Emergency Unicorn

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

They come under many guises. The eleventh hour when your child wanders out of bed for a glass of water, and mentions his science project is due in the morning. Who dashes out to the 24-hour superstore for Styrofoam balls and planet colored paint? The Emergency Unicorn hunter that’s who. Your Father-in-law is visiting. He absolutely cannot function without Maxwell House coffee. Dear Hubby is working late and had asked you yesterday to please, please get some coffee for his Dad since you were going for groceries. You remembered to pick up pre-in-law binge eating ice-cream, but you forgot the coffee. Who now rushes out to the all night supermarket for that can of Maxwell House coffee?  The Emergency Unicorn hunter that’s who. (Though that is the last time you ever do it, because you save the empty can after that, and when he comes to visit you just pour whatever coffee you use into the blue can, and put it by the coffee pot for him. So ha. It works beautifully until your son rats you out ten years in.)

 

Emergency Unicorn hunting happens at work too. There are customers in, and your boss is schmoozing for the big contract. She runs her pantyhose. Who sneaks out to Macy’s for the Control-Top, Sheer Toe, Opaque, Support, Queen-Size Fishnet Stockings?  The Emergency Unicorn hunter that’s who. In charge of office supplies?  All the mechanical pencils are for size 0.5mm lead, but all the refills are size 0.7mm. Who gets to Staples only to find out they close at 7:00 p.m.?  The Emergency Unicorn hunter that’s who. So who hits Staples on-line and orders a year’s worth of copy paper just so she spent enough and can have that lead delivered overnight for tomorrow morning?  You got it. The Emergency Unicorn hunter is good at what she does.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

A loved one in the hospital is forced to eat hospital food for weeks. After mentioning how he’s been dreaming about chicken pot pies at night, who races to the drive-by chicken joint ten minutes before it closes, and pleads for someone to make just one more chicken pot pie?  Yes, tonight, please – I’ll trade you some free movie passes?  The Emergency Unicorn hunter that’s who. (And sadly she’s not above bribery at times.)  Unfortunately Emergency Unicorns often involve shopping, but not always. Your son is in his room, we think. There is an obscene pile of Legos in his room and a voice comes from under them, “Mom?  I need another piece that looks like this one.”  A little arm pops out of the pile. It is clutching the smallest Lego piece ever made. Who knows there is another bit just like that one, in the mudroom, inside Dad’s shoe?  The Emergency Unicorn Hunter that’s who. Your daughter is growing into a fine Emergency Unicorn hunter herself. “Mom, when I was in Indian Guides I had a vest with feathers on it. I need one of those blue feathers right now.”  It’s been over ten years and at least three moves since Indian Guides. Who knows exactly where that old leather vest is?  The Emergency Unicorn Hunter that’s who.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

It was a bit of a thrill to be sent questing after an actual unicorn recently. Have you seen people greeting loved ones at airports with balloons or flowers?  It was a last minute decision that our loved one needed to be met with a large stuffed unicorn. In the middle of my work day, after four hours of staring at the blinking cursor, I accepted the quest and dashed away. Scored the unicorn and arrived at the airport on time. Oddly enough it turned out to be one of those days where you run into everyone you know. You know people from church, your other job, and engineering conferences?  And guess who got to stand in public, faking normalcy and holding that emergency unicorn?  The Emergency Unicorn hunter that’s who.

 

Are you an Emergency Unicorn hunter?  I know I’m not the only one, and I know people who excel at it. How about sharing one of your stories with me?  Usually I share Epic Slinky Dogs based on random drawings and blog followers. How about if we change it up today?  Share your most pathetic or humorous Emergency Unicorn hunt with me. If it is particularly touching, I’ll send a Slinky Dog your way. At least until I finish off this open box of them.

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Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” (or Networked Blogs). And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! Remember to check back to see if you’ve won, I will post winners here, and attempt to locate you. If I can’t contact you, or don’t hear back within a week, I will pick another name.





Whitewater Waylay

Once you enter the gorge below the dam, there is no turning back. We’re sitting in a large raft on a Saturday morning. Right now we’re tied securely to the rocks. The dam begins to release water. We’re going to ride a bubble of wild water downstream. Are we thinking about the three and a half miles of river we’ll soon be paddling through?  Or the Class IV Whitewater we’ll be battling?  Maybe remembering last year’s rafting trip?  The one where the guide fell out, and when we pulled him onto the edge of the raft, the whitewater took his pants down. (Luckily I think he had prehensile toes, cause he caught them before the river took them.) Nope. Right now I have two far more immediate problems.

Whitewater Rafting in Maine is cold. I think everything in Maine is cold. It’s August and everyone is wearing full wetsuits. This is a summer trip with an adventurous group from work. This morning we all crawled out of our tents before dawn, ate some food and stood in line to get our wetsuits. And once again, when asked publicly for my weight, I lied. Some people are such slow learners. Once this suit gets wet, I may need the jaws-of-life to get out of it. The other factor contributing to my distraction is Juan. He’s the guy from work, the one I went out with whose car caught on fire. The one who tried to kill me mountain climbing, and who got me rescued by the ski patrol on our second date, yeah him. We work for the same company, but in different cities. Yet here he is - all great smile and looking pretty darn nice in his properly fitting wetsuit. Bet he didn’t lie about his weight.

We’re clinging to the rocks waiting our turn to release. My raft mates are starting to get nervous about the wall of whitewater coming for us. Except Juan, he’s talking about swimming. Seems Juan was on the swim team in high school. Figures. My coworker, Tari, is very nervous. Unfortunately when she gets nervous she starts to talk, a lot. So far she’s regaled us with tales of her visit to the Lady Doctor last week, the time she got arrested for shop-lifting as a teen and now she’s informing Juan that she probably can never date him on account of the way he ties his shoelaces. I’m not nervous about the whitewater, mostly because I didn’t wear my contact lenses and can’t see much. I do wish Tari would hush, though. Between her and Juan, my commune with nature is being infringed on. Then Tari informs the entire raft that I left my underclothes on beneath my wetsuit. This faux pas proves a huge distraction and lightens the mood in the raft. So glad I could help.

Thankfully it’s our turn and we’re off. Tari, Juan, and my underclothes are forgotten. Whitewater rafting blows your hair back and takes your breath away. Maine scenery flitting by is gloriously spectacular. Here is my muse. I’ve been looking for her!  We’re leaning partially out of the raft, digging those paddles in deep, obeying the commands of the guide and flying downriver through churning, swirling chaos. Surrounded by roaring whitewater, grey cliffs rise sharply on both sides, and there’s only whitewater in front of us. It smells like cold and pine. It is spectacular. There is a trick to keeping your balance as you plow through the water. I’m using shifting bodyweight to stay inside the tossing and turning raft. Right now I’m glad for every pound. The tight wetsuit is forgotten at this point, I think I’m too excited to breathe.

The guide roars instructions as we race through powerful roller-coaster-like waves. We are soaking wet and loving it. The rapids have names like “Big Mama,” “Magic Falls,” and we’re heading right into “Maytag,” named for the washing machine. Maytag is the piéce de résistance on a good day like today. With Class IV whitewater, this puppy is terrifyingly awesome. I’m listening to the guide’s shouts, digging in with my paddle as instructed. There’s whitewater everywhere, the people in my boat are hidden inside it. Then something very strange and confusing happens.  Suddenly I’m sitting on a rock right in the middle of the Maytag, and the raft is gone. I don’t know how I got here. Quicker than thought the rock is gone too and I’m in the rapids. At the time I was not aware that a giant wave had brushed me out of the boat as easily as though I were the lightweight I’d claimed to be. Then the entire craft upended and spilled everyone out, washing downstream, upside down and unmanned.

Of course we’re wearing life jackets, those huge beefy uncomfortable ones that strap between your legs. The problem is the water is sucking me down anyway, and when the life jacket pulls me back to the surface, whitewater is blowing over my head. It’s chaos but all I know is I need to breathe and there’s no air. Suddenly there’s somebody in the water with me. They wrap arms around me, lifting me briefly out of the whitewater. I climb up and over this person, to rise above the water. There is air up here. Thank God. Clarity returns with oxygen. The person beneath me is making strange sounds. It’s a guy and I’m drowning him, somehow I can hear it. Some small animal part of me is only concerned with oxygen for several breaths. Then I let go, and the whitewater takes me. I see the blurry form move away, Juan.

Whitewater sucks me down, and I go with it willingly. Strange detached thoughts drift through my head. I don’t remember being afraid, very accepting actually. Then I hear someone swearing a colorful rant at me. It goes something like this, “Swim @#%$#!!  Stupid!  For the love of @#!  SWIM FOR SHORE @#%!!”  Only it lasted awhile, and I knew it was directed at me even though I couldn’t see Juan. That dude is so annoying!  Wait. Swim?  Now there’s an option I hadn’t considered. But I try. Talk about swimming against the tide. After a bit I can breathe fairly regularly. I’m out of the worst rapids and am swept downstream a ways. Eventually I make it to rocks alongside the gorge wall. I hang onto a big rock and choke, puking water. I can’t recall inhaling that water, but coughing it back up really hurt. I notice Tari upstream, clinging to the wall. She slowly makes her way down to me, and kneels, smoothing her hair back. Looking at me with big blue eyes, she leans forward and says, “Oh my God, wipe the snot off your face, Juan is coming.”

Really?  We have to try to look good drowning too?  I’m not playing by these rules anymore.

That day proved to be my lucky day in several respects. As the second to the last raft heading downriver, we could have been stuck along that wall for a very long time. Fortunately the last raft saw us flip. The guide, a tiny blonde with gorgeous biceps, maneuvered her raft right alongside us and the three of us toppled in. Though banged up, everyone from our raft was fine. We met up on a beach downstream, and guides cooked us a massive lunch. Which I ate, all 5-6” and 140 lbs of me, deal with it, I do. Apparently Juan doesn’t mind it because he sidled up beside me with a bowl of granola. I ate the M&M’s out of it while he announced that I would have one spectacular bruise on my backside, though he used his own words. He’d seen me eject from the boat and land on the rocks. Thanks for sharing that with my coworkers, though. Then he turned those golden eyes on me and right in front of the marketing department asked if I’d be interested in meeting his parents, and I said, “Sure. I’d love to meet your parents."

So did you see that one coming?  And have you ever met someone in an unexpected way, and they had a big impact on your life?  Someone you sat next to on a bus?  Fender bender?   How did you meet your best friend? 

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The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe! (I ran into Slinky Dog while shopping for an Emergency Unicorn, by the way.) Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” (or Networked Blogs). And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers, a random name is picked from the comment section. Remember to check back to see if you’ve won, I will post winners here, and attempt to locate you. If I can’t contact you, or don’t hear back within a week, I will draw another name.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt



Perspective Diet

Today I was in the kitchen mixing up a spinach smoothie for lunch. My buddy Zeus had stopped by for an impromptu visit. Since I am the world’s worst part-time vegetarian, I’d fried him up a pound of bacon. Giants really like bacon. If you have a giant in your life, it is a good idea to keep some bacon on hand. He ate the bacon and watched me toss almond milk, yogurt, banana, fresh spinach and then a spoon of peanut butter into the blender. He asked, shouted really, because the blender is super loud, “Do you just look through the kitchen and toss anything in there?” “Yes,” I bellowed in reply – even though I’d shut the blender off now, “isn’t that how cooking is done?”  Zeus never thinks my jokes are funny, but I don’t let that stop me.

Peanut butter and bananas are two of my most unfavorite foods ever. Despite that I eat them both when I’m trying to make my jeans fit. Now that summer is over it won’t be possible to keep wearing my stretchy shorts everywhere. Sadly I got sick this summer. Do you gain weight when you’re sick?  If you stop running all the time and sit around and write for a living you do. Also if you subsist on a diet of mostly crackers, orange juice and a trunk load of Luden cough drops you do. Fine. Maybe there were a dozen or so large bars of Lindt dark chocolate (with a hint of sea salt) involved. If this has happened to you too, all that matters is if you do manage to get your jeans buttoned, you can’t bend or sit in them. That means it is time to fight back, and not with new jeans, though that is a good idea too.

The Perspective Diet is my weapon of choice. I’ve been down this road before, so I know what healthy foods to stock up on, no worries there. I can subsist happily on granola and spinach smoothies almost indefinitely. I’d rather write than anything, and the trick is to keep my cupboards well stocked with fresh healthy foods. The problem comes in, usually in the evenings when I’m stuck on a scene I’m writing, and somebody walks past with a bowl of ice cream. The law frowns on tackling a young child and sucking down his entire bowl of chocolate chip ice-cream, even if you do apologize after and put nice sparkly band-aids on any boo-boos. The latter probably wouldn’t happen anyway, forget the sparkly band-aids I’d probably be in the kitchen getting a refill on that ice-cream. Don’t judge!  Have you only eaten liquid spinach all week?  It’s not only vampires that get hungry and fall off the wagon you know.

So this is how the Perspective Diet works. You stock the house up with plenty of junk that you don’t like. I hope you’re a picky eater, this works much better if you are. I buy things that I’d never eat. My house is stocked up with plenty of ice-cream and prefab cookies in those flavors I really dislike. Children can now roam the corridors safely at night with their treats. This takes effort, and you must take care to shop for these unpleasant treats while you are at your strongest. Do not stray into the dark chocolate aisle. Do not go into a bakery. Do not go out to eat anywhere unless it involves Vegan or Sushi – and eventually you’ll be able to get those jeans on again without a wrestling match. To me it is all a matter of perspective. If I fill my life up with foods that make me feel good and move faster, and shun that which doesn’t, I get far better rewards than comfy jeans. Unfortunately my family claims the Perspective Diet has sinister motives. The world is just chalk full of conspiracy theories, isn’t it?  They claim that I’m fattening them up, so that I simply appear thinner. Now who would do such a thing? Besides, they’re more than welcome to a spinach smoothie anytime they like.

What is your perspective on diets in general?  And how do you feel about spinach smoothies?  I’m sharing my recipe with you, and if you think it sounds gross, I double Slinky-Dog DARE you do try one and report back.

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Spinach Smoothie

1 Cup of Milk (or Almond Milk)

¼ - ½ Cup of plain Yogurt

1 Frozen Banana

1 Tablespoon of Peanut Butter (Natural is better, but it’s your smoothie)

2-4 Cups of fresh Spinach



Toss everything into a regular blender (yes, it will actually liquefy the spinach just fine). A few ice-cubes if you want to make the concoction more of a smoothie consistency.

Don’t forget the straw. Then come tell me how good it was, because it really is yummy.

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Speaking of yummy treats, Slinky Dogs have no trouble slipping on their jeans. The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe. Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” (or Networked Blogs). And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers, a random name is picked from the comment section. Remember to check back to see if you’ve won, I will post winners here, and attempt to locate you. If I can’t contact you, or don’t hear back within a week, I will draw another name.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

*Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Fish Tales and Horse Tails and Ferrets



Have you ever been to a nursing home?  There’s a guy dressed like a cowboy with a miniature guitar, singing those songs we sang in elementary school. Several female residents are clapping and singing along. A young woman, recovering from a terrible illness, is wearing a brightly colored turban and prodding a few grumpy patrons into participation. “This land is your land…” I’m visiting Mary. Mary is looking through the doorway into a kitchen. She points out that the potatoes are boiling over. Then she proceeds to kick the woman sitting next to her. They’re both about ninety-years old. “What are you doing?” I ask. Mary says, “She started it, she kicked me just before you came in.” A man in grey sweats walks by, and we both watch him pass. Wow, I think, when did I start noticing how buff eighty-year old guys can be?  The guy is super fit. Mary tells me with a little smile, “He’s my boyfriend.”  I almost fall off the couch. The freshly-kicked woman pipes up, “He is not!  He’s my boyfriend.”  Before it can turn into more kicking, Fit & Trim shoves open a door, setting off an alarm. Mary explains, “He’s just going for a walk.” Judging by the percentage of staff that race after him, I’m guessing this practice is frowned on. I hope he can outrun them all.



In the midst of this nursing home drama, sits a small but very quiet group of elderly residents. They’re glaring. You don’t dare make eye contact with a single one. It occurs to me then, they’re the curmudgeon crowd. Great, did you ever realize that there are cliques in nursing homes too?  They’re giving me that look. You know the one, “I’ve had it up to here and I’m not going to take it anymore.”  Bet they know who kicked who first. Bet they know if Fit & Trim is anyone’s boyfriend, or if he’s just running away. Doubt they’re talking though. Besides I don’t have the lady gall to even make eye contact with that veritable goldmine of chutzpah over there.



Speaking of chutzpah, Dear Hubby and I have this don’t ask, don’t tell policy regarding hunting and writing expenses. Sometimes one or the other of us will bring it up anyway, a kind of verbal kick. “How much is the Writer’s Conference in Nashville?” he asks. I’m looking at the ceiling, because that is where you have to look to do math. “Mmm, I’d have to go double-check,” I say. Then, because this is the way married conversations go, I ask, “How much is the hunting land you’re leasing this year?” To which he replies with a guilty grin and an eye roll, “Fifty bucks. I got a discount because the property used to be a meth lab.”  “Good call,” I high-five, supportive of felony clearance land. I add, “Coincidentally I think my airfare to Nashville was also…” “Fifty bucks?” he supplies. “Something like that,” I say. I like this game, but I doubt the curmudgeon crowd would approve. I suspect they’re all about facts, but that isn’t how this game is played. “What about the hotel in Nashville?” Hubby prods, to which I respond, “Did you buy a new bow and arrow?”  Married conversations are like chess games, only more fun in a dash-through-a-minefield kind of way. You did notice he kicked me first, didn’t you?  Luckily there are no curmudgeons to bear witness, and even if there were, we both know they wouldn’t talk.



Concerning unspoken policies though, the guy behind me told me to sit down seconds after a concert started. Please tell me if you disagree, but I thought if the rock star on stage is as old as your grandparents, you stand during at least part of the first song. Live music, rock concert style, is audience participation, isn’t it?  I’m not even a fan of this music. The first three songs sounded exactly the same to me. Admittedly ever since my wicked summer cold passed, one ear remains completely blocked and the other partially. Still, the only lyrics I understood were:  fish tails and horsetails and ferrets!  I started laughing. Not out loud, and I’m sitting now. We’re in the middle of a Bob Dylan concert, and I don’t want to be publicly lynched, but my inappropriate sense of humor has been ignited. Dear Hubby knows me well enough to decipher the tucked head and shaking laughter. Hopefully it looks like tears of joy to the rest of the audience. He pokes me, “Don’t you like it?”  “I love it,” I say. I mean it too. I do enjoy it, even though I’m not a fan and I’m already mentally tweaking scenes in my novel. I just like to go to concerts, even when cranky people sit behind me. Tell me though, what’s the concert rule? If I’m wrong, bring it. I always need rules in writing. If I’m right, do me a favor, tell the curmudgeons behind me?

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The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe! They’re just flying out the door! Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” (or Networked Blogs). And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers, a random name is picked from the comment section. Every home deserves a Slinky Dog – and they’re well behaved, though they do like to stand up during concerts. Remember to check back to see if you’ve won, I will post winners here, and attempt to locate you.  If I can’t contact you, or don’t hear back within a week, I will draw another name. 

*Neither Dear Hubby or I have tat-sleeves btw, nor am I a fan, but I just have to say the colors in this pic are fabulous! Or is it just me?



My Heaven

Photo Credit: Clarita

Let’s start with décor, shall we?  If you get to decorate your heaven, what will it look like?  I’m thinking Roman Garden, perfect weather. Oddly enough, there sits a desk with a laptop right on my terrace. Angels are Tech Support. Sigh. In person. Sigh. You rarely need them though, because MSWord didn’t make it through the Pearly Gates. To publish the book after I’ve finished writing it, I hit “send”. Okay, maybe I send a query e-mail that says, ‘I wrote this book, read it.’  This is my heaven after all. What décor did you choose?  And what will occupy your weekdays in your heaven?

There are dogs in my heaven, but they don’t shed and they are born house-trained. They’re all my favorite dogs from earth, only now they behave, mostly. They are, after all, dogs. There is no housework here because nothing gets dirty or messy. If you like to clean, you can change that up to suit your own version. Cats sleep in the sun on the garden wall now and then; I don’t know who they belong to. Yard work is not necessary, everything grows neat and orderly. This is a place where cooperation reigns. Except on Saturday nights, when all heck breaks loose…um, well, it is my heaven after all, right?  And I like to entertain, especially now that there is no prep work or clean-up involved. All those parties I meant to give on earth, yep, that is what we do on Saturday nights around here.

Nobody minds how much time I spend writing either. They’re all busy with their own heavens. There is a self-replenishing glass of iced-tea with a fresh slice of lemon – and no condensation on my notes. I don’t need notes, I remember everything. Ah, now that is heavenly. And Jamie Fraser, from the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon (turns out he is real here, yep) stops by and rubs my shoulders while I type. (In his kilt.)  My husband doesn’t mind either, because his hands are busy fly fishing. Besides Jamie’s just rubbing my back, People!  There are rules in heaven too, sheesh. Family and friends gather in the evenings. We sit in the garden and chat up old times, tease about the differences in our heavens and listen to my music – live – every night. Remember this is my villa. Maybe it’s different in their heaven.

There are homemade muffins or croissants with dark chocolate for breakfast, fresh squeezed orange juice and full-on fat lattes in real cups, big ones. I don’t know who does the baking, but it’s divine. For lunch I always meet someone. Sometimes one of my children, and we catch up on what happened after I left town and how life is in their own heaven. Sometimes it is with an old friend. We meet at a little café around the corner. It has the best gelato. Sometimes I get a hamburger, which is okay because I am the worst part-time vegetarian in heaven too. Dinner is often al fresco, and a family affair, or sometimes at a romantic seaside getaway with Dear Hubby. There is always dessert.

There are libraries to wander through, and all the questions I’ve ever had?  It’s all in there. Snorkeling and skydiving require no equipment, oxygen is optional and what’s the worst that can happen anyway?  We are in my heaven, after all. Some days I run, just for fun, because I’m fast now. While I’m out I swing by other heavens and look people up, enjoying their space for awhile. My Bohemian Gram has the exact same kitchen she had when I was a kid, but her pet monkey now weeds her flower garden and the only sound he ever makes is a quiet, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”  I don’t feel bad for him, at least he got into heaven and I for one never expected that. I think Gram pulled some strings, for a lot of us probably. The variety of heavens is astonishing. My BFF has drums in the parlor of a three-story Victorian. Comrade enjoys a parade every day, in her honor (she earned it). There’s an entire forest where children live in tree-houses and eat only ice-cream. Be careful if you stop in. They share, but gave me worm ice-cream once. Kids.

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

Now you’ve had a glimpse into my heaven, it’s only fair that I get a peek into yours, right? Tell me about your heaven. What does it look like, and what do you do there?  Is every day Saturday? Or Christmas?  Who are your neighbors, if you have any, and what kind of music are you listening to?  Just out of morbid curiosity, does yours involve a kilt-wearing masseuse too?  Not that I’d drop by uninvited or anything.



Hair of the Dog



Perhaps I should have mentioned this before Juan’s car caught fire in the underground garage and before he tried to kill me mountain climbing. Still, I’ve always wanted to write a flashback. An awesome thing about writing, time matters so little. Where else can you get that? Let me share with you how I met the golden boy:

After making the financially sound decision to spend two years investing in my education, I emerged from school with a Stenography Certificate. Step back. That and a smart suit got me a fine job making copies and power point presentations in the business world. So back to school I went, evenings and weekends. Many of my classes were taken with a friend from work, let’s call her Mercy. Mercy loves learning, fashion, astrology and her grandchildren. She also talks really loud, and can’t see up close at all. I adore her. Mercy reads her horoscope and stresses about it, “I get gas when Mars is in my house.”  Did I mention she talks really loud?  Yes. And I sat next to her in class. She’d bring her prescription bottles so I could read the fine print for her, and she’d scientifically compare possible side-effects against her horoscope for a clearer prognosis. I loved her too much to refuse to cooperate, and would whisper embarrassing details in her ear. She’d ask for clarification nice and loud. “What are feces? Is it okay to have dark feces while I’m doing a reading in church on Sunday?” 

Being a charitable soul, Mercy had taken to reading my horoscope too. Mornings she’d swing by my desk while I worked on presentations consisting mostly of mathematical equations and Greek symbols. Mercy would recite the stats on my chances for survival should I venture out for lunch or drive on the freeway that day. Being a contrary sort, and trapped in numerical purgatory anyway, I’d always do the opposite of what I was told. Today Mercy slapped a file on my desk, “Land sakes, he’s here!”  She was shaking with excitement. “Mercy?  Did you steal a personnel file again?” I asked. She liked to keep an eye out for incoming potential problems by knowing everyone’s horoscope. “Stephanie! According to the charts he is your perfect mate!  He was born on the right date, the right year AND in the right place!” Oh, no. I am not this nice. “I’d rather eat my own hands than date a mathematician.”  “It’s destiny,” she says all dreamy. I point out, “Besides, Frog Face has a strict policy against employees dating each other.”  Mercy got indignant, “Frog Face asks you out every Friday!” “Mercy?  Asking me to pick up his dry cleaning, wash his car and drop it back in the lot for him isn’t exactly a date.”  “Fine,” she gets snippy now and snatches the folder off my desk. A photograph slides out. He…doesn’t look at all mathematical. “Oh. My. Gah – is this him?”  Now she gets coy, nabbing it and stuffing it in the folder, then marching towards Personnel. It hit me then, that she’d orchestrated the entire conversation, right down to the precision photo drop. Manipulator. Bet she isn’t even far-sighted.

“Frog Face wants his mail,” Mercy said, scattering it across my desk. “He’s in a meeting upstairs,” I told her. “I know, he said he wants his mail.” She kept right on moving. That should have been the first clue. Mercy does not keep right on moving, I hadn’t even gotten today’s horoscope yet. Elbow deep in numbers, I was under too much strain to notice. Gathered the mail and got up, grabbing my sweater. Mercy darted back, “Can I borrow your sweater?  I’m freezing in here.” Magnanimously I handed it over. They do keep the air-conditioning on ice-age during the summer. That was clue number two. Mercy suffers hot flashes. She’s been known to hold her skirt over top the A/C vent.

Sliding quietly into the conference room, I placed Frog Face’s mail in a pile at his elbow. He was in the middle of one of his long lectures, the kind where he tents his fingers, and takes long painful pauses between obtuse random stories about Copernicus or Euclid. Frog Face doesn’t look anything like a frog, he’s actually good-looking, at least until you get to know him. His surname is Prince, and Mercy gave him his nickname. Said he was the classic Frog and Prince story in reverse.

My mail delivery derailed his riveting story because Frog Face put both long hands on the conference table and said, “Excuse me?  What is this?”  “Your mail,” I’m helpful by nature. “And you’re interrupting my new hire orientation because…?”  I’m also usually a couple beats behind. I almost told him Mercy had sent me; then I glanced up. There sat Juan, waaay better looking than his photograph. I will tell you, too, that I think we had one of those moments. I know I stared at him, and I thought he stared at me. Perhaps it was because I was staring at him. Perhaps it was because I’d interrupted the meeting to give the renowned Doctor Prince this month’s copy of Sports Illustrated. Perhaps because I’d now forgotten what Frog Face asked, and had birthed the mother of all pregnant pauses. For awhile I suppose he waited for me to catch up and answer. Those who know me realize that does not happen. Eventually this dawned on Frog Face too because he gave me a very threatening, “We will discuss this later, Miss….”  He trailed off there, having never mastered the silent i.c. in Pazicni to pronounce it. I caught up then, pulled my gaze off Juan’s and left to go find and murder Mercy.

And that is how I met golden skinned, golden eyed, golden haired Juan.

And today’s Glitter Globe question is have you ever publicly humiliated yourself over the opposite sex?  There is a cone of safety here, you can tell us.  We will commiserate with you. Or have you ever had one of those magical moments when you first met someone?  Or worse still, have you ever thought you did? 

***

The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe!  Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” (or Networked Blogs). And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers, a random name is picked from the comment section.

*What's with the golden boot in the middle of the story?  Because I can. 



Fail is a Four-Letter Word (So is Date)

After Juan stood me up, and showed up later bloody and broken, I agreed to go out with him again purely out of pity. Then he tried to kill me mountain climbing, but failed, hah. I only gave him a second chance to kill me because I really wanted to try skiing anyway. To be fair, the whole ski trip fiasco wasn’t Juan’s fault. He was terrific, all golden eyed and great smile. We walked into the lodge and stopped by the fireplace to warm up. Then the ladies swarmed, “Swoon!  Juan, didn’t we go to school together?  I’d remember your smile anywhere!” So he ordered drinks and started chatting up his admirers. Whatever. I left him there, recommending he take them hiking sometime, and headed to the ski slopes myself. He called after me to start on the Bunny Hill, where they offered lessons for newbies, and he’d catch up. Good luck with that.

Standing outside I noted Bunny Hill appeared to be slang for four-year olds, and that lessons would take up half of my allotted time. Talk about a waste of time. Besides that an unseasonable warm-up had hit, and the snow machine barely kept enough snow on the main drag. Most of the lower slopes were a slushy mess. I trotted over to the ski shack to rent skis. The Mandatory Handsome Ski Guy (MHSG) offered to help me out. Cool. Day is looking up. “How much do you weigh?” he asked. “I weigh 110 pounds,” I replied. The trick here is not to break eye contact. You must believe it when you say it. It’s a whole Jedi Mind Trick thing. “You’re not skiing in jeans, are you?” he asked. What else would I be skiing in?  I looked around then, and noted that the other skiers were wearing ski pants. Ah well, at that time in my life there was little on earth that could have gotten me into a pair of big puffy Santa pants. “I’m wearing jeans,” I told him. “They won’t be comfortable,” he warned. Comfortable?  Pants?  Where’d they get this guy?  These were the best pants I ever owned, they looked good!  Just a little tight in the legs, but no problem there, I avoided bending my legs.

MHSG (Mandatory Handsome Ski Guy) then needed to know what size shoe I wore. This is beyond the pale. State secrets. Like I was going to admit I pretty much fit the box the boots came in?  “I wear a size…7 ½ shoe,” employing Jedi Mind Do not look at my size ten feet Trick. “Our ski boots only come in whole sizes, so 8 or 7?” he said. “Seven.”  Damn that Cinderella and her little feet. How many blistered, hobbled feet is Walt Disney personally responsible for?  Or should we dump that sin on The Brothers Grimm?  Whichever. Personal responsibility is so passé I know the guilt rests with one of them.  Suited up I slid right onto the main thoroughfare. Hey I’m a natural. I can slide, cool.

For someone without an engineering cell in her body, a ski-lift is as wonderfully magical as a remote control. Big metal gliders are jerked up the mountain attached by what appears to be a twisty tie. Only the twisty isn’t tied, it magically sticks to a skinny little cable. That cable miraculously supports the weight of a hundred metal gliders and the weight of hundreds of skiers fed on cheesy fries. Could not wait to hop on!  Figuring out how to walk on skis, I made it to the ski lift and got in line. Wait. They don’t stop so you can get on?  Everybody just skied into place and hopped on the lift. Uh-oh, I’m pretty sure if I attempt to turn in these skis, I will be taking down everyone in a six foot radius. Maybe I’ll go practice.

Found a small hill and practiced. How cool is this?  Sliding down, sliding down, wait, sliding down fast!  Leaning back. Big mistake. How’d I get buried in snow?  No worries, I popped up and tried again. (Tip:  Don’t lean back.)  Now I’m moving fast, but going with it, because apparently there is no speed control on skis. And here’s the bottom of the hill. Stop. Stop!  People ahead!  How do you stop?  (Tip:  If you don’t know how to stop, don’t worry, there are many options. All of them hurt.) Okay, the stopping thing is a problem, but if you give yourself plenty of space to slow down on a flat surface, gravity will do it for you. Like skating!  Got it. Let’s go uphill so we can slide down and have some serious fun. Now getting to the top of the hill must involve the magical ski lift, because the other option was an epic fail. (Tip:  Don’t wear jeans skiing. After you’ve fallen, and been dragged through slush by the tow rope, your legs are now half frozen and soaking wet. No worries, the water is starting to freeze.)

Good news!  If given enough incentive, they actually will stop the ski lift to let you get on!  It’s all a matter of collateral damage, but you’ll figure it out I am sure. (Tip:  When you fall getting off, duck your head. They don’t stop it then.)  So here we are at the top and there are choices!  Let’s chat international signs for a moment. I don’t know about you, but to me they pretty much even everything out, because now no one knows what is going on in any language. Ah well, all the paths appear to lead down, and that is where I’m headed. Yep, I’m headed down, fast. This rocks!  Don’t lean back, don’t lean back. (Tip:  You will lean back, you will pay.)  Hey, what’s that sign say?  What’s a mogul?

We now know what a mogul is. Mogul is Mongolian for ‘You will fall on the far side of a snow mound and be battered by skiers who know what they are doing, Moron.’  The problem here is visibility. By the time you figure out where your skis are, and clamber to your feet, an airborne four-year old will take you out. Crawling isn’t an option either; remember you can’t bend your legs in those jeans. That is actually irrelevant though, because they are frozen stiff anyhow. This is where Juan shows up. Yep, he appears with one of those magnificent skier stops that blows white powder all over you and your frozen jeans. “Do you like it?”  Oh heck yeah!  This man is destined to mysteriously disappear while hiking with his wife someday. Considerately, Juan doesn’t help me out from beneath the mogul until I ask straight out. I am so not ever going out with this guy again.

You know what’s fun?  You can take another nearby ski lift, and go much higher up the mountain!  Let’s. And we do, and Juan shows me how to get on the chair without harming anyone, including myself. And he also shows me how to make it swing back and forth really fast, so I can enjoy the full experience. I wonder if he’ll just accidentally fall off of a ski lift someday – you know, skiing with that hypothetical wife. Betcha. At the top he expertly jumps out and waits while I manage my best imitation and flop out behind him. One of my skis pops off and goes sliding down the hill by itself. Really fast. Yep. There it goes. I put the boot on the snow and sink down to my knee in powder. “What do you do when this happens?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve never seen it happen before.”  He bends down and checks my skis. “They shouldn’t have given you those skis; they’re for someone…much smaller.”  (Tip:  Don’t lie about your weight when you rent skis.) No jury of her peers will ever convict Juan's wife, should he ever have one someday.

Juan wishes me luck and heads down the mountain, all golden and graceful and gorgeous. I debate my options. I could try one ski…we both know I’m going to end up sliding down on my back most of the way anyhow…I could take off the other ski and try walking, but since the ski-less leg is now thigh-deep in snow, I’m thinking that won’t work…Maybe I could just sit and sort of scoot all the way down – it’s not like I have any pride left. “Excuse me?  Do you need help?”  It’s the Demi-god of Ski Patrol Guys (DgSPG) in spandex skiwear. He’s pulling a toboggan. I don’t know what to say. Would “I love you?” be too forward?  Possibly assuming I’ve suffered a head injury and cannot speak, he helps me into the toboggan very gently. I don’t even have to bend my legs!  This is good, because remember I cannot – and my pants are actually ice encrusted at this point, so he lifts them into the toboggan for me because I can’t. How awesome is this?  DgSPG takes off skiing as I recline behind him, sliding down the mountain. The only sound is his skis over the snow. It takes an impressive amount of time to reach the bottom, and once there he helps me out of the toboggan and apologizes about the defective ski. No problem, I had a great time. I love skiing! 

Have you ever noticed that trip is a four-letter word? Ever been on a trip that turned into a series of unfortunate events? The kind that are funny only in hindsight? Dish. What was your absolutely best bad idea?

***



The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe!  Half a dozen are being tamed for mailing even as we speak.  Please be patient if you won one this past week.  (The ear mouse slows me down. Ear mouse saga at http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/08/mouse-trap.html .)  Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site”. And be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog! For every five new followers I get, I randomly choose a winner from my comment sections.  This round starts with this blog post, so comment away for your chance to win!

For the story of my first date with Juan, check out http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/08/first-and-last-dates.html  .

Food Philosophy 101 - The Optimist

Have you ever eaten a perfect peach?  Maybe it came right off the tree or fresh from a farm stand. The memory of that golden sweet, sun-ripened, Garden of Eden fruit will beckon to your optimistic taste-buds for decades. Sadly there is no supermarket fruit that can ever compare, but you will continue to buy store bought peaches all of your life, in hopes of locating even a distant relative of that fruit you tasted once. The same goes for watermelon. You know dang well those superstore watermelons are going to end up testing the strength of your kitchen garbage bag, or will they?  Will this one taste like that watermelon you had on the 4^th of July that summer?  There’s only one way to find out.

How about fresh from the field corn-on-the cob with real butter and salt?  Consuming one single ear of corn from Upstate New York can be responsible for every corn purchase you make for the rest of your life. The big plastic bag of frozen corn-on-the-cob, the one with the picture on the outside and the freezer burned corn inside?  Canned corn?  These are not rational choices people, these are examples of wishful thinking.

Packaged cookies are a perfect example. They are sweet, and they are crunchy – but so are termites (or so says my BFF). Can that begin to compare with fresh-from-the-oven-I-use-real-butter oatmeal cookies?  I think not. But who has time to roll out sugar cookies?  For that matter who keeps real vanilla, fresh eggs and good chocolate chips in the house for every time the cookie monster emerges?  So we settle for the termite equivalent

Remember that time we met at Fridays after work?  We drank iced-tea and ate that killer spinach-artichoke dip?  Or how about the block party and that guy’s grilled chicken?  (The guy raised on a poultry farm, remember?)  Then there was the family reunion – Grandma’s potato salad. Stellar meals might offer a clue about grocery cart selections. What is in the cart?  Several boxes of frozen appetizers – do you think they taste as good as the picture on the box promises?  There are also ingredients for the six chicken recipes I googled, we’ll just combine them all into one…And since potato salad takes too much time, and I have a novel to edit, I got the stuff from the deli!  Just because I don’t have the time or inclination to make something, doesn’t mean the desire to eat it isn’t firmly in place. Are you with me?  Are you a Food Optimist? 

What foodie memory have you failed to replicate?  Garden tomatoes?  Bluesberries straight off the bush?  I know you’re out there. I looked in your cart at the supermarket.

***

The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe!  Please follow my blog, if you haven’t already. Right over there ---à where it says “Join this site” and be sure to leave a comment below, for a chance at your very own Slinky Dog!

First and Last Dates

Photo Credit: Clarita/Morgue Files

The first time Juan asked me out he stood me up. He was immediately written off. The Glitter Globe offered no second chances for this type of violation. So later that night when he knocked on the door, I took a moment to prepare myself mentally for the scathing reception he was about to receive. Opening the door, there he stood in the porch light covered in blood, his hand in a cast of some sort and his arm in a sling. Cheater. I totally caved. Completely fell for his excuse. You know, the old “My car caught on fire in an under-ground garage. I thought the gas tank was going to explode and it was parked next to dozens of other cars. I tried to pull the fire alarm, but that thing you break the glass with was missing. I had to use my hand. By the time the fire department came, my car was completely engulfed in flames – the tires even melted. I would have called you then, except they took me to the hospital. I had to have surgery on my right hand, and the left was burned so I couldn’t use the phone even afterwards. Can I borrow your car?”  Yeah, I know. I was so naïve. But, hey, the next time was a pity date!

Juan enjoyed hiking and wanted to take me. He asked if I liked nature. I absolutely love flowers, and that’s part of nature, right?  And I’d hiked around a castle in a nearby park at least twice!  We had so much in common!  “Sure,” I said, “I’m very outdoorsy.”

In order to reach the bottom of the mountain, we had to cross a railroad trestle. Halfway over I was told to hurry, just in case a train came. 

Then we had to crawl over the face of a little cliff under a bit of a waterfall. It totally wrecked my hair.

After that it got hard, climbing up a mountain. Grabbing onto a skinny sapling to haul myself upward, it came out of the ground and I slid downhill a ways. Lost a shoe too, well, it fell off when that happened. Then I lost it throwing it at my date. It started to rain then, and despite the exertion from the climb, it was cold. We took refuge beneath an overhang in the rock. I scooted deeper inside the nook to avoid the blowing rain, but was told not to, due to the rattlesnakes that tended to inhabit that spot. This was so our last date. At that very moment my BFF was enjoying Mackinac Island – or someplace equally as civilized that involved fudge – with her boyfriend. I thought about that a lot as I climbed.

We crested the top of the mountain, me flat on my stomach, scrabbling over the ledge. It occurred to me at that point that we had to now get down. I’d almost decided to push my date off the mountain, to test that exit strategy, when I heard rustling in the bushes. It was getting dark at this point, but I could see men hiding there. They were dressed in military fatigues. Juan nodded sagely. “That’s just the National Guard. They practice up here on weekends.”  Dang. Witnesses.

The National Guard hadn’t climbed up the way we had. They took the road. Yep. There was a road, and I started marching down it, arms crossed, in that cold silence that most men of dating age are quite familiar with. A truck pulled up alongside us within minutes, offering a ride back to town. There was heat in it. I huddled over that heater and Juan said, “Have you ever been skiing?”  Skiing?  I hadn’t, but I’d seen people do it in movies. “Because I was wondering if you’d like to go skiing with me sometime?  This winter?”  He smiled his terrific smile. “Sure, I’ll go skiing with you,” I promised. I had always wanted to try skiing. People were always smiling when they did it in the movies. I wondered if ski lodges had fudge. Pictures of roaring fires, ski lifts and fun filled my head. How hard could it be?

Mouse Trap



It feels like a mouse crawled into my ear. It didn’t die though, because sometimes I can hear it swallow. Wonder what type of doctor specializes in that?  Refusing to allow a stray rodent to keep me from my novel any longer, I got out of my sickbed and started moving some commas around. You don’t have to be able to hear from both ears to work on your novel.

Despite rumors to the contrary, apparently I do some housework, because the landscape sure changed around here in the last ten days. I didn’t have the energy to double check, but I’m pretty sure that every dish was dirty. My buddy, Zeus, stopped by for lunch. He was disappointed to find that my illness had kept me from keeping enough food in the house to satisfy a giant. Thanks to my loved ones though, there was enough canned soup for just that purpose. I told him about my ear mouse, and we tossed around the likelihood of medical intervention providing any relief. I’ve become a firm believer that, like in the case of a jury trial, you need to provide physical evidence of your complaint when you see a doctor. You know, like a missing or broken limb, oozing, or at least having the decency to faint a bit. I doubt I could provide the mouse. Zeus considered this theory, and said, “Look at you!  Trust me - they’ll believe you’re sick!”  Sometimes I worry that Zeus will never get married. For the record, I was planning to shower today – well – at least I decided to after he said that. Zeus then urged me to get some groceries, insisting that I’d blend just fine at Walmart. If he does get married, I’ll bet he disappears.

The Doctor did confirm the whole ear-mouse theory. Well, okay, she called it fluid in the eustachian tube, but she can't feel it! She told me it might take three months to get better. I am not satisfied with this prognosis - so I'm looking for home remedies while brushing up on my sign language. So far I've tried blasting him out with my iPod.  I couldn't hear it, and I suspect neither could the mouse because he didn't even move, let alone dance out. Tried running and yoga hoping to knock him loose. The only thing that happened with that is I needed a twelve hour nap after, and I think he ate while I napped because I'm pretty sure he's bigger. Please feel free to post your ideas!

***

The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues!  Leave a blog comment. Every time I get five new followers, I draw from those who left a comment. They're going so fast - well - fast as Slinky Dogs can go.  Okay, that's not very fast, but two went out just this week!  Woo-hoo! 

Cooties



Keeping in the spirit of not whining, I am looking on the bright side. There’s a summer cold going around that practically requires an exorcism to be rid of. It had been floating dangerously close to The Glitter Globe for many weeks, taking down loved ones. I tried to keep it at bay with orange juice and chicken soup and shouts of, “Cover your mouth when you sneeze!” Alas, it snuck up on me and knocked me right off my typing shoes.

You know how you can feel these things coming, even before the sneezing and oozing begins, but you lie to yourself? Pretending not to be sick, I’d gone for a run, and then agreed to help a friend mark a property line. Said friend didn’t warn me that we were marking a boundary along a mountain, starting at the bottom and going up. I didn’t mention I might be carrying The Plague. My job was easy, all I had to do was walk straight up hill for hours, and spot the red ribbons tied on trees deep in the forest. My buddy, let’s call him Zeus, needed my help in this for one reason only, he’s color blind. The odds of him spotting red ribbons in a forest were a tad slim. I was an enormous help.

“Seriously?  Are you on Facebook again?”  Zeus caught up with me. It was about the third time he caught me sitting on a log, playing with my phone.

            “Yeah,” I confessed, fiddling with the location device. I was really glad Facebook knew where we were, because I have never been so hopelessly lost in my life.

            Zeus glared, and he has an impressive glare. I knew he would never have taken me into the woods if he could have found even a seeing-eye primate for the job of ribbon finder. I tried to hurry up and check my email. He fished a water bottle out of his backpack, continuing to glare, and said, “You actually have a connection here?”  He didn’t really sound impressed.

            “I know, right?  I couldn’t believe it either. I have three bars!”  Luckily I spotted the next ribbon at that point. Those suckers are hard to see even with the ability to spot color. It’s like Where’s Waldo in the forest, only Waldo’s in camouflage with a bit of pink lipstick on.

            As we neared the top ridge of the mountain, Zeus said, “You’re sweating like a man.” 

            “Gee, thanks.”  I mean really?  Guys, even if you think it ya don’t say that!

            “No really. You should see the back of your shirt.”  By now I had a staff fashioned from a tree branch and it was doing most of the work as I dragged myself uphill. I’d drunk most of my water and the cell was firmly in my pocket. I was still lying to myself though, it was in the 90’s after all and the shivering was surely on account of all that man sweating. Apparently Zeus suspected I was considering crawling. He said, “I can mark off the rest of it another time. Why don’t we head back to the truck?”  He got on the two-way radio, to chat with my Dear Hubby – who was somewhere in this vast forest. I continued up the hill and Zeus yelled, “Hey?  Why don’t we just take the path back?” What? There is a path? If I’d had the ability to balance on two legs at that point, Zeus might have accidentally been knocked back down the mountain. Accidentally.

Eventually we found Dear Hubby and I climbed into the back of the truck and closed my eyes. Then they started trying to drive out of the forest. Did I mention that we drove into the forest?  Not on a path, I mean we drove into the forest. I commented that this was the first time I’d ever been lost in the woods in a vehicle. The guys pointed out that we weren’t lost, they knew exactly where we were, just not how to get out.

So, yes, that was the most fun I’ve had in a week. The rest wasn’t nearly as good, but I have compiled a list of the highlights of having a wicked virus in the middle of summer. Remember The Interactive Joy List?  Well, this is a Silver Lining List:

·         Those new Kleenex with the lotion in them. You can be sick twice as long before you rub the skin off your face. Yay. They also come in a Vick’s Vapor Rub scent which is the only thing you can smell when you’re sick.

·         Urgent Care. I’d never been to Urgent Care. I try to avoid going to doctors at all. They ask too many questions, starting with, “What’s your name?”  But my regular Doctor wasn’t open when my hearing clogged shut, so I dragged myself to Urgent Care. They didn’t even ask for my name, just an ID and that was it. In fifteen minutes I was at the Pharmacy with a script for antibiotics. That rocks.

·         Less Air-Conditioning despite the 90+ degree weather. I spent the entire week shutting it off and crawling under the electric blanket. It’s a wonder my family didn’t kill me, but I was saving money on electricity!

·         Reading time. I will admit the first couple of days were almost a treat, curled up with a book all day long. I read two months worth of books this week. Bet Amazon stock is up too.

·         Cold comfort things:  Luden’s cough drops (Do they do anything?  Anything at all?), saltine crackers, orange juice, canned soup crossing that off – sorry that stuff is just gross. But I did request it and was given a bunch of different kinds, all of which went into the “gross” pile. Now if you can get someone to bring you homemade soup (especially in August) that is a perk. Tea. The best. I give my cold comfort award to hot tea when you’re coughing and oozing. It’s almost as much fun as getting lost in the woods in a car.

Do you have anything to add to the Silver Lining List?  Come on, anything at all works. I know of one friend who fills out those forms at the Doctor’s office with interesting tidbits. She insists they never read them, told me once she put “Figure Skater” under occupation. Dish.

Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway

*

Shopping is not my thing, yet a couple months ago I found myself at Toys R Us searching for an emergency unicorn. It happens. Fortunately the mission was a success and there were two to choose from. One had a defective horn and the salesperson suggested I pick the other one. Shaking my head, I explained, “I don’t like the look in his eye.”  These little details are important, who wants a unicorn giving you the stink eye?  I was leaving the store, cripple-horn unicorn in tow, when I spotted an entire aisle full of that type of candy that really isn’t edible. You know the kind I mean:  lollipops as big as your head in colors not seen in nature, gummy rats, candy buttons, rubber candy shaped like hamburgers and ponies. I pondered the sanity of consumerism run amuck. Then I saw him. Slinky Dog. Now that's just cool. I bought them all.



They were quickly adopted out. There are now Glitter Globe Slinky Dogs all over the country and abroad. Luckily a new shipment arrived this week, so I can share even more! The guy who delivered the Slinky Dogs was shaking the box. They rattle and a whole herd of them sound impressive. He was curious about the contents so I opened it and showed him, and he just shook his head. This guy has been a little bit afraid of me ever since I used him to reenact a particularly gruesome scene from one of my novels. The thing is if you interrupt my writing – even to deliver a package – you’re taking a chance.   

Now onto The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway…we can play this until I run out of Slinky Dogs!  If you haven’t already, please follow my blog (by clicking on “Join this site” or through networked blogs) and leave a comment on today’s blog – or any future blog. I’ll keep track of your comments. Then for every five new blog followers I get, I’ll share a Slinky Dog with one commenter, starting today and going until I run out of Slinky Dogs. There’s an entire nest of them next to me, so this could take awhile. Uh-oh. You know what I just noticed?  Every one of them is giving me the stink eye!

*Thanks to Girard for the awesome picture!