Outback Battles

S.R. Karfelt

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

When Writers Get Bored



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Pirate Attack

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Pigs Back-Fire



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

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

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

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



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



The Road Less Traveled

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

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



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

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



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

Seven Things You Don't Really Want to Know



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction, Facts and Fences



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

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

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



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

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

The Violence of the Lambs

It's never what you expect.



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

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

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

"Bring.  It.  On."

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

The quest continues…

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

Welsh lamby photo lifted from my Beta

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

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

The Interactive Joy List



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

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

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

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

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

            74. My Dentist.

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

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

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

            78. Critiques consisting of 2,388 words.          

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

Bait and Switch - The Dark Side of Fishing



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten Reasons I Luv Fishing Season



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Shoot for the Stars



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

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

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