When Pigs Back-Fire



Once Upon a Time an evil contractor was trying to force me to do something I was not prepared to do. (This whole tale is quite dark and involves the awfulness that is lawyers, police, court, etc. We won’t go into all that now, because THAT will be a book someday. Oh yes, the novelist has the last laugh, or cry.)  As I was saying:  Once Upon a Time the Evil Contractor, E.C., was determined to obtain my cooperation through whatever means necessary. One fine day, E.C. slogged his way up Spooky Hill through the forest and built a pig pen at the corner of my property. Then he filled it with an assortment of pigs and roosters. I think that this was Brilliant Plan #74, if memory serves.

My children and the children in the neighborhood were beside themselves with joy, a petting zoo right in our own backyard. They were writhing with the thrill of it, the adults, not so much, at least not at first.

There were no roads crossing over Spooky Hill at that time, so to feed and water those pigs took serious time and effort on the part of E.C. Believe you me the kids made sure that those animals were well taken care of. They spent half the summer standing at the property line, shivering with happiness. “They’re so cuuuuute!  Mom!  Look!  They’re soooo cuuuuute!” One of the roosters flew the coop and started living on a neighbor’s back porch. The kids would prop him on their forearms and carry him around. E.C. tried to coax him back to the pen. Rooster had better sense and refused cooperation. That entire summer those kids ran up and down Spooky Hill with that bird.

Unfortunately the pigs had a less pleasant fate. Eventually E.C. either tired of hauling food to them or wearied of providing hours of entertainment to my kids, but they vanished. I heard from someone in the village that E.C. had gifted people working at The Town large amounts of pork. The kids never knew, well, unless they’re reading my blog now. If they are, let me just point out that there is no proof that is what became of the pigs. It might have been coincidence or rumor.



In keeping with the happy memory of the disappearing pigs, there was a large costume party themed, “Come as Your Favorite Pig.”  I was Miss Piggy and Dear Hubby was forced into a rather large Kermit costume. Hey, I needed a date. After that the entire neighborhood started an annual pig roast every summer. The World Famous Superhero, known as Super-Pig, made an appearance every year and the children were delighted to have their pictures taken with him. The rooster mysteriously ended up at a farm on the far side of the village. Things might have gone back to normal then, but then someone on Spooky Hill gave someone a little toy pig. Then someone gave someone else pig tea towels. Then someone went on vacation and foolishly trusted someone else with their house key, and as a group we did a little “remodel surprise” for them. After that, common sense was at a premium, and for years pig paraphernalia was the décor of choice on The Hill. It still pops up from time to time, though we made a pact to stop it a couple years back. Now and then someone falls off the wagon. I mean, really, check this out…could you really pass up a pig lighter with flames shooting out his nostrils? I'm only human.



The Road Less Traveled

The Road Less Traveled is an excellent place to take your niece and nephew when you babysit them. Except for the poison ivy and the snakes, it makes for an excellent hike. Just don’t joke about running out on the hang gliding ramp, because eight year olds think you’re serious. Don’t sweat it; I tackled her before she got to the edge.

Four wheeling through the forest on dirt roads at midnight was a big hit with the kids and their grandmother. We hit every single puddle, got hopelessly lost, and turned the music on full blast – but for some reason we didn’t see any wildlife. It was probably because we let the eight year old pick the music. I have reason to believe that bears like my tunes.



When was the last time you had calloused hands from playing Frisbee?  It had been awhile for me too, I’d completely forgotten Frisbee blisters. We played tag in the evenings and I taught them the Cool Aunt (read; these are not my kids, I’d never had taught my kids this game) version of tag. That’s the one where you play by a mountain stream and take a mouthful of water and chase; tagging with hands or water counts. Grandma lost. Boy was she MAD. Thus Spit-Tag was born.

After playing in the mountain water, we decided it was necessary to swim in it. Now comes the part where Cool Auntie has to suck it up and get in that ice water with the kids. It was a blast. After about twenty minutes you can’t feel your body anymore, so it isn’t so bad. We got out after my nephew lost all feeling in his hands. No worries, it came back after a few hours.



As I sit here rubbing cortisone on my mosquito bites covered in poison ivy with my blistered hands, I’m contemplating the road less traveled by. It has made all the difference, but you might want to dress for it. 

Seven Things You Don't Really Want to Know



Do you remember chain letters?  They’ve morphed into postings on social networks and email messages but they’re all the same. Basically you have to forward a message to others in order to save yourself from impending doom, and you are promised some type of reward, monetary or magical. All you have to do is annoy some of your friends by passing it along. I hit delete without even looking at them. Once I did make one up myself. Wish I’d saved it. It involved attacks by invading aliens and mange. The reward involved sprinkle donuts and anti-gravity boots, or something like that.

Yet when Diane Graham tagged me in a blog post that threatened to make my ears fall off, I was intrigued. Diane wrote a novel called, “I am Ocilla”. She possesses a quick and candid wit and lives a fascinating life holed up in a bunker somewhere with dragons and men who morph into trees to scale walls. Or maybe that was her book. Whatever. According to Diane I must share seven things that even my own mother wouldn’t really care about, and tag seven other bloggers to do the same. If my fellow bloggers don’t also blog seven unwanted details, they will not be confounded by any falling ears. Oh no, they will suffer the Space Bar Curse. It sounds quite intergalactic doesn’t it?  No you will not be working the Lido deck for Captain Kirk. Your space bar will only work with your left thumb. Sound innocuous?  I spent two years living with it and look what happened to me. ‘Nuff said. Oh, except for the seven things, and I hope blogs are exempt from competency hearings.

1.   My neighbors already know this, but I don’t really live in Iceland. I’m trying to disorient my female teenage stalker and am planning to move there anyway. In Iceland I will spend my days holed up writing, and my nights swimming in volcanic pools.

2.   My vision is telethon worthy nearsightedness. Sometimes I like to go without my glasses because everything looks very Monet and lovely. This leads me to number…

3.   Without my glasses/contacts on, I can’t hear. It is a very Helen Keller experience. I’ll have you over for eggs sometime and demonstrate.

4.   As a child the only lies I can remember telling are when my Mom took me to confession. I hated to disappoint the Priest.

5.   Sports bore me into a near coma. If I watch any sport with you, know that I love you.

6.   For at least one entire semester while I homeschooled my children, Geography Class consisted of watching The Wild Thornberry’s. My kids aced college, so ha, it worked.

7.   I know all the family secrets, and they’re all destined to become novels. Sorry, Mom. All is fodder for The Glitter Globe.

Now for seven fellow bloggers, click on their link to check out their work.  (And bloggers, no tag-backs – you’re it.)

Beta Extraordinaire
Raj - In Search of Waterfalls
Kimberly - Does it all and looks great doing it blogger
The Shieldmaiden, Kelsey
Isabel - Writer, Artist, Filmaker
Devin - Down Under
Norma - In Search of the American Dream with this Lovely Lady

Fiction, Facts and Fences



Why read fiction? In a world that seems to be losing its sense of humor at an alarming rate, facts and statistics are the soup du jour, not novels. Daily information/disinformation sound bites greet us at every turn. A non-stop barrage of why you should worry and be afraid is shot down your throat, like birds shoving protein down baby beaks. “What if!”  “Did you hear?”  “It could happen to you!”

What does a fiction novel uniquely offer? Escapism may seem the obvious answer, but that comes in many forms besides books. Dabbling incognito in a logical, scientific community, I’ve felt the need to have an answer to this question.  This is my conclusion. Fiction offers something valuable. It is a simulation, a chance to delve deeply into another perspective, another life, another world. Besides an experience, what does reading fiction give you? Empathy. You live another point of view inside a novel.

Enough with justifying my existence. This writer's quest to kiss a baby lamb may or may not have been fulfilled this weekend. I spent it hanging out at a college, crashing in a bunk bed at night, eating cafeteria food, enjoying flash mobs, and walking across campus barefoot. Did you know you can get second degree burns doing that? Neither did I. You can, and yes, I did.



As soon as I arrived on campus, I was given the location of a nearby sheep farm. No questions asked. A photographer volunteered to come, and someone else offered to help herd the lambs. These people understand quests. Like the electric fence, let’s skip over the dodgy details and get to the point. I soon found myself face to face with a fairly good sized lamb. I scratched his ears, leaned down to kiss his wooly head and BAM, the dude head-butted my face so hard that my head snapped up. “I missed that,” my photographer said. Round two, I fed the lamb a piece of grass, and bent down to kiss him again. BAM, again he jerked his head up. At this point my nose was numb, I wasn’t certain if I’d kissed the guy or not. My lips definitely came into contact with his rude, butting head, and the photographer had again gotten only the before and after shot. I may be a slow learner, but I was not going for round three.

So what do you think? If you’re trying to kiss someone and they sorta punch you in the mouth with their head, does it count or not? I’m not asking for leniency, though I may or may not need to call someone to bail me out if I keep questing over fences. Not that I’m admitting to trespassing, I knew someone who knew someone who knew someone, who said it was okay to be there. That counts right? Do I have your empathy? Probably not, but this quest was fact not fiction. So be afraid! What if you try to kiss a lamb and he punches you in the face? It could happen.

The Violence of the Lambs

It's never what you expect.



That came to mind today as I resumed my quest. You know the one where I promised to kiss a baby lamb in exchange for a free book?  A sweet little baby lamb, I can do that. I often hike a place that has fields of sheep. I live for a good quest. Let me just cut to the moral of the story right here and now. Sheep smell carries microscope airborne adhesive that will stick to both your lungs and skin. Nothing can remove it. You will smell like Eau de Sheep forever.  Did you think the moral would involve a warning about rashly agreeing to go to first base with quadrupedal, ruminant mammals?  Heck no. Life is short. Grab the bull by the horns. Seize the Day. Smooch the Lamb. Just don’t wear flip-flops when you chase it around the barnyard. (You can't catch it in flip-flops AND the ground is a tad - mucky BUT your photographer laughs a lot.)

Where does the scent of fresh cut grass take you?  How about lilac?  Or watermelon?  Remember sitting in the backseat of a car with the windows rolled down, hot summer vinyl sticking to your thighs, a summer breeze blowing on your face?  What does summer smell like to you?  Fireworks?  Skunk?  Somebody’s grill?  Did anybody in your car ever shout, “SHEEP FARM?”  If they did, I bet you know this is the cue to cease breathing and get those windows up in nanoseconds. Faster even. Then go trade the car in, burn your clothes and move far away.

Had forgotten that childhood tidbit until today, when once again I resumed my quest. The lambs were out at last. I think there were about a hundred of them. They seem to arrive in pairs, and they are picturesque, sweet, fuzzy, white/black and you just want to pet them and give them a kiss. That’s how cute they really are. Good luck with that. Good luck with that, because electric fence/donkey/llama/Brother Pierre’s monkly mandate to keep outside the fence aside – this is what is waiting for you.

"Bring.  It.  On."

Oh, one little fella, despite his Mama’s warnings, wandered right over to the fence and let me pet him. I could have fulfilled my quest right then and there. It would have been quite easy to grab hold of that helpless little guy and kiss him right through the fence. I could not do it to him. I thought about it, briefly. I just could not be the one to make him lose all that newborn, innocent, misplaced trust in humanity. I scratched his ears and let him walk away.

The quest continues…

*No commandments were broken, and no sheep were molested during this quest. (But I did ruin another pair of flip-flops, and I still smell like sheep. There are probably reasons why writer's friends tend to consist almost exclusively of their imaginary ones.)

Welsh lamby photo lifted from my Beta

Link to The Quest's beginnings:  http://kathyhepinstall.wordpress.com/2012/02/02/does-the-lamb-buy-the-farm/

Thanks to my daughter/photographer/fellow quester for her inspiration and support xo

The Interactive Joy List



There’s that theory that cats enjoy only free things. Felines briefly went up a notch while I pondered that philosophy, then I considered the other school of thought where cats already think they own everything anyway. However it works, cats definitely seem to find far more joy in a wayward spider than in a toy mouse purchased for their entertainment.

Is there some innocuous little thing that thrills you?  A good thrill, unlike a wayward spider thrill; I’m talking a sheet of bubble wrap; a phone call from an old friend; when your daughter cleans out her chocolate stash and bequeaths you the dark stuff because it is gross (you reluctantly agree to dispose of it properly). Something like a weed that pops up in your flower bed, then blooms so spectacularly that you accept it; the stray dog you rescue that considerately finagles its way into your Step-Dad’s heart; or when you benevolently agree to fold the clothes in the dryer and discover paper money mixed in (dryers are covered under the international waters/found treasure treaty).

My bud, Lady and I used to attend University lectures together. Authors, Chefs, Doctors, Environmentalists – it didn’t matter, we went to everything. The fun part was we weren’t students, just a couple of Moms sneaking in from the suburbs, and we never did get caught. (Oh, chill, sometimes we bought tickets!)  After attending a few lectures by Psychiatrists, whose topics ranged from self-esteem to personality development, we decided to drop those. Sitting in the back of the room it always went something like this. “OMg, I’ve got that!  I’m codependent, I think. I don’t know, what do you think?  Do you think I’m codependent?”   

We did pick up one thing from the psychiatric lectures that didn’t scar us though, and that was The Joy List. Simply put, what brings you joy?  The exercise we were given was to list 100 joys of any size. Clean sheets. Air-conditioning. Fireplaces. Even if life is rough around the edges or being mean right now, there is always something. It was a task in the theory that joy is not a lottery, but a choice. This is a philosophy that I suspect was invented by dogs, but that’s just my theory.

Just this week my Dentist insisted that I had to get a massage every month. Apparently your neck shouldn’t creak like trees in the wind when you turn it, it does if you write sixteen hours a day, but it shouldn’t. After extracting (pun) my promise that I’d comply, he followed it up with the suggestion that I gain a few pounds. Guys like this can almost explain polygamy. I said almost. At any rate this is what I added to my joy list this week.

            74. My Dentist.

            75. Free chapsticks that my Dentist gives away free (yes, free).

            76. A 4’10” masseuse named Mary with hands like a Merchant Marine
                  (it’s my list).

            77.  Dandelions. Yellow is beautiful. Deal with it.

            78. Critiques consisting of 2,388 words.          

Could go on and on, you’ve probably never noticed that before, but I really could. This is to be an Interactive Joy List though, so I need your help. Feel free to borrow from my list, I’ll even share my Dentist, and I’m very generous with the dandelions, been sharing them with my neighbors for years. Will you share some of what's on your joy list?   

Bait and Switch - The Dark Side of Fishing



Elle was driving in the conversion van she’d nicknamed The Dumpster. It is amazing the amount of fallout a handful of kids can leave behind: soccer balls, cleats, dirty socks, petrified chicken nuggets. A buzzing drone sounded from the back of the van and she worried it was a hornet. It was loud. Glancing back she saw the biggest, fattest insect she’d ever seen, sorta flying towards her. It approached unnaturally slow and jerky, dropping in altitude before struggling upwards, slowly making its way to the front of the van.

Using a piece of junk mail, Elle easily batted it into the passenger window. The bug’s exoskeleton cracked against the glass and it fell to the seat, dead. It was an enormous fly. Gross. At the next traffic light, the sound again came from the back of the van. During Elle’s entire drive she swatted mutant flies to their death. Once home she conducted an impromptu archaeological dig and discovered a cardboard box marked BAIT. It was mislabeled, because what it now contained was actually - hatching bait.

BFF called me today, woke me from a sound sleep to snap into the phone, “Thought you said you tell the truth in your writing.”  I’m summarizing here, but the gist of it went like this. “Why’d you write a fishing blog like you just did?  Tell the truth. Tell the Dark Side of Fishing! Remember when I was expecting, and opened that Tupperware container in the fridge, and it was full of fish eggs?!  Do you remember what happened?  I sure do!”  Oh yeah, I sure do too. I also remember the time my son left worms in the pockets of his pants, course he was little then, now it’s just hooks and sinkers that wind up wedged in the washer or dryer (which is far better than bullets, but that’s hunting season and I digress). Once the dog knocked over a bucket of minnows and rolled in it. We didn’t know until it was far too late for the minnows. Actually we didn’t know until the beagle came proudly strutting across the yard with bits of silvery fish sticking to his hide.

BFF has been happily married as long as I have; it’s just super easy to forget the happily part during fishing season. She’s mentioned more than once that her terrific hubby has only one chink in his armor - the lady who runs the local bait shop. BFF said DH would dump her like hatched bait for that 104 year old woman, just for access to unlimited, free bait. I don’t believe that. There’s plenty of room in his heart for both of them.

So here’s the naked truth when you marry a fisherman.

There will be boxes of live crickets that come in the mail and your mail carrier will laugh every time she sees you. There will be piles of real worms gathered on rainy spring nights, by the light of the moon, and your spouse will have at least one child in tow, both wearing those Nerd-Headlights (your neighbors will be afraid to ask). Your cat will get inside the worm box and generously bring you a pile to share. On the carpet.

When your in-laws visit, you will find a big box of feathers next to the guest room bed. For years you will try to not think of why, but eventually you’ll realize that it was a fly-tying kit. Family photos will often involve at least one great big fish. You will know so much about the life cycle of insects, that you will be able to identify what type of larvae are produced by what type of beetle. Eventually you’ll even realize that there is far more to fishing than just tossing a hook into some water.

Of course you will fish with your Sweetie. Love does crazy things to you. You will find out that it is possible to be violently seasick for every second a boat is on the sea. You will not eat Codfish for ten years after deep-sea fishing off the coast of Gloucester. Twenty years later you will still remember the smell. Ocean fishing with your in-laws you will discover that shrimp is used as bait. You will also discover that live shrimp looks exactly like it does in a shrimp cocktail, minus little black eyes and some whiskery-appendages. You will not eat shrimp for ten years. At some point you will have to admit that there is a difference between enjoying and enduring. At some point you will suspect fishing won’t be your thing unless a fishing gene is located, and it is spliced into your DNA. At another point you will realize that your Sweetie is a fisherman, not just a man. If you’re super lucky, you’ll have a BFF to commiserate with.

Ten Reasons I Luv Fishing Season



1.      All night write!  To music.  As loud as I want it.  (My neighbors hate me/Speakers are an excellent birthday gift.)

2.      Ice-cream for dinner.  Every single night. 

3.      A spotlessly, neat, clean house with all the laundry done.  If you haven’t married a hunter/raised children/homeschooled/ran a business/did all your own paperwork to save money – you might not really understand just how intoxicatingly attractive this can be.

4.      Working out at midnight.  Running the vacuum at midnight.  Going to the supermarket at midnight. 

5.      Calling your night-owl friends/different time-zone friends in the middle of the night and talking until dawn. It’s almost like having a social life.

6.      Taking a little “nap” from noon ‘til six, because you forgot to sleep since Sunday.  Wait, what day is it? 

7.      Going to a late night movie on a Tuesday night by yourself.  The one nobody else wants to see.  The one you will never admit to having gone to see.

8.      Electric blanket, entire bed, one dozen books, your Kindle, and a box of crackers.  Morning, noon, or night, who cares?  Ooooh, Baby.

9.      1/3 of this week’s grocery budget spent at a touristy, lake-side restaurant where you treat yourself to lunch, and you order only off the appetizer and dessert menu.  Caprese Salad, Crab Cake, Dark Chocolate Raspberry Torte.

10.  When your fisherman returns and says how lucky he is to have such an understanding and supportive wife, and you say, “Anytime Sweetheart.  You deserve a break!” And you both really mean it. 

Just Shoot for the Stars



Do you ever finish up a meal, think to yourself that you may never want to eat again, and then suddenly something random like S’mores pops into your head?  'Mmmm S’mores', something very base within you will say. Must. Have. This idea will be very powerful. So powerful in fact that you are torn between two impulses:  1) There are rice cakes, carob chips and tofu in the fridge – this is the closest thing you have to the makings of a S’more, BUT you consider it however briefly. 2) If it happens to be 3:00 a.m., the fact that you COULD plow the drive, and drive your car through a blizzard to go fetch the actual ingredients also enters your mind. If you have some self restraint you might satisfy yourself with googling different S’more recipes and wait. The idea does not go away though, oh no, it does not. It lingers in your head like that song by Maroon 5 that will take brain surgery to get out. (Cause two hours of White Stripes on full blast, until you killed your last speaker didn’t wipe it, and you know it is there ‘til your dying day with the moves like Jagger.) Just like the craving for S’mores, it isn’t going anywhere.

After years of intensive scientific research I’ve discovered the root cause of invasive and random junk cravings. (By scientific I mean the idea drifted through The Glitter Globe once, it was so sparkly I grabbed it and held on.)  Those wayward desires that you fight to master, are actually the demands of a desperate and dying fat cell. Somewhere in my body at this very moment is a latent fat cell that is still constructed of marshmallow, graham cracker, and Hershey bar. Even if it hasn’t been fed since I was a Girl Scout that is irrelevant. Fat cells don’t have much on their mind beyond what created them. They lurk inside you thinking about the day they were born, “Oooooh, Baby, marshmallow-marshmallow-marshmallow….”  You get the idea. If all they could do was dream, there would be no need for fat pants. Problem is they slipped your blood some sugar during the whole birthday celebration years ago. Yes, your blood made a deal with the devil that you are forever paying for.

The nanosecond a fat cell feels in danger of shrinking, it calls in that old favor. “Take a message to the brain STAT. YOU OWE ME.”  The messages we are all familiar with. (Pizza-Pizza-Pizza. Butter-Butter-Butter. Sugar-Sugar-Sugar.)  But knowledge is power. There is hope. The cycle can be interrupted. Now there are two ways to halt the self-destruct sequence. I wish it were as simple as sunlight and garlic, but it isn’t. 1) Weaken the witching fat cell with activity. I suggest cranking up your tunes and jumping on the bed for a bit (for the love of light please use caution when choosing your music). This causes the fat cell to faint. 2) Attempt to kill the fat cell. This is a complicated procedure involving avoiding every ingredient in whatever that dude is pestering you for. If done properly, the fat cell will shut up in terror. All the other fat cells in the body are telling him to SHUT IT, because now they’re all losing territory. Peer pressure works. Warning:  Fat cells never completely die, they just go dormant. Be sure to keep your iPod on stun and use caution obeying the voices.  Words to live by there.

Bad Reputation



It was today, when I was stopped for not shop-lifting that got me thinking about stereotypes and misconceptions. It’s a busy world and if you don’t jump to conclusions now and then, you’re probably wasting a whole lot of time. Shopping at Target once with my daughter, she was stopped several times and asked to help other customers. Why?  She was wearing khaki pants and a red shirt. She was about eleven years old, but it didn’t matter, she was wearing the uniform.

We all know that there is some serious profiling going on at airports. I know this because I fit one of the demographics. You know those full body scanners with the embarrassing visual probes that are sprouting up in airports all over the world?  I object. Am I being modest?  Actually, no; if there was a way to speed the security process, I’d be one of those annoying people willing to give up the freedom of standing in line for an hour and a half. Yet I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern. When I go through a full body scanner, I am pulled aside. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Would you please step over here for a pat down?”  And every single time they pat down only my calves. They give me various explanations, my favorite is, “We are checking the hems of your pants.”  Then why are you patting just my calves and ignoring my dangerous hem?  I have unnaturally large calves. They don’t fit awesome fashion boots, much to my eternal dismay. They dream about skinny jeans that they will never wear. I blame it on the fact that I run, but the truth is, they’ve always been like that. My hubby lovingly calls them my “Thor” legs, isn’t that romantic?  So on behalf of bulky-calved disproportionate women everywhere, can I just ask what the heck do you think I’m packing in my calves anyway?

Recently I accompanied my buddy, Comrade, to the doctor’s. Now Comrade is a generation or two ahead of me, but we go together like peas and carrots. We approach most everything as an awesome adventure, so we just ran with it when everyone from the Receptionist to the Nurses and Physicians stereotyped us and addressed me, instead of her. It was blatant Ageism. They talked really loud and slow (she insisted that was for my benefit, not hers). I, of course, ran with it and repeated things back to her and explained all those complex medical gadgets, “This is a scale. You will be charged per pound.” 



Now some misconceptions can be rather pleasant. My little niece loves that I’m a writer. She is now old enough that she has stopped picking up random books and asking if I wrote this one, or that one, but now she wants to know how much money I made writing my last novel. “None,” I explained. “I have to sell it first.”  She found this a bit disappointing and pressed, until I finally confessed I had just sold a little story and earned enough for two boxes of Dilly Bars from Dairy Queen. “WOW. Are you famous?” she asked. “Have you ever heard of me?” I replied. To which I got the response, “WOW. That is so cool.”  I wish she could just stay at this age for years. I really like being someone’s idea of cool.

Apparently leaving the mall with the same amount of goods you walked in with is a sign of a shoplifter. Either that or hanging around the shoe department and just taking pictures of shoes is. At any rate as I was exiting the 'maul', a security guard bellowed at me, “Don’t you want to check-out before you leave?!” The thing is, when I turned around to look at him, he simply said, “Oh, never mind. Sorry.” And he walked away. So apparently I only look like a thief from the back. I’m thinking that it was probably my awesome, gangster, Pleather jacket. I was all Joan Jett until I turned around. Well, at least he didn’t pat down my calves.

Dazzling Kathy



Does your bucket list include anything you don’t actually want to do?  I made a deal to put something on my bucket list. I promised to kiss a baby lamb in exchange for a free book. I’m cheap like that, but I’m big on follow through.  So last week I went stalking hiking around a monastery where monks raise sheep, skulking around the pastures and keeping an eye out for a cooperative looking bambino. Turned out it was a bit early for lambing season; the sheep were still wearing their winter coats. Those puppies are huge, with skinny little stick legs that look like they could snap and the whole sofa sized wooly beast might drop right to the ground at any moment. Not to mention that the fence is electric, and they’re guarded by both attack llamas and donkeys. Monks do not put up with lamb kissers in these parts.

There is no deadline for kissing that lamb, but I don’t like to leave things uncrossed on lists. Considered cheating, and looked for a white-chocolate lamb, I’d enjoy kissing that sweetie. So I hunted up and down the ‘Seasonal’ aisles at Super Walmart on Good Friday. The poor guy working the aisle seemed so crestfallen by my request. You almost need binoculars to see all the way down that candy aisle, the selection was mind-boggling, but no, this chick wants a white-chocolate lamb. They didn’t have any, and he even called in the cavalry to search. I witnessed things getting a little heated over the last box of purple peeps, so I opted for the safer and honorable path in my quest.

Back to the monastery I went, it’s been a week, I thought maybe the lambs were in. Besides I needed some peace after the holiday shopping expedition. I felt a bit creeper, checking out those ewes, like those fish that follow Mama Guppy around the bowl, you know?  There was a baby donkey, baby donkeys are rather large by the way, you don’t want no part of that. I hiked around the fields and ridges for hours. The rams are not a friendly looking bunch. They’re just waiting for me to try to jump that fence and plant a smooch on one of their offspring. The word on the hill is that those sweet baby lambs will start hatching around next week. I really hope that they are clean and fluffy, and that they smell a whole lot better than their parents, but a deal's a deal. Picked up a new chap-stick at Super Walmart, so I’m ready, and no worries Little Lambie, this won’t hurt a bit.  

http://kathyhepinstall.wordpress.com/?s=lamb

The Tiara Trap (After Ella lost her Cinder) Flash Fiction

Everyone said the wedding was fairytale perfect. The entire kingdom showed up, except for Ella’s Step-Mother and Step-Sisters, of course. They were now aboard the HMS Enquirer bound for the Big City, where Step-Mother planned to found a magazine devoted entirely to sharing the minute details of royal life with the common people.

Since the entire Kingdom consisted of Charming’s friends, the Bride’s side of the church was completely empty. Not even Fairy G. Mother came, though at the reception Ella found her benefactor had sent an enormous pumpkin and a very nice card. The pumpkin was misshapen and blue; it stood out next to gifts of crystal and fine china. Ella didn’t think she was imagining the cool looks shot her way by her new Mother-in-law, the Queen. She wished she was imagining the King sipping champagne out of her glass slippers, and the way he slurred his words through fruity punch-infused breath. When the King started to bellow instructions on the proper way to bump and grind to the harp music, she managed to lose him in miles of ballroom draperies.

Ella’s wedding dress was spectacular. It took a dozen bridesmaids to help her carry the diamond and silver encrusted fabric through the reception; sadly it was too wide to fit through the door of the Ladies Room. Charming was barely able to reach her waist, through miles of silk and satin, for their big dance together. He seemed out of sorts, and when pressed, admitted that he was missing the first day of dragon hunting season for the big to-do; that he wasn’t much for princely occasions, nor did he care a whit for dancing. As soon as the sensational, flowery frosting-infused, twenty-layer wedding cake was cut, and their picture taken, Charming slipped away to sharpen his sword and pack for his interrupted dragon hunt.

With the help of several chambermaids, and the properly placed boot of a royal footman, Ella managed to force her gown through the chamber door. All she found of her Prince was a trail of his dirty clothes, from socks to unmentionables, lining the floor of their castle tower. Handmaidens adorned Ella in bedclothes of itchy gossamer, and clouds of scented powder wafted through the apartment. Exhausted and scratching, Ella collapsed on her bed, to spend her wedding night sneezing.

Early the next morning, the court’s wild-eyed physician trailed Ella’s low-fat breakfast into the apartment, waving a newspaper in one hand and a syringe in the other. “A wedding photo with a frown between your brows!  It won’t do!  The kingdom does not need to worry about what their Princess might be worried about!”  Ella frowned her last frown while Dr. Artifice injected Abracadabra Botox into her face. The scowling doctor assured her that serenity was her duty.

Expression-free, Ella used a half bottle of Windex to clean her glass slippers. She wrapped her sparkling shoes in tissue and put them in the back of the closet. Leaning out the tower window, she saw Charming and his friends racing their trusty stallions over a distant hillside, in pursuit of dragons. A footman informed her The Prince wouldn’t be back until the entire land had been rid of the scourge of dragons. While she scrubbed her good scissors clean, certain that Charming hadn’t meant to use them to trim his toenails, Ella pondered the fact that she'd never seen a dragon in her life.

The first day of Princess Life was an interesting one. Her royal duties included dressing like a Princess, smiling demurely, waving to the commoners, and – most importantly – a dainty feminine sound of amusement, not as ribald as a laugh, that she was to emit only upon a secret signal given to her by the Queen. That was it. The Queen told her brusquely, her duties did not include discussing her dodgy past as a chimney sweep, aging, nor public opinions beyond championing stray kittens and puppies.  Ella excelled at her obligations for two solid hours, until the changing of the guard, whereupon she escaped.

On a balcony overlooking the courtyard, Ella sat perched on a satin cushion. The masses had endured her professional waves out of the corners of their eyes, as they speculated hotly on the odds of Charming procuring a dragon. Ella simply slid down and out the bottom of her gown, leaving her tiara perched on the top of the high collar. In her petticoats she managed to secure a pair of Charming’s trousers, and made her way through the back stairwells of the castle. She had to duck into the ballroom to dodge the King. He was in the main corridor, pleading with the scullery maids to teach him freak dancing.

Darting through the ballroom, still sparkling with wedding décor and piles of gifts, Ella paused to nab the gnarly blue pumpkin her Godmother had sent her. She slipped out an archway into the gardens. A Guard was engaged in a heated argument with a Steward. He doubted the existence of dragons and estimated the intelligence of their Prince quite low. Ella stole his horse.

Stopping at a brook on the outskirts of the kingdom, Ella dismounted. Cold and tired, she built a fire. Resting on her pumpkin she contemplated her future. Ella bellowed a most unladylike protest when she was suddenly tossed into the air. She landed wrong side-up, and from inside her pumpkin, a blue dragon snaked towards her. The creature roared angrily. Nabbing a tree branch from the forest floor, Ella rolled to her feet and pointed it at the beast.

Suddenly Charming was there. He raced gallantly to her side and hugged her. “Ella!  You found a blue one!  Will you teach me how to find them?”

Using her branch to shovel hot coals into the dragon’s hungry mouth, Ella began to teach her Prince about how to train a dragon. And they lived happily ever after, though you couldn’t tell that until the Abracadabra-Botox wore off.