As in, I QUIT. I am tired of writing a blog a day. You are tired of reading a blog a day, so let's just wrap this up and eat some Easter candy.
R is for Rapture. My mother-in-law is so certain that Frank and I are going to be left behind that she has stockpiled bottled water and Vienna sausages in her garage, so we'll have supplies. True story.
S is for Sasquatch. I believe.
T is for Trifle. I have decided that the Bourbon Krispy Kreme White Chocolate Raspberry Trifle is going to be my signature summer dish for potlucks and such.
U is for Ukulele, which has replaced chickens as the latest hipster obsession.
V is for Visible Varicose Veins. I hope I never get them...or a goiter.
W is for Werebear. Werewolves are so 2013. Werebears are totally WERE it's at.
X is for Xerophagy. I did not participate in this fast which takes place on the week leading up to Easter and involves eating only bread, salt, water, and vegetables. No meat, fish, milk, cheese, butter, oil, wine, seasonings or spices are allowed. A life without cheese and wine is not a life worth living...even for a week.
Y is for Yeti. I just want to reiterate, I believe.
Z is for Zymurgy, thank God for this branch of chemistry dealing with brewing and distilling...
which reminds me, nothing goes better with Peeps that bourbon. And there you have it...Blogging from A to Z. Fin.
Just because you don't live in Japan, where each spring they hold the Kanamara Matsuri,
a festival dedicated to all things penis, doesn't mean you can't get in on the celebration. I offer a poem in honor. The Penis Preference Poem
So condemn me, if it’s a sin,
But I do not like a penis too thin,
Pencils were meant for writing cursive,
And though what I say next may be subversive,
I like the girth to be worth,
My time and effort,
I like a thick dick.
Thick and straight…
And not just in its sexual orientation.
I do not like a penis that hooks,
I do not like a penis that looks,
Like it is looking around for something better,
Curving away in fear,
When it draws near.
As far as length,
Seven is heaven,
Eight is great.
Nine is fine,
Six is divine,
Even five is a source of for joy.
Anything less just serves to annoy.
On one thing I can comprise,
Whether or not it is circumcised.
Most of all, when it comes to penis'…
I do not like surprises.
Like the night, I decided to open my thighs,
To, who I swear, was one of the nicest guys,
I have met to this day.
He was always smiling and corduroy-clad
The kind of man who’d make a perfect Dad,
A third year student at Fordham Law School,
We drank imported ales and played darts and pool,
After, he’d haul me cross town on the subway,
Make me 3 am breakfast and then let me stay,
In his bed,
while he slept on the love seat in the living room.
After doing this night after night,
I felt he’d finally earned the right,
To sleep in his own bed with me.
One thing lead to another and we wound up nude,
This next part get a little lewd…
I reached over to stroke his throttle,
It was the size of a two-liter bottle.
I couldn’t help but blurt…
Where’d you get that dick, Burt?
It could cause a girl a world of hurt…
Or a lifetime of eternal bliss,
But tonight is not going down like this.
Pardon the pun.
And though it could be fun…
I just don’t think I’m up for it,
Though you obviously are.
And besides I have appointment that just slipped my mind,
Yes, now at midnight…an audition for A Chorus Line.
Love ya’, mean it, call you, bye, gotta’ go!
I never saw Burt again…
He’s not even my Facebook friend.
Though I will admit, I breathe a sigh of relief,
When I find what’s beneath the boxer briefs,
Meets my quirky requirements.
But when all is said and done,
You can’t measure the pleasure,
It’s the level of the trust,
The intensity of the lust,
The placement and the thrust,
The commitment and the confidence,
The education and experience,
That define the penis.
This morning I ran out of Secret and had to use my husband's Old Spice "Bearglove" deodorant. Every time I catch a whiff of myself, I turn around, automatically happy, and expect to see him. Then, with disappointment, I realize it's just me, not my sexy man. According to Sarah Dowdy's article How Smell Works
, "Because the olfactory bulb is part of the brain's limbic system, an area so closely associated with memory and feeling it's sometimes called the "emotional brain," smell can call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously."
Here are a few of my favorite smells:
1) That first whiff of sea salt when you're nearing the ocean.
2) Puppy breath.
3) A steak sizzling on the grill.
4) Skunk, from a distance.
5) The pine and peppermint melange given off by a live Christmas tree decorated with candy canes.
6) Frank's hair when it holds that musky odor of a hard day's work
7) Perfume de Country: the combination of fresh mown grass, manure, diesel fuel, and a lingering hint of honeysuckles.8) The cedar logs in our Fairy Forest that we're using to mark the trail down to the lake. 9)
Just delivered New York-style cheese pizza.10) Victory.
Which special scents set your nose atingle?
I am fairly certain that the man who invented pantyhose--or nylons as they were called in the good old days--also killed his mother with a shovel and then kept her propped up in a wingback chair in the attic. He simply would have to be that warped when it came to women to create them. I swore off of nylons back in the early nineties, it was perhaps the only good decision I made during that period. Besides being maddening to put on, and horribly uncomfortable, they are downright dangerous. Because of their proximity to the privates and lack of breathabilty, by wearing them you are just inviting bacteria and fungus to grow. But, if you have drawer full, never fear. They don't have to go to waste.
Here are six interesting ways to use nylons that won't run you the risk of getting a yeast infection.
1) Temporary Tattoo- Find a pair of nylons that match your skin. Cut a section from the leg, decorate it with magic markers, then slide it on your arm to create the illusion of having a sleeve of tattoos.
2) Save Soap- Cut off one leg and use it to store all the little soap nubbins, then keep it by the sink to wash your hands.
3) Find Lost Earrings - Put a layer of nylons over the end of the hose and then run it across the floor. It will suck up and save your tiny, lost objects.
4) Pack Like a Pro - It's now common knowledge that in order to save space when packing, you should roll, not fold your clothes. But to save even more, cut sections from your nylons and slip the rolled item of clothing inside to keep it compact.
5) Get Gauzy - To give photos that old-fashioned, filtered look, just secure a square of nylons over the camera lens with a rubber band.
6) Potpourri Pouches - Keep your drawers and closets smelling sweet by cutting off the feet of your nylons, filling them with potpourri, and the tying them off at the end.
I am Myrtle, twin sister of Mary,
Mother of the savior of mankind.
Yes, that makes me Jesus’ aunt,
Jesus’ favorite aunt, you'll find.
I was midwife at the manger,
In the swaddle, I put the swa,
Then with Magi had a menage a trois.
For those of you doing the mathmatics,
The dude who brought the Frankincense wasn't into chicks.
I knew John the Baptist when he was afraid of H2O.
I can even claim Jesus' first miracle, cause you know...
I’m the reason they ran out of wine at the wedding.
I was the original Auntie Mame.
When Jesus was missing from the Bible for those years,
He was traveling the world with me, learning to conquer his fears.
We went to India and Persia and Ethiopia and Tibet,
Feasting and dancing and drumming and shit.
Learning to reject dogma and embrace karma,
And say “Screw you” to the Sadducees,
“I’ll find the truth inside of me”,
Basically living life according to the Gospel of Myrtle.
I say the path to enlightenment is pleasure…
Just make the journey at your leisure,
And even if you never reach that higher plane,
You'll have enjoyed the trip just the same.
That teaching got me my own cult for a century or more,
My followers were Stevie Nicks groupie hard-core…
The Pharisees called them the Myrtle Maniacs.
They built me a temple inlaid with gold
And followed me all over the globe.
So, if I’m so fricking fabulous why have you never heard my name?
Baby, the story is always the same.
Because I wasn’t a virgin and I wasn’t a whore.
So, men didn't know just what to use me for.
See, I was somewhere between a chastity belt and crotchless panties.
I refused to be in the kitchen barefoot or in the bedroom bare-assed.
But I did ran bare-breasted down beaches from Conde' Nast.
I did not fit neatly into verse or book,
That is why no matter how hard you look,
You won't find me.
Those Bible-writing bastards left me out.
But I am back, and ready to shout.
Tonight, I am stepping into the spotlight to reclaim my rightful place…
I am Myrtle…protector of pleasure and procurer of good times,
Patron saint to gypsies, tramps, and thieves, and mimes,
To rock stars, surfers, poets, prophets,
Drag queens, dreamers, schemers,
And George Hamilton.
I am the voice that whispers, “Follow your bliss.”
I am disco and pink champagne and your first kiss,
Indeed, I am good weed.
I am butterflies and blue skies and a brand new pair of roller skates.
I am multiple orgasms.
I am the force that drives you to follow that dream.
If you're feeling me now, let out a scream.
I am Myrtle.
Did you know that the Virgin Mary had an evil twin? Neither did the outrageous residents of Steadfast, Kentucky until she showed up to sabotage their annual Ham Happening--a three-day celebration of all things pork. But before the opening Ham Ball even gets rolling, Myrtle swoops in and embarks upon a mission involving performing pigs, a sadistic soap star, the Miss Ham Honey pageant, same sex marriage, big hair, and genetic engineering. The fate of the town is left to young festival president Tancy Sloane, a rebel in her own right, who must decide whether to stop the renegade saint...or to join her. The Miracle of Myrtle: Saint Gone Wild
is sweet tea with a big shot of bourbon and a juicy slice of the supernatural. Prepare for a party on every page.
Available here on Kindle
or in Paperback
Now, that the cold, cruel winter is finally over, it is back to the boat. And though Lexington is only 35 miles our dock, it seems a million worlds away. For example, yesterday, Frank helped one of our neighbors with a project. He was paid in peanut brittle and a jug of moonshine. We’ve also been paid in bags of frozen Bluegill, a set of sliding glass doors, a pair of orange life vests, and a taxidermy squirrel.
Aside from the bizarre bartering, lake life is different in other ways, as well. There are certain items that you cannot live without if you're a Bourbonista on a boat. They are:
1) Zip ties- with a little elbow grease and a zip tie you can fix or affix almost anything, including loose skirting, leaky pipes, party streamers, electrical wiring, a patio umbrella prone to escape, an herb garden to a rocking vessel, and sunglasses. I once even turned a pair of palazzo pants into harem pants.
2) Styrofoam noodles- if you don't want a possession to wind up at the bottom of Herrington, you attach a noodle to it with...what else...a zip tie. There is even a man that wraps his prosthetic leg in a noodle when he water skis to ensure it won't sink.
3) Back-up propane tanks- on a boat, propane fuels everything--grill, heater, toilet, stove, water heater. Hell, I even have a propane-powered vibrator.
4) LED lights- the best things in life are not free. They are $14.99 and found in the “As Seen on TV" aisle. The Brooklyn Lantern was my best purchase to date. At least once a week, I forget to unplug the microwave while running the hair dryer and blow a breaker. Without the Brooklyn Lantern, my overactive imagination would turn the dock into the set of "Friday the 13th" and I'd give myself a heart attack.
5) Plastic jugs- During the winter, they turn off the water from the dock so it doesn’t freeze. For three months, you have to transport your water from the shore. The more jugs you have, the fewer trips you have to make, therefore sturdy containers with a handle, like the ones
Hawaiian Punch comes in, are more valuable than gold.
Here are also a few Lake Lessons that I've learned along the way that also apply to life:If you’re not catching anything, maybe you need to change lures.
You always want to be in a “No Wake” zone.
Sometimes in order to become self-sufficient, you first have to ask for help.
You can’t launch with one foot on the shore.
Don't kayak in a kaftan.
I'm having a hell of a time writing today’s blog. It’s 75°. I am at the lake. This is the view from my desk. I just went on a pontoon ride with three amazing women. I discovered a new favorite bourbon (Benchmark from Buffalo Trace), which I’m drinking as I type. Layne, in his floating house across the way, is blaring Carlos Santana from his porch speakers. And, I'm fully immersed in the beauty of just being.
Today’s blog is all about K.I.S.S., not the band, though I LOVE them. They were the first album I asked for as a child, which was very disconcerting to my God-fearing mother. By eight, I knew every word to “Detroit Rock City” and “Love Gun.” But, alas, the K.I.S.S. I am referring to is Keep It Simple Stupid.
For years I prided myself on being a gypsy who owned blow-up furniture from Spencer’s Gifts, milk crates, and plasticware. Then, one day I turned around and had three houses, three cars, and two boats…all of which needed work and I owed money on. And, I had a career, where I was underpaid and underappreciated, but with a title that made me sound important. I realized that in my single-minded attempt to become somebody, I had lost myself. Instead of feeling like an artist, I felt like a prostitute with a pen that would write anything for anyone as long as it paid. I was creatively tapped, exhausted, twenty pounds overweight, and ready for a major change. Throughout my twenties and thirties, the questions I most often asked myself were, “What am I going to wear?,” “What are we doing this weekend?,” and “What will people think?” At forty-three, those had been replaced by “Who am I?,” “Why am I here?,” and “What is my purpose?” I knew I wasn’t going to find the answers on the middle of a dance floor, in a boutique dressing room, or at the bottom of an overpriced cocktail in a fancy glass. But, where did one go to solve a midlife, self-discovery dilemma?
For me, Herrington Lake and a pair of houseboats named Lakematized and The Muse. So, we sold 75% of our “stuff” and moved to the water. Now, my focus is on minimalism for maximum result. Get rid of the extraneous, keep the extraordinary. Eliminate bills and social obligations so you can illuminate the people and issues that really matter. Never own an object more important than the person who could break it. Love everything in your closet. Keep real food in your refrigerator. Give away anything that is not both beautiful and utilitarian (other than art and books, there is always room for art and books). Fill your space with laughter and love , instead of possessions. Leave enough open area so your mind can roam. Breathe. Seriously, just breathe. K.I.S.S. Keep It Simple Stupid.
According to Truman Capote, "You can't blame a writer for what the characters say." I hope like hell this is true, because Jezebel Jackson, the main character from Hemlock Holler, is perhaps the most raunchy and raucous dame ever put on a page.
Jezebel Jackson is a punk-country sensation known to her fans as The Barbarian Queen. On the verge of retiring, she is trying to perform her farewell concert, Hootenanny in the Holler, a midst death threats, the emergence of a supernatural nemesis, and protests from The Morality Maidens, a hypocritical, Evangelical group who preaches celibacy out of one side of their mouths and hatred out of the other.
Here are a few Jezebelisms:
*Bitch wears so much make-up I bet it takes a metal cheese grater to scrape it off at night.
Well, that’s about as unfortunate as a Dominatrix developing a latex allergy.
I’d rather douche with Tabasco.
You're not a midget? Well, that’s too bad. Every bar needs a midget.
Ain't nothing that a bath and bourbon can't cure.
Blood is thicker than water, but gravy is thicker than both.
I'd rather attend an orgy in a leper colony than brunch with her.
Codswallop. As long as it covers nips and cracks, we’re good to go,
*She's one of those pathetic women that keeps a stack a bridal magazines under the bed and has an "I Do" board on Pinterest even though ain't nobody asked her to marry them.
I’ve been very productive today. I shaved my snatch. It’s as smooth and shiny as fresh, waxed linoleum. Want to see?
*That Jesus on the crucifix around her neck looked downright embarrassed to be hanging between those fake boobs.
I’m a firm believer in working hard and playing hard…sometimes I just forget the working part.
Lord, my twat is all over Twitter...again.
Swine flu...I think they should call it donkey flu cause it makes you feel like ass.
*If she'd stop thumping that Bible and actually read it, she might act better.
I prayed about it, and God told me to tell you to shut your big, ugly pie hole.
Throughout the song, “Ironic” Alanis Morissette asks, “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?” The answer is, "No. Hell, no." Most of the examples she gives are not ironic. They are just unfortunate. And some are just outright asinine.
Here are a few examples:
And isn't it ironic... don't you think
It's a black fly in your chardonnay…I can't even begin to see how this is ironic or even could be. I suppose if the brand was Spider Web Chardonnay it might have a bit of irony to it.
It's like rain, on your wedding day…ironic, NO. Unfortunate, yes.
Your parent’s divorce becoming final on your wedding day… that's ironic..
An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day...okay, maybe if the lottery numbers he played were also the day of his death like 04-10-20-14.
It's a free ride, when you've already paid...This is not irony, just ask for a refund. Now, getting cat scratch fever from a feline named Lucky. That's ironic.
It's like ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife...First of all, why are there10,000 spoons? Secondly, what do you need a knife for that badly? Third, this is not ironic.
Mr. Play-It-Safe, was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life, to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought, "Well, isn't this nice"? …nice, NO. ironic, NO.
If Mr. Play-It-Safe insisted upon driving and a plane crashed into his car killing him, then that would denote irony.
It's a death row pardon two minutes too late. This is definitely some very bad timing, but irony would be if the death row inmate had invented the electric chair that he was going to be executed in.
It's meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife...no, meeting the man of your dreams and and finding out he was your brother...closer...but still not completely ironic,
I need to calm down and pour a cocktail. This song came out in 1995, I think it's finally time for me to let it go and move on, don't you?
For today's blog, I'd like to share the first chapter of my new novel Hemlock Holler, which will be out in June.
An ancient power swam beneath surface of the earth like an electric octopus. It tentacled out to sacred spots around the globe and summoned both men and monsters back to Hemlock Holler. The strange souls drawn there were prone to regularly committing a litany of unsavory sins ranging from murder to moonshining, pornography to petty theft, and everything in between. But, the Holler and its residents had an unspoken pact. It would keep their secrets, if they wouldn’t reveal the extraordinary events they witnessed within it.
In the not so distant past, it was as common to look out your window and see a man morphing into some otherworldly creature as it was to spy a common grey squirrel. Chants of covens of witches casting spells to the full moon drowned out the cicada’s harsh chorus. And ghosts were as abundant as the Golden Ragwort that grew wild through the woods.
The force seeped out into nearby small, Kentucky towns causing occult occurrences and imbuing the inhabitants with unusual talents. Its influence reached as far as the outskirts of Lexington. In the seventies, a scientist from Transylvania University spent six months prying information from the locals and documenting the phenomenon. He vanished before the study was ever published. And life went on as normal…or abnormal, as the case was.
Then five years ago, for reasons unknown, all things supernatural stopped. Now, an ennui as dense as kudzu blanketed the forest. The only break in the boredom came every summer when punk-country sensation Jezebel Jackson barreled into the region for her yearly homecoming concert. She had moved away to Nashville two decades ago where she started breaking chart records, laws, hearts, and a fiddle at the end of each show, but still considered the Holler home.
So, each June, for three days, she came back and hosted Hootenanny in the Holler, a music festival of bacchanalian proportions. Hordes of hippies with backpacks full of energy drinks and hallucinogenics descended upon the land. They surfed in on a wave of patchouli and transformed the fields and forests into a colorful tent village. The drag queens that made up a significant portion of Jezebel’s fan base erected the elaborate Glitter Dome as their weekend home. And, her punk following showed up with nothing but booze, partied until they passed out on the bare ground, and used leather jackets for blankets and rocks for pillows. Peace, love, music and the unique odor of high-grade marijuana permeated the air for a full seventy-two hours. Bands ranging from Bluegrass to Metal Funk played back to back. Dancing bodies filled the fields. Then, as quickly as they arrived, the Festie Folk were gone back to jobs where they were forced to hide their tattoos under long sleeves and go by their proper, God-given names instead of Starshine or Bubble Boy. And again, for another year, tedium regained its reign.
From deep within its fiery core, Hemlock Holler yearned for something more to happen...something sinister and spectacular…luckily,it didn’t have long to wait.