The Poor Souls at Smashwords Have Published Me

So many writers have been writing for most of their lives.  The bug bit me at the beginning of last year, making me somewhat of a newbie.  However, I enjoy writing about as much as I enjoy eating, an activity I never pass up when the opportunity strikes.  So many wonderful writers have been following my work on Open Salon and the Yahoo Contributor Network (formerly Associated Content).  I am extremely grateful for all the support and encouragement they have given me. 

I am pleased, and a little surprised, to say I have completed my first ebook, Confessions of a Southern-Fried Yankee, a collection of humorous columns.  Should you find yourself tired of watching grass grow or paint dry, feel free to check it out. 

My Smashwords author profile is at: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jcreese
A free sample of my book is available at www.smashwords.com/books/view/38896

Once again, a huge thank you to all of my readers.  All three of you.  Your readership and support mean the world to me.

Mom Always Said Everything Comes Back

Not too long ago, my thirteen year old daughter talked me into taking her to one of my least favorite places. The mall. I know I'm going against the grain here as a woman in her late twenties (okay, maybe late thirties) when I say those words. I have never been one to just wander around the mall, even as a teenager. I suppose that could have been because I never had money. Not being one to suffer from mall hunger, when I go shopping I’m on a mission, and I want things to happen in this order:

1. Enter mall with destination in mind.

2. Enter destination, find needed item.

3. Pay, then exit the entire establishment.

My daughter did not inherit this part of me. She loves the mall and the whole experience. Kicking and screaming, I was dragged into a store full of girl stuff. This store is quite small to begin with. Once you pack it full of hair accessories, jewelry, lip glosses, etc., it’s bad enough. Add the teenage girls and their incessant jabber, and it becomes a coffin to me. I almost lost consciousness from the overwhelming aroma of plastic purses hanging by the dozens along the wall. My daughter, in her element, pulled me along, pointing out several items that caught her fancy. Neon fingerless gloves, brightly colored hard plastic bracelets, plastic hoop earrings, and a white belt with a multi-color paint spatter effect all over it.

Are you kidding me? Why did I throw all my old stuff away? Oh yeah, I remember now. I HAD TASTE. Was Madonna about to jump out at me from behind a rack of jelly shoes? It was like a total 1980s flashback. As the room spun around me I felt the urge to tease my bangs, tear the shoulder out of my T-shirt, grab a pair of leg warmers from the shelf, and break into a "Flashdance" tribute dance routine. I needed some air.

My misery was far from over. No amount of begging made a dent in my child’s heart. We pressed on, despite me faking a heart attack and an allergic reaction to plastic. The next stop -- Old Navy. A mountain of fruity colored V-neck cardigans loomed to our left. Leggings and patent leather flat shoes filled rack after rack. Those freaky talking mannequins give me the creeps. I watched in awe as my teenager admired these “new” trendy looks. How could she make fun of my old pictures? The very thing she laughed at seemed to draw her in like an old lady to a Bingo game with a free buffet.

A little further down the mall we passed a shoe store. What's with the pink high-top sneakers? Plastic stilettos? Fake leather hobo bags with big bows on one side? Are they serious? If I would have known all the things I wore back then (minus the stilettos) would be back two decades later, my daughter would have an entire wardrobe of "vintage" clothes at her disposal.

I don't miss parachute pants, but I do miss big hair and doing the Seventh Grade Shuffle at the dances. There was nothing like a good power ballad playing in the school gym while we nervously waited to be asked to dance by someone we liked. I was such a geek then. Still am.

Now my daughter begs me not to dance in front of her friends when a song I like is on the radio. Come to think of it, she asks me not to dance. Ever. She slides down in her seat when I belt out Nickelback songs in the car, even while sitting at the traffic lights. I don’t know what her problem is.

Lighten up, dear daughter. Your time will come. All the fashions you think are tacky will haunt you decades later when they resurface. Someday you'll be the one explaining to your child that their favorite new song is really a remake of an old original. And they'll give you that same look of horror when you start singing all the words.

　
　
　

A Man and His Pig - A Love Story From the 'Burbs

A police officer once told me he estimates about 75 percent of my neighborhood population suffers from a psychological disorder of one type or another.  While that information remains unconfirmed, five years of residency leaves me tending to agree with his assessment.  Any doubts I may have had evaporated yesterday, as I waved at two potbellied middle-aged men cruising the subdivision by way of a golf cart.  A common sight near a golf course, but I haven’t seen many drug dealers driving pimped-out golf carts near the hood.

One of our more notable residents lives a few doors down from me. To call Cal somewhat unique is like calling Simon Cowell somewhat opinionated.  An Army veteran, Cal has a head full of ambitious project ideas and ample time to see them to fruition, much to the delight and/or horror of the rest of us.  He can often be seen in his standard uniform of a t-shirt, shorts, Birkenstocks and, um, white socks.  The plastic cup containing an adult beverage is optional before dinner. 

Nothing this guy does is on a small scale. Where most people would plant a reasonable amount of tomatoes for eating and canning, Cal planted three gardens on his average-sized lot and bought  over 100 canning jars in preparation for either a serious salsa craving, or the Apocalypse.  I'm not sure which, but both scenarios disturb me. 

His recent yard sale showcased his tendency to be overzealous.   Cardboard signs advertised prices for the usual household doodads and unwanted items.  Not content to earn mere pocket change, Cal posted For Sale signs on everything he owned.  Trying to  sell a car is not unusual, but I had to question his motives when I read "House For Sale - Old Lady Included," scrawled out in black marker. Had he sold his car that day, he might have brought in enough cash to pay for a divorce attorney. 

Several months back, Cal's hankering for bacon got the better of him.  He loaded his trunk with some rope and a roll duct tape, then headed to a local swap meet.  Much to our relief, and that of the pig population, he was unable to procure his pork that day.  Figuring common sense kicked in and crushed his dream, we all breathed a sigh of relief.  Until a few weeks ago when I headed out with my dog for our evening walk.

     "Hey!  Wanna come over and see my pig?"  I heard, in that unmistakable Brooklyn accent. Looking quite pleased with himself, Cal, beverage in hand, stood nearby with a neighbor.  I tried to avert my gaze from the socks and Stocks he had going on.

     "Oh, is that what you guys are calling it these days?  No, thanks!" I shot back.  However, I couldn't help myself.  I had to take a look.

Said piglet resided in a small metal cage.  I first saw him in the garage, a fan blowing humid air on his tiny, pink, shivering body.  I asked Cal what the deal was.  He said he'd just given the pig a bath.  Hmmm.  The plan is to raise this poor beast until he reaches a desirable dinner weight.  I guess clean ham from our local subdivision tastes better than the store-bought variety. 

Regardless, I don't care what Cal says.  There's no way he's prepping that pig for sacrifice.  Last weekend he stood in his backyard, a drink in one hand, and the garden hose nozzle in the other.  A frolicking pig played in a refreshing blast of water on a hot summer day.  Both parties clearly enjoyed the event.  With a little background music, it would have made a lovely bonding scene for a PETA bromance movie. 

Like a dog, that pig follows Cal all over the yard.  No flies on Pork Chop, he's a swift one.  If he plays his cards right, he might become Cal's new favorite pet, instead of the main course at our next block party.  Someday we'll see them in the car, riding around the neighborhood.  Cal driving, and a pink pig head hanging out the window, hooves on the door.  What a picture.

Come to think of it, I haven't seen Cal's dog in a long time.  We may need to rethink accepting any dinner invitations for a while. 

The Bug Slayer

Being a yankee transplant living in the South is an adventure.  Many a redneck has given me grief over my New England-ish ways.  I take flak for not pronouncing the word “aunt” as “ant.”  I had never heard of  tornado season and I didn’t know what a “fraidy hole” was until I was ready to dig my way under a house during a violent thunderstorm.  For years people told me to speak slower because they couldn’t understand what..I..was..saying.  Huh.  My northern friends have no problem understanding me because they also speak fast.  I have many wonderful friends here and I’m not insulting anyone’s intelligence, just sharing my own experiences. 

After twenty three years of exposure, I’ve made a few observations and more than a few adjustments.  One thing I won’t adjust to is the size of the bugs. I must be living by a leaking nuclear reactor, seeing as how some of the bugs are big enough to talk back to me.  It’s like they marinate in a nuclear waste cocktail until they quadruple in size.  I figure the government knows something I don't. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The bugs in question go by several aliases, such as water bugs or sometimes wood roaches.  The names depend on geography.  I think in Florida they're called palmetto bugs,  probably because they are the size of a small palm frond.   I first encountered one of these bugs in Texas.  Having lived in New England, it scared me to death.  I think it had a dog in its mouth.  I was a teenager at the time and found my first gray hair shortly after.

Not only are the mutant bugs  plus-sized pests, they attend training camps where they  become marathon runners. They always seem to know where to run for shelter, as if they‘ve studied the floor plans ahead of time.  Every once in a while I’ll see one fly from a curtain rod.  Touting a four inch wingspan enables them to glide in for a landing anywhere in the house.  The shock of seeing this renders the homeowner temporarily paralyzed, thus affording the bug a few more precious moments of life.  At this point, it’s easier just to shoot them.

For years I suffered anxiety attacks if I had to kill one.  It never failed.  Every time a mutant bug showed itself, inevitably I was home alone.  I hated the chase, which ultimately ended with a crunch.  Sometimes I just dropped heavy books on them and ran away until help arrived.  All that changed after I became a mother. 

One night I heard my daughter yelling from the other end of the house.

Daughter:  Mom! Quick! Come here! There's one of those big bugs in here! It's climbing up the wall! Hurry!

Me:   Just pick up a shoe and smash it! I know you're not asking me to come kill it! Whose room is it in?

Daughter: Yours!

Me: (Darn)

Armed with a broom and a can of industrial strength bug killing spray, I made my way down the hall.  My daughter and oldest son stood whimpering in my room.  Useless.   I requested the exact location of the offending creature. The master bathroom. Great. I couldn't see it on the wall and I wasn't about to poke my naked head through the doorway only to have this beast fall in my hair, or worse, on my face.

I decided to go around to the other doorway to gain a better vantage point. And there it was. The thing was as big as a hummingbird and it was laughing at me.  I think I saw it give me the finger.  Taking aim with my can of killer spray, I imagined the bug in the crosshairs.  I sprayed. This stuff has a 20 foot knockdown range. He dropped like a stone. Mustering bravado, I smacked him one with the broom for good measure. You can never be sure.  Ha! Who's laughing now? I swept the remains into a dustpan then tossed the carcass outside.

I am the Bug Slayer.

Debbie Does Dallas and Darryl Does Dishwashers

Last week the tri-fecta of  repairs cursed my home.  I must not be living right or something, because two major appliances and my truck all decided to crap the bed within the same seven day stretch.  The dishwasher went dead as a hammer in the wee hours one morning.  The washing machine followed suit a few days later.  What sent me over the edge was my truck.  For the sake of time I'll only share the appliance repair guy incident.

At my insistence that we purchase a home warranty, many of my home repairs only require only a deductible be paid to a local repair service.  Sounds great on paper.  The thing is, the warranty company chooses the repair company, leaving the homeowner at the mercy of Butt-Crack Bubba and a handful of Xanax. 

Remember the old "Newhart" show the Bob Newhart did years ago?  "This is my brother, Darryl. And my other brother, Darryl."  Well, the show's long gone, but I believe one of the Darryl's moved south and found work in my area.  Either that or I'm being Punked by Ashton Kutcher.  

After assessing the appliances, Darryl approached me with the verdict.

"Well, the good news is I can get the parts.  The bad news is they're all the way in Big City (like a whopping 20 miles away)," he said. 

Yeah, and?  What, it's three days by llama?  The way he said it, I figured I'd have to wait a week or something, which is not unusual.

"But...I do have to go down there today so I can pick up the parts."  He stopped and scratched his head.  "Well...I won't be able to get to it until...how late can I come back tonight?"

"Whenever.  Just call me and I'll be sure to be here.  It's fine," I told him.  This was not complicated.  At least, not to me.  Later that afternoon he called me back.

"Ms. Writer?  Uh...I'm at your house (okay...)  and I wanted to know if it's okay to fix the appliances." 

"Yes!  Get out of your truck and come inside.  It's fine!"  I opened the front door to wave him in.  I stuck my head outside and saw no sign of Darryl's truck or his llama.  What the heck?  About ten minutes later, another phone call.

"Uh, Ms. Reese?  I lied to you," I heard.

"Okay...how's that?" I asked Darryl.  Now follow along, people.  Every bit of this is true as my love for my secret crush (you know who you are).

"Well, I'm in Dogpatch (next town over) at this lady's house.  I worked on her dishwasher this morning.  I came to her door a little while ago and told her I had the part for her dishwasher and she thought it was weird since I told her I fixed it this morning.  So I took the part in the kitchen and thought it was weird that her dishwasher is a touch panel, not a dial like yours is.  So, I went to the wrong house thinking it was yours."

Wow.  I can see getting lost, but ending up in the wrong town?  He was just at my house that morning!  He went on.

"I'm going to pay my water bill, 'cuz it's in town here, and then (sigh) I'll head your way."  Obviously the commute was killing him.  You just can't get a dependable llama these days.

"Fine.  Don't worry about it.  I'll be here," I told him.  Any more than that may have confused him.

He found his way back and worked on both appliances.  He turned on the dishwasher and nothing happened.  Awesome. I might also mention that because he couldn't figure out with circuit breaker went to the dishwasher, he took a risk I was very uncomfortable with.

"See this wire?" he said.  I nodded.  "As long as it doesn't touch this over here, I should be okay."  Another Xanax down the hatch.

After discovering a loose wire to be the troublemaker all along, he did something to said wire and declared his victory.  I asked him about the now unnecessary new part he installed, and he decided to leave it, since he drove all the way to Big City to retrieve it.  So, with the dishwasher humming along, he packed up his toys and left.  I loaded my dishwasher and restarted the cycle.  It worked for all of ten minutes.  I called Darryl.

"Hey, Darryl.  Dishwasher's dead, dude."  Silence.

"It is.  Okay, I know what's wrong with it.  I'll try to come back tomorrow and fix it."  He explained what he needed to do, an all of five minute fix, which he performed the following day.

I googled untraceable poisons before calling in a Xanax refill.

           

Confessions of a Serial Killer

From all outward appearances, I may appear docile, even harmless.  I don’t take part in political or religious arguments, I resist the urge to deck the Salvation Army bell ringers at Christmas time, and when an  idiot driver cuts me off in traffic, any resulting bird shootings play out only in my mind. 

Several years ago, after a series of unfortunate events plagued my home, I began to notice a disturbing pattern.  A number of unforeseen deaths, all having one common denominator.  Me.  I realized, to my horror, that I was a killer.  And my victims couldn’t even run from me, not that they didn’t try.

The season of death began with the free goldfish my child brought home from a church event.  The doomed houseguest named Stanley appeared pretty low maintenance, just swimming around in his glass bowl staring out with his wide, fishy eyes.  Not easy to interact with, but we knew he was there and we changed his water, fed him, and kept the cat out of his bowl.  When I found Stanley floating fins up one morning, we merely flushed and moved on.

The next unfortunate resident, a Betta named Valentine, endured a more miserable fate.  Whenever I changed his water, I transferred  him to a small bowl via fish net, an unpleasant experience for the transferee when the task falls on an inexperienced fish keeper.  Stupidity and a plate of solidified bacon grease set the stage for tragedy one day.  An apparent adrenaline junkie, Valentine sprung from the net and found himself plastered to that bed of grease, like a morbid sushi appetizer. Since he arrived without a living will,  a fast decision became necessary.  I peeled him off the plate and plopped him into his freshly cleaned home.  He expired three days later.  Another flush-and-go.  

Victim number three. Against my better judgment, I brought home a pretty little rainbow shark from a pet store.  Word must have traveled from Wal-Mart to the local pet stores, because that fish wanted no part of me.  He splashed around in the fish tank one night while I watched television, and I  thought he was just playing and having himself a big time.  Perhaps an issue with depth perception caused him to misjudge the area between himself and the side of the tank, or maybe the cat held up a mirror, fooling the tiny shark into thinking there were others like him, waiting on the other side.  Whatever the motivation, the dehydrated carcass awaited me on the carpet the following morning.  Hoping for an explanation and a hydrated replacement, I called the pet store and recapped the events over the previous twelve hours.

“Rainbow sharks tend to jump out of tanks sometimes.  Did you try putting him back in the water?”  Reconstitute him!  Brilliant!  Why didn't I think of that?

“It's not a Sea Monkey. So...no, I didn‘t think of that.  He was unresponsive to CPR, and I couldn’t find a good vein to get an IV started.  Any other suggestions ( Genius)?  Maybe I should try to cryogenically preserve him in the freezer.“

Snow's Coming to the South - Grab a Cow and a Sack of Flour!

Once word gets out in these parts of even a possibility of snow or ice in the forecast, Borden's dairy cows run for cover.  The demand for milk and bread here rises faster than the national debt.  I spent most of my childhood in the New England area, where the mention of snow doesn't trigger a run on the grocery stores.  How much bread and milk do these people consume in one day?  No wonder we have such an obesity issue in America.  Leave some for the people in the states that get real snow.

When snow is anticipated in my state, one of two things happens.  Either a trace amount is forecasted and we get bombarded, or a blizzard is expected and not a flake falls.  I've seen it time and again.  From what I understand, snowfall is harder to forecast than rain.  Maybe we need a more sophisticated system, like the one we use on Groundhog Day for predicting the remaining length of winter.   Perhaps a transient polar bear somewhere would take the job.  Regardless of the outcome, store shelves are empty and everyone stays home waiting for the Apocalypse. 

Why are we stranded when only a couple of inches fall?  Because my state does not have an adequate supply of snow plows and sand trucks.  One inch of snow keeps everyone at home and all businesses closed.  We'd have better results if everyone went outside with salt shakers and bags of kitty litter.  Of course, better equipment might encourage the already inept drivers who drive during good road conditions to venture out on the frozen streets to endanger and amaze the rest of us with their stupidity.  Why take the chance?

Drivers here have a hard enough time driving on wet asphalt.  Snowy roads can sometimes be navigated using skill and caution, but ice is a whole other story.  When ice glazes the streets, every Bubba with a truck heads out to play, only to find that four-wheel drive doesn't help much on ice.  It's like bumper cars out there.  I like to sit by my window with a cup of cocoa and watch them line up like Tonka trucks in the ditches.  Good times. 

Winter weather will dominate the local news coverage as if deer season's been extended for another month.  I don't bother watching it after the first broadcast of the day.  Seeing frozen reporters brave the elements gets old after the first hour.  The point gets lost on folk.  Viewers emailed one station this morning because the poor sap standing by the parking lot the interstate highway became was without a proper head covering.  He actually took the time to reassure us of his safety.  I know I'll sleep better tonight.

Schools in my area have even cancelled classes the day before an expected storm.  The only flakes on the streets the next day were herds of frolicking children, enjoying a day off and a good laugh at the grownups.  I believe policies were amended after a few of those incidents occurred, and a handful of threats were received from angry parents.  We can only handle so much additional punishment after having kids home for two weeks over Christmas break. If the schools promise to stay open, don't think my butt won't be out there salting and kitty littering.  I'm out of vodka.

Survivor: Therapy Island - How I Got Voted Off

After living with myself for so long, I have to say I applaud the efforts of any professional counselor who has ever drawn the short straw and won the prize of seeing my butt sitting in their office. Well, mostly me and not so much my butt, since that kind of exposure would put the actual therapist in therapy. It’s kind of like viewing a solar eclipse - you don’t want to look directly at it. Several qualities I possess make me a less than ideal client for a therapist.

Trying to repair my wounded soul is like dumping a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle on the table and putting it all together while wearing gloves and a blindfold. I should probably add “and at gunpoint” since I have no patience whatsoever with most things in life. Since consistent efforts over a period of time are usually a requirement for healing wounds and changing one’s outlook, therapy is an unattractive option for me. Funny that I have a similar approach when it comes to dieting. Surely I can buy something online that will provide instant and lasting results. If nothing else, I can always read another self-help book and free myself of emotional baggage while learning to exist on a new spiritual plane at the same time. Sounds like a good deal to me. I’ll Google it later.

Another reason I’ve been voted off Therapy Island is because I tend to be somewhat uncooperative about nitpicking my childhood. Maybe the reason so many of us refuse to pay money to relive our childhood to exorcise the demons is because it’s just not anyone’s idea of a good time. In fact, it just sucks. If you already know where your issues stem from, do you really need to dig all the to way to the roots? Let’s just deal with the here and now. For example: I’m here because I’m angry. Now I’m going to go kick someone’s butt so I’ll feel better. A simple solution, though not for everyone.

In addition to being impatient and uncooperative, I have a limited attention span. If someone’s sitting across from me spouting psychobabble for more than a minute, my thoughts turn to anything from what I’m having for dinner that night, to trying to recall the lyrics of a song I heard ten years ago. If something like a rogue dust bunny floating through the air should grab my attention, I become a human bobble-head, just nodding and staring off into space. ADHDers are not known for their ability to sit still and focus unless the subject matter interests us in a big way.

Therapy does work for many people. So does revenge. It all depends on who you are, I suppose. My current therapist has her work cut out for her. However, she saw me coming a mile away and made me sign waivers for suicide, homicide, genocide, and whatever other "ides" exist that could be linked to her in the future. Now that I think about it, she seemed prepared with that stack of papers the first time I walked into her office. Huh.

My last therapist had to have a cigarette after spending an hour listening to me. I told him not to worry about it and that I have that effect on most people. I’m not sure if he was waving goodbye to me or flagging down a cop when I left.
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　

No, That Doesn't Make Your Butt Look Big

I don't know of a man alive who would argue that almost everything about women is complex.  From our families and jobs, to our health and relationships, we can complicate just about anything.  Ask our therapists.  However, to our female brains, things seem simple.  Take our friendships with other women.  Simple?  Of course not, when viewed by the average male.  But, to us, an understood code that's been in place for centuries governs girly friendships.  

Women can be loyal to the end when a good friend's been wronged by another.  Unwritten rules exist for several situations, demonstrating such loyalty.  Say an ex-boyfriend starts dating someone new.  I'm not sure it's biblical, but once such rule states that close friends of the former girlfriend dislike the new girl upon first sight.   Good friends know  the guy's new squeeze lacks the three B's - beauty, boobs, and brain cells.  She could be the reigning Miss Universe, a nuclear physicist (what are the odds), and a volunteer brain surgeon on the weekends, and it wouldn't matter.  She's automatically dumber than a potato and uglier than homemade sin. 

Another unwritten rule involves telling the truth.  Mostly when not to, like when discussing one's weight or size of their backside.  The standard answers apply:  "No, those don't make your butt look big," and "No, of course you're not fat.  Yes, I'd tell you if you were."   These non-negotiable rules apply for life.  Wedding dresses are possible exceptions, and only because of the importance of the garment.  Otherwise, honor the code.    Who, among us gals, hasn't told a pregnant buddy she doesn't really look pregnant, even when that buddy's like eight months along?  Besides, it's not really lying if the other person agrees to it, right?  Hmm…

The code represents the glue of female friendships.  Good deeds, of course, count as glue, too.  Sometimes blunt honesty just flat out saves a friend from serious embarrassment.  Here are a few examples of honesty that defines true friendship:

Alerting a gal pal to a rogue booger skirting the edge of a nostril, threatening escape.

Not letting her exit a restroom with a toilet paper tail stuck on her heel, or worse, trailing from under her skirt.

Bringing her attention to the need for a mustache or - God forbid - beard wax.

True friends will tell you when it's time to donate that sweater from the 80s, they'll cry with you into a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and they'll let you know when you need professional help.  Even our closest family members can drop the ball when it comes to such tasks. 

A friend once told me that some folks come into our lives for a lifetime, while others hang around for only a season.  The older I get, the more I appreciate my close friends.  A girl knows which girlfriends are around for a lifetime.  They're the ones you can count on to help you drag and hide a body during the wee hours.  Not that I would know anything about that...