You're Invited to a Party!

This is blog post #100 and that deserves a celebration. You know what that means?  Party in The Glitter Globe. I’ve been known to throw some decent parties. There will be snacks, sparkly stuff and music. In fact, let’s make today Music Monday and I’ll give away some iTunes gift cards, so you can listen to whatever you like. There is a small caveat, I’m going to ask you to sign up and follow my blog if you haven’t already, post a comment below and I’ll randomly pick three posts in the next twenty-four hours.

A one day party isn’t nearly enough either. This is going to be like a Glittery Woodstock. At least three days, and if enough people come, we’ll just hang around Spooky Hill and keep right on partying. Now let’s talk party. What was your favorite party?  I think my all time favorite was The Pony Party. It was my first taste of country life. I was living in Texas at the time, in the country with cattle and coyotes. Every now and then cattle would stray and I’d find them outside eating my grass. Being originally more of a city chick, I really didn’t know what to do about that. I mean, do they bite?  The kids enjoyed watching them though, and then I asked my daughter what she wanted to do for her 5^th birthday. She said, “Ride a pony.” I thought, “Hey!  We can probably do that right here, if there are cows there are certainly ponies around somewhere.”  So instead of having a party with her friends over I spent the entire $75 party budget just to rent ponies.

Now I was pretty jazzed about this, two guys brought ponies to the house and walked them around by the lead. I mean, really?  Is that not a Princess party?  Apparently not, because my Princess would not willingly come out of the sandbox to look at those ponies during the hour and half they were there. We ended up applying just enough parental guilt to get the kids onto the beast’s backs for a picture, and then knocking on doors and getting neighbors to come over for a ride. What made it my favorite party?  When my Sweet Princess explained to me later, with her plastic My Little Pony toy clutched in her fist. “Mom, I wanted the pink or blue ones with the sparkly eyes.”  My bad. Turns out the big hairy, refuse dropping beasts weren’t Princess Party material.

After moving to Spooky Hill we hosted a Halloween party for kids. The adults dressed as Scooby-Doo characters, I got a purple dress and dyed my hair red and voila – Daphne!  My niece was Scooby, and Dear Hubby spent the night explaining that the orange ascot around his neck meant he was Fred. The kids played a game that involved eating whatever gross thing you pulled out of a paper bag. A neighbor guy showed up dressed like a genie, and it was rather spectacular. Hubby put hay in a wagon and used the lawnmower to haul kids around the backyard in the dark. There were dozens of kids running from back doors through front doors. At one point everyone started fussing about Moses. I went in search of someone dressed as Moses; it turned out to be some sort of giant dog that had arrived on the scene. It ran around the house, chased the hay wagon, and eventually was dragged back to wherever it came from. In short, the party rocked, and we had hay in the house for months afterward to remind us how much fun it was.

How about leaving a comment and telling me about your favorite party?  Have you ever hosted a party and when it came time to clean up after, debated moving instead?  (Remember to leave a comment below. I’m giving away three $10 iTunes gift cards in the next 24 hours. You can use them for any kind of music you like. Just, please, if you waste use them for country music, don’t even tell me.)

Man Versus Woodchuck

Woodchuck/Groundhog/Land beaver/Whistlepig/Marmot

One of the first signs of spring is groundhogs.  They dig their holes flush up against blacktop roads.  Needless to say they don’t all live long.  Once someone tucked a beer bottle into the crook of one poor fellow’s arm and propped him along the road near my house, a taxidermist wannabe perhaps?  I wonder how many potholes are from groundhogs digging.  It is a sad fact of life that those who cost taxpayer’s money don’t garner much sympathy.  Despite the fact that February 2^nd is a day devoted entirely to groundhogs, the rest of the year they fall under the varmint label.  Life is so not fair.  City dwellers everywhere should rise up in outrage and adopt them all as pets and keep them safe in their apartments, maybe put sweaters on them in winter.  I picture that being like trying to stuff a limp hairy octopus into a little baggie, but I’m sure it can be done. 

It is mid-summer here in Iceland and the groundhogs have extended their territory to include Dear Hubby’s garden (they like zucchini, but just one bite out of each squash, so you really can’t complain) and Hubby’s barn. They dug the foundation out, built little tunnels beneath the sidewalk and occasionally build pits inside tall grass in the yard.  They’re trying to take down the tractor, like in that movie Tremors.  They haven’t launched anyone completely off the mower when it hits a hidden hole, yet.  Sometimes they watch from their holes and laugh though.  It’s only a matter of time before we look out there one day and the dudes will be riding the tractor around, drinking and listening to loud music.  I doubt my neighbors will mind, they’ll be so pleased to see someone mowing the grass.  It will really tick off Dear Hubby though, because it would mean they won.



Hubby put a waterproofed radio in the garden.  I objected when I heard country music coming from there.  He knows I’m allergic and it would just get the dudes line dancing anyway.  I helped and changed the channel.  Now it is pretty much static.  That seems to have worked, either that or like the rest of us the groundhogs are just sick of zucchini by now.  The tunnels moved from the entire backside of the barn to the front, so out came the traps.  Having learned nothing from the Canadian blue-tailed squirrel story (http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/07/campfires-canada-day-eh.html) my benevolent Hubby was going to capture them and take them for a ride.  They won’t go inside no matter what tempting groundhog bait he puts in there.  I think it is because the groundhogs are way fatter than the traps.

Earlier in the year, when the fellas first made their appearance my guys pondered shooting them.  Don’t tell hubby, but whenever I saw a woodchuck I’d knock on the window and he’d run off before the guys with the license to kill got up in the morning.  I didn’t know groundhogs had more relatives than my Bohemian family.  One of our neighbors AND the internet told us that gum can get rid of groundhogs.  Apparently it gets stuck in their intestines and it is not a nice way to go folks, the bullet would be far kinder.  Though there are now about six packs of Juicy Fruit sticks littering my backyard.  Dear Hubby swears he sees the gum chewed up and sitting on the edges of the groundhog’s holes.  He said they chew it until the flavor is gone and spit it out. 



One evening the biggest groundhog, obviously the Patriarch of the clan, sat in the middle of the backyard making obscene gestures.  A licensed hunter was here and he got a gun out of the safe, then the ammo out of that locked ammo box which was also in the safe, then he crept slowly outside to tackle the groundhog who by now was checking his watch and rolling his eyes.  The groundhog laughed and stood up against the barn, throwing his arms and legs out in an obvious “You’ve got me” gesture.  Problem was he was now flush up against the barn and his demise would have meant a nice big hole in the side of the barn too.  Then he slid down into a hole beneath it.  He popped his head out a few times to gloat and mock. 

Today I glanced out the back window and saw hubby’s camouflage hunting-blind in the woods.  These little tents are where hunters go to read their wife’s book during hunting season.  Hubby said he is airing it out.  I think you just can’t tease a hunter when you’re in season, words to live by, those.  Good thing I’m out of season. 

If you're aware of any merciful way to get woodchucks to move from my yard, to yours, or even your in-laws, please leave me a comment!  Or if you want to come catch one to live in your apartment, feel free. Also, I'd love to hear your groundhog stories!

Once I Found my Lost Keys in my Hand

Someone I love dearly is starting to have serious memory issues. Sometimes she uses one of my nieces as an external hard-drive of sorts. “Sweetie, remind me that I put my car keys in the side pocket of my purse,” This after first telling me to remind her, looking at my expression, then rolling her eyes and wisely resorting to the First Grader.

My own short term memory issues are nothing new. I have always been like this. Maybe it is a blonde thing, I don’t know. I think I use short term memory space for other purposes, perhaps long term memories, perhaps Pac-Man patterns. My BFF has excellent short term memory and oddly enough I have excellent long term. Between the two of us, we almost make up an entirely functional human being.

Someone was telling a story recently, about a time when we were little and had found a nest of baby rabbits. “Remember there was an old guy who used to yell out his window, ‘Leave those bunnies be!’?”  “Yes,” I said, “Mr. Imars.”  “Oh for pity’s sake, how can you remember that?  That was the only time that man ever spoke to us!  It’s been at least twenty years.”  Because I remember everything, the cost of banana popsicles, which librarian let me check out books that were too old for me, who stole my wicked cool bike (yeah, dude, thanks for the awesome name for the evil column).

Short-term memory is a whole other deal. I have none, but I have excellent coping skills. It has made me very empathetic to the elderly with similar issues and to my loved one who is losing her short-term memory. On top of that I have a list of useful tips to share.

·         Park in the same place, put your keys in the same place and write things down or put it into your telephone immediately.

·         If you need to get something done, do it right now. This is always a gold star in the working world where I receive kudos for my prompt response. They don’t realize there are only two choices in my repertoire. Now or never.

·         Eat the same breakfast, that way you never get tripped up by this question. I never have trouble with the other meals. The brain has just slept very soundly through breakfast my entire life.

·         Own it, don’t try to fake your way out when you forget. You just look ridiculous if you do. Doesn’t this sound so much better?  “I know you told me your name six times today, I do remember it was something complex. Beth Wilson?  Got it.”

·         Dig deep and keep a good attitude. There is always an adventure waiting every time you forget. If it doesn’t lead to the ER or the impound lot, it’s not a bad thing.

This morning I traipsed into the Dentist’s office and gave my name. The receptionist got very quiet as she looked through the day’s appointments. I go there all the time, they give free chapsticks and my dentist is super sweet and this isn’t the first time they got very quiet at check-in. I sighed and waited, knowing what the problem was and promising myself that for now on I will not be texting, checking Facebook and inputting appointments into my schedule all at the same time. I’m just not a good multi-tasker, I think it involves short-term memory. The receptionist said, “Your next appointment is in August.”  I double checked my phone and sure enough it was in there for August too. I wondered briefly where I was supposed to be today at 1:00. Well at least I’d kept up with the latest Zombie Apocalypse comments on Facebook, right?  Besides while I was in town I dropped by the post office and mailed my BFF her hair flattener. She forgot it at my house this weekend, despite her excellent short term memory. Perhaps this means we might need an external hard drive for our next road trip. Know any First Graders for hire?

Campfires & Canada Day, Eh

Once Upon a Time I drove into Canada on the Friday before Canada Day.  If you, like me, are unaware of the significance of the holiday, it is like the 4^th of July; except with a fanaticism that most Americans haven’t had for the 4^th since about 1776.  At the time all I knew for certain was that every vehicle in Canada was on the highway, Walmart was closed and it looked like Toronto was being evacuated.  Police cars were parked along highways and searching cars randomly, and they threatened to confiscate Dear Hubby’ s radar detector for the Queen.  This was fine by me. I have detested the thing for years and often fantasized about cutting its cord during long car trips.  At the time though, my first thought was, Canada has a Queen?  I didn’t know Canada had a Queen.  So let me help you out here, if you didn’t already know these things.

·         They use UK’s Queen and she wants your radar detector if you take it to Canada.

·         Canada Day is July 1^st, travel at your own risk, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

There is much to be gleaned from slogging your way deep into the Canadian Wilderness.  Some people go to fish and boat and commune with the great outdoors.  Some people go to hide beneath their mosquito netting and write 5,000 words a day.  The latter people come out at night to feed the mosquitoes, and hang out at campfires with Canadians who spend about half the year living in the middle of nowhere.  These people are excellent fodder for The Glitter Globe. 

For almost a decade I have been skulking around these folks for inspiration and they have yet to fail me.  At first I observed from a distance.  Once I saw them chipmunk fishing, don’t worry, they didn’t use hooks.  It was very humane, a bag of peanuts and a fishing pole.  How did they get the chipmunks to stick?  Apparently those critters really want peanuts, they didn’t care if they were being reeled in, and if they lost their grip on said peanut they raced after it again. 

One of my personal favorite stories is the squirrels with the painted tails story, as told to me by Trey*.  Seems squirrels were invading a cabin and the owner couldn’t bear the thought of harming the creatures, so live traps were used and the squirrels were then taken off the island.  Now Trey had a sneaking suspicion about the effectiveness of this plan, and fetched a can of spray paint and painted one of the little fellow’s tails blue.  Then he took the guy “for a ride” as we like to say in the States.  After returning to camp, another squirrel had been captured, so he painted that guy’s tail too, and headed deeper into the wilderness to locate a new home for him.  Passing over a footbridge off the island, Trey passed a squirrel racing towards him.  You know it; the dude had a blue tail. 

These are the kind of stories shared during a Canada Day campfire and I’m not even going to get into the floor show.  Okay, I will say this much, when human beings spend inordinate amounts of time entertaining themselves, creativity takes a turn.  I came prepared with an American campfire tradition and they gave a passing nod to the brilliance of making ‘Smores with peanut butter cups instead of chocolate bars, eh.  Right on, American, not bad.  Then they tossed some old pine branches on the fire.  Whoosh, the flames shot up into the 50’ pine trees towards the starry-starry night sky, and I made a mental note to never have a live Christmas tree again as long as I may live.  Then they broke out the bacon.

That’s right.  These people who spend half the year living deep in the bush don’t have the lowly hotdog for their campfires.  They passed around large containers of bacon marinated in maple syrup.  It had been cooked ahead of time and they ate it cold.  *Insert macho grunt here* Then out came the homemade cookies.  Cut out sugar cookies shaped like a maple leaf – iced and with sparkly sprinkles.  I don’t even do cut-out cookies for Christmas.  The only similarity I saw in the Canadian campfires and the ones I’ve attended back in the USA is sweatshirts.  The day after a campfire you find a variety of sweatshirts that nobody will claim.  These unclaimed sweatshirts make up half my wardrobe, the other half being free T-Shirts I gather at engineering conferences.  Bet you didn’t know that, bet you thought I went to MIT, eh?

*Name changed to protect Clay from being identified by Blog reading blue-tailed squirrels.

<---Portable Glitter Globe

Outback Battles

S.R. Karfelt

Did you hear the one about dryer sheets being a mosquito repellent?  You know, “Put a Bounce sheet in your hat. That will keep them away.”  I vacation in the wilds of Canada, don’t make me laugh. If you live in suburbia, and have tried this method and didn't get bitten, you might naively call it a success. Keep in mind your neighborhood is likely a mosquito’s idea of a Chinese Buffet; the critter has a blinding array of choices on Buttercup Lane. Perhaps fabric softener sheets do make the Jones’s next door more appetizing than you. Now let’s say you’re far outside insect fast food strip malls enjoyed by city-skeeters.  You're deep in the Canadian Wilderness where no other human being has walked since Noah. You are just a big naked bear to the palate of a mosquito. I don’t care if you’ve bathed in OFF, unless you light yourself on fire – you, my friend, are dinner for the masses.

Consider this, if you are the only human to walk down a post apocalyptic alley chock full of vampires, I don’t care if you have wall to wall crucifix tattoos on your body, I say you are going to get drained. And when the vampires notice your ink, they’ll just say, “Oh dear!  That was on the Do-Not-Eat list – my bad!” Maybe they'll go to confession like Friday meat-eaters during Lent, but it’s like when I miss a meal and swing by Panera for a salad, and walk past the bakery’s cookie display. They have flower shaped cookies this summer, do I care that they contain sugar?  No more than a ravenous mosquito cares that I’ve been dipped in OFF. Hopefully that stuff leaves a nasty after-taste in his mouth, or maybe it is just oil, salt and pepper as I’ve long suspected. Either way, I see no difference in Canadian-mosquito-equal-opportunity-tourist-consumption with or without bug repellent.

There are three things that I’ve found that cut down on mosquito terrorism. If you are Canadian, please quit reading this. I know you’ll just go back to the lab and develop a new strain of the creatures impervious to these methods.

1)   Battery operated hand-held bug zappers. You will need one heck of a lot of AA-Batteries, and you will still short this thing out if you are in the bush using it. It is best used indoors. It does not make much of a dent in mosquito populations, but it delivers great personal satisfaction.

http://www.bugzapfun.com/theexecutioner/flash/testimonial.html *

2)   ThermaCELL mosquito repellent. These devices give me a headache after a bit, but they are very effective and I am allergic to life on earth, maybe they won't bother you. www.thermacell.com/mosquito-repellent



3)   Good old-fashioned mosquito netting. This is where I will be working on my current WIP. It’s nice to have one of those bug zappers under the netting with you, because some of the beasts always find their way in. Yes, this really is my idea of vacation.



* Excuse any hint of advertising, just telling you what has worked for me.  All nationalities of mosquitoes encourage you to stick with the Bounce dryer sheets and Listerine.

When Writers Get Bored



Sometimes I buy insane stiletto heel shoes, in leopard print or glitter. Of course I can’t walk in them; I have chronic vertigo for heaven’s sake. I wear them to type in; they make your feet go numb really fast. If I’m having a really good day, sometimes I will wear them and try to fetch a glass of water. If I ever break a bone doing this, I will straight-up lie to you all and tell you I broke it skydiving. You can skydive with chronic vertigo, the secret there is all you have to do is fall. It really comes rather naturally. It does for me anyway.

Now it seems necessary to define bored. What bores you?  If someone were to offer you, say, a sunny vacation on a tropical beach or a week all alone with your writing, what would you take?  My choice would be the second one. Really. So my idea of boredom really means that the writing is going slow for some reason, and I need to blow some fresh glitter into the globe. This doesn’t mean the tropical beach, this means research. Prowling through old cemeteries is inspirational. I make lists of names in cemeteries. Usually I scramble them up a bit, out of respect. Another excellent source of writing inspiration comes when traveling. The GPS took all fear out of getting lost. Plug in the “no highways” option on your next road trip. There is a great big freaky world out there just waiting for your novel.

Air travel is another excellent source of fodder. I always have to change planes at least once, because I live in the middle of nowhere. You might want to write this tip down. On all my return flights, I purposely book the last flight into my town. This usually means that I’m not getting home that day. If I’m flying Atlanta to New York and it snows in Billings, Montana, my flight will be cancelled until the next day. And cancelled flights, on your return trip mind you, are a writer’s jackpot. It goes something like this…

              “I’m sorry Mrs. Paz, paz, pazz…”

              “Pazicni,” I always take pity here. “It rhymes with zucchini.
               It’s the old silent c rule.”

“Yes, well, your flight has been cancelled. I’m so sorry; you’ll have to fly back tomorrow. There do not appear to be any more flights into Iceland tonight.”

Trying not to punch the air and whoop, I do my best to look less than thrilled. “No more flights in tonight?  You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. You’ll have to spend the night here in Nashville/New Orleans/San Diego. We’ll get you a room and vouchers for your meals.” 

Airlines tend to overnight you in hotels that are pretty nice too. Of course you run the risk of spending the night camped out on a chair in Terminal F. Still, as much as I detest that place, Terminal F has provided me with loads of material too. That’s the chance you take when you play travel roulette. Oh and those meal vouchers?  They’re only good for $8, which in a hotel restaurant means you can only afford free water and dessert. Score. Just sayin’, like you need anything else.

Some days when I really need a break from moving commas around in my novel, I hop over here and blog a bit. If you’d like to provide some inspirational sparkle for me, please leave me a comment and tell me what you do when you get bored/stuck/need a change of pace. If you inspire me, or make me laugh out loud, I'll send you your very own candy-filled Slinky Dog for inspiration.  Hey, it works for me.



* The boots at the top are Skydive Platform Thigh High Boots.  Just google it if you need a new pair.

Pirate Attack

The battle with the Evil Contractor, Lord and Master of Pigs and Roosters, escalated. When it was bad, it was horrible, but more often than you might expect, the residents of Spooky Hill made a giant batch of lemonade from whatever offal E.C. left in his wicked wake. The following is one such tale.

Once Upon a Time on Spooky Hill my in-laws came to babysit. Dear Hubby and I were attending a conference in Vegas, Baby. It was autumn and they took the kids apple picking. Returning from the orchard, FIL, while maneuvering his vehicle up the steep and secret entrance to our house, came to a sudden stop and stared at the lot across from the house. “Kids?” he inquired, “Was that boat there when we left?”  On the acreage across the street from my house, now rested a tugboat. (I am talking ocean tugboat folks, I am talking ancient, rusted, proportions of a good-sized house, tugboat.)  The kids assured Grandpa that it indeed had not been there earlier in the day.  

Many of my rocking neighbors were aware of the fact that it had taken Evil Contractor an entire day, heavy equipment and a crew of E.C. minions to haul that old tugboat from the field it had been rusting in for decades, to its new residence. They assumed rightly that it was a sign that the powers-that-be had ruled in our favor in the battle against E.C.  This was his Modus Operandi and not new or unusual. It was a punishment, and my most excellent neighbors hatched a plan to turn the mammoth eyesore into lemonade.

The flight in from Vegas was late, and it was almost midnight when D.H. and I hit the secret entrance to Spooky Hill. My carry-on was stuffed with awesome loot from my week at Treasure Island. I knew the kids would be thrilled with the pirate paraphernalia, the usual, eye-patches, head scarves, plastic hooks and such. “What’s that?” The first thing I noticed was an enormous sign Evil Contractor had erected. I’d tell you what it said, but I try to keep this blog PG. The writer in me noted right off though, the dude couldn’t spell.

Reaching the top of the hill that night, what really caught our attention was the floodlights. I live in the country, there aren’t floodlights. They were moving, very Vegas Strip style, over an enormous old tugboat. My neighbors were out, at midnight on a weeknight, giant floodlights in hand, giving us our own personal welcome-home party, Treasure Island style.

We celebrated with another costume party, this time, of course, it was pirate themed. Arrrr. That rusted old tugboat was there for years. The best part was, when I had to give someone directions to my house. Living in the country, it went something like this:  “…and just keep heading north, you’ll think there is nothing out this far and that you went the wrong way – you didn’t. You’ll see a sign that says “Lost Goat” make a left. Go 1/16^th of a mile and turn right. You’ll think this can’t be it because it looks like the woods, just turn anyway - have faith. The hill is steep, you will need to floor it and the car will go about 2 mph. You’ll see a handmade billboard with a lot of misspellings, ignore what it says and just keep driving. Then you’ll spot a huge old tugboat on your right, no really, yes, a tugboat. No there is no water, it’s beached; my house is directly across the street from it.”  I got far more company than you might expect. Do you think there was ever really any choice that I’d have to become a writer?  I mean life just gives you this material, what else are you gonna do with it?

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