A Tale of Two Kitties . . .


MOM! THANK YOU for my new box! I love it! Got window, got sunbeam, got ma bed! *purr purr purr, life is good!*

Hey, Fat Floof! What the hell? Kick off my bed and steal my sunbeam? You’ve got your own bed! Mom gave you your own box! You’ve got your own damn sunbeam!

Mom! He’s doing it again! Look at him. Sitting here, hogging my box and soaking up my sunbeam–you Fat Floof. Imma punch you!

Hey. Wait. Why does your ass smell like my cat box? You’ve got your own cat box! Mom just emptied both our boxes! I am so gonna punch your Fat Floof Face!

Bite me, Bro. Floof don’t care…

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The Fat Floof Fan Dance

THE FAT FLOOF Fan Dance is performed in a prone position, because actual dancing would require actual energy expenditure, and that seems like a lot of trouble. It is performed with a big, fluffy tail, because getting an actual fan would involve climbing a wall.

The Fat Floof Fan Dance begins with summoning a suitable audience.

Acceptable audience gathered, getting centered for performance, waiting for appropriate musical accompaniment.

I’m too sexy for my tail, too sexy for my tail, so sexy, it huuuurrrts *purr purr*

Behold the beauty of my Fat Fluffy Tail!

BEHOLD, PUNY UNDERLINGS! *Especially you, Atticus, oh he who possesses an embarrassment of a skinny tail that looks like a corral snake bit his skinny butt

Hater’s gonna hate. Heckler’s gonna heckle. Hecklers get a punch fight…

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Hold My Beer.

Part One: Close Encounters of the Redneck Kind


Chapter One

Living with, loving & surviving a redneck


Grandma Jessie used to say there are only three kinds of men in this world: the ones you play with, the ones you stay with and the ones who just need killin’.

With a redneck, you get a three-fer. I know this because I went through all three of these stages with a redneck of my very own.

And she warned me, the only difference between a redneck and a monkey is better use of opposable thumbs and the ability to buy beer.

In the beginning (the play-with and stay-with stages), my own personal redneck could do no wrong. The man practically farted hearts and flowers which is a neat trick if you can get him to do it. But as we neared the killin’ stage, I was tempted to chop off some his favorite parts and duct tape them to his forehead.

Since the law (even in Texas) frowns upon maiming your loved ones, I’ve amended Grandma Jessie’s Rule of Three to include two alternative endings.

The first is that if you can’t beat ‘em, you’re not using a big enough stick. Face it. You’re just gonna have to out redneck your redneck. This isn’t hard, if you have in fact decided your redneck is worth keeping. The trick is to just hang around with a redneck—any redneck—as long as you can possibly stand it, because sooner or later the redneckedness is gonna rub off on you.

And honey, once you’ve been subjected to that level of redneckedness, there’s no amount of Extra Strength Clorox or mega-doses of the Discovery Channel that can scrub the redneckedness out from under your skin.

While greater minds than mine have pondered the meaning and/or classification of redneckedness, I always fall back on Grandma Jessie’s explanation—a redneck is just a cowboy who’s gone over to the dark side.

You will know you’re on your way to true redneckedness when you realize that kitchen appliances are merely extensions of garage appliances. A steak knife is as handy as a pocket on a shirt and can be used not only for slicing up a good steak, but also as a screwdriver, a back scratcher, or, in a pinch, a hammer. Moreover, you learn the true use of major appliances—transmissions go on the bottom rack of the dishwasher, baseball caps go on the top.

The second, and my preferred alternative method, is the Redneck Catch & Release Program. You catch and keep your own personal redneck and do the whole moon-pied, doe-eyed, hearts-and-flowers thing until one day he stays out all night and you have to restrain yourself to keep from Super Gluing his frank to his beans.

When you’ve gotten yourself into this kind of situation, what you’ve done is kissed yourself a screaming monkey. And if you kiss a screaming monkey, it will inevitably, bite you in the face.

And when you’re finally to the point of wanting to back over your redneck with his own tricked-out pickup truck, it’s time to take him back to the auto parts department at the Wal-Mart where you found him in the first place.

Actually, breakups can be relatively pain-free if done correctly, and in fact, some can be downright fun.

Call all your girlfriends, add Tequila and commence to dancing naked in the backyard around a burning pile of his underwear. I warned you—redneckedness rubs off on even the best of us.

And, after you’ve drunk your bodyweight in Bourbon and Diet Coke and all your good sense ran out the dog door and you decide to go get yourself another redneck, don’t worry. As Mizz Jessie used to say, “There’s an ass for every saddle, and another one’ll be along directly.”


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Redneckedness. Yeah. It’s a thing.

Singing Pigs & Lone Star Underpants: Why Californians Don’t Like Texans

My daddy used to say that you should never try to teach a pig to sing—it wastes your time and annoys the pig. The same can be said about attempting to tame a redneck—it’s possible, but it’s going to take a lot of time and patience, and someone’s likely to get hurt.

There are many ways to identify a redneck—his pickup costs more than his house (and the pickup usually has better wheels), and more than one person in his family died after hollering, “Hey, y’all, watch this!”

Two questions I’m often asked are: why would any woman who isn’t of the redneck persuasion marry one of these men, and furthermore, why don’t people from other states like Texans?

Not long ago, these questions were posed to a slate of Lone Star literati at Pulpwood Queen Kathy Patrick’s Girlfriend Weekend. The panel included stellar authors Sara Bird, David Marion Wilkinson and Carol Dawson, along with Texas Book Festival Honcho Cyndi Hughes, and by some enormous shift of planetary luck, me.

And while this brain trust of southern bards waxed elegantly on the whys and wherefores as to the bad attitudes toward Texans, the question ended with me, and in my own, simple way, I summed it up in one word: Redneckedness.

Redneckedness is often related to craziness, and Texans take great pride in lapses of sanity. I hear up north they lock their crazy up in the attic. In Texas, we prop them up on the sofa and invite the neighbors over for iced tea.

While rednecks in Texas are by and large not locked up (though they are often incarcerated) they do sometimes roam freely about the rest of the country inflicting their redneckedness on unsuspecting strangers.

It was one such case with my own personal redneck that I used to illustrate the profound affect rednecks have on people outside the state of Texas.

My redneck and I ventured out of the state without a passport but were easily recognizable, due to certain trademark indicators. Texas rednecks are most often identified by their uniform—Wrangler jeans, boots, and some sort of t-shirt in disrepair, topped with a gimme cap proclaiming a slogan for cars, beer, or Tito’s Titty Bar.

Of course, there is also an image of the Texas flag somewhere on their person, and often on their underwear.

I know of no other state where people would wear their flag on thong underwear, or for that matter would want to. But in doing so, Texans can go anywhere in the world with the state flag up their butt.

On this particular occasion, we put ourselves in the hands of my urbane, Northern California stepbrother, Clif, who was our tour guide the civilized world beyond the bounds of Texas.

Knowing my redneck’s propensity for alcohol, Clif thought we’d enjoy a tour of some of the California’s better wineries. I am sure my step brother is still ruing the day.

We wound our way through the verdant, grape-scented wine country to our

destination, where, upon disembarking from Clif’s luxury SUV, my redneck marched through the door of the winery, bellied up to the bar and bellowed, “What’s going to get me the drunkest the fastest?”

The lull of lovely, sophisticated banter shattered like someone dropped a bottle of five-hundred dollar cabernet.

Sighing, I said, “Sadly, he’s not kidding.”

With great trepidation (and scanning the room a Punk’d camera), the sommelier excused himself and went to the anteroom to fetch a bottle of something fortified.

My redneck leaned against the counter, reaching past the cheese salver for a toothpick housed artfully in a shot glass, when one of the innocent bystanders shrieked, “Those are used bamboo skewers!”

He looked at her like she’d wet the carpet. “Used toothpicks? Then why the hell y’all put ‘em out on the bar?”

Saving the day, the sommelier whisked out from behind the swinging doors brandishing a bottle of some wine I am certain none of the genteel patrons had ever seen, and served it along with an empty water glass, presumably to fill my redneck’s mouth and keep him quiet.

At that moment, a slight, elegant man came bursting through the front door yelling, “There’s a snake in the vineyard! There’s a snake in the vineyard and I think it’s a rattlesnake!”

Without missing a beat or a slug of wine, my redneck half-turned, still leaning on the bar and said, “Oh yeah? How big is it?”

The gentle boy raised his hands, indicating about six inches.

My redneck snorted. “Well hell, ya can’t even eat that.”

I took a deep breath, muttering apologies to my stepbrother, hoping he didn’t work with any of these people when a woman approached, brows raised, nose lifted. “You know,” she said, “as a general rule, we Californians don’t really care for you Texans, but I suppose you don’t care for us either.”

My mother raised me right, but even I have my limits. My redneck was being true to himself, and this woman was just being downright rude.

“Well, ma’am, to tell you the truth,” I said, “We don’t have any general rules, and we usually don’t even think about y’all ‘til you start buying up all our property.”

Clif tells me they’re still talking about the time Jethro and Elly Mae went to the winery.

I finished telling the story at Girlfriend Weekend, and people were ‘bout rollin’ on the floor laughing, and Sara Bird leaned over and said, “Honey, you should right this stuff down.”

And so I did. Here are the true life stories of being loving a redneck and living to tell the tale. It’s all the truth, but not the whole truth, on account of those pesky statutes of limitations.

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Suicide. *Hang on. It’s about to get real loud*

I THINK I scared First Reader last night and that was not my intention. We

Love you, Mama, Daddy and Sister. And I miss you every single day.

were discussing suicide (well, I was discussing it, he was actively listening). First Reader and I have known and loved each other for 17 years, and never had a serious discussion about suicide.

It’s time to talk, y’all.

A friend of mine committed suicide yesterday. I loved her–still do–and yes, I’m beside myself that I didn’t know her depression was that bad. Most likely, she didn’t either.

Most of the time, I’ve found, when you trip and fall into that deep, dark hole, you don’t even realize you’re falling until it’s too late.

One of the things First Reader does when I go into what I call Spin Mode–that dark place where my brain starts spinning and I can’t make it stop, is Ground Me–he gives me small details about my surroundings that bring me back to earth and gently guides me to slow-and-or-stop the spin.

He usually starts with, “Take a deep breath. In and out. You are safe. The air conditioner is on.”

Why would the sound of an air conditioner be important? Because it’s something you don’t usually notice, and you have to stop and pay attention. Yes, I hear the steady white-noise hum of it, I feel the cool air on my face. I’m here. I’m safe. And so are you.

I’ve lost three friends to suicide this year, and my mother and sister within two months of each other in 2017. I’m not asking for sympathy, I’m doing what I consider a Public Service Announcement.

We need to talk about this.

I know it’s hard to talk about it, even harder to approach someone who’s *spinning*.

Hard to Know What to Say. Hard to Know What to Do.

I didn’t even know that not everyone considers suicide until I was 16-years-old, and I made some flip remark about it (me? make a flip remark?) and my stepfather, the Colonel, said, “No, sweetie. Not everyone thinks about driving their car off a cliff. We need to have a talk.”

And creative people seem to have a tougher time with what Holly Golightly used to call The Mean Reds. So let’s talk about it.

Let’s get real.

The first time I laid in bed, rocking myself, praying that God would kill me, I was five-years-old. I’d just watched my father drown, and my mother was, understandably, spinning. We’d been camping, and Daddy had taken my little sister and I and one of our cousins fishing. I won’t go into the details, but Daddy dove into the water to save a little kid and never came up. I remember the minute details of that day, the little ruffle-butt swimsuits my sister and I were wearing (mine was pink. my sister’s was blue), Daddy’s long legs as he submerged into the still waters . . .

The last words he said to me was, “Sit your butt down. Don’t move. And take care of your sister.”

I was four. She was three. Mama was six months pregnant with my little brother. I am awed now, that not only did she will herself to survive her own turbulent waters, she was able to drag her three small children to shore, so to speak.

While I didn’t fully understand the riptide around me, I did understand that Mama was drowning, too. And that’s what prompted my pleas to God– “God, why didn’t you take me instead? Please. Take me. Give Daddy back to Mama. She is so, so sad.”

So suicide has been a part of my life, so to speak, since I was a little girl. It is sometimes still a struggle, and I sometimes still get flip about it.

I’d say I’m better now, but I think thoughts of darkness are similar to an addiction. It’s something you learn to live with. If you’re willing to look it in the eye and say, “No, you bitch. Not today.”

It’s something I have to work at. Every day. All day. Out loud.

I had a guest overnight last night, and while he is kind and lovely and was with me the entire time, he had no idea that my mind had slipped into that spinning whirlpool. I didn’t want to talk to him about it, because, well, that’s one of the symptoms, isn’t it?

First Reader, who understands my twisted brain better than just about anyone, listened patiently as I told him something I’ve never told anyone–the roadmap I’d put in place when I made my big Swan Dive two years ago.

I was in that place where I was dog-paddling for all I was worth but couldn’t see the shore.

I remember that day, *D-Day* as I call it,  vividly, too.

I have to remind myself of the long, ugly road I traveled to get there, the steps I made to make sure loved ones (including–and especially–the furfolk) would be cared for.

And here’s the thing–or one of them anyway: I’ve written a lot in my journalist days about death and near-death, and one of the things that commonly came up was Last Words. In nearly all of the near-death episodes I chronicalled for the newspaper was what these survivors thought were going to be their Last Words. In every single instance, the survivors told me their last words were going to be, “Oh shit.”

Mine were, “Well. Here we go.”

And yes. I said those words out loud.

But that wasn’t the end of my story, even though I thought it was, because there were more Last Words, and they weren’t mine.

The last words I remember from that dark time was a stranger’s words. He said to me as I was being, literally, flown back from the brink of a car crash–yes, over a bridge and nearly made it to the river–were, “Hang on, honey. It’s about to get real loud.”

I was literally  helicoptered out, lifted up by total strangers, and with their help, embarked on a new journey that led me to where I am today.  Is it perfect? Of course not.

I asked Grandma Jessie once, when I was in that dark place, “Grandma? When will I ever get my ducks in a row?”

She was a tough little no-breasted (double-mastectomy), blue-haired, Southern Baptist woman. Her favorite phrase in times of difficulty was *Tough Titty* which always cracked me up and still makes me smile to this day. But she paused at my question, considered it, and said in her trademark petticoats-and-pearl-handled-pistols kind of way, “Darlin’ girl. Your ducks will never be in a row. Not the nature of ducks.”

I just blinked, stunned. I’d been hoping for words that would guide me back to shore. What I got was more guidance than I possibly  could’ve imagined at the time.

Life, for many of us, doesn’t look like what we thought it would look like. Our ducks won’t ever be in a row because that’s not the nature of ducks.

The best we can do is find a fixed point on the shore, redirect, and start swimming.

And if you can, bring those flailing around you with you, even if you’re just showing them the way to dry ground.

And listen for the air conditioner . . .

How Can You Tell?

What Should I Say?

What Can I Do?







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The Meanest Cat in the World

Lord Atticus Platypus, Overlord of Ninja Kitties  came to me not as a rescue,  fallen  to

exile, the dictator dethroned from his reign of terror.

My writer-buddy Jan Yonkin and her husband had managed get this tiny feral kitten into their home, where he immediately declared war on her pair of large, well-behaved pussycats and declared himself King.

Since I’d been cat-free for two years, I took her plight to heart,  loaded up my abandoned cat carrier and traveled the 65-mile trek to her home in South Austin to save his scrappy little scruff from his state of disgrace.

I mean really–a tiny kitten.? How bad could a tiny little malnourished stray be?

Venison! It’s what’s for dinner!
Venison for dinner!

Turns out, pretty bad. Viciousness can in small packages.

When I arrived at Jan’s, I could hear him ominously growling and snarling,  even before I got to the door. “Siamese mix,” I told her.

“You know that without seeing him?”

“They have a really distinctive raspy voice. It sounds like they’ve spent a lifetime smoking and pounding down gin by the bucketful,” I said. “Plus, they’re loud and they never stop.”

It’s not a pleasant sound.

She nodded. “He’s been doing that since he got here,” she told me. “I thought he had just scratched his throat yelling so much.”

” They’re one of the only working breeds of cat,” I  They’re trained pretty easily–for a cat. The Temple of Siam where the king lived and ruled. It’s got tall pillars where the cats would hang out, and if they saw a person or people they sensed were threats, they did their bone-chilling banshee scream. And then jump on the intruder’s head and start slashing.”

“Thailand’s answer to boiling oil on palace marauders! Well. Come down the hall the second bathroom.” she laughed. “And be careful.

From the top of the shower curtain rod was a rakish, yellow and white Siamese-triangular face and a bony, barrel-stave chested cat, still caterwauling from atop the toilet bowl.

And so began the Second Tyranny the Platypus, making it clear that he would not tolerate another coup.

Once home, Atticus  immediately took his rightful place on the railing of the loft where could rule his new kingdom.

It was clear immediately he would not abide trespassers kindly. Within the first

“Yes. I actually dug up and tortured a gopher to death.

two weeks, he’d mangled a snake, two birds and a nutria (a water rat) which promptly devoured headfirst, using the giant rat’s tail to pick his teeth.

His best friend is a fox. Early in the morning, the fox shows up in the morning and Atti walks regally up the driveway, where they sit on haunches and make soft little mutters, exchanging news of the evening as they change watch.

Within the third week, the neighbor pounded on my door yelling “Will you come get your devil cat? He chased my dog under the car and won’t let him out!”

As I scooped the little reprobate into my arms, ending his siege of the giant Labrador retriever, I turned to the neighbor and said, “You know, I don’t think I’d brag about that.”

“I will end you, puny dog!”

Atti likes to be petted–but only on his terms–*tastes* my arms with his sandpaper tongue designed to shred the flesh from the bones of his kills and periodically stalks up and hisses at me, which I think is hilarious.

Twice the seven-pound bully has picked a fight with the local bob cat. When I hear his shrieking Battle Cry, I know the bob cat is back.

He doesn’t play with his toys, shreds Marlowes “Sitting Box” and he doesn’t bother to attack ribbon, opting instead to attack the source of the movement, usually my hand.

When he deigns to sit in your lap, you are his hostage for remainder of the time he’s allotted for lap-sitting. If  I try to get up before his internal dinger goes off, he launches into a terrifying long hiss, glaring at me with Eye of Sauron.

I’ve designated a Bitey Sweatshirt which I don about twice a month so he cantake out his aggression on my arm.

Sitting with no expression on his little triangle face, he perches calmly on the

highest limb of his favorite tree,patiently waiting for unsuspecting deer, visitors, but usually my now-ex-husband. This usually causes a scream whatever (or whoever)and a horrified and a horrified faces who dared to venture into his kingdom.

He began devising his List of Sworn Enemies, and the day I brought Marlowe Kitty home the shelter, he immediately moved to Number One as an being  who did not deserve to live.

He regularly parades fresh kills in front of Marlowe taunting his little brother with the spoils of war.

“I challenge you to a punch fight!”

For no apparent reason, he periodically walks up to Marlowe and punches him in the face.

He occasionally challenges Marlowe to a duel, in which they sit on their haunches and take turns punching each other in the face.

At a recent visit to his kindly veterinarian to extract a the remnants of some animal’s broken fang, holding it up to inspect it,  his vet said.  “Well you’ve got yourself a little character here.”

Obviously, I encourage bad behavior . . .

Yes, Atticus is a ruthless Overlord.  And I am happily his subj

“It’s hard work being a Meanie
Cat . . .



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Mothers, Friends & Random Acts of Kindness

I WAS SPEAKING to First Reader about love and loss and how to properly remember someone, something that’s been weighing me as we approached this Mother’s Day and my mother is no longer with us. Her death is like the phantom pain of a missing limb.

Now I’ve unexpectedly lost a dear friend, a friend Mama loved and took great delight in. My friend, much like Mama, would want us to remember the fun, funny, often goofy thins we did together. My friend drove up from San Antonio dressed like a shark, brought a shark suit for me, to celebrate Shark Week by heading down to see my mama and my sister in Sugar Land.

On our first stop, a waiter (who was so delighted he wanted his picture taken with us) said, “Y’all do know Shark Week is next week, right?”

Kim looked it up on her phone, and sure enough, we were a week early. We both looked at each other, then started pointing our fins at each other, shrieking with laughter. Not only had we gotten the wrong date, everyone knew we were dorks.

If you’re going to go in, go all in. Make a big splash or go home.

We weren’t going to let a little thing like actual dates and times (and sometimes facts) get in our way.

These two women, Mama and my friend Kim were two of the strongest, kindest women I’ve ever known. And they, along with another friend who invited me into her family, gave me the strength to move on with my life. To make it better. That kindness and laughter will get you through.

Mama used to tell me me no matter where I was in the country, when I smelled the scent of roses, she’s near. And now that scent will also remind me of my funny, lovely friend Kim.

And as I’m looking out of the window of my new home, I’m greeted with a great wall of roses. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

I honored both of their gentle spirits today  by buying two bouquets of roses–one red , for Kim, one purple, for my mother.

And then I gave them to total strangers. One of these strangers actually broke down into tears. I gave her a hug, told her “Happy Mother’s Day.”

I think they’d have liked that.

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Comey Got It Right: We need to take our responsibility as Americans seriously

IF ANY OTHER president had committed half the impeachable acts as the man currently

I kinda can’t wait to see his head explode when Comey’s book comes out Tuesday . . .

occupying the Oval Office, I believe they’d have been in front of Congress facing a presidential pink slip. But as much as I loathe saying it, I think former FBI Director James Comey got it right when he said impeaching this man now would let us, as Americans, “off the hook.

He was right when he said, “I think we owe it to each other to get off the couch and think about what unites us.

Impeaching the president, Comey said,” would be a quick fix to a larger problem. You cannot have, as president of the United States, someone who does not reflect the values that I believe Republicans treasure and Democrats treasure and Independents treasure,” Comey said. “That is the core of this country. That’s our foundation. And so impeachment, in a way, would short circuit that.”

And it takes a brave man, knowing he was going to get a massive tweet tantrum filled with accusations, to tell the truth: Donald Trump is not morally fit to be President of the United States.

Trump has proven himself to be a liar about big and small things, many of which can actually be proven easily by just rewinding our Tivos.

I don’t know what the future holds, because I’m certain special council investigators have only hit the tip of the Trump iceberg.

What I do know is that we need to take Comey’s advice: Find the core values that unite us in a time where we are all so divided. And get up off our couches and vote.

We owe it to ourselves. And we owe it to each other.

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Name-calling, Complacency and Getting it Right. Oh, and also, Vote!

SO YESTERDAY, FIRST READER gently suggested enough with the name-calling. He

A Trump by any other name is still a Trump.

didn’t criticize of chastise me,or for that matter, say anything else on the subject. And as usual, it got me thinking. What is it about name calling?

Part of it, I think, is that it’s a signal to our fellow team members which team we’re on–similar to bumper stickers and even some  hairstyles.

There are other reasons for name-calling and assigning nicknames. W. Bush used to call all of the journalists in the press corp nicknames, I think for a couple of reasons, and I have to hand it to him–It was brilliant. He didn’t have to learn our names, and while most of us were geeks and policy wonks, we got to feel like we belonged, for a time, in the Cool Kids Club–a total, but effective, frat boy move. In the press pool, we were known by monikers including, Stretch, Super Stretch and Shades. I was “Blondie,” but so were all of the blondes there–most of them were FOX cubs.

I think Trump assigns nicknames for two reasons: to undermine and belittle those who oppose him, and to “brand” them, similar to a commercial jingle. Say it often enough, and it sticks.

And I respect the office of the President of the United States and promise to defend her against all enemies, foreign and domestic, I choke everytime I see this man connected to that title.

Another reason to stop with the monikers is that it’s beneath us, and we have better things to do with our time. Like voting drives, helping local elections and getting the word out, ground-level–grass roots.

Our great grandfathers and grandmothers were members of the Greatest Generation. I don’t want my generation to go down  in history as the Complacent Generation.

We keep hearing about the coming Blue Wave, but that doesn’t absolve us from putting our shoulders in and moving this embarrassing boulder back where it belongs. And certainly out of the White House.

And thank you First Reader. Sometimes I need a gentle nudge (well, sometimes I just flat out need to be reigned in), but he’s far too polite to do more than suggest. I should take that as a compliment, I think. Put out the seed. The flowers will come . . .

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If a writer loves you you’ll live forever. If you piss her off . . .

Cauley Island . . . Where I wrote Dead Copy

IF A WRITER loves you, you’ll live forever. If  you cross her . . . well, you’ve tripped over a rock, fell down a hole and rolled straight to hell.

So I woke up this morning, as Granna Lucie used to say, “On the wrong side of the bed” which is a total shame because yesterday I bounced right off this same mattress ready to fart rainbows and shed enough glitter to cause a worldwide shine-shortage.

Some day this will all be funny–and some of it already is, and I assure you, it’ll all wind up in a book. And of course, I will follow the advice of one of my favorite editors: If you’re gonna write a real man, give him a bent-dick-tiny-penis. That way if you wind up in court, he’ll have to stand up, put his hand on a Bible and say, “Yes, yer Honor, that’s me. The one with the bent-dick-tiny-penis.”

In the mean time, I have a proposal that has nothing to do with marriage, failed or not.

What if we all pooled together, bought my house (that I’m not currently living in) and turned it into a writers retreat? So if you’ve got $700,000 and some change layin’ around, this would be a good investment. I bought the lakefront land for $125k almost fifteen years ago, and in five years, it’s projected to be worth a million bucks. A way better investment than BitCoin . . .

Writer’s retreat looking for good owner

Even better, what if we all pitched in and turned it into a women’s shelter? Oh, that would make my heart sing, even if I never stepped foot on it again. I would know the house is being loved as much as I loved it the first day I put the money down on the lakefront . . .

The wide-open living room with a giant fireplace . . .

And yeah. My Jacuzzi bathtub, where I revised both Dead Copy and A MacKinnon Christmas . . .


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