I'm Scared of Going to Hell

    Seriously, Hell doesn't sound pleasant.  Plus, I've never been that great with fire.  
    Even in Junior High, when my friends and I would write words with hairspray and then light 'em up, something always went wrong.  Maybe we just spelled disaster--no pun intended.  
  One day when the sun beat down and the winds blew dry, a girl lost her eyebrows.  I bet she still draws them on, poor girl.  The sad thing is, that's almost scarier than Hell.

    (I mean, look at this girl.)

    Anyway, I've always worried about going to Hell.  When I was five, I used to get saved twice a week; once at Sunday school and once during the main service.
    But now that I've been saved--A LOT--I still dream about Hell and being judged.  I looked it up once; the book said I have a fear of mortality.  I even asked a dream expert.  I told him my dreams are always VERY vibrant.  
    "I've even dreamed in clay," I said.  And it's true.  My sister's hair looked like black licorice (just more doughy), and my brother's lips looked like Angelina Jolie's (just off-white).
    The dream expert looked at me somberly and said, "Clay dreams are either a sign of genius . . . or insanity."
    "How do I know what I am?" I asked.
    "Isn't it obvious?" he asked and walked away.
    I felt bad for myself, like an insane sinner THAT day. 
    I'm writing all of this because last night I had another dream.  Maybe it's because I've been thinking about Zeke.  I had someone tell me recently that I shouldn't worry about going to Hell; I should just do the best I can.  He said I have my very own fan in Heaven, a little boy who's cheering for me every day saying, "You can do it.  I'll see you again!" 
   But it isn't that easy.  I want to go to Heaven, I really do.  It's because my two greatest desires are to meet God and Zeke.  
    After I die, if God can spare two seconds to see me, I'd like to play Him a song I wrote on the violin.  It's just piddly (since I am human and all), but at least I have a gift ready to give Him--how man people plan that far ahead?  
    Then, if I get to see Zeke, I'll wear boots and waders so we can go fishing.  I just won't kill any fish since the creatures in Heaven don't like dying twice. 

    Anyway, in my dream, no one stands at the gates to Heaven, so I just walk through uninvited.  But there's a massive building waiting on the other side of the gates.  The building's doors are huge, heavy and shining.  I walk through and it reminds me of where Zeus would live on Mt. Olympus.
    After I go in, a ton of people gather and form a circle.  They invite me to stand in the very center.  They're all the people I've loved and missed.  Every one of them looks at me and I feel a bit sad thinking how many people I've lost over twenty-eight short years.  I scan their faces, looking and searching for Zeke, but he's the only one not there, him and God.
    When I see my grandma, I run to her.  I give her this huge hug and she laughs.  "You always were such a hoot," she says.
    "Do you remember the last thing you told me before you died?" I ask, because she meant so much to me.  She was my second mother, and I miss her dearly.  "I asked you, how can I live without you, and you said, the same way I'll exist without you, we'll just 'make do'.  Why did you say that?"
    "Because I knew you'd always wonder."
    I scoff and the woman actually pinches my cheeks before doubling over with laughter.  
    "So, why are we here?" I look around, not even thinking about talking to all the other people I've loved and missed.
    "We're here to intercede for you, so you won't go to Hell."
    I thought that was Jesus's job, but realize maybe He was surfing in Maui or something.  I feel kind of abandoned then, like I should have said the sinners' prayer a few more times.  Maybe I should have thought about the cross more, bought one of those Catholic necklaces--something!
    I stew in my worries and we all wait for a very long time.  I keep peeking at the people there.  A few of them wave and smile, but others look like they won't pass a favorable decree.  So, my spirit feels warm and flushed as we wait, until suddenly a presence descends down through the roof of the building and toward us.
    I can't see anything, but I know it's the presence of God.  Then, instead of staying reverent and quiet, I rush over to Him because I'm excited.  "I've always wanted to meet you," I say.  "I mean really, you're more famous than Elvis."
    God doesn't even laugh.  "I knew you'd say that," He says dryly like that comedian Christopher Walken
    "Why isn't Zeke here?" I suddenly ask.
    The presence feels so kind in that moment, like I've talked about someone extremely pure and special.  Tears fill my eyes just thinking about my boy, the one who was too good to live on Earth for more than a short time.
    God's non-judgmental voice sifts through my being and my thoughts.  "If you saw your son, you'd seek death more than life.  One of your greatest desires is to meet him again, face to face.
    "I love you, Elisa.  I love all of creation.  Don't doubt my omniscient love."
    The presence of God breathes on me after that, this warm, minty breath.  "Go back to your family," He says.  "Your time to be judged will come later.  Right now, this . . . is your time to live." 

"The Golden Sky" Blogfest!

    Here's the deal;
    My memoir, "The Golden Sky" will be released on:

11/18/2011 

Click HERE for more information about "The Golden Sky."  

    Anyway, that day is extremely special to me because it is Zeke's birthday.  He would have been nine years old this year.  I always struggle knowing what to do on his birthday, but this year will be a wonderful.

    My journal about Zeke's life will be published.  I will  also get to connect with other bloggers who are willing to share reviews on my book or stories dedicated to loved ones who have passed away.  I want this to be a beautiful memorial where people can become friends, find a close network of caring people, and grow through great support.  

    This whole process has taken A TON of work since advertising can be tricky.  But I've done everything I can--short of streaking down main and yelling, "Check out my book," or doing this "potty trick" again . . .

Here's that post if you're curious (come on, I know you are)
Click here:   

When you have to go . . .

    Anyway, I've done something even crazier this time!  To advertise this exciting event, on November 18th, 2011, I will host a giveaway for an ipad2 OR $500.00 cash! (further details to come)

  

   In addition, 5% of ALL profits on sales (during 11/18/11) will go toward helping people who have lost or are losing infants and children.
    I will also have a section where people can donate money to Angel Watch (the great organization that helped me when I lost Zeke).

    So, just visit my blog on November 18th, 2011 AND I'll give you further details about the ipad2/$500.00 cash contest.  (Runners-up could win $20 gift certificates or copies of my book.)  The winners will be announced, and will get the prize in early December--just in time for Christmas! 

    This is where you come in--for a blogfest.  

          

    I'm allowing other bloggers to participate and share in this great opportunity for exposure.  I will have a list of those blogs as well as links to their sites.  It will be perfect for advertising your blog.  Plus it will give you a chance to showcase your writing talent!  

    I've been working on this event since last January and I expect a HUGE turnout! 

    I've set up radio interviews as well as reviews in newspapers.  The event will be promoted via those outlets as well as through ads and flyers which are being mailed and personally handed out.  

If you'd like to participate in the blogfest, 
all I ask in return are two things:

Post
1- On November 17th, 2011 write a post as tribute to someone you have lost.  Make it something special that other people can relate to and remember.  This is the post I will link to the event on 11/18. 

Button
2- Put this button on your November 17th Memorial post. (Feel free to size it as needed.)

<a href="http://ecwrites.com" target="_blank"><img alt="EC Writes" src="http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c186/Elisabeth83/blbutton2.jpg" width="200" /></a>

    So . . .

   I will need to know your blog's name and web address for the event. I can also remind you.

   Please leave a comment if 

you'd like to sign up.

    I'm getting so excited.  Wish me luck!   I hope Zeke would be proud.

Don't Mess with a Writer!

    Actually, I got two speeding tickets in one week, and then I almost went to jail.  I still need to pay the second ticket--ug!
    I have the worst luck with cops--ever.  I should write a book about my luck with officers.  
    You wouldn't believe some of the things that have happened to me.  Like the time I got a speeding ticket when I was in labor.  The cop wouldn't believe me, and said I didn't look far enough along.  Well, Officer OBGYN, I was in labor!  It doesn't matter how far along you are when you have pre-term labor every pregnancy, and a chance of your baby dying.  
    What a jerk!  Why didn't he escort me to the hospital--or something?  
    Or there's the time a cop busted me BREASTFEEDING IN MY CAR while I was parked in a parking lot!  (I need to write that story later.)  I was covered and everything, talk about a crime.  He said he thought someone had abandoned their teenager in a car--is that illegal?
    Needless to say, when I see one of these behind me, I freak out!
   

    The first cop who pulled me over last week was quite nice.  I knew I was in the wrong.  I'd been going twelve over in a residential area.
    We shook hands before he left.  I told him congratulations on his new baby and he told me congratulations on my upcoming book.  I got a ticket AND a new friend.
   I chalked it up to . . . my ticket of the decade.  I had no idea, I would get a ticket less than a week later!
    I'm writing this story in dedication to the second cop.  "Why?" you ask.
    "Because, you don't mess with a writer!"

Here's the deal:

     It was 6 PM at the scene of the crime.  I went eight over--that's what my speedometer said--when the cop's lights flashed behind me.
    The infant-like cop edged closer to the vehicle, then peeked around so I barely saw his nose.  "I read that you have your concealed weapon's permit.  Do you have your weapon with you?"
    "No," I said.
    "Are you absolutely sure?  No weapon . . . of any kind?" 
    "Other than four wailing children who needed dinner, no." 
    He sidled closer, knowing he'd made me mad.  That man actually looked scared, and I decided I should pluck my eyebrows more often--they must give me that dubious, don't-touch-me look.
    "We're offering a program," the officer said.  "If you're only going nine over, it won't go on your insurance."
    "That's great," I said, wondering if he'd worked as a vacuum salesman before he joined the force.
    "Yeah.  A lot of people seem to like that incentive."
     Incentive for what?  Speeding nine over?  Where do they find these people?  The circus?

    "Ummm . . . Officer, I wasn't going that fast."
    "Yes, you were.  I clocked you with my eyes."  He pulled his pants up like Erkel and I scoffed.  "When you've been driving as long as I have, you learn how to clock people." He made a clicking noise with his tongue and pointed at the passing cars.  "Thirty-two . . . twenty-nine."
      What the Hell!  Driving as long as he has?  What was he, twenty-one?  I've driven longer than that.
     "Sir," I nearly choked on the reverend word.  "I just got a ticket last week--it's my first ticket in a long time.  And I was only going eight over this time.  Can you please give me a warning?"
     "I clocked you with-my-eyes going twelve over, but I'll only site you for nine."
    "Seriously?"   
    "Ma'am, I'm nice that way."
     I looked up and his left eye twitched from lying.
    My fists bawled.  I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. 
    He scampered back to his car with my license, registration and insurance.  After a moment he came back and said, "It's only nine over, but you didn't sign your registration so I fined you for that too."
    "Why are you doing this?" I asked.
     "Because I like helping people."
     I didn't mean his job--the idiot--I meant giving me a bogus ticket.  I should have worn mascara and swallowed a breath mint!
    "No, the ticket," I said. "Why are you giving me this ticket?"  The baby screamed and threw her sock at me.
    "Listen," he said. "I'm doing this for you, for your own good.  It won't go on your insurance, but it's for the safety of your children, for other people's children.  By the way, is everyone buckled safely?  Maybe I should check their seats."
    "THEY are fine!" I said.  I don't know why it happened, but I cried then, these big sobs that made the van shake.
    "I'm sorry, Ma'am.  Oh, wow . . . it's tough being a cop."
     Tough BEING A COP! How about getting a ticket while four kids are crying for dinner.  I got beaned in the head more times while he made me wait for the ticket!  
     I grew angry.  So angry, I could have gone to jail then; the choice presented itself.  I thought what a nice break it would be from the chaos of my life.  I thought of how I could just tell that jerk what I really thought of him.
    I glared at him, squinted my eyes and realized: you don't screw with a writer.  
    I thought of getting out of that vehicle and saying, "You worry for mothers and children, yet I'm having to pay over $200.00 in tickets FOR NINE OVER and a stupid signature because YOU WORRY?  How about what we'll eat for dinner, or the fact that you might have stolen our grocery money?
    Aren't you just a gem!  You, with your big-boy pants and a nose as lumpy as the moon.  Thank you, Officer Harry.  (Can you even grow facial hair yet?) Thank you so much for your . . . concern."
    As I thought of all that, I remembered movies where women get tough in jail.  They learn how to play Rummy; they know how to arm wrestle.  Plus I'd get free food for a couple days.  No one would wake me up all night with the stomach flu.

     Then, I looked at my crying kids and knew nothing was worth it.  No one could tear me from my darlings.  I'd starve for them.  I'd never play cards again.  Hell, I already know how to arm wrestle.  
    I wiped my tears as the cop nodded awkwardly and walked away.  
    I know it's terrible, but I was mad, so I spit out the window just behind his feet.  Then I drove off and decided that in my next book, the villain might be named Officer Harry.   
    I guess that's why . . . you don't mess with a writer.

I am . . . Pacha

    Let's talk about my friend, "Pacha."  I wrote about her awhile ago.  I called her Pacha because that name sounds very sassy--like someone who wears big boots AND knows how to make soup.

    If you haven't read that post, you might want to since it's short and will tell you everything concerning Pacha and her small boobs.

To Implant or not To Implant

    The thing is that . . . now get ready for a shocker . . . I. AM. Pacha.  I know you're all completely *stunned* with this revelation.  I'll give you a minute to recuperate, by showing you this lovely picture:

    Why didn't she use a Jack?  

Oh that's right, the Wizard of Oz gave her boobs instead of a brain.  

   I seriously wanted implants when I wrote that post in April.  People's comments meant so much to me though; I decided maybe I shouldn't get them.  In all honesty--I still battled with what to do.  I know implants aren't the right answer and that those Chinese electrocution devices really just make your nipples fall off--then you'll end up with small, nipple-less boobs like a circus performer.
    But I miss the bounce in my step (for when I breastfed).  I miss when the birds would chirp 'cause they knew I had boobs.  I really missed all of that until yesterday happened.

    I always go to the same store to get pictures developed.  I think everyone goes to the same store in this lump of a town.  The photo developer has greedy little eyes, a small head and a big body.  
    I have a problem with him because once, three years ago, he developed pictures of me in a swimming suit.  I looked terrible if you want to know the truth.  I'd just had a baby.  We had friends in town and when we went up to the lake, pictures were a must.
    Anyway, "Barney," the old developer, apparently loved those pictures of me--he likes rolls with his white meat.  
    I got there and he kept saying, "So . . . you had a great time at the lake?  You really looked . . . I mean the place really looked great."
    He is one of those yucky men who wants to have an affair--anywhere.  Well, every time I've gone in since, he glances at my boobs like I'm still breastfeeding (or beastfeeding--fishducky . . . that was for you).
    Well I went in yesterday and you want to know what that creep asked me?  He said, "Are you still eating, or did you just get a reduction?"
   In what state OF MIND is it okay to ask a woman something that personal!  I AM NOT a stripper.  I AM NOT a bimbo.  I don't even wear tank tops or shorts (except that one time I mowed the lawn).  I know I present myself to look differently on my blog, but in real life, I don't smoke.  I actually inhaled that stogie on accident in that picture--big 'no no'; God did that to me.  I wear very concealing things.  Not like there's something to conceal other than my gun.  
    I want to look tough, but I'm the most approachable wisp of a person ever.  I even plucked my eyebrows to give myself that mysterious "don't-ask-me-to-watch-your-children" look, but it didn't work.  Plucking my eyebrows made me look even more religious and innocent.  More approachable!  What's a girl to do . . . 
    So, back to the developer--how could he think it would be okay to talk like that?  Just because he sees everyone's private pictures and personal business, that doesn't make him God.  God is MUCH better looking!
    I would have told the manager, but he IS the manager.  I would have told the owner, but I think he IS the owner.  I'm just never going there again.
    Oh and while we're at it, you wanna know what I said in reply?
    I couldn't even be spicy like I normally am lately.  Instead I was all sorts of weird because that man saw me in a swimming suit!  
    My knees knocked together like I needed to pee.  My breath got all death-like.  Then I grew quiet and said, "I love eating, and no reduction here.  I just lost a bunch of weight."  I ducked my head down like a turtle and practically shriveled as I left the store.
    So, I guess I shouldn't get boobs because I'll have creeps like that asking if they're implants. 
    That man is just yucky on so many levels.
    Do some people have no shame?

Doctor Jones and a Tiny Bit of Fuss

I thought it would be a great day, 

AND THEN I WOKE UP.

    Doctor Jones is my twenty-month-old girl.  She is fun and sweet, sassy, yet still girly.  If I picked a superpower for that kid, it would be her happiness--she's ALWAYS smiling.  She ignites any room with joy.  Her smiles set everyone giggling.  People find themselves wanting to be around her, not only since she's a baby, but because she's fun.
    So, when "baby sunshine" went down for a nap yesterday, the house practically cried in darkness.  (I should never let Doctor Jones sleep!)  Gloomy clouds swirled above, raining on our parade.  The Scribe and The Hippie fought.  Our puppy had to go potty EVERY TWO SECONDS!  The Zombie Elf ran around like his butt was on fire.  And all I wanted to do was wake up Doctor Jones and experience the peace she brings!  
    But my baby takes the longest naps--cryogenically frozen--and she thaws out for hours.   
    On a side note:  Maybe that's the key to her happiness.  Maybe we should all sleep like we're frozen.

    Three hours of nap-time passed, and when I finally heard the baby singing "Mama" and sending darling noises from her room, a deeper catastrophe struck.  The Zombie Elf spit an egg yolk on the carpet.  Luna, the dog, ate it and then peed to mark the place she'd eaten from.  (Sometimes dogs and men make no sense.)  The Scribe and Hippie bawled about who saw what first and who might have prevented the egg crime.  Then the fight escalated to something about missing lunch money and the theft of a century.
    I cleaned then and as I did, the dog pooped across the room.  I tried to warn The Scribe but she was too busy yelling at The Hippie to notice she was walking backwards, toward a pile of steaming manure.
    "Don't . . . step back!"
    "I couldn't stop the egg!" The Scribe yelled at The Hippie.  "I told you.  It was too fast.  But that's not the problem.  You're the one who lost all your lunch money."
    "Who cares about the egg or money," I said.  "There's a pile of--"
    I cringed as her foot sloshed into the mound.
    "Poooooo--ooooo," I finished, low on batteries.
    All that happened in a matter of twenty minutes when the baby changed from darling-pumpkin setting to, kill-on-sight mode.  She stopped singing in her crib and wailed, "MA! MA!  MA! MA!" like one of those monster dolls who comes to life at night.
    "I'm coming," I sang, pretending I was Snow White since that usually makes me feel better even though I don't know any dwarfs.
    But no matter how hard I tried, there was no time to save the wailing bundle of sunshine upstairs.  I had to disinfect a double F, the worst thing ever . . . a feces foot--YUCK!

    "You," I yelled to The Hippie, "watch the dog . . . And YOU," I motioned to The Scribe, "go to the bathtub . . . And you little zombie, DO NOT TOUCH THE DOG POOP!"
    After wearing a gas mask, plastic gloves and a hair net, I almost died from scrubbing feet and cleaning carpets forever.   I looked like a sewer rat and still I dreamed that maybe someday Cade will buy me a nice dress and take me to a fancy restaurant where violins play and dogs don't know how to poop.
    Through many Cinderella-like daydreams and LOTS of scrubbing, I finally did save the day.  My chest bloated with pride.  I felt like a true superhero, one who faces danger and still adverts it!
    "MA! MA!" the baby wailed again.  I ran then to rescue Doctor Jones and tell her about my awesomeness.  I pulled off the hairnet and shook out my locks like a vidal sassoon model. 
    I opened the door, and looked through.  But that's when I had another thing coming.   
    Doctor Jones's hand gripped the crib.  Her chubby knuckles turned white.  "MA MA," she reprimanded, not happy at all.
    "Yes, Princess!  I just made it through a war and can you believe it . . . I'm still alive.  I'm sorry it took so long, but I'm here, Baby and I'm still standing!"
    Her eyebrows dipped so low they touched her eyelashes.  Although anger filled her movements, she did hold her arms wide as if wanting a hug.
    So I picked her up in my arms, bounced her in front of me and smiled.  "I love you.  I love you so much."
    She puckered her lips, then cocked back her hands and slapped both of my cheeks at the same time.  All the air flew from my face.  Indiana Jones can pack one helluva punch. 
    "Mama.  No!  No!"  She shook her head.  "NO! NO!"  She suddenly smiled.  "K?"
   My cheeks hurt.  I'd cleaned up poo, worn a gas mask (well almost), become a vidal sassoon model and then been schooled by a one-year-old.  But my baby was awake and as we walked from the room, she laughed at my reddening face.
    The sun came out, my children forgot how to fight and spit eggs; the dog stopped pooping everywhere, and I figured maybe someday Cade will buy me a nice dress.  (hint hint)
    All in all, it had been a good nap-time.  I learned that even the bad times can turn fun; they just make the good times that much better.

I Bested a Gangster

    I took my kids to Tadpole Pond again.  Why do I always make the wrong choices?

    Two ducks were there, practically waddling like they owned the place.  They reminded me of Italian gangsters, getting ready to commit the biggest crime those tadpoles had ever seen.  
    One duck seemed like my Uncle Nuetzi.  Everyone says he didn't get married 'til he was fifty.  It wasn't for lack of trying, but because something was wrong.  Different stories went around, how he got hit with a shovel, ran into the back of a tractor, or got attacked by a cow--seriously--this is for real.  I never met the guy, but I've seen his headstone; there's a picture of him and his eyes look nice but shifty.  Maybe all headstone pictures look that way since the pictures can't stand being close to death.
    So, that's how one duck looked.  Its black hair was smoothed back like The Fonz, but its eyes darted crazier than sin!  The ducks spied us, went to the back of the pond and gossiped.   The white one shook her head, gabbling, maybe even standing up for us, but the black one squawked louder, flapping his wings.  I bet all the frogs near them got so nervous they laid eggs. (Isn't that how childbirth happens anyway; you get so nervous that a kid pops out?)
    Anyway, I wondered what they said with their malicious, gander tongues! I bet they just hate blogger women AND little girls who are cuter than anything!
    "What sweet ducks," The Hippie said, always seeing the good in life.  Didn't she know one was crazy?  But when I turned to her again, I realized she was a bit afraid.  There's no way she'd step closer.  The kid even has problems going in the garage because there are ants, let alone gangster ducks!
    The Scribe wasn't scared though.  Her lips curled with merriment.  I bet she thought she could ride a duck, have a new pet or even a fancy dinner.  After all, she's my girl who sticks cat poop on her teacher's chair, the one who writes kick-me notes; I just knew she had some crazy scheme.  And looking back at the whole thing now, I wonder if the black duck sensed her planning mind.  
    I turned my girls' attention to other things after that.  There's a cornfield by the pond and I thought it might be fun to tease The Scribe.       
    We lurked toward the corn.  Now if there's something I should have learned from "The Maize" it's that you shouldn't walk closer.
    "Listen to the corn," I said, like it could actually talk and we weren't about to die.
    My girls hushed.
    "Do you hear it rustling?"
    We listened for a moment and something did rustle.     
    "What was that?" The Hippie almost shook, but The Scribe beamed.
     "That was awesome!" she said.
     "Last year, I came here with your daddy and we saw the biggest jack rabbit known to man.  It was huge, probably taller than my knees.  But it was really nice, just eating the veggies."
     "Is that . . . what we heard?" The Hippie asked.
     "Who knows," I said.  "Let's keep listening."
    So we did and after a long while the rustling got so loud, so absolutely frantic, the corn swayed and moved.  Something big was in there, something bigger than jaws!
     We should have left, ran far away before the monster came out, but there was no place to go when the black fury sailed upon us.
     One second we stood, mesmerized by maize (say that ten times fast), the next we were about to meet crazy Uncle Nuetzi in Hell!
     I screamed as the black wings sent corn swaying.  That monster of a duck grabbed onto The Scribe's shirt and tried pulling her into the corn of doom.
    Everything froze in that moment--The Hippie's look of fear, her hands to her face and her mouth hanging open--The Scribe gritting her teeth and leaning back so the fowl beast wouldn't beat her--The black duck, wings out, seeming like it split from the belly of a demon.  
     And all I kept thinking was, "We're going to die . . . I never knew ducks had teeth."
    That's when time moved again and I took up my birthright; I, Elisabeth Hirsch, became a true mother.  Instead of quivering with fear and watching, I stepped into the corn and defied everything I've seen in scary movies.  I grabbed the back of the duck and pulled it off of The Scribe.  I've never grabbed a duck like that.  It's feathers were awfully slimy and yucky like it used to be a tadpole. It's feet were gnarled like the feet of a dragon.
    We struggled and struggled, but after a moment, I was able to pull it off. I let go and the thing sprawled onto the ground.  It got up, and acted like it might come closer.  I thought it would.  My heart beat fast.  
    I like to eat duck, not the other way around.
    Then before I could make a plan, I thought about my poor girls and how they'll probably never look at corn or other veggies again.  They'd want to go on Atkins because of some dumb gangster who couldn't keep his beak out of my business!
     "GET AWAY FROM US!  GET OUT OF HERE," I screamed at lucifer's poultry.
    It stepped closer.
    "GET AWAY!  LEAVE US . . . " my voice turned low, "ALONE."
    Now, on a side note, you should try this some time.  Standing up to a gangster will do something to you.  It's like seeing Superman and kissing the hem of his cape.  It's like spitting in Satan's eye.  It's like having coffee IN THE MORNING!
    The duck had all the power, and yet he looked afraid.  He backed up toward the pond, still watched me all the while, but after squawking about my awesomeness, he took his platinum bimbo and the two of them left.
    My girls hugged me.  "I never knew ducks could be so scary," The Scribe said.  "I'm glad we bought a dog and not a bird."
    "Me too!"  The Hippie sobbed.  "But I always knew birds are scary--always."
    "You're lucky it only bit your shirt," I told The Scribe.  "That would have really hurt if it got your skin."
    "That's 'cause I jumped out of the way, like a ninja."
    We looked at the mark on The Scribe's shirt.  I seriously had no idea ducks could be so violent.
    I wiped away their tears and pulled them away from the corn.  No wonder there are so many scary movies about the maize!

YOUR Real Stage Name!

    Yesterday and also, awhile back, I wrote posts just to ask you the name of your first pet.

    You're probably wondering why I wanted to know . . .  Well, it's because I knew a stripper once.  She told me that some of her co-workers had a hard time picking stage names, so they'd just use the name of their first pet.

    I'm proud to say that after yesterday, I know most of your names, AND some of them are classy!

    It's only fair to tell you mine.  My stage name would be Bootsie (which is pretty awesome).  You can read all about that here.

The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom: Training a Hell Cat

     Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy these stripper names.  I think some of them are hilarious!  

    Oh and sorry about the funky spacing below.  I wanted to include your links with your names. 

 

Siv Maria

 Bonnie

 

 

Stephanie D 

Tiger 

 

dadand:pete 

Sparky 

 

Padded Cell Princess 

Sam 

 

Joshua 

 Sidney 

 

 

Baiba1205  

Martini

 

regectedriter 

Gypsy

 

Paige Kellerman

 Flea 

 

 

Ed Pilolla 

Tag

 

 

fishducky 

Bagel

  

Julianna 

Radar

 

Fairday Morrow

Mrs. McCleary    

Grandma Gertie 

Rags

 

 

Diana 

Mrs. Beaver

 

 

Avalon Cat Cartoon

  Infernicus      

Leetah East 

Mutt

 

Musings By Michele

Missy

    

Emily 

Toady

 

Chase  

Tyler

 

Kristin P 

Sunshine  

     

 Shane  

(my brother)

Sunny  

 

Craziness abounds  

Princess 

 

hynz  

Miming

 

Wicked Wicker - Customized Gift Baskets  

Rocket 

 

Nicole B 

Angie

 

Janice Horton 

Bunty

 

aliciamarie911 

  You wrote: "I used to have a hell cat. Except, he was was white as snow."     (So, I'm naming you, Snow)

Vicki 

Fluff

 

And last of all . . .

Cade (my manly, construction-working husband)

Peaches

 

P. S. I can't wait to read your comments on THIS post.

Owners and Dogs Look Alike

    The Rule of Dog: When you buy a dog, you'll end up looking alike (as long as you're a good pet owner).

    This is 100%, undeniably TRUE!  If you're a doubter, then check out the examples below:

She brushed her dog's hair EVERY MORNING!

He wrote songs for his dog!

She gave her dog a spa treatment.

This dog got treats at every meal.

He taught this dog accounting.



I know this final example isn't really related, 
but I had to put it up anyway 
Isn't it AWESOME!
Who knew?

   So, as you're reading this, I bet you think that everyone 

(even the animators for Disney's 101 Dalmatians) 

knows the truth about buying a dog.
If you're a good owner, you WILL end up looking like your dog!

So, why do people take a chance?

    
And buy whatever this guy bought?

 

Is it really worth the furry risk?

    Don't they know that they're sealing their fates?!

    Anyway, I brought this up today because I recently bought a Husky pup.  She was so darling, so absolutely cute, I forgot about the rule of dog!

    WHAT WAS I THINKING--possibly condemning myself, my husband AND my children to lives of extreme canine ugliness?

    If you buy the right kind of dog, you're fine.

But if not, well . . .

 

    To top things off, last night I had the mother of all nightmares.  I made my children breakfast, turned around and screamed because they all looked like hyenas as they lapped up their cereal!  As soon as I woke up this morning, I googled "Husky Owner Look Alike."
    My hands shook as the results came up.  Had I done the right thing?  We love the pup so much.  We'll keep her no matter how ugly we'll turn.  I just wanted to know how bad things would be. 

    After seeing the picture, I feel much better!  Thank God I picked the right animal for my family.

  I can't wait until the transition is complete.

On a side note,

what was the name of your first pet?