You hurt me! I don't know what to think!" Barney turned, dropped on all fours, growling. But I couldn't help but notice his wagging tail. Hopeful. And Lustful.
March 7, 2014
Things Guys Hate To Hear
Well, gather 'round once again, ladies (and you comprise most of my readers. To the few fellas who read my blog...sorry, sorry, sorry. Don't take away my "Man Card!"), for I'm about to let you in on some secret guy things. Actually, this holds true for same-sex couples as well. One of y'all's going to fit the pattern. Dig in.
Some time ago, I sat next to my wife on the "love-seat (odd they don't call it "chips and dip and beer seat"--even furniture designers are sexist)," while she drank a cup of hot chocolate. When I dropped a hand on her knee, I was met with, "I have a hot, brimming cup of liquid in my hand, don't jiggle me!"
Well. Not exactly the desired effect I was looking for.
Which got me thinking (cue the eye-rolling). There are certain phrases guys dread hearing. Off the top of my head, here are a few. Now, should this latest diatribe help anyone (gals or guys) cope with their mate in the future, spread the word and call Dr. Phil.
*"Let's not eat in front of the TV tonight."
Yeah, right. What're we going to do, eat somewhere else like savages? I mean, honestly.
*Along these same lines..."We don't always have to watch TV."
I point back to cavemen. They didn't have TV. What'd they do fill their down-time? Discovered weapons. Killed. Marauded. Pulled women by their hair across the terrain. I really don't think we want to return to those days. TV civilizes us.
*"That shirt's too small. You need to go up a size."
Again, faulty logic. Everyone knows laundry shrinks...when we do get around to washing our favorite shirts. (My wife claims my favorite shirt makes me look like a mushroom. Damn handsome mushroom, I think.)
*"We need to start eating healthier."
Look, everyone knows nachos contain all the major food-groups for an important diet...dairy, crunchy, salt, carbs...okay, we're missing sugar and nicotine, but, hey, it's tough being health-conscious 24-7.
*"I'd like to take dance lessons."
Um. Apparently my wife forgot I'm the clumsiest, most awkward man in the world. I found a way out of this one, though. Showed her my mad twerking skills.
*And, the Mother of all genital-shrinking proclamations...
"We need to talk."
Gives me chills even writing it. No way out of this one, you know you're in for a doozy of a drama. Guys, brace yourself. Gals? Go easy on us.
Some time ago, I sat next to my wife on the "love-seat (odd they don't call it "chips and dip and beer seat"--even furniture designers are sexist)," while she drank a cup of hot chocolate. When I dropped a hand on her knee, I was met with, "I have a hot, brimming cup of liquid in my hand, don't jiggle me!"
Well. Not exactly the desired effect I was looking for.
Which got me thinking (cue the eye-rolling). There are certain phrases guys dread hearing. Off the top of my head, here are a few. Now, should this latest diatribe help anyone (gals or guys) cope with their mate in the future, spread the word and call Dr. Phil.
*"Let's not eat in front of the TV tonight."
Yeah, right. What're we going to do, eat somewhere else like savages? I mean, honestly.
*Along these same lines..."We don't always have to watch TV."
I point back to cavemen. They didn't have TV. What'd they do fill their down-time? Discovered weapons. Killed. Marauded. Pulled women by their hair across the terrain. I really don't think we want to return to those days. TV civilizes us.
*"That shirt's too small. You need to go up a size."
Again, faulty logic. Everyone knows laundry shrinks...when we do get around to washing our favorite shirts. (My wife claims my favorite shirt makes me look like a mushroom. Damn handsome mushroom, I think.)
*"We need to start eating healthier."
Look, everyone knows nachos contain all the major food-groups for an important diet...dairy, crunchy, salt, carbs...okay, we're missing sugar and nicotine, but, hey, it's tough being health-conscious 24-7.
*"I'd like to take dance lessons."
Um. Apparently my wife forgot I'm the clumsiest, most awkward man in the world. I found a way out of this one, though. Showed her my mad twerking skills.
*And, the Mother of all genital-shrinking proclamations...
"We need to talk."
Gives me chills even writing it. No way out of this one, you know you're in for a doozy of a drama. Guys, brace yourself. Gals? Go easy on us.
March 3, 2014
Worst phone conversation ever...
"Hi, Mom, how're you doing?"
"I'm having a heart attack."
Well. What do you do? Three degrees outside, snow plummeting down, and my mom decides to have a heart attack during Snowmageddon.
Okay, so my brother lives closer. Got him on the job. Straight to the hospital. Again. Feels like home these days.
The doctors don't think it was a heart attack. Inflammation of the sack around the heart. Or something.
I said, "Mom, next time you decide to have a heart attack, please do it in the Spring."
This was met with typical gloom and doom.
Gallows humor seems to be the only way to react these days. Or give in to my mom's self-pity party, strap on a hat, twirl a sparkler, and announce, with much gusto, "Huzzah! Everything sucks!"
Personally, I think she's been given a miraculous second chance with her heart operation. Thank you, anonymous cow organ donater. We'll call you Bessie. But it's time for Mom to go kick her heels up again in Florida, dancing with all the randy elderly gentlemen.
"I'm having a heart attack."
Well. What do you do? Three degrees outside, snow plummeting down, and my mom decides to have a heart attack during Snowmageddon.
Okay, so my brother lives closer. Got him on the job. Straight to the hospital. Again. Feels like home these days.
The doctors don't think it was a heart attack. Inflammation of the sack around the heart. Or something.
I said, "Mom, next time you decide to have a heart attack, please do it in the Spring."
This was met with typical gloom and doom.
Gallows humor seems to be the only way to react these days. Or give in to my mom's self-pity party, strap on a hat, twirl a sparkler, and announce, with much gusto, "Huzzah! Everything sucks!"
Personally, I think she's been given a miraculous second chance with her heart operation. Thank you, anonymous cow organ donater. We'll call you Bessie. But it's time for Mom to go kick her heels up again in Florida, dancing with all the randy elderly gentlemen.
March 2, 2014
On writing and stuff and crap
Okay, I was a little hesitant at first when my friend, Suzanne de Montigney, asked me to participate in this new blog hop. No one wants to read about writing. But, then I thought, what the hey, it's my blog, I'll bore anyone I care to. Selfish that way.
So, as per Suzanne http://suzannesthoughtsfortheday.blogspot.ca, here are my thoughts about writing. Strap in folks, things are about to get pompous.
1) What am I working on?
I have a darkly comical serial killer thriller on board. Also an epic ghost tale taking place alternately in 1935 and 1969. And, hey, let's not forget my take on zombies. I'm hesitant to talk too much about plots, as I like to toss around the unexpected.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, I have a bad boy sense of humor. It comes out in every book, no matter how dark the subject matter. Can't help myself. Class clown, still haven't grown up.
3) Why do I write what I do?
Because I live in Godforsaken Kansas, that's why! Kansas is creepy; crazy politics, spooky geography, terrifying people. Perfectly fertile fodder for fiction. But you just watch, folks. Someday I'll escape Midwest Heck.
4) How does your writing process work?
Weird question. First, I need a cup of coffee. Strong stuff. Position it just right on the desktop. Inch it around a little bit. There. Looks good, tastes better. Wait. Maybe just another nudge. I think that's it. Looks almost even, not quite. Push. A finger scooch. Crap. Now it's way overly-balanced on the other side.
This could go on all night, so let's get on with it.
When I open a blank page in Microsoft Word, it's terrifying. Each time I wonder if I'll be able to write a book. I'm a notorious "pantser (for those unfamiliar with the term, it means making it up on the fly)." Yet, I like to have the crutch of post-it notes, a simple sentence on each one, stating where I'm headed next. "Karl finds out he has a venereal disease." Something like that. Then I write like the wind.The fun part. It's the rewriting that takes twice as long. Once I get inside a character's mind-set, it's easy. They talk to me, carrying the tale along with their various quirks and foibles. Yes, I'm insane.
There you have it, folks. Boring? You bet! Interesting? Not by a long-shot! Self-indulgent? Sure, sue me.
So now I'm passing it on. Here are three writers worth your bucks and time.
Meradeth Houston: Her "sary" books are an extremely entertaining YA fantasy, romance series. Not only can Meradeth weave an awesome tale, she knows how to involve the reader with deeply felt emotion. Colors Like Memories should be your kick-off point.
Jeff Chapman: No insult to Jeff's manhood, but the dude sure writes pretty. And spooky. An unbeatable combination. Check out his Highway 24. Drop in on The Crooked House of Coins. The guy's on fire.
Michael Beyer: Here's a writer everyone should be reading, no excuses. Michael's Catch A Falling Star charmed the pants off of me (NOT a pretty sight). It's a nostalgic, warm, amusing sci-fi tale, not unlike one of Spielberg's better, earlier films. Great things are going to come from him and I can't wait to read his next book.
Boom! I'm outta here. But not before leaving you with one last link. Ah, I'll make it easy on you. My Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Stuart-R.-West/...
So, as per Suzanne http://suzannesthoughtsfortheday.blogspot.ca, here are my thoughts about writing. Strap in folks, things are about to get pompous.
1) What am I working on?
I have a darkly comical serial killer thriller on board. Also an epic ghost tale taking place alternately in 1935 and 1969. And, hey, let's not forget my take on zombies. I'm hesitant to talk too much about plots, as I like to toss around the unexpected.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, I have a bad boy sense of humor. It comes out in every book, no matter how dark the subject matter. Can't help myself. Class clown, still haven't grown up.
3) Why do I write what I do?
Because I live in Godforsaken Kansas, that's why! Kansas is creepy; crazy politics, spooky geography, terrifying people. Perfectly fertile fodder for fiction. But you just watch, folks. Someday I'll escape Midwest Heck.
4) How does your writing process work?
Weird question. First, I need a cup of coffee. Strong stuff. Position it just right on the desktop. Inch it around a little bit. There. Looks good, tastes better. Wait. Maybe just another nudge. I think that's it. Looks almost even, not quite. Push. A finger scooch. Crap. Now it's way overly-balanced on the other side.
This could go on all night, so let's get on with it.
When I open a blank page in Microsoft Word, it's terrifying. Each time I wonder if I'll be able to write a book. I'm a notorious "pantser (for those unfamiliar with the term, it means making it up on the fly)." Yet, I like to have the crutch of post-it notes, a simple sentence on each one, stating where I'm headed next. "Karl finds out he has a venereal disease." Something like that. Then I write like the wind.The fun part. It's the rewriting that takes twice as long. Once I get inside a character's mind-set, it's easy. They talk to me, carrying the tale along with their various quirks and foibles. Yes, I'm insane.
There you have it, folks. Boring? You bet! Interesting? Not by a long-shot! Self-indulgent? Sure, sue me.
So now I'm passing it on. Here are three writers worth your bucks and time.
Meradeth Houston: Her "sary" books are an extremely entertaining YA fantasy, romance series. Not only can Meradeth weave an awesome tale, she knows how to involve the reader with deeply felt emotion. Colors Like Memories should be your kick-off point.
Jeff Chapman: No insult to Jeff's manhood, but the dude sure writes pretty. And spooky. An unbeatable combination. Check out his Highway 24. Drop in on The Crooked House of Coins. The guy's on fire.
Michael Beyer: Here's a writer everyone should be reading, no excuses. Michael's Catch A Falling Star charmed the pants off of me (NOT a pretty sight). It's a nostalgic, warm, amusing sci-fi tale, not unlike one of Spielberg's better, earlier films. Great things are going to come from him and I can't wait to read his next book.
Boom! I'm outta here. But not before leaving you with one last link. Ah, I'll make it easy on you. My Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Stuart-R.-West/...
February 22, 2014
Beware the Maguffins
My daughter blew her car up. I suppose it happens when you don't put fluids in the car. Everyone's allowed one car blow-up when they're learning, I guess. But, it's the second car she blew up. She's a serial car blower-upper. Her hobby. Girl seriously needs a cheaper hobby.
It happened on December the 13th of last year. Friday the thirteenth. I had to go bail her out on a snow-blowing night and drive her sisters home. Okay, Dad diligence done.
We were looking at about eight grand to fix it. Then, like a blessing from above, a miracle happened. A friend of my ex-wife's said he could do it for a thousand bucks. I threatened to name my next-born after him.
Well...
This "friend," I think, is laughing all the way to the bank.
We'll call this kid "Maguffin." Just in case he might come through one of these years.
Two months later, the car is still engine-free with the hood off. Collecting dust in my ex-wife's garage.
He keeps saying he'll be over the next day to finish the job. I haven't heard these many excuses since Bill Clinton talked his way out of an impeachment. One day the kid hocked his tools much to my frustration. Another time he claimed the ol' "sick grandma" excuse. Of course who could overlook the awesome "out of gas" routine. Then there's the weather.
For God's sake, I feel like a fool.
My brother says he hopes the Maguffin enjoyed his thousand dollars worth of drugs. I'm beginning to think that might be the truth.
Meanwhile, I'm carting my daughter around like it's grade school days again.
Beware "gifts" that look too good. They just might be a "Maguffin."
It happened on December the 13th of last year. Friday the thirteenth. I had to go bail her out on a snow-blowing night and drive her sisters home. Okay, Dad diligence done.
We were looking at about eight grand to fix it. Then, like a blessing from above, a miracle happened. A friend of my ex-wife's said he could do it for a thousand bucks. I threatened to name my next-born after him.
Well...
This "friend," I think, is laughing all the way to the bank.
We'll call this kid "Maguffin." Just in case he might come through one of these years.
Two months later, the car is still engine-free with the hood off. Collecting dust in my ex-wife's garage.
He keeps saying he'll be over the next day to finish the job. I haven't heard these many excuses since Bill Clinton talked his way out of an impeachment. One day the kid hocked his tools much to my frustration. Another time he claimed the ol' "sick grandma" excuse. Of course who could overlook the awesome "out of gas" routine. Then there's the weather.
For God's sake, I feel like a fool.
My brother says he hopes the Maguffin enjoyed his thousand dollars worth of drugs. I'm beginning to think that might be the truth.
Meanwhile, I'm carting my daughter around like it's grade school days again.
Beware "gifts" that look too good. They just might be a "Maguffin."
February 16, 2014
Gah! Check out what Kansas has done now!
Prepare to cringe.
Kansas just passed a bill that allows business and government employees to refuse service to gay couples if it offends their religious beliefs. Our tax-paying money at work.
You believe that crap?
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I live in Kansas. And Kansas is apparently hot damned and determined to throttle the distance between Church and State. For silly reasons, even.
These guys...
You know, I thought we were making strides toward a more tolerant country with several states passing gay marriage bills. Why it should even be open to government interference is beside me. It's a matter of individuals and love. Ludicrous. But still, I saw progress.
Then Kansas puts in a word.
Honestly, doesn't this seem unconstitutional? If I were to take a cue from Kansas government, it'd be a wicked world. I could legally refuse to talk to someone because their haircut offends me (Kansas, Home of the Mullet). Someone's breath is bad? Hey, see you in court, cleanliness is next to Godliness! What about the people who find Adam Sandler movies funny? I'm sorry, it offends my religious sensibilities. Take a full-on shot-gun blast for that (rampant gun hi-jinx are okay in Kansas as long as a gay person isn't behind the trigger). Dang ol' Kansas government will defend my sensitive religious sensibilities, they got my back.
It's more than two steps back, folks, it's a leap through time. What happened?
Kansas just passed a bill that allows business and government employees to refuse service to gay couples if it offends their religious beliefs. Our tax-paying money at work.
You believe that crap?
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I live in Kansas. And Kansas is apparently hot damned and determined to throttle the distance between Church and State. For silly reasons, even.
These guys...
You know, I thought we were making strides toward a more tolerant country with several states passing gay marriage bills. Why it should even be open to government interference is beside me. It's a matter of individuals and love. Ludicrous. But still, I saw progress.
Then Kansas puts in a word.
Honestly, doesn't this seem unconstitutional? If I were to take a cue from Kansas government, it'd be a wicked world. I could legally refuse to talk to someone because their haircut offends me (Kansas, Home of the Mullet). Someone's breath is bad? Hey, see you in court, cleanliness is next to Godliness! What about the people who find Adam Sandler movies funny? I'm sorry, it offends my religious sensibilities. Take a full-on shot-gun blast for that (rampant gun hi-jinx are okay in Kansas as long as a gay person isn't behind the trigger). Dang ol' Kansas government will defend my sensitive religious sensibilities, they got my back.
It's more than two steps back, folks, it's a leap through time. What happened?
February 15, 2014
Jailbreak! The Shocking Conclusion of Post-Op Adventures With Mom
The day was here. Time to spring my mom out of the rehab center (and by now, we all know not to call it a "nursing home," right?). It felt like a jailbreak. And, really, the residents treated it as a prison. Gangs were formed with much animosity between them. My mom was smart. She aligned herself with the toughest broad in the joint. Practically held onto her belt-loop. I don't know what she paid for protection. Her servings of applesauce or something, I imagine.
I can envision the gang of little old ladies rolling down the hallway, snapping their fingers like "the Sharks" and splaying their jazz hands.
Anyway, we made a fast getaway. My mom didn't care about anything other than freedom, her eyes on the prize. As we left, I heard one cranky woman from the opposing gang exclaim, "he looks like he should be riding one of those Harleys." She meant me. Her, I won't miss so much.
As we passed the eaterie, the resident bird-caller left us with a farewell turkey gobble, a new bird she recently added to her menagerie. Her, I'll kinda miss.
But before Mom got the "all clear," we had one last hurdle to jump. She would be released only if a scan on her leg showed her recently developed blood clot had gone away. So on a particularly cold, blustery and snowy day, I carted Mom off to the hospital.
The technician, Kathy (we'll call her "Chatty Kathy") took an hour on the scan. In the meantime, we discovered she was a football fan, a grandmother of twins, had no use for horror films, and thinks all books should have uplifting religious messages. Then it came time for the results.
The blood clot was still there. My mom's hopes sunk. She caved, giving into depression. I'd never seen her so full of despair. So I moved Heaven and Earth to make sure she got home. Calls were made. Appointments scheduled. Pleas, half-truths, and the selling of my first-born's soul ensued. The doctor finally relented if she would go to the hospital every day to have her blood drawn and receive more anti-coagulant shots. It didn't matter to Mom that I'd have to travel an hour-and-a-half every day to take her to these appointments. And honestly? It didn't matter to me, either. She had her goal in sight: home. It was worth it to see her perk up again. Hope springs eternal.
Back to "jail" for the final outcome! Navigating the snowstorm, we reentered the Big House. The warden said that Mom wouldn't have to continue the shots, that her doctor was crazy. And they arranged for in-home nurse care to draw blood. Suddenly, after two weeks of griping about the nursing home (er, sorry, "supervised nursing facility"), Mom had a revelation. The rehab center knew what they were doing all along.
Well...that's my mom for you. Picking and choosing who's right to suit her needs.
Home! We were both so exhausted by our five hour ordeal, we both fell asleep. All was right with the world once again.
Mom's doing better now. She can't wait to drive. The surgeon gave his approval. Of course I objected because she can't see. She has Macular Degeneration. But my mom shot me down. I just need to make sure I'm nowhere near her while she's out "Magooing" all over the roads.
It's just a matter of time now before Mom's dancing up a storm again in Florida. Fly away, snow bunny, and dance the night away!
I can envision the gang of little old ladies rolling down the hallway, snapping their fingers like "the Sharks" and splaying their jazz hands.
Anyway, we made a fast getaway. My mom didn't care about anything other than freedom, her eyes on the prize. As we left, I heard one cranky woman from the opposing gang exclaim, "he looks like he should be riding one of those Harleys." She meant me. Her, I won't miss so much.
As we passed the eaterie, the resident bird-caller left us with a farewell turkey gobble, a new bird she recently added to her menagerie. Her, I'll kinda miss.
But before Mom got the "all clear," we had one last hurdle to jump. She would be released only if a scan on her leg showed her recently developed blood clot had gone away. So on a particularly cold, blustery and snowy day, I carted Mom off to the hospital.
The technician, Kathy (we'll call her "Chatty Kathy") took an hour on the scan. In the meantime, we discovered she was a football fan, a grandmother of twins, had no use for horror films, and thinks all books should have uplifting religious messages. Then it came time for the results.
The blood clot was still there. My mom's hopes sunk. She caved, giving into depression. I'd never seen her so full of despair. So I moved Heaven and Earth to make sure she got home. Calls were made. Appointments scheduled. Pleas, half-truths, and the selling of my first-born's soul ensued. The doctor finally relented if she would go to the hospital every day to have her blood drawn and receive more anti-coagulant shots. It didn't matter to Mom that I'd have to travel an hour-and-a-half every day to take her to these appointments. And honestly? It didn't matter to me, either. She had her goal in sight: home. It was worth it to see her perk up again. Hope springs eternal.
Back to "jail" for the final outcome! Navigating the snowstorm, we reentered the Big House. The warden said that Mom wouldn't have to continue the shots, that her doctor was crazy. And they arranged for in-home nurse care to draw blood. Suddenly, after two weeks of griping about the nursing home (er, sorry, "supervised nursing facility"), Mom had a revelation. The rehab center knew what they were doing all along.
Well...that's my mom for you. Picking and choosing who's right to suit her needs.
Home! We were both so exhausted by our five hour ordeal, we both fell asleep. All was right with the world once again.
Mom's doing better now. She can't wait to drive. The surgeon gave his approval. Of course I objected because she can't see. She has Macular Degeneration. But my mom shot me down. I just need to make sure I'm nowhere near her while she's out "Magooing" all over the roads.
It's just a matter of time now before Mom's dancing up a storm again in Florida. Fly away, snow bunny, and dance the night away!
February 9, 2014
The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Rising
Contest time, gang! Okay, my friend, Meradeth Houston, and I were chatting. Came up with a fun new game.
I've created the absolutely worst title I could think of. "The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Arising." I know, right? Gets the creative juices swirling.
Dust off your closet screenwriting talents. Give me a promo with actors. The lucky winner will receive a huge ol' "attaboy" or "attagirl." And a free copy of my newest book (but it's only .99 now, so geeze, don't be a cheap-skate) if you want it.
Here's my example (ahem):
The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Rising:"
The Tucker is back. Just when the students at FreeBall High think they're safe, he returns. When they're not looking, shirts are tucked in from behind. Pants are pulled up. No one is safe. Pray you're not next. Could it be the cafeteria lady, always with a googly eye upon proper etiquette? Perhaps it's the janitor, one arm on a mop, the other wielding an axe. Tools of the trade. What about poor Brad, who years ago was humiliated by having his shirt tucked in by a complete stranger? A stranger who left him with the words, "take care of your appearance." Everyone's at risk. Nothing is as it seems. "The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Rising" will take you places you've never been tucked before. A new direct-to-video starring Judd Nelson as Principal Risk. Featuring Roseanne Barr as the lunch lady and George Kennedy as Principal Vice. Oprah as the President. Introducing Justin Bieber as the androgynous student. And Andy Dick as Detective Stone Hardrock.
See how simple that was? Go, gang, go! Let your freak flag fly! Now, tuck off!
I've created the absolutely worst title I could think of. "The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Arising." I know, right? Gets the creative juices swirling.
Dust off your closet screenwriting talents. Give me a promo with actors. The lucky winner will receive a huge ol' "attaboy" or "attagirl." And a free copy of my newest book (but it's only .99 now, so geeze, don't be a cheap-skate) if you want it.
Here's my example (ahem):
The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Rising:"
The Tucker is back. Just when the students at FreeBall High think they're safe, he returns. When they're not looking, shirts are tucked in from behind. Pants are pulled up. No one is safe. Pray you're not next. Could it be the cafeteria lady, always with a googly eye upon proper etiquette? Perhaps it's the janitor, one arm on a mop, the other wielding an axe. Tools of the trade. What about poor Brad, who years ago was humiliated by having his shirt tucked in by a complete stranger? A stranger who left him with the words, "take care of your appearance." Everyone's at risk. Nothing is as it seems. "The Tuckening Part #2: A New Mooning Rising" will take you places you've never been tucked before. A new direct-to-video starring Judd Nelson as Principal Risk. Featuring Roseanne Barr as the lunch lady and George Kennedy as Principal Vice. Oprah as the President. Introducing Justin Bieber as the androgynous student. And Andy Dick as Detective Stone Hardrock.
See how simple that was? Go, gang, go! Let your freak flag fly! Now, tuck off!
February 6, 2014
It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood
Living in suburban Kansas is dangerous. We have bears. Couple of burly gay guys down the street. Well, they're not threatening, but still, we have bears.
Two houses down the street there's a little yappy dog, no bigger than a bowling ball. Squeaks all the time, won't shut up, you'd think his tail was on fire. To make matters worse, the dog's owners named it "Sassy." That's reinforcing the worst behavior possible. Shall we call Charles Manson "spunky?" Same thing.
Neighbors are funny. You can't escape 'em. And you sure don't sign up for 'em. The beeyotch caddy-corner to me despises our dog because he barks on occasion. Doesn't stop her from squeaking her damn dog-toy constantly and cooing at her dog in baby-speak at the top of her lungs ("Who's a good girl? You are, that's who! Come here, sweetums! Mommy has a present for you!" On and on and on.). "Captain America" behind the fence constantly barbeques in his T-shirt. When he really cuts loose, he brings out his speakers and cranks out some "Journey." His eight-track tape collection probably should be retired. On the other hand, "Party Animal's" awesome. 'Cause I never see her. I hear her once a month, shrieking like a banshee on her deck at three in the morning. That's okay, though. I'm forgiving. Part of being a member of suburbia.
Who I can't forgive are the neighbors across the street. For unknown reasons, the wife totally shuns us. Turns her back on us, ignores our greetings, pretends like we don't exist. Her husband (scary, hulking, shaved headed guy) "seems" nice enough, yet...something's weird.
Got me thinking. And that's always dangerous. What if the heinous woman across the street has a secret? A secret life. Something that's worth killing for.
My first adult thriller, Neighborhood Watch, is based on this premise. Yeah, it's me as the main character, my wife, too. That's why I didn't run it by her first. Don't know if she'll like it. But tales have to be told. I'm Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window watching the neighbors. Toss in a little Stepford Wives and Rosemary's Baby and we're set. Suburbia's creepy.
Bottom line...you cross me, you're gonna' end up in a book.
I'm putting the teenage characters to bed. Turn off the lights, put the kids outside, and tuck in the cat. Thing's are gonna' get spooky.
Neighborhood Watch: http://www.amazon.com/Neighborhood-Wa...
Now at an incredibly low price! Some chills to take off the winter's edge! Be there!
Two houses down the street there's a little yappy dog, no bigger than a bowling ball. Squeaks all the time, won't shut up, you'd think his tail was on fire. To make matters worse, the dog's owners named it "Sassy." That's reinforcing the worst behavior possible. Shall we call Charles Manson "spunky?" Same thing.
Neighbors are funny. You can't escape 'em. And you sure don't sign up for 'em. The beeyotch caddy-corner to me despises our dog because he barks on occasion. Doesn't stop her from squeaking her damn dog-toy constantly and cooing at her dog in baby-speak at the top of her lungs ("Who's a good girl? You are, that's who! Come here, sweetums! Mommy has a present for you!" On and on and on.). "Captain America" behind the fence constantly barbeques in his T-shirt. When he really cuts loose, he brings out his speakers and cranks out some "Journey." His eight-track tape collection probably should be retired. On the other hand, "Party Animal's" awesome. 'Cause I never see her. I hear her once a month, shrieking like a banshee on her deck at three in the morning. That's okay, though. I'm forgiving. Part of being a member of suburbia.
Who I can't forgive are the neighbors across the street. For unknown reasons, the wife totally shuns us. Turns her back on us, ignores our greetings, pretends like we don't exist. Her husband (scary, hulking, shaved headed guy) "seems" nice enough, yet...something's weird.
Got me thinking. And that's always dangerous. What if the heinous woman across the street has a secret? A secret life. Something that's worth killing for.
My first adult thriller, Neighborhood Watch, is based on this premise. Yeah, it's me as the main character, my wife, too. That's why I didn't run it by her first. Don't know if she'll like it. But tales have to be told. I'm Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window watching the neighbors. Toss in a little Stepford Wives and Rosemary's Baby and we're set. Suburbia's creepy.
Bottom line...you cross me, you're gonna' end up in a book.
I'm putting the teenage characters to bed. Turn off the lights, put the kids outside, and tuck in the cat. Thing's are gonna' get spooky.
Neighborhood Watch: http://www.amazon.com/Neighborhood-Wa...
Now at an incredibly low price! Some chills to take off the winter's edge! Be there!
