It's Tradition

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

“So what do you want to do for Thanksgiving?” I ask my family. “Because I could really go for Thai food, and I’ve always wanted to see Bangkok. Delta is running a special.”  Once again they decline my latest holiday plan and opt to go the traditional route. That is why my kitchen is covered in a fine coating of powdered sugar, and my freezer is already filling up with baked goods that involve pumpkin and cranberries. Twice this week I’ve forwarded emails advertising gourmet Thanksgiving buffets at posh hotels, but they ignore me. I hate to cook, but they know I can do it. My Bohemian Gram and my MIL taught me everything you really need to know about cooking and baking. Make everything from scratch and use butter. So you see I can do traditional and old-fashioned, with a small dash of Glitter Globe style. Are you a traditionalist?  Or are you faking your way through the holidays too?

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

 

“Hon?  Where are the tents?”  I searched all morning, between chopping ten pounds of walnuts and working on a scene in my novel. It is my philosophy that overnight company needs their own space to hide in, especially kids. There are not enough bedrooms, so I use tents. String up some fairy lights, a pile of pillows, blankets, flashlight, and good books that I subtly tuck inside – then everyone has their own space. Indoor camping is hardly traditional, but it is fun. Have you ever left something out of place for so long that it became invisible?  Like a pile of tents by the back door, waiting to be put away?  For ten months?  “Never mind, Hon!  I found them!”

 

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

 

Food and shelter aren’t enough for a good old-fashioned Griswold Family Vacation. Entertainment must also be seen to. We opt for traditional games like, “Can you do this?” which is fun for all ages, and my MIL kicks butt at. Not only can the woman tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue, but she rocks at somersaulting. If you know the family personally, you did not hear this here, and if you don’t – no we do not drink. Hard to believe, but true.

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

Music, dancing, baking, crafts and storytelling are also part of our tradition. Sometimes we’ll toss something new into the mix for the kids. Last year we arranged a small plane ride for them. I’m almost surprised they’ve agreed to come back to my house this year. I guess nausea passes. It was sweet though, the way they clambered out of the plane and kissed the runway. It was sweeter the way everyone got along too. Family time, life just doesn’t get any better than that.

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

 

What are your Thanksgiving plans?  I hope you have the day off!  Are you doing the cooking?  (If not, how do you get out of it, email me explicit instructions.)  Are you a traditionalist or a non-conformist?  Is company coming or will you be the company?  And have you ever set up a tent in your house?  (As always, if you follow my blog and leave a comment you will be eligible for an Epic Slinky Dog!  Winners will be based on epic Thanksgiving tales, so give it your best shot.)

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

 

 

Pity Party

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Did you hear that crash at the Glass Museum? Don’t worry, it wasn’t your child. It was me. I dropped my phone on a display of glass balloon animals (taking blog photos, I hope you feel a bit guilty since I did it for you). Vertigo is one heaping bowl of sucks. Miraculously nothing broke. Is there special multi-tasking insurance for clumsy people? Though blundering is not just a human condition. This week Sandy, my pet butterfly, got the tip of his wing caught in a bit of dried honey and flew off without that bit. It was the same day that I hit a rabbit driving home in the dark. Mother Nature’s disappointment in my nurturing skills is vast, a given being a part-time vegetarian who dreams about hamburgers. At any rate I decided to throw a pity party. You’re all invited and encouraged to share your tales of woe. We’ll even have pity party prizes.

My entry into the pity party hall of shame is the allergic reaction I had to…(wait for it)…allergy shots. How pathetic is that? It wasn’t a horrible anaphylactic shock reaction (thank God). I specialize in those freaky little reactions that doctors toss nonchalantly into the ‘side-effects’ category. “Does the incessant itching bother you, Mrs. Karfelt?”  “Not at all. I’m wondering if I could get a prescription for one of those cones? You know the kind Vets use on dogs that won’t stop gnawing on themselves?”

My invisible poison ivy-like side-effect goes to the back of the bus when compared to Lauren Hewell’s tale of woe. The recent college graduate shared her story with The Glitter Globe. Lauren’s in the job market by the way. 



So what’s your story? Have you ever been thrown out of Walmart because your child screamed that loud? Did you sign up for NaNoWriMo* and then remember that Thanksgiving is in two weeks, and you’re hosting company and the family gathering? Did you have to get in a car with an infamous stray dog known to have once eaten an entire goat? Today’s pity party day, and we’re all here to commiserate with you. Keep in mind the goal is to laugh at ourselves, and there are prizes for the best-worst story. (Follow my blog to be eligible for a prize, and leave a comment below. Feel free to suggest what you think an excellent prize would be, but be prepared to accept an Epic Slinky Dog, chocolate, or shards of broken bits from a glass balloon animal. Just kidding. They did NOT break. Really.)

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

*NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. When inspired writers take on the challenge of writing an entire novel the month before Christmas (and risk alienating their Thanksgiving company, again).

 



Mis-Snakes, Scales & Puppy-Dog Fails

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Once Zeus had a pet snake named Houdini. At least that was the name he eventually earned, being as he escaped and roamed the house at will. In an effort to keep the snake confined, Zeus duct taped the lid on Houdini’s cage. Returning home afterwards, Zeus discovered his snake wrapped in duct tape and dangling dejectedly from the roof of his cage. Since I tend to brake for butterflies, Zeus considers me an animal lover. So he brought me his duct taped snake, as though I’d know what to do about it. Though the man is a big, tough giant and all, I could tell he was attached to this two foot reptile and resisted the urge to put it in an airtight bag and toss it into the trash while I could. I called the vet. The Vet laughed really hard, and repeated the story several times to coworkers. I kept the phone tight against my ear, so Zeus wouldn’t hear them laughing. It isn’t a good idea to laugh at a giant over his pet snake. And that is how I ended up wedged in a tiny bathroom with a giant, soaking a duct taped snake in a sink full of warm water. As the Vet predicted, Houdini was more than a little ill-tempered about having duct tape peeled off his body. He lost quite a few scales in the process, but Zeus kept a firm grip on his head as I worked. Perhaps you’re apathetic about Houdini’s fate, or perhaps you’ll be happy to know he lived – though he was forevermore a few scales short.



People are odd about their pets, aren’t they?  I’d like to think it bodes well for our species that we can love even the sorriest, most unlovable creatures so fiercely. Surely you know someone who has a cat or dog that is anything but worthy – but that is pampered and loved inexplicably. My BFF had a cat once, I forget its name. Let’s call it Humper, because that is what that cat did. It specifically liked to have at it with anything that belonged to BFF. Her hats, slippers, pillow, etc. It was a big, fat, white thing that pretty much shed and made love to BFF’s belongings. Oh, it slept in her dresser drawer and ate on her kitchen table too. When Humper went to the great dresser drawer in the sky, he was in the process of jumping off the kitchen table after eating. He ate – alive – and landed – well, dead. BFF told me about this over the phone. Though I clamped my hand over my mouth as fast as I could, she heard the inappropriate laugh that escaped. Let me just take this opportunity to apologize to my BFF again for my demented sense of humor. (Normally she appreciates it, but everyone has their limits.)  It wasn’t funny that the cat died – it was just the visual that got to me.

Clyde T. Brown is an East Texas cowboy, chaws tobacco, drives enormous gas guzzling vehicles, and in all the time that I’ve known him I have understood about 10% of anything he said due to the plug in his mouth and his accent. Clyde also has a pile of teeny dogs that look like mops. Am not sure how many there are, they move a lot and are hard to count. When Clyde goes anywhere, he takes the horde with him. I ran into him in a parking lot once, and he put an arm out the window to gesture towards something. I gasped in horror. It looked as though he’d almost lost the appendage to a shark attack. Since there are hardly any sharks in Texas, I asked what happened. Couldn’t really understand much of the answer, but apparently the horde had turned on him when he was feeding them. For me that is a deal breaker, but I’ve never had a pet horde.

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

Unless you count the butterflies, (but they were more of a scientific study to my way of thinking) wherever I’ve lived in North America I raised Monarch Butterflies. Thousands of them. It started as a Kindergarten project, and eventually morphed into a migration tagging project through The University of Kansas ( http://www.monarchwatch.org/ ). I won’t give you the dissertation on what can be learned studying the insects, but I will tell you that my family cringes when they see milkweed, and my daughter has never recovered from the summer of exploding chrysalis’s. A few gross of butterflies can endear you to your neighbors, they tend to hang around once you release them – so there were usually butterflies around our house. But a few gross of caterpillars can have quite the opposite effect, especially if your neighbors stop by during litter box cleaning hours.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt



Have you or someone you know ever loved an unlovable pet?  Your Mother’s Doberman that once ate an entire Thanksgiving turkey?  The Rat-Terrier that once ate your Easter basket?  A pet mouse that escaped and ate a curtain?  How about those guppies that teach young children that some parents do eat their young?  What is the best or worst pet story you have?  The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe. Follow my blog and leave me an epic pet story for a chance to win one. Remember to check back to see if you’ve won!

 Slinky fainted when confronted by a puppy w/horde potential





Photo Credit: Phil Scot

Hunting Season

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

 

It’s Archery Hunting Season somewhere in the continental USA. One of my favorite times of the year, though I am no fan of hunting. In my life I’ve hunted one thing, Monarch Butterflies, more precisely, their eggs and larvae. It was my goal to raise one thousand of them a year. Six hundred seemed to be the point where my family would rebel. Since I started writing 40+ hours a week, I quit raising butterflies. This year I happened across a caterpillar the night before a freeze, so I brought it inside (along with a pile of milkweed to feed him). He hatched the night Hurricane Sandy was coming through my area. So I appropriately named him Sandy. Isn’t he beautiful? 

 

Sadly Sandy cannot migrate to the sunny climes of Mexico. He’s a late bloomer and it is too cold for him to fly. He tucks his legs up under his body and flops over when I take him outside. He also does that when I try to feed him, but there is a trick to unfurling a butterfly’s proboscis and making him eat. It reminds me of putting broccoli on the table in front of little kids. You get about that much cooperation. I think he may have snacked on my anniversary flowers willingly, you be the judge.

Back to hunting season, my Dear Hubby is an archery hunter. While he makes himself scarce over hill and dale, company trickles through my house for two solid weeks. I indulge in all-night writes. The grocery budget goes to odd take out (like dessert from my favorite restaurant), or dinner at a new café. Tonight it was a spinach raspberry smoothie at a place with a piano bar. Inexpensive and a place DH would appreciate me visiting while he’s out of town. Next week is a “Blind Harvest Dinner”, served in complete darkness. Another one DH will quickly recover from having missed. Though technically having my anniversary dinner during the hurricane was almost complete darkness.

This year we’ve set the goal of organizing the house. Somehow I’ve managed to score friends and family with organizational capabilities. A feat I appreciate beyond words, especially since they share their mad skills. Right now, as I sit and write my blog, I can hear their sneezes while they sort out a closet in another room. It’s not all fun and games. Earlier I was forced, against my will, to go into stores and choose organizational supplies. Things like storage bins, decorative little shelves, hangers, and baskets. I feel about shopping pretty much the same way my Dear Hubby would feel about that Blind Harvest Dinner. My friends dragged me away from the two foot art deco reindeer that caught my eye, and insisted I cooperate.

Getting Organized

Jamming an eight foot shelf inside my tiny Time Travel Jeep was an adventure in itself. After twenty minutes at check-out, (during which the cashier tried futilely to ring it out under ‘lingerie’ and requiring the assistance of several managers) we were given a special shelf price of under $40, on the condition that we leave the store. The cashiers even carted our deal out to the car and helped ram it into the car, in the rain. And even though we drove home with the shelf flush against both front and rear windshields, blessedly no deer or bunnies darted out in front of us, requiring a new windshield. All in all I’d say so far this has been a very successful hunting season.

The Bargain Shelf  Organized

What have you hunted lately? Butterflies? Bargains? Your cell phone or a pen that works? Share your stories with me. Tell me what you do during hunting season, even if you have no idea when that is. (It's now by the way.) The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe. All you have to do is leave a comment below and follow my blog. I will randomly pick a commenter. Be sure to swing by later to see if you’ve won! 

 



Slinky Vs. Sandy

Epic Slinky Dog's Life of Leisure - Viva Las Vegas

      

Check out Epic Slinky Dog's latest adventure on YouTube, courtesy of the talented and beautiful (inside and out) Kimberly Robertson.  She made my hurricane-infested day bright and shiny with this video! 

Slinky Does Vegas (Click on the link to YouTube!)

BFF and I had been at the supermarket long enough to choose tiramisu, a pomegranate, and a bag of crackers, about an hour.  We’re on vacation, you see.  Vegas it is not, we’re simply having a girl’s weekend.  Tomorrow is my wedding anniversary.  Since I married my Tarzan during archery season, my BFF spends that day with me most every year.  The packed store didn’t seem unusual, it’s Sunday night.  It hit me about the time I plunked fruit, candy, and magazines onto the conveyor belt. Something is going on.  I may be blonde, preoccupied, and near-sighted, but eventually the obvious drifts into The Glitter Globe.  Most carts contained batteries and bottled water.  “It’s the storm of the century,” said the Cashier, “The worst one in thirty years!” 

Between frantic bouts of Wii Dance 4 (I won) we filled containers with water, wrote down the instructions for hooking up the generator, taste tested the tiramisu, and dug out flashlights and candles.  Tonight we’re staying up all night and enjoying our last bit of electricity for a few days.  Morning will find us battening down the hatches and riding out the storm. 

The Plan is to Remember the Epic Slinky Dog Motto

And that eventually we'll have hot water and electricity again.  So even if we wind up, up a tree for a time...

 

*

As long as we can climb up it, and back down it again…

*

That’s really all that matters. 

***

How about sharing your storm stories with me?  They don't have to be Hurricane Sandy stories. Just leave the story below, and be sure to follow my blog if you don't already.  I'll share an Epic Slinky Dog with one or two of you.  Eventually, when my electricity returns and I can read them, and get Slinky out of the tree (or Vegas), and get to the Post Office.  In the meantime, stay safe and dry! 

*Note how I get to use a ladder when I climb the tree. 

Uncredited photos are courtesy of Stephanie Karfelt and her obsessive camera usage. 

 





 

Creep Out



Comrade cannot bear to have her neck touched, a fact which delights all those near and dear to her. She seizes up and makes very distinctive and admittedly amusing sounds. It is a very public Achilles heel, easily accessible whether she’s lecturing a kid, or singing in the choir. A gentle touch against the neck and she curls up like a pill bug and emits a noise something like an inward sneeze. If squeaky toy manufacturers could replicate it, they’d make a fortune in Chihuahua sales alone.

Angel is into extreme sports. I’m talking sea-kayaking in some of the roughest, shark-infested water on the planet, cliff-climbing, bungee-jumping, surfing, sky-diving and crawling through pitch-black, unexplored caves with a flashlight clenched between her teeth. I’ve seen her lean against the glass wall of a skyscraper, looking down at the city below, and say, “I would love to be able to jump this.”  The woman is fearless. Unless you look her right in the eye, lean towards her and say, “Rawr.”  She cries. Oh, she laughs while she cries too, but it creeps her out every single time. I don’t mean shout it either, I mean a conversational “Rawr”.

George is a big, burly lumberjack, He-Man, Master of his Universe kind of guy. Fells trees, hunts animals that can hunt back, a general nuisance in public places while fearlessly (and loudly) defending his habits, hobbies and opinions. If a baby or child excretes anything in George’s vicinity, George gets sick. Once Mrs. George explained his sad condition to me, I did not buy it. Certain that this was George’s way of escaping less than pleasant tasks, I decided to test him. It wasn’t pretty, talk about an experiment gone awry. I’ll spare you the gory details beyond I believe him now.

Maybe it says something about me, that I keep this mental list. I like to think that it is a writer thing. Mostly. In my defense I have never touched Comrade’s neck, nor said “Rawr” to Angel. Still, I am not above playing with kryptonite when it amuses me. Dear Hubby worked in electronics for years, so he’s highly sensitive to being shocked, because it’s happened so many times. At least once a winter I’ll zip through the house in my wool socks, and discover the air is nice and dry and everything I touch will spark brilliantly. Even though I know that the penalty will be grave, I still have to do it. Yep, I sneak up behind my kind and patient husband, and touch his ear. He’s a very forgiving man, but even if I end up outside in the snow, wet, it was still worth it, and I can’t even say why.

Maybe it is going out on a limb to say that most of humanity probably shares a top ten list of things that creep us out, though the movie marquees at Halloween tend to back up this theory. I’m not referring to those creep-outs. I’m talking about those little peculiarities we harbor as individuals. The elderly person who wears her shirts inside out because she doesn’t like seams touching her, your friend who can’t watch you put in contact lenses because it creeps her out so much (and you never say, “What’s this?” and touch your eyeball when she looks), or the kid who is so ticklish that you can’t put socks on him without a wrestling match. What is your particular or favorite little creep-out?  Feel free to rat out your family and friends if you like.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe. I can tell you Slinky Dog’s creep-outs. There are two, hot-dog buns and that springy sound his tail makes if you keep messing with it. If you’d like an Epic Slinky Dog of your very own, leave me an awesome tale of a little creep-out (and follow my blog) and maybe I’ll send you one. Be sure to check back, to see if you won!  I post winners in the comment section.

Gorp

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

“What do you want for your birthday?  Gift card?” I instant messaged my nephew, let’s call him Zeke. He replied, “No. Something good, better than the flying squirrel.”  Well, all right, I love a challenge. It’s kind of hard to top a flying squirrel, just like it has been hard to top my annual summer adventure since the whole sky-diving thing. (Link to the flying squirrel tale http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2011/09/barking-inspiration.html .) My first thought was a copy of the book, “A Prayer for Owen Meany” by John Irving, accompanied by the best taxidermy armadillo money can buy. Unfortunately, the best specimen money can buy proved to be leagues out of my Birthday Boy Budget.



So that is how I came up with the Chinese Cricket Cage, imported all the way from China – of course. Mostly because that is the only place I could find one. Then came the dilemma, how to stuff a cricket in it, long distance?  Turns out you can buy the suckers on-line, one small detail, the smallest amount of crickets you can purchase is 500. Yes, Zeke’s Mom sent me a flaming text message about the crickets, AND told my Mom. It was worth it though, when Zeke admitted to me that the cricket gift was better than the flying squirrel.

I think the most memorable gifts are experiences. An experience is better than a thing. Once I surprised Dear Hubby with the opportunity to fly a Navy fighter jet*. The co-pilot promised there was nothing DH could do in the air that he couldn’t correct. Hubby flew from Santa Fe to Los Alamos, buzzing the volcano caldera, even got to do loops and barrel rolls, and he only stalled the jet once. There was oil all over the side of the craft when they landed, but land they did. DH can now tell you exactly what it feels like to pull G’s so hard that your navel meets your spine. He really wasn’t in the mood for southwestern food afterwards though, averted his eyes through my guacamole consumption, but I’m pretty sure he really liked the present.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

The Gorp you see above is homemade granola. I make a batch every Autumn for DH and Zeus. By make I mean I assemble it, which is dangerously close to baking. Last week I did bake a cake to give as a gift, used my Gram’s old-fashioned Poppy-seed cake recipe. It involves all those time-consuming baking maneuvers like separating egg whites and beating them, making sour cream, etc. Taking time away from writing to bake is not something I often do. But this was a special gift for monks at a local monastery. It may or may not have been to appease my guilty conscience after the whole lamb-questing deal in the spring. I am not admitting anything that I may or may not have done in pursuit of fulfilling that quest. (Some guilty lamb quest details here http://www.theglitterglobe.com/2012/05/violence-of-lambs.html .) Yet bake that cake I did, even timed the cooling process so I could flip it out of the pan at the right time, and it didn’t even fall apart. Score.

Then Angel stopped by. “Cake!” her eyes lit up. “No, it’s for the monks,” I explained, and we started to chat. It wasn’t until she used exaggerated gestures, dropping bits of cake into her mouth that I realized she was pinching off bits of that cake and eating it. When I protested, her eyes got really big. “You were serious?  You’re making a cake for monks?  For real?”  Sheesh, doesn’t everyone?  Well, they would if they’d…never mind. Anyway, the monks ended up with a pumpkin cranberry cake – made from scratch. So I did double penance and used up two years worth of baking energy in one day.

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt (Monk Cake, the one that survived)

The Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans giveaway here at The Glitter Globe was a huge success. Honestly the stories about people actually eating those beans slay me. Bring on the gory details of when you ate the vomit one. I literally get nauseous just reading them. I only have a couple boxes left, so share a story with me if you’d like one. Have you ever received or given a memorable gift?  Have you ever baked a cake (doesn’t have to have been for the monks) and someone ate it with their fingers?  (By the way, that wasn’t the first time that happened.) 

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

***

Speaking of giveaways, The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway continues. Leave a comment below if you’d like an Epic Slinky Dog, and tell me why you need one, and I’ll give one away this coming week if it moves me or makes me laugh. (You also have to follow my blog.)  The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway has been my favorite. I’ve ended up with some really epic photographs of Slinky Dog. As a matter of fact Slinky even hit the beach. http://immortalportals.wordpress.com/2012/10/14/the-adventures-of-slinks-and-imonk/ 

*http://www.warbird.us/ (If you want to send your Dear Hubby, or yourself, to learn how to do barrel rolls!)

Photo Credit:  LaDonna Cole/Slinks & iMonk

Dream On

The Great Lake stretches to the horizon like an ocean. People traverse the pebbly shoreline, enjoying late October sunshine. To the west a wall of water rises fifty feet into the air, Cecil B. Demille style. Impossibly it holds there, appearing to stretch from the U.S. coastline clear to Canada. People on the beach stare in confused wonder. Some pull out their cell phones and snap photos. A few dart for their cars, escaping as fast as they can. One carload of escapees happens to have a topography map. They manage to unfurl it and read as they head for higher ground. An entire day is spent racing away with tidal waves crashing just behind their bumper. That is how I spent last night, racing tsunami waves in a carload of people I don’t know. Just before I woke up, Bruce Willis had a close up and got erased by a Niagara-size rush of water. The whole story took a Sixth Sense type of turn when he reappeared ghost-like. It was an excellent movie, I’m glad I dreamed it up, spectacular special effects, brilliant acting.

Do you have excellent dreams?  What I’ve noticed frequently is that I’m rarely in my dreams. I think I’m usually just the writer in my dreams too.

Summer has had a recurring dream all her life. She dreams she is in a field, no bigger than the daisies surrounding her, basking in sunshine. Far in the distance are two giant washing machines with the lids open. Summer knows someone or something is going to put her in there, and WASH her. She doesn’t want to go in. They’re far off, huge and inescapable. To this date the dream ends with the lids slamming, and Summer waking up. Summer also has a dream where someone gives her a box with a very tiny dog inside of it. It is her responsibility to take care of that wee dog. She’s worried that when she talks to the dog, her great big voice hurts his teeny miniature canine ears. Imagine the sensitive hearing on a three inch dog, she points out. Imagine what Freud would say I point out. “Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.”

Angel has a dream she really likes, where her house fills with four feet of water. Not usually anyone’s dream, but Angel says it is sparkling clear tropical water, and now she can swim and float around her house. Angel also has a dream where a panther lives in a closet at the end of the hall. It wears an apron, and when guests ask about it, it tells them it is celebrating Halloween. Angel says it is a creepy dream, because it isn’t Halloween and it is a real panther hiding in a pink apron, and that disguise does not fool her.



I love the nonsensical nature of many dreams.

Once my buddy Zeus told me that he’d dreamed he flew cross country to visit someone. I do not know what made me ask, “In an airplane?”  To which Zeus replied, shaking his head and holding his giant arms straight out at his sides, “No. Like this.”  Flying dreams are my personal favorite. Do you have them?  I always ask for particulars on flying dreams. Zeus flies like a jet or an aircraft carrier (he is a giant after all), he just zips through the air at high speeds. Summer said she often is stranded on the ground, watching others fly around her and unable or unwilling to try it. I tend to fly like I’m swimming through the air, and I often take deep breaths and hold them while I do it. Dear Hubby has poked me awake in mid-flight because he thought I was holding my breath far too long. Do you fly high or low?  I tend to keep just above the tree-tops, in case Hubby pokes me awake and I have to land quickly. I used to have trouble controlling my direction. That problem was taken care of years ago. Oprah showed me how to steer with my foot.



Usually I argue with creepy dreams, but aren’t the strangest ones when they tell you something you’re missing in real life?

At some point, years ago, I started to put my magical steering foot down if a dream turned dark. Some conscious part of my brain will actually say, “I will not have this dream.”  And then I change it. So it disturbed me when I had several back to back dreams where something wicked emanated from the ground beneath my house. It kept trying to get inside and make me sick. I thought about it for a couple of days, as it repeated. I even tested the water, and it was fine. The dream stuck in my mind though, because I’ve been sick for a couple of months now. Turned out that I have a type of mold inside, and I’m very allergic to it. Doors and windows are being torn off my house and replaced, and standing outside looking at the dark mold I experienced déjà vu. Then I realized that this is exactly like that dream, and wow, the subconscious is an amazing thing.

Now I’m holding out hope that tonight’s dream will give me a clue about some plot twists I’m working on. My conscious is moving slowly with it.  A boost would be nice. Has your subconscious ever alerted you to something you missed?  Do you ever dream full length movies, and you’re not even in them?  Has your cat ever fixed you fabulous French toast in a dream?  Oh, and do you fly in your dreams?  Dish.  

Walk on the Wild Side

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Standing outside a Walmart in Roswell, New Mexico, I snapped pictures of the front of the building. With little more than an eye-roll, I’d driven past the touristy UFO museums and streetlights shaped like alien heads. This was too sweet to pass up. A big beefy biker dude watched me. I battled the blinding desert sun, hoping to get a decent picture of the storefront mural. The biker got off his bike and made his way over to me. Somehow he managed to wear head to toe leather despite the heat. Skin not encased in leather was covered in tattoos. “Come ‘ere,” he said, “Wanna show ya somethin’.”  Broad daylight, Walmart parking lot, big freaky biker guy, I’m game, so I followed him back to the bike. “Lookit tha’” he motioned with his head to his bike. I know as much about motorcycles as I do cars. They consist of metal and rubber. He proudly pointed out the kickstand. It looked like the alien in the Sigourney Weaver movies, only in chrome. Sweet.

Sometimes I put it on my mental to-do list. ‘Today I will do something that scares me.’  The purpose of the mandate is writing fodder. That road trip through New Mexico provided plenty of opportunity for scares and fodder. My favorite creep-out being the “CAUTION RATTLESNAKES!” signs at the rest areas. The scariest being bedbugs in a rather nice hotel, I could have lived without that. It has plagued me at every hotel I’ve stayed at since.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Flying doesn’t bother me, but my favorite part of flying in an open cockpit airplane was definitely the landing. Sticking your head out of a moving aircraft isn’t nearly as much fun as it sounds. Even though flying over my own house was kind of cool. It made me realize that we don’t weed-whack nearly enough. Someone should get on that.

The National Whitewater Center has a really fun ropes course and whitewater rafting opportunities. I hit the water one chilly autumn day and enjoyed every shivering minute of it. The part that scared me ended up not being my time in the water. Continuing a lifelong tradition of refusing to climb into a rental wetsuit sans underclothes, I was then faced with the reality of soaking wet and icy cold under things for my long drive home. A half hour later I sat at Sonic with a Cherry-Coke slush, commando. My rafting buddy, Angel, and I decided it was rather liberating. Talk about taking a walk on the wild side.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Still handing out boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans here at The Glitter Globe. Are you up for trying something that scares you?  Tell me about your walk on the wild side. What have you done lately that scares you?  Was it as bad as you thought it would be?  I’d really like to know your favorite creep-out. 

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

***

The Epic Slinky Dog Giveaway continues here at The Glitter Globe also!  Dual giveaways!  Follow my blog, to be eligible, and leave a comment. I’ll pick five comments for a box of Every Flavour Beans. And for every five new followers I get, I randomly pick someone from the comment section for a Slinky Dog!   

Photo Credit: Zachary M.

Now that just scares me



What's Your Sign?

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

There is a bridge out near Spooky Hill. A cryptic detour routes you through a scenic, mostly one lane road, with car-swallowing ditches on the sides. Today I played chicken with a FedEx truck. You don’t want to do that. I didn’t want to do that, but it is wooded and I was going downhill. By the time the truck came into view, all I could do was pray. The detour makes Spooky Hill even more difficult to find. Turn right by the missing bridge, left past the horse farm, and drive through the woods until you hear banjo music - then turn left on Beers Road. Hopefully you have a GPS because there are no street signs on Beers Road. I have a theory about why, and it involves a sneaking suspicion that a big ‘BEERS’ sign might be considered art in a college dorm.

Once I lived on a road where speed bumps were installed by the local homeowners association. One of the residents took it upon himself to order signs warning drivers of the under-carriage scraping bumps. Next thing you knew there were big blue signs installed along the road that said HUMP. Yep, those disappeared by the first Wednesday. The guy who ordered them was perplexed, God love him, “Why do they keep swiping my HUMP signs?”  No one was going to take that on, but they were soon replaced with BUMP signs – apparently not as popular in college dorms.

Back when Spooky Hill was being haunted by the Evil Contractor (Link to Evil Contractor posts here: When Pigs Backfire and Pirate Attack) somebody had the audacity to refer to it as Hell Hill. That was a bit of an exaggeration, purgatory perhaps, but certainly not hell. Admittedly Evil Contractor and his minions had a frightening effect on the residents of Spooky Hill, warping their sense of humor – perhaps permanently. So a Hell Hill sign was promptly ordered and custom made. At the very next neighborhood gathering, the sign was hung over the Spooky Hill road sign, and we all had a collective laugh about it. That night after I tucked the kids into bed, I asked Dear Hubby if the sign had been taken down. Unsure, he shrugged and promised to check in the morning. It didn’t seem an issue, who comes to Spooky Hill at night anyway?  You probably have as much chance of stumbling upon El Dorado in the dark. So no worries, right? 

Dude. We want our sign back.

***

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

In celebration of another October on Spooky Hill I’m giving away Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans!*  Now if these candies were to contain a flavor of my choice, it would be Poppyseed – and my idea of a nasty flavor would definitely be Pig’s Feet – which my Bohemian Gram used to make to terrify the Grandchildren into submission.

Today the Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans are an easy win. Based on your own life, what flavor would you like to see included?  And based on your own childhood, what flavor would be your own personal nightmare?  I’m planning to give away five boxes, so post away.

Of course the Epic Slinky Dog giveaway continues too. Be sure to follow my blog -à over there and leave a comment if you want a chance to win a Slinky Dog. For every five new followers, I draw a random name from the comments section. How easy is that?

*British spelling for my Beta.

 

Spot On

Photo Credit:  Kimberly Robertson

 

Meet Frank.  You can tell by the look on his face that he's worried someone is going to put this picture on Facebook or a blog somewhere, can't you?  The Epic Slinky Dog giveaway has been a blast.  I've sent out dozens of the little guys to good homes all over the globe, and sometimes I get terrific pictures like this one.  So I have absolutely no intention of stopping just yet.  It's too much fun. 

Slinky Ai

Are you familiar with the "Where's Waldo" game?  I like to make up my own rules whenever possible, so how about a Glitter Globe version of "Where's Slinky Dog?"  You tell me where you think Slinky Dog is, but guessing his actual location is secondary to entertainment.  Tell me where you think Slinky is, and what he is doing there.  I want your Slinky Dog stories. 

Slinky Be

You probably cannot tell by these pictures that I had a very busy day today.  I finished up a novel, registered it with Writer's Guild East, sent it off to people who were waiting, and worked at a job that actually pays me.  Instead of sneaking a nap, I sneaked Slinky around town and took pictures of him.  

Slinky Ce

If you'd like to play along, leave a comment below and tell me what you think Slinky is up to.  Feel free to comment on Ai, Be, and Ce, or just one if you like.  My favorite stories will win either an Epic Slinky Dog delivered right to your house, or a sneak peek into my special October giveaway.  Be sure to follow my blog to qualify, and be sure to check back to see if you win!  I'm going to pick my first five favorite stories as winners, so happy posting.  Where's Slinky Dog?





The Time Travel Jeep - To Grandmother's House We Go - Urban Fantasy Flash Fiction

The Time Travel Jeep is an Urban Fantasy series I'm writing, and sharing in short-story installments. Lizzy is in town for her Grandmother's funeral, when her Jeep starts jumping through time - S. R. Karfelt

 

 

       Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

 



It is so weird coming back to my hometown. The Laundromat is now an art gallery. Abstract zombie nudes are displayed facing Main Street, next to Rockwellian oil paintings of apple trees. The corner store’s become an upscale coffee shop full of white people with dreadlocks. Sipping my skinny, non-dairy, salted caramel latte, I’m torn between nostalgia and caffeinated bliss. The Jeep struggles as I mercilessly accelerate, running a yellow light. I laugh. Norman, Ohio has gone hipster. Never saw that one coming.

Forgetting to slow for the railroad tracks, the Jeep bounds recklessly over. The satellite radio cuts out in the middle of White Stripes. Coffee splatters over my sweater. I wipe it off with a sleeve. Blotches now dot it. The family will notice. They’re going to be checking me for crow’s feet, and taking bets on whether I’ll ever marry again or just get a cat.

Oh, God. My heart sinks into my stomach. I shove the coffee towards the cup-holder, spilling it all over the console. I don’t care. A four-lane highway now takes up what used to be a farm and Gram’s house. I yank the steering wheel and the Jeep skids into the parking lot of a brand new gas station. I park about where Gram’s rose bushes used to be. Leaning my head against the steering wheel, I know I shouldn’t have come here. Gram died in a nursing home three days ago. Seeing the house gone makes it worse, like she’s been erased. I miss her. Selfishly need her advice. What would she tell me to do?  She wouldn’t, she’d feed me spice cake and tell me to get a cat.

Static AM music scratches from the speakers. MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’. “Not even,” I slap the dial, silencing the radio. What is wrong with the satellite radio?  I didn’t hit the railroad tracks that hard!  Then everything changes. The gloomy overcast day is suddenly full-on sunshine. Blinking against it, I try not to see that the gas station is gone. I’m parked in the middle of a half dead rosebush of mammoth proportions. The backside of Gram’s butterscotch colored house is in front of me. Most of the leaves are off the maple tree, and the yard needs raked. There are clothes hanging on the clothesline even though it is the end of October. I’ve had a stroke. Oh my gosh, I don’t want to have had a stroke. I’m too young for a stroke.

I nab my keys and root for my cell, coffee drips from it. I clean it with my doomed sweater, and slide it into a pocket. Swinging the door open, I get one leg out before it rebounds in Jeep fashion, against my leg. The smell of Maple leaves mixes with a familiar scent of baking, Gram’s poppy-seed cake. My eyes tear up and I slide out. I’ve had a stroke, I’m dead and this is heaven. Norman, Ohio is heaven. Never saw that one coming. I slam the door shut. Thorns jab through my pants, snagging the material. Automatically I stuff my keys into my pocket, and pat the other making sure I didn’t forget my phone. Like I’m going to be using it here. Is there cell reception in heaven?  I’m about to test this theory when Gram comes around the corner of the house. She stops and stares at me. She’s alive and healthy, wearing her green housedress with her stockings rolled around her ankles. It used to be the in thing, back in the day, she told me that once.

“Lizzy?  Is that you?”  The sound of her voice makes me cover my mouth and start to cry. That’s my grandmother! 

“Why did you park in the backyard?  Elizabeth Marie, get out of my rosebushes!  Those were my Mother’s!  I brought a clipping with me….”  Back in…carried in a handkerchief.... I echo the lecture inside my head. I remember this one!  “Move it!  What is wrong with you?” she grouses. I run across the yard and hug her hard. She smells like mint julep shampoo and laundry soap, like Gram, she pushes away and frowns. Her perceptive grey eyes are exactly as I remember, I don’t even care that I’m dead.

Poking me right in the middle of the chest she asks, “Why aren’t you at work?  You’re gonna get fired.” 

“Gram?  I…” I trail off, what do I say?  I’m dead, we’re dead. Doesn’t she know?  Why doesn’t she know?

“What’s wrong?” she’s frowning. “You look so…tired,” she finishes diplomatically.

“I’m on my way to a funeral.” I touch her.

She makes her “tsk” sound, grabbing my arm. “Want a piece of poppy seed cake?  You look skinny.”  She’s my favorite person ever. We round the corner of the house and her old rat terrier comes barking. I’m not in heaven. Duke would never have made the cut. I still have the scars he gave me last time I gave him a bath. Bit me right on the nose. Duke died…I try to remember, it was before Gram started to forget. She opens the screen door and her cat wraps itself around my legs, purring. It died long before Duke. The wallpaper in the kitchen is outdated. Gram takes plates out of the cupboard and cuts the familiar poppy-seed cake. I can never make it like her.

“Will you give me the recipe for this?”

“Since when do you cook?” she teases.

“Jon always loved it when you made it. He said it wasn’t the same when I made it.”

“Who?”

I almost answer, almost say ‘Jon, my husband who died,’ but can’t. My gaze moves to the kitchen table. Gram’s Scrabble board is set up. She always spent hours a day playing Scrabble by herself, trying to talk one of her many visitors into a game. Next to it is the newspaper. The front page has an article about the dawning of the computer age. It’s dated October 31, 1990. I was eighteen years old in 1990. I sit down at the table. Gram slides a slice of cake at me.

“Now who died?  You didn’t tell me you were going to a funeral this morning.”  I lived with Gram in 1990. Am I in heaven?  Or 1990?  It definitely can’t be both, I remember 1990.

“And whose car did you park in my rosebush?” 

I take a bite of her cake. Maybe 1990 is heaven.

“Gram, do you want to play Scrabble?”  Her smile lights her face. I’ve missed that smile, she forgot it years ago. Scooting her plate towards the Scrabble board, she warns, “Mix up the letters before you pick them. No cheating.”

Time slows. Gram puts ‘Oxter’ on the board, pats my hand and gets up to make tea. I’m leaning towards heavenly 1990. Then a car pulls into the driveway. Tearing out from under the table, Duke conks his head on a chair, barking like the idiot he is. I’d forgotten he did that!  I think I’ve missed him too. Jumping up and down, he wets a bit. No, I didn’t miss him. Standing, Gram plunks letters on the board and gives me her Scrabble victory smile. Obovoid.

“Is that really a word?”  I try to check if it is really a word on my cell, but there’s no reception in Heaven, or 1990. The dog barks so loud, I go to the door and look outside. It’s my Uncles. I shove through the door and we hurry outside.

They’re digging in the trunk of a convertible. I remember this car!  Slamming the lid, they look at me. I stare back at them, suddenly not sure. These are my Uncles, I decide after a minute. Except they’re young, and good looking.  My stroke theory makes a comeback. It can’t be normal to think your Uncles are attractive. Definitely a stroke. Duke is jumping up and down, nipping at my handsome Uncles. Gram holds onto the railing to step off the porch.

“Go move your car!” she orders me, explaining. “Lizzy parked in my rosebush!” 

I dart forward and kiss her. She grins.

“You better not have wrecked my flowers.”

I race for the backyard and Duke chases, snapping at my feet. We both hop into my Jeep. He starts licking the spilled coffee off the console. I don’t care why or where, I’m glad I’m here. I slam the door shut and everything disappears. The sunshine is gone and I’m staring at the Quik-Fil gas station again. My cell rings in my pocket. Automatically I dig it out and answer. It’s my sister.

“Lizzy?  You’re late, the funeral started! And Uncle Nick is telling everyone you stole Duke and lied about it for years. I said I took that dog to be put to sleep myself. Do you think Alzheimer’s is genetic?”

Slowly I turn to look. Duke shows me his teeth. Not exactly a cat. Never saw that coming.

***

The Time Travel Jeep is a sample of my Urban Fantasy writing.  Obviously not true, especially for those of you who know me in real life.  I did have a Sweet Gram, she did not have Alzheimer's.  I am not Lizzie - Urban Fantasy is written in First Person POV (Point of View).  It's Fiction.  Oh, who am I kidding?  It's all true.  I have a Time Travel Jeep and I use it to go back in time and play Scrabble with my Gram.  So, hah.  (Click on the word Jeep for another installment of The Time Travel Jeep.)