So to alleviate the concern that was voiced by many of you, I have not yet gone full-on “Shining” and started stalking the neighborhood with an axe. However, for much of the last two weeks, I have been lying on the couch, unshowered with my hair held back by a chip clip, watching back to back to back reruns of Criminal Minds; eating anything and everything labeled "salted caramel"; drinking cheap red wine straight out of the bottle; and writing haikus, like:
I wander the woods,
Searching for the perfect tree,
To hang myself from.
I’m fully aware that I probably won’t get much sympathy. After all, I get to live on a lake full time with a loving husband while pursuing my dream of becoming a writer. Seems damn near perfect…right? Wrong. There’s a whole lot about living on Bohemian Bay that sucks slippery catfish balls. Alright, I don’t know if catfish have balls, but I do know that I am ready to go on a guilt-free rant. Tomorrow, I’ll count my blessings, embrace life’s lessons, and make a list of all the things I’m grateful for. But today, I will list all the shit that is bringing m down and pissing me off.
1) This lake is owned by KU, which means they can do whatever the hell they want with it. Currently, they have decided to drop the water level one foot per day, which translates to three feet on land meaning we are having to build a new set of stairs every 48 hours.
2) The safety rails can’t keep up with the step construction, so going up and down them is fricking terrifying.
3) At 720 feet, we technically could hit bottom, and then will have to find a place to move our house for the winter.
4) What used to be a lush, green shoreline now looks like Mordor. And, especially at night, is creepy as all get out and dangerous to traverse, so I am worried to death about the dogs.
5) On that topic, if God forbid, something happened to one of the dogs or us, the only way out is Satan’s Stairs since both pontoons are currently out of commission and in the shop getting fixed, which ain’t cheap.
6) The solitary path to civilization includes said Satan’s Stairs—at last count 160—then a steep rock trail, then a winding mulch path to a gravel driveway. Long and unfriendly describes it best.
7) I use the word civilization loosely, unless I want to head all the way to Danville, there is only the Village Inn restaurant or Dollar General store.
8) When I do get to town to fetch my sundries and such, I have to haul them all the way back down the hill—bag by bag.
9) Frank works about sixty hours a week, so I’m alone the majority of the time.
10) Normally, I would compensate by connecting on social media but there is no high-speed internet, and one can only stand so much buffering before they spontaneously combust. Scientific fact.
11) Why not just give someone a call? In order to do so, I have to sit in one certain spot on the front porch, facing north, completely still, and with my right hand on my left tit, while making sure no one opens the freezer door.
12) In addition to my two dogs and three cats, Frank volunteered me to foster a six-month old lab with teeth like steel who thinks everything is a toy, except her actual toys. She has the face of an angel and the manners of Attila the Hun.
13) Here’s the real kicker…Burgin is dry, so I can’t even belly up to a bar and drown my sorrows.
All ranted out. Damn, I feel a little better. Thanks for listening. I promise my next blog will be so upbeat that kitten-scented rainbows will fly off the page and give you a hug.
Four years ago today, I made my original wedding vows to one Frank Rose. Of course, I would marry him all over again, but after forty-eight months of matrimonial bliss, my vows would be a little less Hallmark romantic and a little more realistic.
Here are my new and improved wedding vows:
Despite the fact that I feel many of your outfits, should be deemed infits that should never leave the house, I won’t question your fashion sense and will let you express yourself through your colorful clothing tastes.
I will support you seeing the new “Star Wars” in the actual movie theater as many times as you want.
I will accept the fact that you are not and will never be morning person, therefore I take on full A.M. responsibilities including making coffee, taking the dogs out, and serving as your sexy snooze button.
Though I cannot fathom how someone as burly and hairy as you can be cold all the time, I will not make fun of you sitting around shivering under a “granny quilt,” even though it is a balmy fifty degrees outside.
I will laugh—and loud—at your jokes even if I’ve heard them before and they are not funny…just for the record, they are never funny.
My motto will be, “Let him eat steak,” at least once a week.
I will never give up on you learning to play more than “Chinese Cats” (which is not a real song, by the way) on the guitar I bought you over three years ago. And, I’ll be in the front row at every show when you become an octogenarian rock star.
I will love your dog, Rufus, as much as you do.,,even though he is definitely somewhere on the canine spectrum.
I will be nice to your mother…at least, 93% of the time.
I will never forget to record “Gotham” again.
Above all else, I will strive to make you feel as safe and special and beautiful and loved as you make me feel every minute of every day.
Happy Fourth Anniversary, Frank Rose. Here’s to four hundred and forty-four more. Cheers. To Us.
In honor of National Badger Day, meet Chaos, just one of the colorful characters from my new novel, The Queen of Hawthorn Holler.
Jezebel always flaunted a full bush. Her seventh single to go platinum had been titled, “You Make My Honey Badger Growl.” At concerts, the Barbarian Love Slaves often wore stuffed badgers pinned to the crotches of their pants in homage. Fans were always sending needlepoints, sculptures, photos, and other crafts depicting the animal. Chaos, himself, had been an overzealous gift.
“It looks like a bowl of rainbow sherbet. Wanna’ see it?” She started to slide the onesie off.
“No,” Judd screamed. “I’ve seen you naked enough over these past six years.” Just when he thought he was immune to Jezebel’s impropriety, she’d say or do something that would make him want to hide his head in quicksand.
“Wonder if I should dye Chaos to match?”
On cue, the badger lurked out of the bathroom and flashed his fangs. He clawed his way onto the ten-person, dining table that dominated one side of the suite. A mountainous bowl of fruit restocked by the staff each morning sat dead center. It went untouched by Jezebel, but Judd and Chaos put a daily dent in it.
“Hey Buddy.” Judd reached in his direction. “Come, see me.”
Chaos, who’d opted to mangle a mango, met his request by snarling and spitting a mouthful of sticky, orange fruit in Judd’s direction.
“Don’t be a dick, dude. I brought you some beef jerky.” Judd fished a bag of Jack Link’s Original Hickory Smokehouse out of his pocket, opened it, and laid it on the floor at his feet. “Come on, badass, you know you want this more than that prissy fruit.”
Chao jumped down, waddled over, and pissed on Judd’s checkerboard Vans, then snatched the dried beef and burrowed under the couch.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.