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​No  fears,   No Regrets

Live Like You're Dying

4/27/2015

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I would imagine that for most families, a funeral is a somber event. Organ music, lots of crying, speecches about the person who passed.

When my sister, Lee, died, my mother had already had a blood pressure problem for quite some time. She gave me her checkbook to make the arrangements, then headed to her doctor for a consultation. Concerned she would have a stroke, and I suggested she ask for "something" to get her through the next few days. That "something" turned out to really be
something!

My other sister, Abby, and I headed to the funeral home to make the arrangements. Lee's ex-husband with whom she lived refused to go---he was afraid he might be expected to pay for something. We chose the motorcycle theme memorial cards and mourner book and decided to have a service celebrating her life, not mourning her death. We decided on a viewing and cremation then we headed to her home to collect her clothes.

Lee was a leather flaunting, boot wearing biker babe. For that reason, we chose a pair of jeans, her Harley Davidson shirt and a leather vest that had pins of the various bike events they attended over the years. My former brother-in-law's mother was there. She was 75 years old or so. The woman had the nerve to say, "You're not burying her with that vest? That was $150. I'm small enough, it will fit me. Be sure to let me have it after the viewing."

Yep, you read correctly, the woman asked for the vest off my dead sister's body!

So I made some huge picture boards to display and needed a music playlist. I asked my brother for his music collection, and his response was:

 "You're not playing The Who and Black Sabbath at this thing are you? Funerals are supposed to be traditional."
I replied, "She wasn't a traditional person.
"He scoffed, "She'd have a live f@#$ing band there if she could."
"EXACTLY! So why are you arguing with me on this?"

So we created a playlist of everything from The Who and Rolling Stones to Guns N Roses. We played her favorite song, Freebird. Now I kinda regret not getting that band. She would have really liked that. I even went and bought a Guns N Roses concert shirt to wear to the viewing. Lee loved Slash. My mother rolled her eyes at that gesture, but by the end of the night, Mom wouldn't have notice.

The first person other than immediate family to arrive at the viewing was a huge guy with shaved head and a goatee. He must have been six foot seven or so. He wore a leather vest with the word "Shovelhead" on the back.  Abby said, "My god, that guy is huge. They must have used a whole cow to make that guy's vest."  Thoughts drifted through my mind of this guy whacking someone in the head with a shovel and burying them. I didn't know until later that Shovelhead is a motorcycle engine.

People filed in, and as they looked over the pictures they laughed and pointed. They remembered the good times, which is what I wanted. A few of her friends asked me, "Where were these taken? She's wearing dress clothes... we never saw her in dress clothes."  A look of shock stretched across their faces.

I laughed, "That is 'cause she didn't have any. Those belong to our other sister."  Then I scanned the family photos. Christenings, weddings, Communions... ever single picture... 50 different events or so.. and in every picture, Lee was wearing Abby's outfits and my mother's dress shoes.  I heard a rumble outside and looked out the window. Harley Davidson cycles were roaring in the parking lot. Motorists were "doing doughnuts" and tires schreeched. A cloud of pot smoke hovered above the bikes. Again, I smiled, knowing this was exactly what Lee would have wanted.

A nicely dressed man approached me, wiping his hand on his shirt. "Hi, I'm related to her husband. I'd shake your hand, but it smells like pot from all the shaking I've been doing tonight."  He smiled. "I'm a federal officer, and hoping their smoking doesn't get absorbed into my skin. That wouldn't be good."  It was pretty evident this guy was more like my family than the bikers that surrounded us. He explained to me that he washed his hands five times already. I had not noticed, but took a sniff  and realized my hands were encased in pot smell... first their first time ever.

Then the crazy mother-in-law showed up again. Again she asked me for the vest. At this point I must have been upset and waving my hands in the air. My oldest sister, Dina, came running over, "I saw your Italian side coming out with the hand flapping.. so I figured I would come over." She pulled the woman away, and the witch went to talk to my mother. 

My mother was so high on prescribed medication, she was laughing and smiling. Mom never did any sort of drugs or alcohol. In my whole life, I only saw her take two drinks at Dina's wedding in 1989. The Ativan made her so high, and I almost could here Lee laughing, "Rock on, Momma! That stuff's good, isn't it?" Mom asked me at one point if I brought a camera, as if it was a party. In some respects it was a party, just the way Lee would have wanted. 


When the mother-in-law asked my mom for the vest off my dead sister's body, my mom told her, "Aren't you the one who wanted to pull the plug on your son? My daughter did all the things to take care of him that you didn't want to do. You know, bathed him, taught him to walk and talk. Gave him enemas and then cleaned up the blow-outs when he couldn't control his bowels. Since you have the nerve to ask for my daughter's clothes off her back, why don't you just take the casket and flowers home too. Maybe you can plant them in your garden."

At the end of the service, everyone said their last goodbyes, then I waited for all to turn away before searching the casket. I just knew someone would put a bag of pot in there, and I was right. That last touch really put a stamp of approval of what my sister would have wanted. Lee whined in my ear, "Oh come on, I was hoping they would put it in the oven with me. I wanted one last puff! How cool would that be?"

Dead at 47, Lee lived her life without fear. She did what she wanted, went where she wanted, and allowed no one to tell her no. If someone did, she found a way around it, or under it. Or she rid that person from her life and found someone new. She didn't have kids, so she had no one to answer for or to. She refused to be cut into a mold of who people thought she should be. She nursed her husband back to health after his accident out of desire, not out of obligation.

Lee lived every day as if it were her last... and in the end, even her funeral was a party and celebration of life. She finally got my mother high, too. If you take nothing more from any of my writing, then take this:

Live Like You're Dying, because you are.--- Let the people you care about know it. Laugh off stress and bills. Play with your children now. Work to survive, but don't survive to work. Perhaps if you're lucky, people will celebrate your life once you are gone. If you are really lucky, you won't have a sister like me who then posts you life online LOL

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"Listen to Her Pee" 04/22/2015

4/22/2015

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Listen to Her Pee

Considering a Dalmatian?
Check out this video for some fun facts. They are not just "cute" like the in movie. They are smart and need training as well as room to run. They are extremely loyal, and sometimes goofy. They can be extremely protective.

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I adopted my dalmatian, Rainy, when she was five years old. Before then, she never lived in a house, but in the kennel in the back yard. I found out quickly just how incredibly smart AND stubborn she could be.

It took me a long time to housebreak her. She knew she was supposed to go outside, but she didn't want to. She would pee right by the front door, staring at me. Taunting me. It got to the point where I wouldn't let her in the house until she squatted and peed outside. Her response? She would squat outside and pretend to pee, then come in and pee by the door.

During this time, I went on vacation, and my mother watched Rainy for me.

"Is she behaving? Is she doing her business outside?"
"Yeah, she's been really good. She's outside right now."
"I told you, you have to listen while she's squatting. Makes sure she pees, or she'll come inside and do it."
"Are you insane? I'm not listening to a dog urinate!"

Mom didn't listen. And Rainy did as I suspected. Stubborn dog.

She did eventually get fully trained, it took a whole year---I've trained other rescue dalmatians in two weeks. But she was just so stubborn. None of those "expert" methods worked with her. I tried them all.

Anyway... something funny about her was that she acted like rain was acid and would burn her spots off or something. No matter how badly she needed to go to the bathroom, she did not want to go outside. Rainy then decided to push her butt out the screen door to pee, as soon as she was done bolted back inside. I wish I could find my pictures of this dog with it's upper body inside the door and the back end outside. This became her ritual during rain storms from that moment on.

Everything with her was an adventure. One day I was on the phone with my mother, and as I looked out my back window I saw Rainy digging. digging deep. She pulled up a very large bone that looked like a femur. "Mom, oh my god. I think Rainy dug up a leg!"

The property had been in my family for about 25 years at this point, so I knew no one was buried there, but living on the creek, you never know if someone washed up and got stuck in reeds where it wasn't seen. My mother hung up, and as strong a person I am, I hesitated to go outside. I saw my dog drag the long bone to another part of the yard, then go back to her hole where she dug some more. "Oh Jeezh! She's looking for more body parts."

My mother arrived, and we went to the yard together. I sneaked up on the hole where Rainy still dug. Nothing. "The leg bone is over there." I pointed, nervously.  I figured my directionally challenged mother needed me to point it out. Maybe she'd be able to find her way this time.

Her face went from one of fear to one of guilt. "Rhoda, this is a bone I threw over the fence about six month ago. I went to Petsmart and forgot to tell you."  I never saw the bone, so Rainy must have buried it immediately. Which is weird, cause it's the only time I ever saw her dig.

Ordering pizza was a pretty crazy event in my house. Rainy hated the delivery people. She didn't want anyone near her yard. She owned it. She owned the street and even the playground across the street. Anything in her line of sight was hers. Fighting with a 100 pound dog who's viciously hopping up and down barking while you try to open the front door is not fun. So we wound up with a routine in my house.

When the pizza guy would arrive, I would scream, "Al!!!" To alert my brother of the arrival. Then he would go out the back door, get the food and come in the front door. At which time the barking attack dog would run outside into the yard, barking hysterically. But, with her entertained, we could eat in peace without her whimpering for food.

After awhile, we proved Pavlov correct. If I yelled, "Al!" at 3 am, Rainy would attack the front door, expecting the pizza guy.

And yes, she was a purebred, I have papers. She weighed about 96 pounds of muscle. The vet insisted she should lose weight because of her breed. However, the only time she ever lost weight was when she had worms, "I've never seen an overweight dog with worms." She ran constantly... I never had grass in my yard. My other dals were about 50 pounds. One vet suggested she was from the "British line of dals". Apparently, they are bigger breeds.

Hope you enjoyed my Short & Silly today. Please tell me about your dog's adventures!

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You Dropped a Bomb on Me

4/20/2015

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Short & Silly: 04/20/2015

Before I can get to Lee's funeral, I have to explain Lee's relationship with "Mike", I'll call him. They started dating when Lee was 17 years old, and when she was 21 he bought a house in his name. A week later, he fell 80 feet down the hull of a ship while working as a longshoremen. He was in a coma for a long time, and his witch of a mother responded, "Pull the plug, I'm too young to take care of an invalid."

At 21 Lee became nurse, caregiver, rehab aide and much, much more. Mike was in traction, a "Halo", and a rehab center for quite some time. They said he would never walk again... but they did not know my sister. She was relentless and wouldn't give up. I remember him lying in the hospital and she was drinking a milkshake. He still hadn't spoken. His eyes moved all around, but she told him, "You ain't getting none unless you say it. If you want it, you gotta say it." Thus, his first word was milkshake. I was there at 10 years old. 

Even passing gas was funny to her. The doctors told her he needed to move his bowels or they might never function properly. When he would pass gas, she would dance around the room singing, "You Dropped a Bomb on Me" by The Gap Band. Here was her boyfriend of four or five years---many people would have left. His own mother left. But she sat by his side day and night.  She didn't drive at the time, so my mother was driving her back and forth between NJ to Philadelphia every morning and night--- before and after work and dealing with younger kids. So my mother needs to be commended here as well.

Mike eventually walked again, he even drove and rode the Harley. He could not grasp with the right hand, so the controls were moved to the left side. He couldn't write, so he handled all the paperwork. He'd never be able to have kids. Lee always said she would never marry, but she must have felt old when she hit 30. The day after her 30th birthday, they got married. By this time they'd been together for 13 years. They lasted another 7 years before chaos erupted. At 37, the marriage counselors told her, "Move back in together, but get divorced. You belong together, you just can't be married. That piece of paper makes a big difference in your dynamic." (Come on... how many times have you heard that?).

The divorce got ugly--much uglier than it should have for a guy who owed his entire life to her. I think that is my major problem with him. They had extremely good times and extremely bad times. But somehow he always felt he had the right to control her. He hit her in the head with his cane once, so she picked him and body slammed him, breaking his leg on the microwave. Now keep in mind, she was tiny, but had put him in and out of the tub bathing him for years. She had the strength. Then she called my mom, "Oh my god. oh my god. I just hurt him bad and I called 911 but the cops want to arrest me." That was their relationship though. Extreme, both good and bad.

So they got divorced, and although they always fought, they remained living together. Until "John" entered the picture. Now this gets really funny too... John was married with five kids, and his wife and Lee were friends--- and I mean, they remained friends while Lee & John moved in together. Lee watched the kids from time to time. It was a crazy situation. John was not the volatile personality that Mike and Lee were, so he didn't like the screaming and fighting. Lee wound up in an apartment where Mike paid the utilities and bought the groceries, and John paid for her rent, car insurance and more.  I wish I could get some guys to do that for me. I often joked that neither guy wanted her, so they paid to keep her away. I once refused to bail her out of jail because I was just plain tired of it. Who bailed her out? Not her ex hubby cause he was the one who put her there. Not her boyfriend, cause he was the one she got arrested with.  Her boyfriend's wife bailed her out!!!  I'm serious. I couldn't make this up if I tried--and I write some twisted novels!

She eventually moved back in with Mike, and while living with him, he was still paying her $700 a month in alimony--- which in my opinion was nothing compared to the life she gave him. She got no marital assets in the divorce because the house, cars, everything was in his name before they married.

When she died at 47 years old at 4 in the morning on Mike's living room couch. The bastard saw her seizing and went to bed instead of calling 911. He "came back to check on her a half hour later, but she was dead."  Then he expected sympathy. Jerk....

The funeral was funny though :)  It was done the way she would have wanted.
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Short & Silly 04/19/2015

4/19/2015

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Thrice Dead

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I've gotten some emails asking me what happened to Lee. Go figure, the coleslaw wrestling post got shared 44 times. Either I have a bunch of mail readers who enjoyed the thought, or that was a really funny story. So more about Lee and how she was pronounced dead three times.

Cell phones were not common when I was 16 years old, so it was impossible for me to contact my family when a cop came to the door. He told me my sister was dead and he took me to identify her body. Apparently 16 is old enough to see a dead body, but not old enough to take custody of her from a police station after an arrest... New Jersey is crazy.

The officer and the medical examiner gave me the "brace yourself" line-- like that ever works. The sheet was pulled back, and WOW... it's not Lee. When I told them, they didn't believe me. "This is your sister, you're just in shock. The car accident caused injuries to her face so she looks different."

No dude, I think I know who my sister is. We've had enough fist fights and broken enough furniture and windows while doing it for me to know who she is. The woman on the table looked like her, was the same size as her.... but it wasn't her. I called her stupid husband to ask where she is, "I don't know. We had a fight and she took off. Where did you say you were?"

"The Medical Examiner's office, why didn't you talk to them when they called?"

"Medical Examiner? I thought they said Mental Health Center-- I owe them $50 for our marriage counseling sessions."

"Wait... I'm 16 years old and was brought down to identify my sister's dead body all because you are a freaking idiot? No amount of counseling is ever going to help you anyway."  Then I slammed down the phone.

It turned out that my sister's purse was in this woman's car, therefore because of the characteristics of the woman, they assumed it was Lee. Then I called her work. It was her day off and she was not really the responsible type. She floated around from job to job, often because her crazy, stupid husband would call and argue with her. (Can you tell I despise the man?).  She answered the phone at the pizza place, and I asked her where her purse was and who she had been with. It turned out she had been with her friend, Desiree, got dropped off by her, forgot the purse cause her husband was already screaming at her in the street, then she got in her own car and took off. She figured she would go into work and make some money.

When she arrived at the Medical Examiner's office to explain, they told her she was already certified as "Deceased".  What the point was of having someone identify the body if they were going to do what they want anyway is beyond me. She yelled and screamed in typical Lee fashion, then the man finally held up a picture of both women. "Can you tell these two woman apart?"

Lee grabbed her photo, "Yeah, this is me! You think I don't know ME????"

It took her about three months to get herself declared alive again.

Keep reading.... it gets better....

Little Sister -- Lee's favorite song to sing to me. I can't tell you how many times I heard this. :)  Now I play it just because.
When I was about 21, i received a call that Lee was involved in a multi-car accident and was in the trauma unit of a major hospital in our area. That did not sound good. My mother was still on the night shift, so I called to pick her up. The hospital would not tell me if Lee was dead or alive, just the "We cannot discuss such matters on the phone."  I didn't want my mom driving and getting into her own accident out of anxiety and nerves.

We got to the hospital and were told it was a three vehicle accident. One was drunk who caused it, one was dead, and the other was unconscious. For hours they had all three families in the same waiting room, not knowing if our relative was dead or killed someone else. It was the worst feeling in the world. Finally, someone pulled me aside and asked to take me to the body. I didn't tell my mother, I just followed. The sheet was removed, again... it WASN'T her! I started laughing from relief, then realized this was the daughter of the family from the waiting room.

"Oh my god. Where's the other family? Do they think their daughter's alive?" Yep, the staff took the dead girl's family to Lee's room where she was unconscious. Those poor people lost a 22 year old daughter because the other vehicle had a drunk driver. It took some time before they told us Lee was sober and just leaving work when it happened.

How did this happen you ask? The paramedics took them out of the cars and wrote the vehicles on the toe tags. They wrote the wrong car, so they believed my sister to be the other girl. She looked young, so even at 32 she could have passed for 22.

So now you can understand when I tell you this.....

On New Year's Day 2011 I received a call from my mother at 10 am, "Lee's dead."  I blinked, "Lee who? My sister Lee?"

I didn't believe it. How could I? I didn't believe it until I saw the body. Her funeral is a post for another day... and YES.. my family even makes a funeral funny.

It's taken me a long time to come to grips with her death. Writing these stories online makes her immortal. She was 47 years old when she died, and I often think it is for the best. She was young at heart with such a free spirit that I think if she turned 50 the entire world would have exploded from the emotions she would have unleashed.

It's mean to say, but she hated old people. She refused to work her retail jobs on Tuesdays and Wednesdays because they were "Senior Citizen Discount Days".  The worst thing that could possibly happen to her would be to be stuck in line behind, or driving behind, some old person. She'd yell and beep. I think her life just moved really fast, and she didn't have time to waste.  Yet, if an older person needed help with something, she was there...... she just couldn't be there on a regular basis. It was the same with kids... she loved kids, as long as she didn't have to put up with them for hours-- future posts on that topic will be coming as well.

"I'm never getting old," she would say. And she was right.
The only old person Lee could tolerate was this lady, Maxine!
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Short & Silly - 04/18/2015

4/18/2015

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The Legend of Bogart

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My brother-in-law, "Ant'ny" as we pronounce it here, found an adorable puppy tied to a post outside of his business in Philadelphia. He brought it home and my other sister fell in love with the puppy immediately. My sister, Lee, the wild one. His name was Bogart and he was now in his forever home. The vet told her he was a Belgian shepherd, but mixed with what who knows. He was huge, over 110 pounds and on hind legs easily stood six foot tall. It was kinda funny to see my tiny sister with this massive beast... but he was a baby to her.... and you DON'T mess with her baby!

Knowing the dog would be big and powerful, she enrolled in doggie training. The instructor also trained police dogs, so Lee asked for the same training techniques. If in danger, the dogs were trained to first bite the shoe laces of the assailants, then the pant legs--as a warning. Apparently the dog remember this years later.

One summer night, Lee had her door open so the breeze could come in the screen door. She didn't hear the screams from across the street, but Bogart did. The door was locked, but that did not stop him as he lunged through the screen and sprinted across the street barking. An abusive husband was viciously attacking his wife. He flung the woman to the ground, and Bogart snapped as he stood over the woman in a protective manner.

This did not stop the man as he tried to kick both the dog and his wife. Lee started screaming from across the street.  Bogart went for the laces and the pant legs, but the man kept kicking. He yelled to my sister, "Get your f---ing dog before I come over there and beat your a-- too!"

Lee shouted back, "I'd like to see you try a--hole!" Bogart's head turned to Lee as if asking for a command. She shouted, "Get him, Bogart!"  The dog then tackled the man to the ground, growling with both paws on the man's shoulders until police arrived. The man kept screaming that he was going to get revenge. The whole time Lee screamed, "Be glad that's a good dog! I should have him tear your a-- apart you wife beatin' m-fer!"

After that, Bogart watched the man so closely, expecting revenge. Even if the man just walked from the house to his car, Bogart barked to alert the man he was being watched. The couple moved about six months later. Maybe he was afraid Bogart would get him some day.
Dog defends owner from robber!
I explained in an earlier post that I had grown accustomed to police calls involving Lee. So it was no surprise to me when an officer called, asking me to come pick her up from her home. She and her husband were fighting---both of them were violent. I hate the guy, but I have to be truthful here. She was an aggressive personality in a small package if she was mad--- or just plain hated you.

I got to the house, and an officer stood between Lee and her husband as they are screaming and yelling. She shoved clothing and belongings into trash bags and carried them out to my car. She screamed the entire time. Then she said something that erupted into a volcano worse than Mount St. Helen. "I'm not leaving him here. You don't deserve him. He's coming with me."

Oh my God, for the next twenty minutes the two of them yelled and threw things while two officers tried to calm them down. Finally the officer said, "Custody is something you have to decide in court. We can't get involved or make a decision. File for divorce and have the lawyers work it out. In the meantime, it is probably best for him to stay here in the home and follow his regular routine. Divorce is going to be traumatic enough. Don't put him through worse."

This guy was being  so nice and patient. I almost did not have the heart to say, "You don't realize they are talking about a dog, do you? A 100 pound dog that wouldn't fit in my car to take anyway. It would be like Marmaduke sitting in a corvette."  Apparently this officer was new to the area, because the others in the town were used to the couple. They knew, as did I, that she would be back and things would be all lovey dovey for awhile.

Thanks for reading my Short & Silly. Please consider sharing my blog and comment below. I would love to hear your dog/pet stories! :)

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Short & Silly - 04/17/2015

4/17/2015

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This post is written with the utmost respect for law enforcement. These people put themselves on the line everyday, never knowing what kind of situations they will face. From dealing with dangerous criminals to dealing with absolute nuts, they deserve our respect.

The Cabbage Patch

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My sister, Lee, was a firecracker. Beautiful and vibrant, afraid of nothing, and a total free spirit. If she loved you, she'd do anything for you. If she hated you, she would beat your @#$.  And I mean that literally.

She was the epitome of the term "Biker Babe", and she lived in two completely different worlds---one of family and one of her friends. Every once in a while, one life would trickle into the other. Here's an example:  Bike Week, Daytona Florida

Every year she went to bike week with her husband, and they often won prizes and contests for their customized Harley-Davidson. One time she called my mother, "I'm so mad! Would you believe I came in second place this year? That's impossible. That winner cheated!"

Mom replied, "Cheated how? Did her bike have some sort of illegal addition?"

Annoyed, Lee responded (and in my head I can see her pouting and stomping her foot), "Not the bike contest! The wet tee shirt contest! I came in second! She cheated.... her boobs were fake. That isn't fair!"

"Oh my god, Lee! What did your husband say?"

"He was furious."

Apparently these two were on totally different brain waves, as my mother replied, "I guess he would be. I can't believe you entered a wet tee shirt contest. What were you thinking? You better apologize to him."

Lee got confused, "Apologize for what? And he was mad. He paid $50 for me to enter, and I win every year. So he's fuming that we just lost the $2,000 prize."

One year she called me, "I just won a lot of money. next year you are coming to the cabbage patch with me. We could make a killing together."

I knew I shouldn't have asked. I should have kept my mouth shut. As a girl born in the 1970's, The Cabbage Patch was a doll. But stupid me inquired, "What's the cabbage patch?"

"Coleslaw wrestling! We'd kick butt in a tag team!"

This woman made me laugh so hard, "I take Cymbalta, I'm ready to explode, and I didn't take my pills today. I break people's arms."
The best would be when she would get arrested. Which happened quite frequently, but usually for fights or being disruptive somehow. She was only 5 foot tall and didn't weigh much. She was gorgeous, and because of it, she got away with a lot more than others would have. I had a look at her arrest record when she was 37 years old, and she had already been arrested 107 times.  <----- That's a real number people! And she lived another ten years, so god only knows what the final number was.

My mother worked the overnight shift when I was 17 years old (Lee was 28). One night at 2 am, I got a phone call from the police in Lee's town. "This is Officer Perry. We have your sister, Lee, here and we need someone to come get her."

When the officer told Lee her ride arrived, she started screaming and yelling, "I hate all you pigs! The only good cop is a dead cop! None of ya's ever do anything good. All the killers are running loose on the street and you picked me up for nothing." (No, she wasn't drunk. Just crazy. It happens. lol) "My sister's taking me home now!"

I could hear her from the lobby of the police station. I asked the officer if I could yell back to shut her up. He responded, "Oh my god, please do. She's been screaming like that for an hour."

I obliged, "Lee, shut the hell up or I'll leave you here. You know I will!"  Silence. She thought it was our other sister, not me. She knew I would leave her if she didn't behave.

The officer looked to the air, "Thank you, God."  He turned his attention to me, had me sign a release paper and brought her out.  He then realized he omitted a crucial step, he failed to get a photocopy of my driver's license. I handed it over and his face went white. Dread crossed his face as he lifted his eyes up at me, "You're not legally an adult. I can't release her to you."

Once again, Lee exploded in a series of rants that mimicked a vicious dog. Throwing her hands in the air and screaming, she ran after the officer. I wrapped my arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, swirling her behind me. I said to the officer, "Come on. I'm obviously more responsible than her. My mother's at work for another six hours. It is either release her to me, or you're stuck with her until then."

Still screaming, "Don't talk about me like I ain't here! I want out of this place. I'm gonna sue you for harassment! I hope you all die!"

The officer raised his brow, took my license and turned up the ink on the photocopier. He made sure to blur my date of birth. Then waved good-bye. Poor guy.

That was the start of me picking Lee up from the police station, it was not the last. I become such a regular at the Paulsboro Police station (a city in which I never lived, and rarely ever go) that I was on a first name basis with the officers. We would run into ether in public when they were off duty and exchange pleasantries.

Every once in awhile they would say, "How's your sister doing? I haven't seen her lately. When she's quiet, I get scared."
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Author Roni Askey-Doran

4/16/2015

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Author Spotlight & Review
Excerpt Below Review

Broken
by Roni Askey-Doran

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Blurb
Today is Emily Zylaz’s birthday. This is the day that she has chosen to kill herself. After struggling for many years to cope with the roller-coaster of mental illness, a devastating failed marriage, and a soul-destroying career that is going nowhere, she’s giving up.

Feeling like the only solution to all of her problems is to take her own life, Emily plans to hang herself at midnight. She believes no one will care that she’s dead, that she won’t be missed, and that everyone will be better off without her and her fickle moods.

As we journey alongside Emily, counting down the hours on her last day alive, we explore the twisted labyrinth of her troubled mind and learn why she so desperately wants to die.

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About the Author

Tasmanian born Roni Askey-Doran has spent her life seeking adventure, happiness and inner peace. A gypsy at heart, Roni has a wonderful sense of humor which shines through in all her work. Filled with passion, powered by her desire to tell her stories using vivid lexiconic imagery, Roni loves to share her experiences.

Roni has traveled through 46 countries over the past three decades. Despite her nomadic lifestyle, she is an accomplished chef, a talented wordsmith, an avid gardener, and her wandering feet dance to more than one beat.

Roni currently resides in a bamboo shack on a remote beach in South America with three cats, two opossums, a non-venomous Granadilla snake, some tree frogs, a large green iguana and several species of tropical birds and butterflies. A large huntsman spider named Horacio resides in her bathroom. She’s addicted to bananas, loves to cook fresh seafood with coconuts, is passionate about her tropical garden, and makes her own chocolate.

My Review of Broken

"It's a good day to die."

The above is the first sentence in Broken, a Contemporary Women's Fiction / Suspense / Drama, written by Roni Askey-Doran.  This is exactly my kind of book. Although I rarely read first person, especially written in present tense, this book drew me in from the very beginning. How could it not? The first line makes you wonder upon reading it.

The story opens as Emily explains to the reader her plan to hang herself at midnight, on her birthday. We follow her day on an hourly basis, as she weaves us a tale of social anxiety, bullies, sexual harassment, abuse (verbal, emotional, physical, sexual) and more. There are flashbacks throughout the story giving us an in depth look into the forces that drove this woman to teeter on the brink of suicide. As the hours pass, characters are introduced that begin to give her a glimmer of hope. The hop of not feeling no so alone. Will she reject that hope? As the night moves along, secrets and twists unfold that shocked even me. But it's still not over as the crescendo of suspense forced me to finish this read in two sittings. What will Emily do? Will she give up on life or flirt with the prospects given to her throughout the day?  There is only one way to find out. Buy the book.

The writing: As I stated, this is written in a first person, present tense. Ironically, this is my least favorite point of view, yet I was drawn to the character and the story. In the beginning of the story, the build up is all in Emily's head. Therefore there is no real action, no dialogue. Is seemed like a conversation you would hear from your best friend or a diary entry. As the chapters flew by, the characters and action became much better defined and developed. The emotions poured off the screen as the narration became better along the way. What I fear is that some authors and editors who shout "show, don't tell" will miss their opportunity to take a look into the true to life consequences of our choices, upbringing, and lack of understanding of others. The beginning is full of more storytelling, however, the author and character both seem to emerge from a cocoon. This leaves us an intense, gripping book touching on tough subjects while it hacks away at stigmas placed on the men
tally ill.
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Excerpt of Broken
by Roni Askey-Doran

6:00 a.m.

It’s a good day to die. Most people don’t know when they’re going to pass, but I do. At midnight tonight, I’ll be no more than a bad memory. I reach across to pat the other pillow, but he’s gone. Oh, Dickens.

“A year from now, no one will even remember my stupid name,” I mutter to myself as I pull the bed covers up to my neck and try to forget that today is my birthday.

Weak rays of sunlight filter through the flimsy curtain, brushing my cheek as I snuggle between the rumpled sheets, gradually rousing myself from yet another night of fitful sleep punctuated with violent nightmares and too many startled awakenings as the witching hours passed slowly, tick by excruciating tock. Outside, gray clouds gather on the horizon, darkening as they come together to form a sinister cloak over the city. It won’t take them long to block out the sun.

I’ve decided to hang myself. That way, I can donate my organs, uncontaminated. The sum of my parts might do other people more good than they have ever done me. It might be a good idea to call the hospital, right before I push the chair away, and tell them to come and get whatever bits they need while they’re still hot. One thing that bothers me slightly is that someone might come just to take photos to post on social media.

“This chick thought she was a portrait,” they’ll post underneath a snap of my hanging corpse, with the hashtag #PortraitGirl added for emphasis on the joke.

When I think about my death and its aftermath, I’m not concerned about my soul, or what may or may not happen to it. Life isn’t a dress-rehearsal and once it’s over, we’re done. To think of an afterlife in paradise seems ridiculous. There are no second chances, no reincarnations, no coming back to do it all better the next time around. We become bones or ashes after we die.

“… and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; and we beseech thine infinite goodness to give us grace to live in thy fear and love and to die in thy favor, that when the judgment shall come which thou hast committed to thy well-beloved Son, both this woman and we may be found acceptable in thy sight,” intoned the stern-faced priest presiding over the only funeral I have ever attended, as if it wasn’t obvious that an organic being would naturally decompose into the earth, regardless of what some divinity thinks.

I don’t believe in religions with all-encompassing deities in which devotees must live in fear. Tyrants rule with fear, threatening their followers with terrible judgments. Such oppressors even had scriptures written using subversive language, hot syntax and persuasive rhetoric to manipulate the minds of the masses—methods still in use today.

The concept of heaven and hell makes no sense either, unless we experience both while we’re alive. In which case, I have already served my time in hell, and it’s time for an early release. Life on earth has been intolerable so far and an eternity of the same in the alleged hereafter is unthinkable. The world would be more peaceful without all this religious hocus-pocus, and everyone would be better off. That won’t ever happen, though. After millennia of systematic brainwashing, people will always believe in invisible deities, and go on persecuting those who don’t. Religion has always been that way, so thickly coated with hypocrisy that it’s stifling. It’s too bad compassion and kindness aren’t profitable enough to be popular.

According to the endless, relentless barrage of non-denominational aspirations and quotes that zing daily into millions of inboxes in a vain effort to give us hope, it’s supposedly enough to have faith in oneself. Meditations. Chakras. Chi. Affirmations. Somehow, I’ve never been able to muster the requisite care-factor points to give credence to any of that balderdash. What good is hope when you’re surrounded by evil?

It doesn’t matter if they bury or cremate my miserable remains. My funeral doesn’t interest me, since I won’t be there to see it. Nor do I care what they say at the ceremony. Most of it will be lies. None of them know anything about me or my life. It’s all been a waste of time, anyway.

“Emily’s favorite pastime in spring was to sit in the park, eating pistachio ice cream, inhaling the perfume of the flowers and watching the children play,” no one will say. “It gave her great joy to see everything around her so full of life and happiness.”

No one has ever taken the time to find out what makes me tick. The last few years have been so lonely and pointless I feel like I’ve stopped ticking. From the tips of my split ends to the ragged edges of my toenails, I have felt nothing but numb. My brain must have been built by a software corporation; it has crashed and won’t reboot.

Raw from the embarrassment of her own daughter’s suicide, Mother will offer up dramatic displays of false sadness and grieving just to keep up appearances. Always the broken wing holding her back, she doesn’t even like me. Actually, that feeling is mutual. Unless Mother tries to turn my inhumation into another of her famous social events, it will be some kind of miracle if more than three people who personally know me attend. Inhumation. That’s the perfect word, isn’t it? The undoing of a human.

“Emily was … well, Emily was … she was broken,” Mother will say with her tightly pursed lips, disapproving of me, even in death.

Large drops of rain splatter against the window and trickle to the wooden sill, where some of them leak in through a small hole made by industrious termites taking advantage of decades of neglect. The dribble of water runs down the wall to the floor, where it pools drop by drop. When the puddle is large enough, the surface tension of the water breaks as it runs toward the rug and is soaked up into the wool. When I first moved in, I often wondered how the rug got wet overnight. I used to think I must have spilled something while sleepwalking. It didn’t make sense. Not until that first night of leaping awake, breathless and afraid. Reluctant to sleep, I listened to the raging storm outside and watched the water pool on the floor while my mind wandered back to the first time I wanted to die. The betrayal had been so deep that after all this time, the wound has still not scarred over.

It doesn’t matter that I haven’t left a memorable legacy in my wake. There is nothing to remember. No spectacular feats, no miracles, no headlines. Fame and riches are not my destiny. I’m just a nobody that no one cares about. After tonight, I will probably become one more sad anonymous statistic on one of those ridiculous global charts people pass around on social media and pretend to give a damn about for one whole second until they’re distracted by something more interesting, like a movie star’s bared breast.

My entire life, I’ve been invisible. No one has ever looked at me and seen who I am, not even my husband. What was he thinking the day he married me? I didn’t really understand why he wanted to get hitched in the first place. I couldn’t grasp what he saw in me. He was a media relations manager for a car manufacturing company. I was an Economics student. I thought I was Cinderella in love with Prince Charming. How stupid. On hindsight, it all seems … I don’t know … preordained, just like one of Mother’s elaborate dinner parties. This morning, the distant nightmare of that train wreck relationship seems like it happened to another person in a different lifetime.

“You’re worthless and you always will be,” Garrett had snarled right before I left him.

It was the last thing he ever said to me. I haven’t seen him since. Not once since the day I walked out the front door with nothing but the clothes on my back and my purse in my hand have I ever felt any desire to see him. Garrett Yamble was the biggest mistake of my life.

“Darling, you’re perfect. You’re so beautiful and funny and smart,” he crooned during romantic sunset walks along the riverbank, peppering his self-depreciative conversation with manipulative self-esteem boosters, fully aware I was the kind of trusting fool who would gobble it up, hook, line and sinker.

Handsome and charming in the beginning, his true colors exploded right after our honeymoon, leaving me with a black eye and a broken collarbone one week after we arrived home. Aware that choking the life out of me with his bare hands was his ultimate goal, I have no doubt that he will receive the news of my demise with glee. He was right. I am worthless.

Mother would agree with him. I’m sure she will be relieved when I’m finally gone from her life. She has always treated me like a hairy wart on her nose, as if it was my fault for being there.

“You were an accident, too,” she announced abruptly when I was twelve, glaring down at me through her half lens reading glasses after I accidentally spilled her coffee on the precious living room rug.

“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry,” I responded tearfully, apologizing more for myself than for the coffee stain.

There is an ugly scar on my right hand where that scalding coffee burned my tender young skin; it’s a permanent reminder that I am nothing more than a terrible accident. As I lie in bed, I lift my hand out from the blankets to inspect the scar. It’s shaped like a bird, the skin shiny and smooth with three precise lines running through the mark from one end to the other. The wing is defined by one of the lines, the tail by another. The third splits the little bird’s head in half. When I first saw it, after the bandage came off, I thought it was a sign for me to fly away. I wish I had.

Never good enough, never meeting Mother’s standards, never measuring up to Madison, my perfect older sister, my mere existence has always been a blight on Mother’s otherwise impeccable life. From the moment I could walk, I tried to please her, to win her love and respect, but nothing was ever adequate. I don’t even remember when she stopped touching me.

“You look exactly like Father,” teenaged Madison sneered once, lifting one thin veil from Mother’s secret vendetta, as she brushed her golden hair the requisite one hundred stokes. “You’re the Brontë of an old joke.”

Even though I was just a little girl, Madison’s mean words stuck in my head. It took a long time to understand the connection. When the penny finally dropped several years later, I read Wuthering Heights over and over, searching the text for answers, but nothing was revealed. The only secret I uncovered was my own insatiable passion for books. While nothing could bridge the decade of infinity between my sister and I, the comfortable reading room at the public library was almost large enough to fill the void.

“Where in hell have you been?” Mother shrieked when I arrived home after dark.

“At the library. They have a wonderful new collection of Dickens,” I responded, shrugging off her ire after an afternoon of caressing first edition gilded green leather covers, and turning delicately inked pages with original woodcut illustrations with such inspired awe that time became irrelevant.

The problem with my tardy behavior consistently failed to present itself to me. Mother, on the other hand, began flying into uncontrollable rages whenever I wandered into her presence.

“You’re just like your idiot father!” she yelled on several occasions, before disappearing, with her fingers cupped over her mouth, behind a slammed door and not coming out for ages.

I don’t know my father. We haven’t met. I’ve never even seen his photo. The man I knew as Daddy when I was a child was Mother’s second husband, Bryce. I saw him a few times after Mother threw him out, but I haven’t set eyes on him for several years. When I was little, he sometimes picked me up from school and drove me somewhere to eat hamburgers and ice cream. We’d lie on the grass in the park and point out the changing shapes in the clouds. He always took sips from a small leather-bound flask in his pocket. One time, when I was about eight, the police made him stop the car on the way home. When they figured out he was drink-driving, they took him away in handcuffs. One of the officers took me home. After that, Bryce spent much less time with us. When they got divorced, he didn’t make much of an effort to stay in touch, although Madison still sees him from time to time. This lack of parenting makes me feel as if I don’t have any real sense of who I am.

This is not the first time I’ve thought about killing myself. All the other times there seemed to be some tenacious reason to hang onto life. Hope has arrived at my door in so many different disguises, each time fooling me into believing that life will get better. It hasn’t. My life still sucks, and it’s been getting steadily worse each day. After endless nights of lying awake and thinking about it, combing through my abysmal past and depressing present to figure out what purpose I serve on this planet, I cannot find one solid reason to live. I can’t think of a single person who would truly miss my presence. I don’t see any point in prolonging the torture of my life for one more day. In any event, from the day that we are born each of us begins a march toward death, so the end is always inevitable. None of us gets out alive. I just think it’s time to speed up the process. What difference does a couple of years make anyway? Okay, maybe a decade or five, but whatever. Who in their right mind wants to suffer that long?

The day of my birth is the perfect date for the day of my death. It’s a precise mathematical figure which adds up to an exact number of years that I was alive. The same date of entry and exit will be put on the headstone. It’s neat and tidy, with no messy numbers. I’m not keen on mess, and I dislike leaving things in disarray. I don’t want my body to be found covered with blood, or electrocuted in a tub of water with the toaster. Pills, gas or exhaust fumes would only contaminate my organs. Bullets are too hard to come by inconspicuously. Besides, shooting myself is too noisy, and jumping from a bridge is too public. I don’t want to attract attention. I’m not sure how much mess is made by a hanging. In any case, I got a large tarpaulin to cover the floor. Determined to be discreet, I bought it from a camping store. The rope came from a hardware store on the other side of town. The kitchen chair was discovered in the back room of a second-hand furniture store. I’ll need it to stand on when I tie the rope through the exposed timber beam on the balcony. There is a hook where the old chandelier used to hang when my apartment building was a stylish hotel almost a century ago, but it’s too high for me to reach. Naturally, I haven’t told anyone about my plans. This isn’t a call for help.

As I squeeze the last precious moments out of luxurious pillow time, hugging my teddy bear to my chest underneath the warm covers, the raging storm outside begins to slow. Sheets of icy rain have swept the city clean, leaving it fresh and shiny. Some of the roofs glisten and wink happily at each other. The washed windows hug droplets that cling for one last kiss goodbye. Streams of rainwater rush into gutters, taking with them the dust and grime. The sparkling city is about to waken. It’s time to get up.

7.00 a.m.

As my feet touch the worn carpet, I wonder why I’m even bothering to get out of bed. What’s the point, really, when today is my last day at life and there is no reason to feel responsible about anything? The rope won’t tie itself, I guess. The tarpaulin will need a little help to spread itself over the floor. The chair will need a lift out to the balcony. It’s currently in the kitchen, one of those folding wooden chairs that will collapse on impact with the floor. There’s no going back after it’s been kicked over. Today will be a day of lasts. The last time I do everything I usually do.

The chipped green tiles on the bathroom floor chill my bare feet as I cross from the doorway to take a seat on the throne.

“See that chick over there with her saggy old panties around her ankles?” I ask the corner of the mirror that peeks my way, dangling catawampus on its hook as it displays parts of the bathroom no one would see if it hung straight. “That’s me, the queen of poop.”

Feeling a wave of revulsion, I turn from the looking glass. The pathetic creature reflected back every time I dare to look makes me want to slap her. Twice.

“Don’t look at me like that! What’s wrong with you?” I repeat the exact same phrases I heard from Mother so many times that it has become a kind of self-loathing mantra.

It used to make me cry, hearing that. Now, I feel nothing but disgust.

“You look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a cheese grater and slapped with a toilet brush.”

If I look closely at my reflection, I see a wan face covered in pale skin bereft of sunlight and a good night’s sleep, large dark rings and bags of exhaustion bordering sad hazel eyes with too-short lashes, a pointy nose with a bump on it where Madison threw The Hobbit at me one night when I was late for dinner, a small mouth with thin chicken lips that are too scared to speak up for themselves, a square chin with a dimple that is not as cute as all the magazines make it out to be, and ears with no lobes because when they built me they used that extra skin on my butt. Who has no earlobes, dammit? The one time I asked for earrings as a birthday gift I could still hear Mother and Madison laughing downstairs an hour later. I sometimes wonder if my father has earlobes or dimples.

Stepping out of my panties, I take off my t-shirt and turn on the shower. The ancient pipes grumble and groan loudly enough for me to wonder if it’s their last day too. The landlord has been promising to fix them for two years. Alfonso Garcia is one of those guys who will wait until they finally explode and destroy several apartments, then claim on his insurance to pay for the repairs. When it comes to spending money he’s a scrooge, but not once has he ever been late to collect the rent.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?” Alfonso screamed at me once, his black eyes popping and thick frizzy hair leaping away from his skull as if in fright and trying to get away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get to the bank. I’ll come by later and pay you.”

The truth was that I had spent the entire day curled up into a tight ball, crying into my pillow. I couldn’t even get up to make myself a sandwich, much less force myself out into the street to find an auto-teller. When a massive wave of depression hits, I can do nothing except feel helpless and alone while plummeting down the bottomless abyss. The rent is the last thing I care about.

The shower takes ages to heat up. While I wait, I stand with my back to the mirror intently watching the wasted water gurgle down the plughole, vaguely wondering where all the pre-shower drizzle ends up. Does it get used for anything? Or is it gone forever? Focusing on the drain prevents me from turning around. A fully naked reflection of myself is the number one thing to avoid at all costs while in the bathroom. I don’t need to be reminded how ugly I am, how fat, how stupid, how worthless. I already know.

When the water is tepid enough to bear, I step carefully over the side of the high tub, supporting myself as I pull my body upright, fully aware of the irony. If I slipped and fell, smashing my skull on the baked enamel, no one would call it suicide. Mother wouldn’t be embarrassed by my accidental death. Madison would be able to discuss it with everyone she knows.

“Emily was always such a klutz,” she’ll say, pretending to feel some kind of loss, lapping up and savoring the outpouring of synthetic sympathy from her friends for as long as she can.

My biggest fear is that falling in the bathtub won’t finish me off, and I’ll end up with some silly injury that makes no sense, like a broken elbow or a twisted knee. Or I’ll break my neck and end up lying there stark naked, dying slowly of thirst and starvation before anyone finds me. I don’t want to be found naked. Even though I’ll be dead, there is still an awful feeling of humiliation attached to having complete strangers touching and peering at my bare graying skin as they scrape my decomposing corpse out of the tub.

The scent of sandalwood soap is relaxing. I bought it at a weekend farmer’s market from a man who makes natural soaps and cleansers. Tall and thin, with an unruly mop of bouncy black curls, he smelled like fresh pine needles. I sensed an unhurried mellowness about him, and lingered at his stall, enjoying the aromas, scraping and sniffing pieces from his little baskets of samples.

“Good morning,” he greeted. “Can I help you with something in particular?”

Speechless, I bit my lips and smiled shyly, twirling my finger around in an open jar of shaved soap chips. He smiled kindly and nodded, seeming to understand immediately that I’m not a good conversationalist. Or maybe he just thought I was a crazy woman with a natural soap fetish.

“I think you’ll like the sandalwood. It’s subtle and won’t be too harsh on your skin.”

He held out two bars and offered me an end-of-market-day discount, dropping them into a bag with a friendly grin. Blushing fiercely, I bought them and fled, mumbling thanks as I stuffed the recycled paper bag into my back pack. He was right, I love his soap. It’s gentle on my delicate skin and it smells like a walk in the forest at dawn. The last piece of the first bar glides over my arms and chest, washing away the final threads of the jumbled nightmares still clinging to my memory. Madison will inherit the brand new second bar.

Almost done, I brush my teeth in the shower, mostly so I don’t have to stare into my own eyes in the crooked mirror hanging above the wash basin. A therapist had once suggested that I learn to gaze honestly into my eyes in a mirror every day. She insisted this exercise would help me to love myself. Tears pricked my eyes and I gulped in sobs as the horror unfolded. The agony of seeing that deeply inside my wounded soul was unbearable. This intimate introspection made me feel so broken that I gave up therapy instead. The confused psychologist left several messages asking me to please come back, but I was so distraught by what I’d seen lurking at the back of her perfectly square redwood framed mirror that I didn’t ever respond.

There doesn’t seem any point to brushing my teeth before breakfast, but I always do it because it doesn’t feel right not to, and then need to brush them again afterward, subjecting myself to the freak-in-the-mirror torture again. At times it feels beyond ridiculous, but I can’t not brush my teeth. I keep toothpaste and an extra brush in my bag so I can clean them again after lunch.

On the way past the kitchen, I plug in the coffee machine, then go to get dressed while it gurgles to life, dripping organic Ecuadorian arabica into the painted ceramic mug I bought in Italy four years ago. Each night, before bed, I replace the filter and add new coffee grinds to the new one so I can flip the switch on the way to my room. The old coffee grinds go into the potted skunk plant sitting under the bathroom window. If Alfonso doesn’t spirit it away when he finds me, the police will probably have no problem figuring out what to do with the marijuana.

It’s a daily dilemma, what to wear. Honestly, I would happily put on the same outfit every day if I thought I could get away with it. Apart from significantly less laundry days, there would also be minimum trauma attached to my choice of attire. My wardrobe is a mish-mash of colorful bargains from second-hand clothing stores, one-off designer gowns, and dark, sensible, pre-loved office wear.

As a teenager, I resentfully adopted every ridiculous fad the teen magazines dictated was vital to be fashionable, beautiful, intelligent and loved. The clothes, the diets, the ways to put on lipstick. Mother insisted I keep up with her stylish trends. She forced me into designer stores and made me try on one hundred horrid dresses, choosing whatever she liked best, regardless of my opinion. Most of these teenage torture sessions were endured in complete silence. When I didn’t embrace her monomania she pretended to be embarrassed and refused to take me out dressed in clothes that I liked.

“Go and change. We’ll be late. Put on the pink dress with the rose at the waist. It’s pretty.”

One time, while I was at college, I arrived at the house wearing bright tie-died sweats I’d picked up cheaply from a yard sale. My hair was messy and my face bare of make up after studying all night, then taking an exam before driving home. Mother was mortified. She looked around to see if any of the neighbors had seen me arrive and pulled me inside.

“What are you wearing? Get off the street before anyone sees you! Never wear your hippie pajamas outside the house! What were you thinking?”

A simple hello would have been nice. There was a time that a peck on the cheek from her was special. It meant she acknowledged my existence. Nowadays, the thought of Mother’s cruel dry lips touching my skin gives me the heebie-jeebies.

A knee-length navy linen skirt with matching jacket and a plain white silk blouse will do for work today. I zip the skirt and button the blouse, wondering what will happen on Monday when I fail to show up. I have considered not going to work today. Firstly, it’s my birthday, and secondly I’m going to hang myself tonight. However, if I’m not sitting in my seat at the call center by nine, Yolanda Bruxtine, my insufferable boss, will call all day, giving me no peace. If I turn off my phone, she’ll call the emergency contact number I provided: Mother.

“Hello? I was wondering if you might know what happened to Emily. She didn’t come to work today,” she might say in her ever-so-polite phone voice, disguising her penchant for trouble-making.

It often astounds me the lengths some people go to be obnoxious. She wouldn’t call because she misses me, or is truly short-handed on the phone lines. She’d call to yell abuse and have something to hold over me, like an unauthorized sick day—as if something so trivial truly matters. If she calls Mother, who will wonder why I didn’t go to work, who knows what will happen next. Just by being imperious, Yolanda could mess up my plans. I can’t risk it. It’s safer to go to the office, to behave like everything is normal. Besides, it will occupy the sluggish daylight hours. It’s not as if I have anything better to do today. I sit on the wobbly dresser chair to lace up my navy camel-leather brogues.

“You have high arches,” the shoemaker said while he measured my feet. “I will have to lift your inner sole a little.”

I wanted to ask if he could lift my outer soul a little too, but couldn’t open my mouth for the rush of unbreakable shyness that envelopes my entire being every time I find myself in the presence of a congenial, well-mannered gentleman.

In the kitchen, I sip my delicious hot brew—black with no sugar—and cut some of the German sourdough rye bread I bought from the bakery on the corner a few days ago. While the thick slices are in the toaster, I break two free-range duck eggs into the cast-iron pan on the stove. About once a month, I like to drive a few hours out of the city to a permaculture farm to buy eggs, milk, butter and cheese, and whatever fresh fruit and vegetables they’ve harvested that day. Every time I go out there I wish I could leave everything behind and live like that too. The Johansson family always look so happy and healthy. I can’t go any more. The car is gone. I miss those weekend journeys.

“Take some extra apples with you, dear,” Mrs Johansson would say, adding a dozen more to the already crammed vegetable box. “You look a little pale. The vitamins will do you good.”

Taking organic salted butter and a jar of home-made apricot and ginger jam that I found at a weekend crafts market out of the fridge, I place them on the mat in the center of the table. Beside them, I sit a glass shaker of Himalayan pink salt and a wooden grinder of black Tellicherry peppercorns. One knife, one fork, and one spoon are set beside my woven hemp placemat. The three pieces of silver cutlery are placed exactly one inch from the edge of the table, one inch from the edge of the mat, and one inch from each other, exactly how Mother always insisted they be arranged. When I’m satisfied they’re lined up correctly, with the tips of the handles in a straight line, I turn back to the eggs. Yolks runny, whites cooked through, I turn off the gas. The toast is perfect, with crispy crusts. I place both pieces on a white plate and scoop the eggs from the pan to place on top of one slice. A mono-eater, I’ve been having this exact same breakfast for the past three years. Sometimes, I buy chicken eggs instead of duck.

“Don’t lick your plate!” Mother shrieked, smacking me sharply in the back of the head, chipping my front tooth on the thick edge of the cereal bowl.

It was a baby tooth. When it finally fell out, I saved it so I could examine the chip every day. Sometimes, when I’m sure no one can see me, I still like to lick the plates clean, especially if there is some kind of delicious sauce smeared across the center. I love to taste the mingled flavors of the juices left from my meals. I’ve never told anyone I do that. It’s my dirty secret.

I wash the dishes in scalding water, leaving them to dry on the rack while I go to brush my teeth again. As the clock ticks toward my last hour, I open the front door and step out into the vast emotional desert of inner city life, feeling as if the game has already been lost.

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Short & Silly 04/16/2015

4/16/2015

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Scouting Serial Killers

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My mother is fascinated by the news. No matter where she is, whether at home or in the car, she is tuned into the latest happenings. She's so comical about it that I wrote the character, Eva, in Tower of Tears after my mom. Every time I do something, she has to tell me how dangerous it is, or that someone got killed doing it. She also watches all the CSI shows and knows as much about forensics and serial killers as the FBI--no lie. I have often thought that she could kill a man and get away with it. But don't worry, even if she was caught, she would not be able to lead them back to the body because she is directionally challenged.  I realize I'm nuts because mom had me reading books about Ted Bundy in middle school. It was her way of preparing me for life. So if you folks every need a body dumped, I'm your girl!

A few years ago, I visited a friend in Seattle. I flew alone, which I am very confident in doing, unlike some people. Upon meeting my friend in the airport, I called to let Mom know I was safe and made my contact. Her response, "Be careful. You know Seattle is where all the serial killers are. Bundy was there, and The Green River Killer might get you."

Unbeknownst to her, I was fully prepared for this argument. "Bundy was executed when I was in high school remember? You made me watch it on the news, because executions are the perfect form of family entertainment. And The Green River Killer was caught."

"Are you sure?"

"Wow, Mom. You're either slacking or you are just trying to be manipulative. His name is Gary Ridgway, he's in jail."

"Well, you be careful anyway. And stay away from Volkswagen bugs. All the serial killer drive them."

"Mom, do ya seriously think someone is going to kidnap me? Don't you remember what you used to tell us as kids?"

A brief pause. "Oh, you mean that the kidnapper would pay ME to take you back? Yeah, I remember. But that was before they just killed for no reason. Now they don't even bother to find out if you would drive them crazy or not.  Well have a great time and call me!"

Yeah... a load of laughs I'll have while scoping out serial killers in a state of paranoia. Oh the fun!

But Seattle was just one trip. I have gone on many, including Alaska, Bahamas, Aruba, and most of the states in the US. I am a bit of a daredevil and try to find some sort of "extreme" activity type of attraction on my trips. Over the years, I have gone bungee jumping, parasailing, trapeze swinging, sky coastering, snorkeling, jet skiing, SCUBA. I swam with dolphins, snorkeled with sea lions, even played with an adult tiger. Let's just say I have lived a decent life. Crazy and chaotic at times. Deprived of privacy due ot a large family, definitely. But decent all the same.


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On my last trip, my mother called me, "I hope you're not going on a cruise. You know all those boats are getting people sick. And didn't you go para-sailing? A guy was doing that last week and got killed when the rope broke, slamming him into a billboard. There was another guy who got eaten by a shark while he was SCUBA diving. You better be careful. One of these days, you might not be so lucky."

I thought for a second then said, "Mom, if I happen to die, doing something I enjoy, in a tropical paradise many people can't afford, or can't because they have kids... then be happy for me. I'd rather die in Aruba by a shark than get killed by a drunk driver in the depressing state of New Jersey. I might have a fighting chance with the shark, and if I kill it, I won't go to jail--- unlike if I survived and killed the drunk driver. THAT would be when you should worry about me and feel sorry for me."

She was flustered, "What am I supposed to say to that?"

"I don't know? Bon Voyage? My life insurance pays for shark mauls and cruise poisonings. So don't worry about that. Just put on my headstone, 'She went out with a bang'."

"You're not funny! Don't you have a bucket list? Isn't there anything left you wish to do in life?"

Hmmm.... matricide went through my head at that moment. I'm a postal worker... I could probably get off with temporary insanity... hmmmm..

Ok.. I admit, that was mean. But it was still funny.  I love my mom. She's given me these great memories to write about. Although sometimes her memories don't mesh with ours.. but that I will save for another day.

Thank you for reading! Please be sure to share this blog on Twitter and Facebook if you enjoy it.  Catch you tomorrow.


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Author Allan Lobeck

4/15/2015

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Author Spotlight & Review

Marshall's Marauders
by Allan Lobeck

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Blurb
The story of Marshall Rooker becoming the nation's most decorated war hero ever. Marshall Rooker is an infantry officer headed to fight in the Vietnam War. He is unsure of himself and how best to protect his men. The book takes this young country high school athlete and molds him into a war hero. While performing he is wounded and almost dies while winning the Medal of Honor. He feels he was only doing his assigned tasks and protecting his men and shuns any publicity. After winning the Medal of Honor he is asked to lead one more mission into Cambodia.

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Allan Lobeck has more than 10 years of experience in writing, and he was inspired to write MARSHALL'S MARAUDERS five years ago, when he found out that veterans of the Vietnam War were still suffering.

He enjoyed sharing the stories he learned about the war with his grandchildren without getting too graphic. His grandson became very interested and wanted to learn more, so he and Allan's wife encouraged him to write this historical fiction book about it. From that came MARSHALL'S MARAUDERS.


Allen Lobeck is the winner of 2 bronze stars for valor in combat

MY REVIEW

In this intense first person account of Vietnam, we find a new and inexperienced officer suffer from culture shock as he leaves his old world behind and must learn the new rules of life on a battlefield. Fear consumes him as he begins his journey, yet he is too naive to even know what to fear. But he will. Military life becomes second nature to these soldiers, but even things such as saluting a superior officer must be reversed for safety in combat. Name identity is stripped from the soldiers as they are referred to by numbers. Thus 3-6 as he is called learns that the enemy can come in many forms--including other military personnel looking to steal credit or place blame, mortar fire preventing a good night's sleep, adrenaline rushes that interrupt logical thinking, and even the Saigon River preventing the retrieval of fallen soldiers. When commended for his men's kill count, he responds, "We were just doing our job." This book is an accurate, gripping, and fascinating account of the realities of war. From fear and insecurity to the wanting to be home eating apple pie with a loved one, this novel explores every emotional roller coaster ride in a form that reads like a diary.

The characterization pulls the reader in and never lets go The author has a fast paced style and describes the setting and feelings without a bunch of poetic prose. This is raw and honest look into the hearts and minds of men, as well as the challenges they face. Details civilians never even consider are explored such as dealing with the respiratory consequences of Agent Orange on a daily basis and being issued weapons that are used and sub-par. Anyone who loves military or historical fiction and non-fiction would love this novel. Honestly, readers of all genres should read such a book to know what it is others have gone through to provide them with the freedom to sit and read a book in peace and quiet--without mortar shells flying through their windows or friends being shot and killed.

On a special note, I personally would like to thank the author for his service to the US military. I also whole-heartedly apologize to the author, as I was given a copy of this book for and honest review and due to personal complications, I failed to make a timely read of it. Now I am not only ashamed, but annoyed with myself that I deprived myself of this work until now.
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Author Sharon Brownlie

4/15/2015

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Author Spotlight & Review

BETRAYAL
by Sharon Brownlie

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Blurb
Helen King’s childhood is marred by physical abuse and rejection. At the age of fourteen she finds herself in the clutches of a pimp in Gloucester. He lures her into a life of drugs and prostitution. At the age of twenty she uses her drug addiction as a way to blank out the memories. It enables her to hide the psychological scarring caused by those that she feels had abandoned her.
Her life is spiralling out of control. Helen’s decision to quit her addiction comes at a time when she has a chance encounter with an old school teacher. This opens up old wounds that had remained hidden and festering deep within her. It also leads to her decision that it is time for payback for all those that she felt had betrayed her. Helen, bitter and twisted, heads to Edinburgh to begin her killing spree.
When the first body is found the police are mystified. When a second body turns up they quickly realise that it is the same killer. They face a race against time to find the connection and the killer.

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Author Bio
Sharon Brownlie was born in Malta in 1962. Her parents were in the Armed Forces and she spent her childhood travelling all around the world. As a mature adult she graduated from the University of Edinburgh with a Master of Arts degree in History and a PGCE. Sharon spent some years working in Adult Education.

My Review

A Must Read for Crime & Thriller Readers
I love murder/crime/thriller stories, so grabbing this on Kindle Unlimited took no thought. From the very first pages I got sucked in. The writing was not filled with flowery drivel explaining every last detail. It was a hard hitting, intense yet realistic read. Helen suffered from childhood and continued in a downward spiral, blaming everyone who did not intervene--including her teacher, her mother and a social worker. She goes on a rampage taking control of her life and pain with revenge. The back and forth banter of the characters and the down and dirty topics made this a riveting read. I loved the writing style that used a lot of dialogue without pages and pages of boring narrative.
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Short & Silly 04/15/2015

4/15/2015

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Day of the Silly Dead

You would think a trip to a cemetery to visit my father's grave would be a somber or loving moment. You would think. But when you're related to me, apparently nothing is normal.

As I have said before, my father died when I was three years old, leaving my mother with five kids--ages 2-16. With that many kids, and a mother who can't find her car parked in front of her house, many unique experiences are created.

When I was about ten years old, my mother loaded up the station wagon with all five siblings, packed snacks and blankets then headed off to a garden nursery to buy flowers to plant on my father's grave. 


Mistake number #1  - Not eating at home before we left.
What happens when you get a bunch of kids together who are kicking and screaming? They want soda, ice cream, to go the bathroom, etc. On our way past Jack in the Box someone hollered they wanted to eat. Of course I shoved my head out the window to yell into the speaker of the funny clown. I shouted what we wanted, as the entire car shouted different things-- and EACH kid had to have something different... one likes cheese with no ham, one wants ham with no cheese... you know the deal. Booming chaos..... and the reason they invented Bayer Aspirin.  The cool thing about stopping off at Jack in the Box was that they had toys we would put on the grave next to my dad's of a     3 year old boy named Max. His parents are not there. Just him with a little lamb stone. I don't remember in what year he died, but it always felt as if we were the only ones to visit him.

Mistake #2 - Buying Flowers
Kids never agree, and everyone argued over what flower they wanted. It's not like we couldn't have planted all the flowers... we just couldn't fit them in the car. So of course that took about an hour. And those who didn't finish their breakfast in the car before the nursery now screamed the food was cold. Why the hell didn't I invent a microwave for the car for parents on road trips?

Mistake #3 - Letting My Mother Drive
By this time Dad had been buried for seven years, but my mom still only knew one way to get there. One very long, winding way. She insisted on driving through center city Philadelphia then through a ton of horrible neighborhoods and God knows where else we went before arriving. I always thought it took 2 hours to get to my dad's grave... until I drove the 40 minutes myself---with traffic.

Mistake #4 - Bringing a Video Camera
No lie. I don't know on what planet it is proper etiquette to bring a video camera to a cemetery, but here on Planet Nuthouse it was perfectly acceptable. My older sister received the video camera as a gift from her boyfriend, and she soon thought of herself as Steven Speilberg. Only, she couldn't hold the camera straight and you would get seasick by watching anything she filmed.

Mistake #5 - Expecting Not to Get Lost Inside the Cemetery
My father, grandfather, and two sets of great grand parents are buried side by side. Still, the only way we ever found the plot was by driving around looking for a huge statue of a soldier that memorializing all the German soldiers who died in wars.

Random Kids Chattering:
"Look! There's Schneider. I think we're close! Aren't Schneiders in front of our grave?"
"Yeah. Ours and everyone else's. It's a German freakin' cemetery, and that is one of the most common names."
"Would you people shut up? I'm trying to film."
"Film what? Dead people? If you see any, let us know so I can drive. We got a better chance of getting out of here with someone else at the steering wheel."
"Why would you want a silent movie anyway? They suck and are in black and white. Isn't that a color camera?"
Holding the video, "I'm trying to zoom and find the soldier statue that is across from our stone."
"Then why do you need the record on? You can still see it."
"Some of these mausoleums are so pretty I wanted to film them. Mom, just make sure you don't stop in front of a tree. This is a great shot."
"You didn't want me talking on your movie, but you can talk? Not fair!"

The car stops. At this point in the video, a 3 ft wide elm tree makes a cameo appearance, taking up the entire screen.

"MOM! I just told you to not stop in front of a trrreeeeeeeeee"
"Sorry, but I'm looking for the names, not watching you."

Eventually we found my dead family. But the adventure didn't end there......

My oldest sister hopped out the car, and trudged to the grave with the flowers and gardening tools. She had worked at a florist and enjoyed this sort of thing. Even today, to me it is just like playing in the dirt-- like the worms in my other story. As she used the little hand garden shovel thing (see, I don't even know what it is called), someone shouted, "How far down are you going to dig? Anymore and you'll hit the body!"

While they were doing work, I decided to go visit 3 year old Max's grave. I took the toys and Ms. Speilberg followed me with the camera.  When I got to the stone, I found a horrible sight, and looked at the camera. "Oh my God. The lawnmower came along and chopped off Max's head!"

As my sister burst into laughter at my declaration, I became hostile. "It's not funny! The poor lamb has no head." I shouted some insults and the camera goes back to the family plot. Watching the video now is hysterical, because I did not realize what my words sounded like.

Then you hear from my brother, "I have to go to the bathroom!"
Mom suggested, "Then go behind the tree. There is no one else here."
"No! That's gross."
Mom then replied, "Oh come on, you're the only boy here. The rest of us would have to squat. At least you get to aim. Just don't aim for anyone's grave. Peeing on somebody's head isn't nice."

The poor kid went to pee behind the tree, but Ms. Speilberg followed him. She did not violate his privacy, but when he emerged, she started singing, "Smilllllleee.. You're on Candid Camera..."  (An old 1970's television show of hidden cameras).

After we had been there awhile, with nothing else to do in a cemetery, we wandered around looking at headstones. There is a whole family who is buried nearby. Each has their own stone, and you can see the mother died first and the husband remarried.

On the mother's stone it read, "Meet me in Heaven"
On the daughter's stone it read, "Going to meet my mother in Heaven."
On the son's stone it read, "Going to meet Mom and Sis in Heaven."
The father died before his second wife, it read, "Going to meet my family in Heaven".

A shout from behind me, "Oh no he ain't. That man is going to burn in hell. Not only did he get remarried, but he died first leaving the second wife with all the money."

"First, what makes you think they have money? And second.. it's DEATH do us part."
"If he gets to heaven, that first wife is kicking his butt out! There's no place else to go but hell. That death to us part stuff won't matter to a scorned woman."

Then my eyes blinked. I saw something surreal... my grandmother and her third husband's name on a headstone. Just the names, cause they were living. (This is the one from My Guzzling Granny). "MOM! Why is Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop on a grave? Is there something we should know?"  Mom explained that people sometimes buy plots in advance. But having the names on the stone... That was just creepy.

As my sister walked toward me, she stepped in a hole in the ground and shouted, "Oh my god! Something's got my leg!"

"CARRIE'S REAL!" I shouted.
"IT'S ALIVE!" said my brother.  We both ran to the car and left everyone behind.

We finally calmed down and loaded back in the car. By now, it was time to eat again.. .so off to Chicken George we went. The screams for orders started again.... I swear my mother's a glutton for punishment.

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Short & Silly 04/14/2015

4/15/2015

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Snakes R Us

I wrote earlier about being a "Jersey Hick" and how my Philadelphia "City Folk" family didn't understand the suburb lifestyle. This post is something you will understand or not, depending on where you live.

Living on a creek, you get all sorts of wildlife:  raccoon, opossum, beavers, turkey buzzards, field mice, foxes, etc.... we even had bald eagles nesting at one point. The wildlife laws stated we could not make noise along the creek or they might not mate. Really?? How is one to determine the acceptable decibel of a bird?

I bought my house at 22 years old, it was old but it was home. It had a detached garage with barn door type of entrance. One beautiful day shortly after moving in, I decided to go check out the garage and do some yard work. When I opened the doors, falling into my face like a hangman's noose was a six foot long snake skin. I freaked, screamed, jumped around. I thought it was the snake itself. Then I closed the doors and told my husband, "We don't need the garage anyway. That thing was here first, he can keep it."

Don't get me wrong, I knew it was not a poisonous snake, and snakes are useful to keep wildlife away.... I just don't want one in my house. So Harry--that's his name--and I made an agreement: You stay out of my house, I'll stay out of yours. We would see each other in the yard every once in awhile and say hello... but for the most part, we just avoided each other.

So winter rolled around, and I had a couple field mice (the small, cute kind, not the big hairy rat kind) that wanted to camp in my utility room. I didn't want to share my home with them either, but I couldn't kill them. What can I say? I'm a Jersey Hick with a heart. In the dead of winter I trapped the mice with "Mice Cubes" from Walmart. Seriously, these are the best traps I ever used, and it doesn't kill them. I'd walk them down the end of the street and let them go near the woods. I sorta always assumed they would go right for the nearest house, but hey, that was on them. I gave them a shot.

Eventually we decided to knock down the garage, and I never thought about Harry. That was very inconsiderate of me. The next winter, I bought my mice traps and checked them everyday. Nothing. Hmmm. That was weird, because every winter we would get them. The whole winter went by and no mice. One night while I was lying in bed, I figured out why. I heard something shift upstairs in the attic. It is a creepy thing to hear something like that, and it sounded big. Really big. It also sounded like something was being dragged across the floor. 

I sent my husband into the attic-- You didn't think I was going, did you?  He found a snake skin.  Harry grew.  Harry was now eight feet long. Apparently when we knocked down the garage, Harry made residence in the attic and decided to do some decorating as his slithered across my attic. He also ordered room service and must have eaten the mice that normally lived in my utility room.  After some careful thought, I figured it was better to have an 8 ft snake in the attic who never leaves his room, than mice in the main part of the house that could nibble in my kitchen.

After my dalmatian, Rainy, passed away, I joined a dalmatian rescue and fostered two dalmatians who had been abused and neglected. Harry and the dogs had a slight disagreement as to whose yard it was. Harry struck at the dogs like a cobra, it was scary and fascinating at the same time. The snake did not have a chance if the dogs worked together, but he wasn't giving up. I got the dogs before a physical confrontation ensued. But... I soon found out... Harry was really Harriet.  She had a nest near the creek she was tying to defend.  

This was not the only snake in the house incident I ever had. As a kid, I was in the living room playing the Atari 2600. My mother was washing the dishes and putting them in the cabinet above her head. She is so short, "five foot nothing" as we say. She start yelling, "Who put a rope in the cabinet with the dishes? What are you kids up to?"

Now think about this a second. She was a grown woman who could barely reach in the cabinet.... how did she think my brother and I would reach it? And WHY would we have rope. It was too close to the kitchen sink.... near the dirty dishes... near "chore' activity. Do you really think kids would be anywhere near work????

She reached in to pull out the "rope" and found a five foot long snake in her hand. She screamed for me to help her. I was like 8 years old, what was I supposed to do? I jumped on a table and screamed. Then I ran outside and found a neighbor kid. The boys in the neighborhood loved fishing, turtle trapping and other animal oriented stuff.  So a boy named Bobby came in and grabbed the end of the snake. It quickly wrapped the rest of its body around the thin strip of wood between the two open cabinet doors. 

Bobby was not the brightest star in the sky, and started pulling the snake's tail. The entire cabinet work start shaking as he pulled and pulled. Had he stopped, it might have relaxed and tried to slither away where he could grab it, but no. With one last pull, he not only ripped the snake down, but also pulled down the entire cabinet structure.

"Uh, sorry, Mrs. D'Ettore." He held up his prize, "but I got the snake."

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Short & Silly - 04/13/2015

4/15/2015

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U.S.S. Mustang

On New Year's Day, 2011, my sister passed away. It was a really bad time to me. I think my own mortality passed before my eyes. The next month, I went to my local Ford dealership with $20,000 and ordered a brand new Mustang. I knew exactly what I wanted: GT, 5.0 liter engine with 420 hp, hood and side scoops, 19 in wheels, shaker 1000 sounds system--- basically, the works.

It took three months for that car to come in. Every day I waited by the phone, wishing it to ring.  Then I got the call!  YAY!

Exactly one month later.... hadn't made a monthly payment yet... hadn't gotten the registration in the mail yet..... and...

I was on the way to work and a flash flood picked the car up and carried me down the road. The car finally stopped drifting and just died. First I was shocked, then angry, then just plain overwhelmed. I dropped my cell phone below the seat and couldn't reach it.

The call is voice activated, so I said, "Call GEICO" to get a tow truck. The car responded, "Call Gail? Call Mom? Call Al?"
"NO! GEICO! GEICO!" I shouted as I pounded the dash. 

As the water built up around the car, an officer pulled up and told me to get out. My response? "No. No way! It's brand new. I'm not leaving it."

"Please, ma'am, you need to get out of the car," the officer pleaded.

"I'm fine right where I am, just call me a tow truck, please."

The officer's annoyance exuded from his voice, "You need to get out of the car, you could drown."

"Look, this car was $45,000. I'm not leaving it. If I die, tell my mother my life insurance will pay off the car and for a crane to pick me and the car up and drop us in a hole. No need to embalm me or anything. Just have her bury me in the car." I think he thought I was kidding, but I wasn't.

So, the tow truck comes and takes me back to my dealership which is owned by a family that I knew from school. I tell my story, and my former Geometry classmate starts laughing to the point I wanted to hit him. Then his brother walks up in horror, watching my poor car being towed in on the flatbed. Classmate tells his brother, while holding his belly and stomping on the floor laughing, "You're not going to believe this..."

I call GEICO from the dealership... go through a whole list of questions... then get this question, "What road were you on at the time, ma'am?"

"Creek Road."

The agent laughed, "Seriously? Your new car got flooded on Creek Road?"  Another freaking wise guy!  It took two weeks for my new engine to come in... at the cost of $12,000 by GEICO. The old engine only had 500 miles on it :(

I was already experienced in losing Mustang GT's though. A real pro. I had a beautiful red Mustang GT-- it was 13 years old, fully customized and only had 68,000 miles on it. On Easter Sunday, while the kids were running over fields and hunting for eggs.. I heard CRASH!

I lay on my mother's apartment floor watching a movie, and after a few minutes I got up and said, "I better take a look, with my luck that was my car."  I wasn't really expecting it to be my car... but when I saw that the parked car was now on the grass with it's quarter panel thrust into the side of a tree... after having moved a concrete parking bumper four feet away...well.. I just screamed!

There were no other cars around--- just my car in the middle of a field assaulting a tree. I call 911 and walk out without my shoes, and honestly without even a bra cause I was comfy indoors, and went searching for the culprit.

"West Deptford Police, How can I help you?"

"Some idiot just totaled my Mustang GT. I need a responder, please." The tons of questions came flying out of his mouth as the idiot in question came walking from two buildings over. 

"Hey.. was that your car that jumped out in front of me?"  He staggered toward me. It was obvious he was drunk or on drugs or something. Which made me even more angry.

"Officer, this @#$#@# is messed up on something and saying my car hit him. I wasn't even in it," I declared.

The officer then asked me to describe him.... six foot two..250 pounds... and oh yeah.. HIGH on freaking drugs!!! How's that for a description???  Then I hear, "Ma'am, is he being belligerent? Are you in fear?"

Now I'm mad and screaming, "Fear? Yeah, I'm in fear of hurting him.. did you NOT hear me tell you the part where he totaled my Mustang GT?????"  A second later five cop cars swarmed around us in a star pattern like you see in a movie.

GEICO paid the claim right away then fought with that guy's insurance for a year to get refunded. The adjuster wrote on my paperwork, "My condolences on the loss of your vehicle. I searched from Boston to South Carolina and found nothing comparable. It was THAT unique and irreplaceable."  Six months later the idiot finally went to court, got his DUI dropped and only lost his license for a month. Guess what insurance company then covered him when his policy was dropped? GEICO!!!! 

These stories are funny now, but at the time I was devastated and angry. 

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Short & Silly 04/12/2015

4/12/2015

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Goin' Postal & The Creek

'Gator Got 'em

My brother and I were the first ones in my family born in New Jersey, the rest are Philadlephia natives. My mother often says that growing up, the only grass she ever saw was the stuff that grew in the cracks of the pavement.  I remember the rest of the family thinking of us as "Jersey Hicks" who "live out in the sticks". 

Philly people love the summer where they sit in their cars for hours trying to drive to the Jersey Shore, only to sit in that traffic again on Sunday.We never needed that because with the creek in the yard, we went fishing and boating. Many had jets skis or water skis. It was fun.  Being born in July gave me the perfect opportunity to torture my family at my birthday parties.

On my 10th birthday, we had a huge BBQ. The men were fishing, the women were cooking, the kids ran around.. and the teens were laying out in the sun. I was feeding bread to the ducks in the creek. Dozens would flock over once you start throwing it.

All of a sudden, a duck got pulled under the water and never came back up. The other ducks freaked out and flew away. Everyone froze and eyes widened. The "City Folk" were confused. I knew it was probably a snapper turtle under the water that got the duck. But after a minute, the gasps started.

"What the hell was that?"
"Hey, where'd it go?"
My response?  "'Gator got 'em."  They wanted to call me a hick.. I'd show them a hick. They didn't know whether to believe me or not.
"Wha... what do you mean, gator? You mean alligator?"

I laughed, "Yeah. People think they are only in Florida, but they ain't. We got our own kind right here.  You do know the movie Jaws was based on a true shark in NJ right? It was in a creek just like this one. So I guess it could  have been a shark... but my money is on a gator."

Jaws dropped, then a seen straight out of the movie happened, "Get out of the water! Hurry! Get out of the water!"  Those in the boats all paddled to shore.

Then I heard someone say, "I'm going home to get my gun. An alligator would make a cool belt and matching wallet."

My mother came out yelling at me. (Big shock there) What are you telling them? Why are you torturing them?  They weren't sure to believe me or her... but they didn't go back in the water.

I still don't know what mom was so upset about. She tortured use kids without even considering it. At least I did it on purpose.  Here's an example. Friday the 13th came in 1980 when I was six years old. Somehow ... don't ask me how... my mother thought this was appropriate material for a child to watch.

A masked serial killer living on a lake (like the one in my backyard) and the woods (like the one across the street from my house) was never expected to give a six and seven year old kid pause?  Never meant to cause nightmares?  Here's another example of the mental child abuse my mother cause (i say that jokingly of course)......

We lived an hour from the Jersey shore.... she took us there for the summer.. and on the boardwalk is a theater.  WHAT movie do you think she took us to see? JAWS II.  Then wanted to know why we didn't want to go back on the beach.

I swear I couldn't make this up!  But I loved the "gator" story so much that I added it inot the story of The Creek: Where Stories of the Past Come Alive.  That story is included in my boxset with Newborn Nazi and Tower of Tears.

Hope you enjoyed this episode of "Short & Silly"  Be sure to check out my "Author Spotlights" as well.  Please comment with your short & silly stories and share my blog with your friends.  Thanks and chat with you tomorrow! 
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Short & Silly 04/10/2015

4/12/2015

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Snips and Snails & Puppy Dog Tails

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All you mothers with sons will relate to this post.

As I have said before, I was one of five siblings growing up in a 2 1/2 bedroom home with a bathroom the size of a closet. Seriously, two people could not stand shoulder to shoulder. So just imagine what it was like for three teenage girls to squeeze into that small space, trying to curl their hair and do their make-up on "date night". Elbows would jab and claws would come out during a bunch of yelling.

Enter my brother who had been potty trained for quite some time, yet was just getting accustomed to using the "big people's potty". I guess he was still learning the difference between #1 and #2 when he sat down on the toilet but shot a stream of urine like a fountain all over the girls. The three of them screamed and tried to escape, but got wedged in the room and took a while to get out. "Mom, why did you have to have a boy?" they shouted. After that incident a huge mirror was put up in our dining room with extension cords to run to the hair dryers and curling irons.

A few years later, when my mom wanted to entertain us, she would give us a bowl and a spoon and say, "Go dig in the dirt." Even though video games were becoming popular, the Atari 2600 was monopolized by the older girls. What Mom should have said was, "Play in the dirt and keep it outside," but.... she didn't. 

So one day my brother proudly brought the bowl filled with dirt into the living room and shouted, "Look! I got worms!" By this stage in our development, our mom made us count everything... cars driving by, telephone poles, coins on the tables. I'm not sure to this day if it was supposed to be a learning experience or something to keep us entertained and prevent fighting. Either way, her technique backfired on her on this particular day.

She asked, "How many worms did you catch?"
He responded, "I don't know. Help me count them." Then he dumped the bowl onto the floor. Now some moms would have screamed and flipped out. By this time, Mom had 5 kids and was already crazy-- and ready for everything. She pulled out the Kirby vacuum and said, "Let's count. One," sucked it up. "Two," sucked one up. "Three," sucked it up. You get the picture.

This was not the last time my brother brought the area's wildlife into our home, however. We lived on a creek with woods and streams all around. The kids in the neighborhood would often catch frogs, salamanders, and fish. One day my mom told my brother to come inside and play, so he carried in his new "froggy friends" inside as well.  Instead of throwing the frogs out of the house, my mother told him to play with them in the bathtub. Gross, I know. But she intended to bleach it later.  The boy with the frogs was happy and the girls were playing their stereo and talking on the phone. Peace roamed throughout the home. Not quiet, mind you, but no fighting which was as much peace as you get with 5 kids and a crazy dog.

About a week later, my sister was taking a shower and started screaming at the top of her lungs. My mother instinctively jumped in the shower to protect her from the scolding hot water and pushed her toward the back of the shower. Then mom realized, "What is wrong with you? This water isn't even hot?" (Whatever made her think there would be hot water is beyond me. It took me 14 years to be able to get luke-warm water with all those people in that house).

My sister was screaming and crying, "There's something in here! There's something in here!"

Mom looked around and jumping up from the soapy water, "Ribbit, ribbit," was one of the frogs. So there was of course more screaming throughout the house about having one boy in a house full of girls. No one stopped to think that the poor frog's eyes might be stinging from the soapy water!

Flash forward a little more to my 9th birthday party. A pipe broke under the tub and a plumber came out to inspect. While he was under there, he held up a frog with it's hands and legs stretched out in all directions. "Ma'am, I found one of your kids' toys under here."

"Oh, no. That's not a toy. I think that is a real frog that got petrified. Hmm, never saw anything like that before."

Gee, it's no wonder what terrified that frog so much into being literally scared to death. A house full of my family would do that to anything!

Hope you enjoyed today's Short & Silly - If you like them, please feel free to comment below about your own "short & silly" tales. And consider sharing my link with your friends. Have a great day!
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Author Lacey Lane

4/11/2015

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Author Lacey Lane Releases:

The Ultimate Guide to 
Frugal Living

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This week is Lacey Lane's big launch for her new book, The Ultimate Guide to Frugal Living.


Although not yet released, the pre-orders already place this book at #50 in the "Purchasing & Buying" category of Business and Industry books.

Hopefully Lacey can keep up this momentum as she helps people to tighten their budgets and live a more economical life.

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The Revenge of the Pumpkins

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Ranked #47 
in Amazon Short Stories


It's Halloween and the Smith family are having fun carving pumpkins. As the witching hour arrives and the pumpkins come to life will the Smith family live to regret the monsters they created? 


Find out what happens when the pumpkins come to life and take their revenge...

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Short & Silly 04/11/2015

4/11/2015

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The Check is in the Mail

I've discussed in the past my mother's inability to find most geographic locations. If you missed those posts, please check them out. This is one story I absolutely adore:


Our family started kids reading at an early age. We visited bookstores and libraries frequently, it was a family thing. My mother took her three grandsons to the library for their routine visit, but ran into a problem when trying to return the books.


The problem?  She couldn't find the library.  In a town that she lived for 40 years, where five of her kids used that library for research and school projects (you know, back in the stone age before the internet when we actually used encyclopedias and dictionaries).  I'm serious.. stop laughing.


Our phone call went like this:
Mom: Rhoda, where's the library?


Me: The library? Our town's library? The one you have been taking me to the whole of my life... that one?


Mom: Yeah, that one. Where is it?  I can't find it.


Me: Uh, Mom. It is a big brick building with windows and is still in the same place it has been for decades. What is confusing you about this?


Mom: Well they are doing construction on Interstate 295. I usually cross under the highway, but they forced me to go onto it. So I got on the ramp, and when i got off, I made a right and went in a big circle. I started over again, and did the same thing. I can't find the library.


All she had to do was make a LEFT at the bottom of the ramp to cross under the highway and the library would have been in front of her. But no.... not my mom.  I explained this to her three times and even emailed her a picture of it. Didn't help.


She called me back an hour later....


Mom: I called the library and told them I can't find them again. I'm sending them a check for $25 and keeping the books.


This is true people.. I couldn't make this up if I tried, and as an author, I can come up with some weird twisted stuff!


Okay... maybe that was a tough scenario for her.  So let's try something a little easier........


As some of you know, I've worked for the USPS since the late 1990's. My mother has worked in the same building since 1980. She retired about five years ago, but still... you would think she would know how to find the building. You would think.


A few months ago, I lost my car keys inside the building--- a huge warehouse of a building with 1000 employees. When you lose something there, it stays lost. It could be in the mail, could be in the trash... wherever.  I did lose an ID badge in the mail once, and it went from NJ to Alaska. The employees there sent it back to me with a note saying, "Hi, from your friends in the great AK."  Somehow the folks in Alaska could find my building, but my mother couldn't.


I called her up and asked her for a ride home where I had a spare set of keys. It's a 15 minute drive, so not exactly out of the way. Two and half hours later, she still did not show up and was not answering her house nor her cell phone.


Great. Now it's 2am and anyone who could have given me a ride already left for the night. I'd have to wait until 5am for the next shift to end. Miraculously, someone walks up carrying my car keys. I drove to my mom's hoping she is okay.


No car there.
I drove back to work the way she would normally go. Don't see her.
I drove around the other roads she could have taken, afraid she got a flat or something.
At 5am, she pulls into the driveway at work.


Me: What happened? Are you okay?


Mom: I swear they moved the building. The roads look different at night.


Me: Mom, you worked the overnight shift back then. It looks the same.


Mom: No, it's different.


Thank God I never had any life threatening illness as a child, I'd be dead. Not only would she not be able to find the hospital.... she wouldn't have been able to find the phone to call 911. 


(And yes, she knows I'm writing this stuff on the blog... and she laughs because she knows it's all true. lol)


Hope you enjoyed this post of "Short & Silly". Please comment with your silly family situations and share the blog link with your friends.

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Short & Silly 04/09/2015

4/9/2015

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Seek & Ye Shall Find

Being that I love history, I always had a fascination with tracing my family roots. Ancestry.com is an amazing tool to help you do this--- But be careful, you might not always like what you find. 

I had friends who found interesting things, relatives who invented things or did some sort of community service. Relatives who were firemen or heroes. I hoped I would find something of that nature. I have three branches of my family: Italian, German, and Irish so I thought the information would be varied.

Well... I started with the Italians. I knew the names, so looked up the Census and found the ship's passenger lists from Italy to America. Then I noticed "832 Christian Street" as the given US address. Hmm... there were more passengers at that address... other relatives?  It gave me leads. After hunting for awhile, I realized that address was "Banco D'Italia" and there was a bank employee allowing immigrants to use the bank address in exchange for money. hmmmm.. Those Italians did not want to be found, just like Michael Corleone from The Godfather. So my search ended in 1910.

Then I jumped to the Irish side. I knew a few more names than I did with the Italians. I traced them back to Ireland in 1820. There were dozens of children who did not survive to adulthood which is sad. A WWI veteran is buried in the national veteran cemetery in Philadelphia--that I could be proud of. And of course the stereotypical Irish drunk. Yep, in a newspaper article I found a relative of mine was given a citation for drunk driving of a horse carriage in 1882. (He would have definitely lost the competition against my German grandmother! See post: My Guzzling Granny for that explanation).

The Irish side inspired me to write Tower of Tears: The McClusky Series. Although the murder and blackmail are works of fiction, the idea of a woman named Jane in 1820 coming to the US from Ireland alone intrigued me. The fear and loneliness, the discrimination she must have faced. Great premise for a story. Hence, a family saga with murder, betrayal, blackmail and mystery was born!

So the Italians might have been criminals who didn't want to be found. The Irish were drunks who were easily found... what about the Germans?

I typed in my very unusual German surname and out popped an FBI file! What???? Now this is getting interesting! What did he do?

Turns out that during WWI, my great uncle who immigrated and became a US citizen had an extremely passionate argument in a bar which lead to a fight. The two men argued over politics (guess i know where I get my fiery personality from) and my uncle said, "This country is going to hell in a hand basket. The way things are going, Germany is going to win this war cause the only reason people become citizens is to get work."

That statement launched a decades long investigation into the family for... wait for it..."Violation of the Espionage Act". No lie. It turned out that this statement made in 1918 caused government agents to follow my family around in 1942 during WWII. Cause, you know, there was a war on and they had nothing better to do. Considering I had two separate run ins with US Secret Service in my lifetime, I wasn't surprised. It must run in the genes.

Germans are incredible record keepers. I was able to trace my family lines all the way back to 1660. The worst part? Not that they were accused of being spies.. but that the German side were full of postal workers dating back to 1822. My extended living family is full of postal workers: Grandfather, mother, brother, 2 uncles and me. When I told my brother of my findings, his reply was "Damn! 200 years and we haven't progressed at all! We're still freaking mailmen!"

The German side did inspire me to write Newborn Nazi, which was based on my grandfather's siblings. The youngest brother, Edmund, was forced into the Hitler Youth and his sister, Hedwig, was so appalled that she joined the underground to save lives. In real life, Edmund discovered his sister's activities and was faced with the conflict of protecting her or turning her in--essentially killing her. I took the idea of the "espionage" and ran with it to produce a suspense thriller whose last chapter is almost completely true.

So before you go searching for your family... ask yourself.. can you handle what you find?

I found criminals, drunks, and Nazis...... but also a hero who sacrificed all to save others and many other who gave up their lives to find a better life in America. A life they gave to me.

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Short & Silly 04/08/2015

4/8/2015

1 Comment

 
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Buy The Kid A Book, Lady!

I have a nephew who loves reading books as much as I do. My brother and I started him off at a very young age. At 2 years old, if he wanted to play a video game, he had to read a question then type the answer. Each time the computer started, a new question was asked, so there was no memorization to help him cheat 

Back in the 90s, there was a "Rag Mag" called the Weekly World News, the kind you find in the grocery store lines that say "Adam and Eve Were Aliens" and "Bigfoot is Married to Joan Rivers". My nephew loved these, and for $1.65 it was a great way to not only keep him quiet, but to keep him reading. The problem lay when he took them to school to educate his 6 year old friends that "Bat Boy" was a mutation of a boy and bat and lived in a cave.  The teacher did not like that one too much... and I got a talking to from my sister.

One of my fondest memories was when a Stephen King book came out around Christmas. My nephew was about 9 or 10, and he wanted the book so badly. At the time, King had a monthly book club--- commit to buying x number of books and get one free. I fell for it and got the kid a bunch of books for Christmas. 

The problem?  My sister knew it, the kid didn't. The two walked through Kmart and he asked for the book. My sister said no.

"But... pllllleeeaassse Mom! I really want it, it is so important!"
His mother replied, "No, it's almost Christmas. Stop acting up and let's go."
He responded, "But look, it's on sale for 30% off, it won't be on sale again..... pllllleeeasseee  I have nothing at home to read." 
This only angered her. Not only did this kid have a library that rivaled my own, but he had custom built wooden book cases to fit them, PLUS a shelf that wrapped around his bedroom ceiling. But ya know, he had NOTHING to read.

Annoyed, my sister told him to put the book back and walked away. A stranger approached her, "Lady, my kid wants a $600 Wii video console and your kid wants a $10 book. Just buy him the book lady!"  Talk about embarrassing.


When the same nephew was 13 years old, I asked what he wanted for Christmas and he replied, "To see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway". (Who's kid is this?????)

So my brother and I bought the tickets and we took a Greyhound for a day trip to NYC. After the show, we stopped by a souvenir shop--- Guess  what the kid wanted??? 

You guessed it! The freaking BOOK of Phantom of the Opera.

I hope you enjoyed this post of Short & Silly!  Be sure to stop in at my store and click on a book title. A FREE sample chapter is listed for each book.
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Short & Silly 04/06/2015

4/7/2015

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My Guzzling Granny

On my old blog I posted about my wild grandmother who took me to a strip club for my 18th birthday. This same woman lived to be 93 years old, drank and smoked and was funny as hell.

It was a family joke that "Mom-Mom" would throw a party if someone sneezed. A joke, but true. On a Tuesday night, for no other reason than it was Tuesday, she would have dozens of people over in her finished basement--complete with wet bar. She always started the night with a 16 oz glass of half water and half whiskey. With each drink she would ask for "a little less water."  So by the third glass, the old lady was drinking straight whiskey. The crazy thing was that she never got drunk.

By our teen years, my brother and I realized we could profit from Mom-Mom's drinking. Yep, that is what I said. We actually bet people our little old granny could out drink them. $500 was to go the man or woman who could out drink Granny. We'd bring our biggest, most rugged men friends and neighbors to our parties. Without letting Mom-Mom know, we would pour the men a drink at the same time we poured Mom-Mom her requested drink. By the end of the night, she would get up and walk out --- and often drive home--- and they would be puking under the table.

I honestly have no idea how much money we made, but I can tell you I had some really nice jewelry during my early 20s lol.  The only time I ever remember her being tipsy was a comedy session in itself. She had to be about 85 years old. Her husband of 38 years (he was her THIRD husband!)  was 10 years younger than her. This one night, Mom-Mom rubbed up against him and said in front of us all, "Jim, let's go home and make some babies."

"Marie, please."

"Jimmmmm..... I'll put on the red mesh nightie you like so much.. with my red puff ball mules. What do you say?"

"Come on, Marie. It's time to go home."

She turned to everyone and yelled, "We're making some babies tonight!" Then staggered out the door. Even then, she was not fall down drunk. She was completely aware of her surroundings. It was amazing. At her 80th birthday party, she and her friend named Alice danced most of the night. Alice was over 90, and these old ladies knew how to laugh and have a good time.  I remember someone asking them how they could have so much energy and someone else said, "Cause if you slice their wrist, Seagram's VO will shoot out. They aren't human anymore."

When her third husband died, (yeah, the guy 10 years younger than her), she cried about how much she missed my biological grandfather-- who died 14 years before I was born. She went on and on about how great a lover he was, and how much she missed him. I don't know about you.... but imagine my grandmother have sex with a live guy was bad enough.... but now she was bringing decades old corpses into the picture!

To this day, I'm not sure if she out drank the bio grand dad, or if she killed him with her bedroom olympics in an attempt to "make babies."  What I do know is that the woman was very attached to her whiskey... and very healthy despite the drinking.

She'd moved into an assisted living complex that was where? You guessed it, right next to a liquor store. She could no longer drive a car, but was quite able to put her walker on wheel across the complex and through a huge parking lot to get to the liquor store. I went to visit once and she said, "I stopped by the store earlier to get you soda. I needed some VO also... but I had to put the potato chips back cause it is a far walk and the bags were just too heavy."

Uh.. the 5 oz bag of chips was too heavy, but the gallon of whiskey was no problem?

She passed away a few years ago, but her fun memories are with me always.

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Short & Silly 04/06/2015

4/6/2015

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School's Out for Summer! - Alice Cooper

My sister, Lee, was an incredible person. Yet, from a young age she did whatever she wanted and feared no one. Her anthem was Alice Cooper's "School's Out'. The record player--- yes, a phonograph that most of you never even seen--- blasted any sort of anti-authority music.  My poor mother.  Lee's hatred for school was second only to her ingenuity of getting out of it. 


This was a typical school day involving Lee:


Mom: "Everybody ready? Grab your lunches, let's go!"
Lee: "No, I can't find my left shoe."
Mom: "Then wear a different pair."
Lee: "I don't have both shoes of ANY pair."
Mom: "Then wear one white shoe and one black shoe. We don't have time for this."
Lee: "No Mom, you don't understand. ALL of my left shoes are missing. I can't go to school cause I can't find a complete pair of shoes."
Mom: "Then where one of your sisters' pair."
Lee: "I can't. I wear a 5 1/2 and they wear 8s and 10s."
Mom: "I give up."
Lee: "YES! I'm going back to bed."


I remember her senior year better than she did. She took some sort of secretarial type of class. At the beginning of the year she was given a packet to complete by the end of the year. That packet was to be her 4th marking period grade. 

Typing, Steno, Shorthand, Tables, Spreadsheets... these are all life skills that could have been real assets. Three days before the end of the school year:

Lee: "Mom, would you be mad if I don't graduate?"
Mom: "And you bring this up now, WHY????"
Lee: "My teacher in office class said if I don't turn in my assignment in 3 days, I won't graduate."
Mom: "Then turn in the assignment."
Lee; "It's a lot to do."  She pulls out a 3 inch thick packet.
Mom: "When the hell were you given this assignment?"
Lee: "September."
Mom: "It's freaking JUNE!"
Lee: "Yeah, I know. And if it isn't done in three days, I have to take it again in September."
Mom: "Oh my god! I can't believe I survived you in high school the first time. No way can I take another year of this." She grabbed the packet, pulled out her electric typewriter and pounded away at the keys.

Three days later:

Mom: "Did you turn that in?"
Lee: "Yeah! I can graduate!"
Mom: "What did your teacher say?"
Lee: "She said I passed."  She held up the packet that had a note, "Your mother gets an A-- you get a D. Happy Graduation"

To this day, my mother believes the teacher took pity on her...not on Lee, but on my mother.


Have a Great Day! :)

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Short & Silly - 04/05/2015

4/5/2015

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Rainy My Rambunctious Puppy

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Well, maybe not a puppy.. but she was like my kid. A 100 pound kid that did not understand her tail was like a whip that would knock everything off the tables, not to mention whack your legs with a sting.

Some of my greatest memories are about this dog... 14 years after her death, I'm sitting here writing this--so there's your proof. So let's get started:

My husband was not exactly the jump out of bed type of person. He would allow the alarm clock to sound, then hit snooze about six times before climbing out of bed. He never even rolled over, his arm would just fly across the air and hit the top of the clock. 

One day Rainy must have gotten annoyed with him, as was I. After the third or fourth time, the alarm blared across the room, but hubby didn't move. I nudged him, "Shut it off, come on.. Get up!"  He didn't move fast enough. Rainy took her paw and went WHACK! Flying through the air was the lamp, the clock and a water filled vase of flowers.

THAT got my husband jumping out of bed, screaming and yelling! "Look what your stupid dog did! I can't believe you are laughing!"

"What? It's cute! Not only did she learn something new, but she got you up!"

He wasn't happy. He often told me he was going to get rid of her. I would have liked to seem him try. I had her 5 years longer than I had him :)

I had a habit of putting a bagel in the toaster oven, then jumping in the shower. By the time I got out, my bagel would be done. One day I came out and my bagel was gone. 

"That pain in the neck hubby of mine must be playing tricks on me." I was alone, but I thought maybe my husband returned home after forgetting something on his way to work. A plausible thought. The next day, I did the same thing. I come out from the shower..... and...

Bagel gone. Hmmmm.... now I'm thinking my husband and brother are involved in some weird conspiracy to drive me crazy. AH! I got it. I'll set up a video camera and catch the culprits.  Boy was I shocked.  There was Rainy on my video, paws on the counter top, then with one paw, she pulled the glass door of the toaster oven down until it tilted forward. The bagels slid right onto the floor, and the spring action of the door allowed the door to shut once the oven was upright again. There was my baby, scarfing down my bagels.

I hope you enjoyed today's post of "Short & Silly"  Be sure to check out my books on my STORE tab. Each book's first chapter is listed under the product as a sample.



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Tower of Tears: 
The McClusky Series

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Betrayal. Despair. Murder. Blackmail. Romance. Tragedy. 

In the 1820s, a young woman embarks on a journey for a better life in America. She brings with her a three year old son, and plans to live with relatives she has never met in Philadelphia. Her loving husband remains in Ireland, taking in boarders and working the farm to save money for his departure. 

Along the way, Jane realizes she is pregnant, then soon is told she is expected to pay rent, and work in a factory. Her new boss begins to sexually assault her, convincing her that a pregnant Irish woman would never find work. She turns to her priest with no results. She is trapped! 

Don't miss out on this irish family saga!


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Happy Easter Everyone!!!!

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Nicola McDonagh

4/4/2015

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About Nicola McDonagh


Nicola McDonagh is an author, creative writing tutor and photographer. She lives in Suffolk, UK with her musician husband and a plethora of rescued/feral cats. She came to writing prose late in life and is trying to make up any lost time by dabbling in more than one genre. Nicola enjoys experimenting with language and the visual image, often combining the two to create unusual stories and photographs that hopefully entertain and give pause for thought.

Nicola has two YA dystopian/sci-fi books originally published by Fable Press, called - The Song of Forgetfulness, and has self-published a collection of adult tales called - Glimmer and other stories. Nicola won The Suffolk Book League Short Story Award in 2011 with Glimmer, and was shortlisted for the Escalator genre fiction award in 2012 with Echoes from the Lost Ones. She has just completed a middle grade action adventure novel called - Marauders of the Missing Mummies.


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GLIMMER

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Glimmer is a collection of seven compelling and uncanny stories that deal with obsession, loss, redemption, ghostly encounters, supernatural romance, and enduring love.

“Glimmer and other stories is a miniature treasure chest of jewels. I absolutely loved these short stories....they were mesmerising, masterful, original, eloquent, lyrical, clever.” Review by Lesley Hayes

From metaphysical speculation to sophisticated eroticism, these beautifully crafted tales explore human nature in all its diversity. Sometimes disturbing, sometimes inspirational, they all have a metaphorical richness that will take you into an uncanny world that straggles the line between the real and the imagined.

“Ms. McDonagh has created a world that is like an out-of-body experience almost. The stories took me out of my confined world and took me into science fiction, a little horror, drama, and wonder.” Review by Oscar William Case

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Excerpts from 
On the Eighth Day and 
Rousseau’s Suburban Jungle:

On the Eighth Day:

“He came to me all wet and steamy, not caring that I had not bathed. How fresh, how clean the scent from skin and hair. I could not get my fill and sniffed his body top to toe like a dog greeting one of its own kind.”


Rousseau’s Suburban Jungle: 


“Esther drew a tree with bright green leaves that curled up and around the canvas snake-like and cruel. She gave it a head, red eyes and ivory fangs, its mouth open, ready to bite anyone who came too close.” 
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Short & Silly - 04/03

4/2/2015

1 Comment

 

Sibling Differences

My sister, Lee, was completely different from the rest of the family. She was wild yet compassionate, spontaneous yet strong, and innocent in some ways yet vicious in others.

One day she came to me begging me to take her to Woodstock. "Please, please please. I have no one to go with me. Wayne can't go and I never went that far away with anyone but him. It is going to be great... did you see the lineup of bands?"

"No. Not after what happened at the last concert we went to," I replied.

This sweet, innocent look washed over her face. "What do you mean? Poison and Warrant were incredible!"

Annoyance and anger now flooded me. "THEY were good, you were a nut! Don't you remember? You got high with the guys seated behind us, then jumped the railing on the second level and proceeded to shimmy down the rafters?"  She was silent as I continued my rant, "I had to grab you by the waistband and pull you back over the railing. You kicked and screamed while some stranger held onto me! You could have been killed.  All you kept screaming was 'I want to meet Brett!'"

Something clicked in her head, "Ohhhhh, now I remember. Wow.. that concert was better than I thought."  I just shook my head. "Come on, please... you are the best sister in the world," she begged.

"Lee, I don't care about who is playing, I can watch them on television. I am not peeing in a field for three days with a bunch of crazy, drunken junkies dancing around and puking on me. It's going to be 95 degrees with 100% humidity, and they are probably going to charge $10 for a freaking bottle of water."

Stomping her foot, Lee responded, "But this is a once in a lifetime experience! It will never happen again!"



I had to keep reminding myself that this woman was 11 years older than me. "Yeah, that is what the baby boomers said in the 60's, but they are still alive. It will happen again in our lifetime, and even then, I will not be the one taking you."


She left.  A few hours later she called me, "Hi. Can I ask you a question?"


"No, I will never change my mind."


She got quiet, then said, "No, not that. I want to know something. Is it legal for work to fire me then make me sign a contract that I will never again work for another store in their chain for the rest of my life? Can they do that?"


My hand slid to my forehead in disbelief. Only my sister could get banned from employment forever. "Lee, I honestly do not know if it is legal. But, in my honest opinion, I don't think you should sign it. Just walk out, then apply again next year. The best way to get back at them is to make them suffer through supervising you all over again."


Her response, "Yeah! Cool.. that is what I thought!" 


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Author Elizabeth Bailey

4/2/2015

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A Fragile Mask
A Georgian Romance

In Tunbridge Wells, Denzell watches a beautiful girl playing with children in the snow. The mysterious Verena proves cold and apparently impervious to Denzell’s charm. Verena, anxious for her abused mother’s health, is struggling to remain aloof. Will his affection be enough to coax Verena out of her fear of matrimony?

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Excerpt of A Fragile Mask

Arrived at the low back gate in his path, Denzell vaulted over it, and hurried up to his quarry, a touch out of breath, but blue eyes quizzing her from their misty depths.

‘How could you be so unkind—Miss Chaceley? Visiting the place—and then leaving before I could so much as catch a glimpse of you!’

Verena found her own breath catching in her throat, as if she had been running as hard as he. Her pulses were flurried, and it was all she could do to maintain the outward cool reserve that must distance him.

‘Good morning, Mr Hawkeridge,’ she managed, refusing to be drawn into responding to his provocative speech.

He grinned, bowing, as he flung aside the folds of a greatcoat that hung open. He had obviously seized it and thrown it on all anyhow in his haste to follow her, and taking no time at all to find his hat, for his head was uncovered.

‘Good morning, Miss Chaceley. May I escort you home?’

She blinked, saying stupidly, ‘Thank you, I know my way.’

‘No, do you?’ he countered, on a spurious note of surprise. ‘Why, then you must have come this way before.’

The spurt of laughter could not be contained. She controlled it.

‘You are absurd, sir.’

‘I know,’ said Denzell, and the grin vanished. ‘It has become a habit with me. And for that you should take pity on me, Miss Chaceley, and indulge me just a little.’

‘What, by allowing you to escort me home?’

His face lit. ‘You are so quick, ma’am.’

Again, Verena was obliged to bite down on a quivering lip. ‘And you, sir, are remarkably slow.’

‘How so?’

Verena drew a breath. ‘What does it take to convince you, Mr Hawkeridge?’

He raised his brows. ‘Of what, Miss Chaceley?’

Disconcerted, she snapped, ‘You know perfectly well.’

Denzell eyed her for a moment, his gaze roving her features under the bronze bonnet. He had succeeded in rattling her, but that was not what he wanted. Yet if that was what it took to shake her out of that infuriating façade, then what choice had he? There was only frankness left.

‘I don’t know what it takes,’ he said. ‘I can only suggest that we pursue the matter until we find out.’

‘We?’

A slow grin entered his face. ‘Why, I think so. Though I admit that for you, Miss Chaceley, it seems to be a case of willy-nilly.’

She almost laughed out again. Really, the man was too much. In spite of herself she warmed to him, saying in a friendly way that she had not meant at all, ‘In that case, I will be on my way, and you may do just as you please.’

‘How magnanimous,’ he murmured, turning to keep pace beside her as she began to plough across the uneven ground.

A hidden dent under a pocket of snow undid her, catching the heel of her boot. She gasped as her step faltered. But Denzell put out an instant hand, grasping her arm.

‘Steady!’

She straightened, glad of his support. The gratitude in her smile, as she turned to him, was genuine. ‘Thank you.’

His lips quivered at the edges. ‘That will teach you to try and run from me.’

Verena’s laughter bubbled up, but she nevertheless drew her arm from out of his grip, retorting, ‘It ought rather to teach you not to trouble me.’

Denzell’s features at once became serious, and his gaze held hers. ‘Do I trouble you?’

A flurry of confusion was set up in Verena’s chest. The automatic rebuttal came out before she could stop it.

‘No!’

‘I wish I might!’

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About Elizabeth Bailey

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An avid reader from an early age, Elizabeth Bailey grew up in colonial Africa under unconventional parentage and with theatre in the blood. Back in England, she trod the boards until discovering her true métier as a writer in her thirties, when she fulfilled an early addiction to Georgette Heyer by launching into historical romance. Eight years and eight books later, Elizabeth joined the Harlequin Mills & Boon stable, fuelling her writing with a secondary career teaching and directing drama, and writing plays into the bargain.

With 18 historicals published, she began to concentrate on the mainstream and in 2005, Elizabeth’s novel Fly the Wild Echoes was released in both the UK and the US simultaneously by Unlimited Publishing. The novel was a contender in the Booker list for that year. A mystery – a whodunit of the mind, as one reader has it – the book explores the interwoven lives of three women and investigates the possibility of past lives.

Now retired from teaching, Elizabeth directs for a local theatre group where she lives in West Sussex. Recently, however, even this foray into drama has had to take a back seat as she changed direction to enter the world of crime.

Still thoroughly involved in her favourite historical period, Elizabeth placed her female sleuth in the late Georgian world of intrigue, elegance, aristocrats and rogues, where privilege rubbed shoulders with the harsh realities of making ends meet. While Ottilia moves into the upper echelon, she is thoroughly at ease in the lower, which allows Elizabeth to cross boundaries with impunity.

Not content with mere authorship, Elizabeth launched as an independent publisher with Timeless Books created on the Lulu website. She also runs an assessment critique service for writers.

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