Epic Book Fortune!

The last couple of weeks have been incredibly shelf-loving for me.

Between blog wins, birthday gifts and old-fashioned thrift from scouring
yard sales this past week, take a gander at all the wonderful reads I've suddenly amassed:

My retro-groovy 1960 hutch is quickly filling up!

Sweet Valley High: Evil Twin duo by Kate William - rummage find

The Harrowing by A. Sokoloff - rummage find

YA paranormals today's rummage find:

Charmed - The Power of Three by Eliza Willard

Circle of Three - So Mote It Be by Isobel Bird

Gallows Hill by Lois Duncan

Lisa Harrison: The Clique Collection boxed sets 1 & 2

( gotta luv those yard sales, baby! ;D )

Rummage find

Dead Names (The Dark History of the Necronomicon) by Simon

Making Out By Katherine Applegate: today's rummage find

Zoey Fools Around

Jake Finds Out

Nina Won't Tell

Ben's In Love

Another stellar rummage score!

The A-List by Zoey Dean

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane - rummage find

MORE rummage sale awesomeness found today -

a huge lot of 13 Buffy The Vampire Slayer books!

My daughter must love her nutty mom! For my birthday she surprised me with this F.A.N.T.A.S.T.I.C. gift:

The Blue is For Nightmares by Laurie Faria Stolarz boxed collection!!!

Oh, and here's another rummage score I made today :)

The Silver Wolf by Alice Borchardt

A fun win from Jane at Mid Life Bloggers

It's Not P.M.S., It's YOU! by Deb Amlen

A MUCH desired zombie book, again from my beloved daughter for my birthday!

Soulless by Christopher Golden

And here's an UBER-awesome win from guest author Prue Batten,

and one of my dearest blog buddies, Velvet at vvb32 Reads!

The Stumpwork Robe

The Last Stitch

Yet another yummy win!
This one courtesy of Strange Candy Reviews

The Phoenix Files: Arrival by Chris Morphew

Doesn't The Last Waltz sound beautiful?! By G.F. Vandagriff

This win came from an Examiner Contest courtesy of the author

Stealing Athena by Karen Essex

Dracula In Love by Karen Essex

Both the above luscious wins came from

Sari at The View From Saris World

DUST: A *Squee!* surprise win from Yan at Books By Their Cover

**************************************************************

Never Slow Dance With a Zombie

My M.A.D. take:
E.Van Lowe's NEVER SLOW DANCE WITH A ZOMBIE







Here's a heckofa fun read! I started this one about a week ago, then got tied up helping a friend for several long, exhausting days setting things up for the rummage sale from H**L.

So, when I finally got business out of the way, it was time for pleasure - and the first thing I did was to curl up with a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream and Lowe's awesome book.

Oh em Gee. I was up until nearly 3:00 a.m. this morning finishing reading Never Slow Dance With A Zombie! Absolute truth, if you're into the zombie or YA horror scene, this is one of the best out there. DO NOT MISS ...

The story opens with a couple of average sixteen year-olds, Margo Jean Johnson and her bestest bud, Sybil (the Queen of niceness itself). A few years earlier after graduating middle school, Margo had written "My High School Manifesto" - a detailed list of her must-achieve goals for her high school years: "I, Margot Jean Johnson, being of sound mind and in front of my best friend, Sybil Mulcahy, and the entire world, hereby decree that my high school experience will far exceed that of junior high".

And boy, will it ever! Never mind that Margot's nemesis, Amanda Culpepper - THE it-girl in high school - poses a formidable obstacle to Margot's dreams of popularity and snagging the hottest guy in the hallways (a.k.a. Dirk Conrad) ... THIS year things change, and in a way no one would have ever expected in a million years.

THIS is the year when nearly all of the entire student body turns into a mindless horde of swishing, lurching, flesh devouring zombies. Including the It-Girl clique, who still manage to ignore poor, pathetic Margot ...

But Sybil and Margo have plans to change things. Come heck or high water, or flesh eating classmates, and even sadistic gym teachers - THIS is the year Margo will become the most popular girl in school, even if she has to carry raw meat for protection!

Even if she learns why a gal should never slow dance with a zombie the hard way ;)

Unibrows and Age Spots - Why I think God Hates Me

Laugh all you want, but I've just gotten up and this is NOT the face I went to bed with.

The face I went to bed with was ... not bad, really ... blond, blue eyed, lightly freckled fair skin, a few fine lines around the eyes, showing my age (just this side of death) a wee bit but not anything too hideous. Semi-pretty if you're drunk/and or blind.

THIS MORNING, however... my God. I look like Bela Lugosi post-mortem.

Seriously.
(note to self: apply moisturizer with a putty nice. paint all mirrors black. wear hoodies backward) (tell people I've just gotten out of surgery)

And, you gals know what I mean here. You spend about seventeen hours tweezing your eyebrows, chin, nose, forehead, throat, ear lobes, etc ... only to wake up the next day, all innocent and hopeful. ONLY to discover you have some weird, wiry industrial-strength 3-inch long hair sprouting from your eyebrow like a bungee cord for the forehead! WTH?!

It's bad enough you have to shave BOTH legs, pits, God knows what else, exfoliate, pumice, pluck, and so forth so you don't look like the freaking ape you really are.

Bad enough when you get older (insert doom-like background music OR Barry Manilow - whichever) and discover that the Fairies of Youth & Beauty have stolen your face overnight and crapped all over your pillow instead.

This is why many women find the idea of vampires so romantically fascinating. Immortality is our only hope to remain 'youthful' (can we say TWILIGHT, anyone?). When is the last time you've seen a female vampire looking like menopause just ran her over like estrogen roadkill?

P.S. if anyone under 45 is reading this, I hate you.
Just kidding. Maybe. mwha ha ha ha

Sigh.

Thank God I have freckles. For real. I figure if age spots consume my flesh like Kudzu on an Atlanta highway, I can always always just point to a spot and claim 'freckles'. I'm Irish. It might work.

Remember when you were all young and 'perky' and could just roll out of bed (your boobs rolled with you instead of dropping to the floor like a couple of dead cats), splash cold water in your face to give your skin that 'dewy' look, dash on a fingertip of lip gloss, shake your glossy thick head of hair once or twice, then bounce out the door like you had springs in your bikini briefs???? Me, neither.

God, I hate 'perky'.

Now that I am old and crabby, I've learned to be happy if I can actually PHYSICALLY get UP outta bed without the help of serious anti-inflammatories and a winch. I also learned that drooling while you sleep can be considered a natural moisturizer. And if I can find my bosom with the aid of a magnifying glass or divining rod, I am happy.

I don't much care if the stupid things bounce with me, I'm simply grateful one of them hasn't gravitated down to my knees and/or is sagging in the same direction as the other one. Hopefully, they will continue to hang there like two whipped puppies until the day I die.

Which brings us to death.
I really hope God loves me.
Or likes me some, maybe more than a garden slug.
I hope someday God will sit down and talk with me, and answer all the big questions dancing through my mind.
I have a lot of questions for Him/Her/It.
I want to know why I got hemorrhoids like cantaloupes when I gave birth ...
I want to know why He doesn't tell me the lottery numbers like I keep asking...
I want to know why He made me look more like Doris Day than Angelina Jolie ...
And I want to know WHY I am stuck here on this monkey planet with all these perky youngsters whose blatant goal in life is to cut me off in heavy traffic?

Now I gotta go DO something with this face. Like I've got time for that ;)

Haute Stuff - YA Story

05/27/09
Dear Dia Ree,

I knew better, but today I wore my new skinny jeans even though I'm not anywhere near skinny. My tee kept riding up over my huge roll of belly fat, and I had to yank my shirt down like a million times. It was totally lame, I looked like a fat frat and hated everyone who looked at me. What possessed me to buy them, anyway?

Sigh. I just wanted the delicious new guy, Bane, to notice me. Well, he did. But not the way I wanted him to. It was during second period lunch. Ginger was being her theatrical self and waving her arms around madly, like a red-headed top. I was too busy trying to keep my stomach sucked in to pay her any attention, but apparently I got distracted and made the mistake of exhaling. That's when I caught Bane staring at the roll around my waist sticking out over the top of my jeans like it was some disgusting alien gut-muffin. It was not a stellar moment.

On top of that, I think I failed the final exam in Ms. Boneur's class. Why did I ever think I could handle calculus? So there goes my GPA. With only a week left before school's out, I can't exactly make it up :(

When I finally dragged az home, I stretched out on my bed and cried for like ever. For a girl in the top ten percent of her class, my social life is pure suxage.

I hate being overweight. I hate Ms. Boneur (everyone calls her Ms. Boner). I hate my other fat friends. And I hate Bane. And I especially hate Candi Khorne (can you actually believe that is a real person's name?!), and her stupid pink pom-poms. She makes me want to freakin' hurl all over her sparkly spandex ho-fit. I think she looks like a poster child for Lisa Frank addiction. She's about as intelligent as a doorknob and twice as interesting.

Worse yet, I think Bane might be into her.
Bang, how unexpected...

So like I said, I came home and cried my guts out.
I don't really hate anybody, you know. I just hate not being pretty and popular. I want to be slim and gorgeous and mysterious, to look like my movie star idol, Hedy Lamarr.

But most of all, I want Bane to be into me.

So that's when I decided to do something about all these things that are bugging me. I'm going to show every body at school a new Olive. I am going to shine so bright Bane'll need shades just to talk to me. Watch out, world - I'm through soaking my pillow with tears.

And this time, I really mean it! In one week summer vacation starts, and I have an incredible plan: This is THE summer I am going to become the Olive I want to be, and I think I know just how to do it. By the time school starts, I am going to be the hottest junior at Medici High!!! Bane will pop one just looking at me ;)

That is why 30 minutes ago I sold my soul to the Devil.

05/28/09
Dear Dia Ree,

Bang. I was almost late getting to school on time. Just as I was about to duck out the front door, Dad popped out of his study still half-asleep, but sharp enough to give me the fatherly evil eye.

"I wondered what I was smelling out here. Thought it was rotten eggs" Dad grimaced. "You got on some new kind of perfume, Olivia?"

"umm... sorta", I said. I am not good at prevaricating.

Dad pointedly gave the space around me a good, long sniff, his aristocratic nostrils delicately quivering. "I'd demand my money back", he snarked. Then, with a whirl of his cape, Dad blew me a kiss and vanished back into his study. I should maybe mention here that my Dad is a famous stage magician (well, not really famous but he almost was when he was younger). Since he pratices or performs at night, he usually gets to bed about the time I'm leaving for school. Most times I don't see him in the a.m., but I wasn't so lucky today. I love my Dad, but he doesn't understand what I'm going through, and he thinks my movie star magazines are a waste of money. For a guy who spends his cash on magic tricks, he's one to talk.

So anyway, I had to haul az back upstairs to eradicate what must have been the lingering smell of sulphur and brimstone clinging to my soon-ta-be haute hot self. No sense in giving my hand away this early in the game. September can't get here soon enough.

05/29/09
Dear Dia Ree,

Ginger can be such a drag! For someone so esoteric, so into everything mystical and zen, she can really put a bang on things :(

Tonight was Friday. Me, Ginger and Berry were all laid out in Ginger's basement bedroom (2 kewl, btw ... I'd love to have an entire floor to myself!). I waited until we'd finished admiring each other's hairdos copied from the pages of our old movie magazines before springing my plan on my friends.

No sooner had I paused for breath before Ginger clambered to her feet, shaking her newly waved hair all to shreds. She turned red in the face and pointed an accusing finger at me like I had just suggested we rob an orphanage or something. Berry almost choked on her Fresca when I gave her my patented look of innocence, hoping for some support her corner. Bang again.

"Do you", demanded Ginger, "have any idea what you've done"? The fat freckled finger of fate twitched like a spastic Circus Peanut two inches from my nose.

"What's the big deal?" I said, getting annoyed. I had kinda expected more enthusiasm out of Ginger, since she was the paranormal 'expert' in the group. "It's not like she really wanted our souls, anyway..."

Mouths gaping, both girls practically screamed in unison, "SHE?!?"

Okay, I have to admit at this point I started to feel a tiny bit smug. My old confidence was returning and I decided to play it casual. "Hey, keep the sound down. We don't need parents snooping around our cave." I didn't say anything more but turned my back and studied my chipped fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the universe. I could like actually feel the nano-seconds ticking away.

Suddenly I was engulfed in a hailstorm of Cheetos. With affected dignified, I dusted off the blazing orange crumbs and climbed up onto Ginger's huge Hollywood Regency bed. I motioned for my friends to join me. I, of course, claimed headboard status.

"She was actually very nice..." I began. "Super pretty, too," I added. Then I told them the entire story of what happened two nights ago. We talked until almost midnight. By the time I left for home, Ginger had calmed down and become very thoughtful, business like. She was busy dragging large, dusty books out from her library under the stairwell when Berry and I said goodnight.

When I dropped Berry off in front of her mom's rented duplex, she confessed she was a little scared, but still excited and that she couldn't wait to get started. Berry, we'd all decided, was to be in charge of researching our idols to find the exact moment in history we were planning to duplicate.

And my job, Dia Ree, is to play laison with Satan, or Shatan as she prefers to be called.

Snap that!

Confessions of a Nefarious Chin Hair

Not really, I just wanted to use the word nefarious. NEFARIOUS - okay, now I feel better.

Today's post is actually a prequel written in anticipation of the upcoming holiday season (which retail merchants sprung upon us about 5 minutes after we got the kids back in school the end of August). So ...

For the soon-to-be-upon-us Christmas frenzy (I mean season), I'd like to present a post chock full of inspirational warmth. A few modest lines to light the candle of love in every human heart. To lift the spirit with joy, and lastly -but never least - to impart the true meaning of the holidays in each and every mind I may so humbly touch.

But that sounds like a whole lotta work...

Instead and quite frankly, since none of you cheapskates out there have showered me with presents and pumpkin pie and popcorn balls and fudge, and maybe a Plasma TV or two, you're lucky to get this much out of me.

'Cos God knows, here it is, not even daylight yet, and I'm already hard at work. Weird. All I ever do is work, work, work and write. And feed cats. I mean, it's not like I ask for much, just a pretty mum or something. Cookies would be nice (those peanut butter ones with the deformed chocolate thingy in the middle).

Bitterness aside, I've been thinking to myself, "Self, how about we offer up readers some thrifty tips for the holidays?" Like ... giving homemade coupons promising the recipient services you'll do for them at some future date, say - a back rub, free babysitting, car wash or anything else you can think they'd enjoy. People really like that kind of thing. Then MOVE out of town before you actually have to do any of that stuff.

And who wouldn't be thrilled to receive a real sack of shiny gold nuggets under the Christmas tree? Yep. For the modest cost of a can of gold spray paint and a few shovels of gravel *borrowed* from you neighbor's drive, you can save a bundle on Christmas gifts. Don't forget the real sacks, though. *[caution: there's a fine line between outright felony and free enterprise these days].

It's ideas such as these that guarantee a holiday season no one will ever forget, barring serious pharmaceuticals.

Speaking of fruitcake (whatever). Did you know that fruitcake originated in Egypt***? Yes, indeed. During a brief and somewhat embarrassing period of history when their surplus of stray crocodiles and dead people were at an all-time low, the Egyptians were forced to secretly resort to mummifying foodstuffs in order to keep up the appearance of productivity and thus avoid having to erect another fool pyramid. Because, as every Egyptian worth his camel knew, just about anything beat lugging those heavy blocks all over heck and back under the blistering sun [RayBan would've made a killing in those days!].

So, centuries later, when looters broke into the tombs of Amen-Ramen, Tsk-Tsk-Tut, and the like, the mummified cakes were discovered and naively assumed to be worth something on the antiquities market. Those same cakes, now aged to the flavor and consistency of spoiled cement, are still out there making the rounds to this very DAY!

See, what appears to be chunks of red and green fruit are really bits of crocodile, which is why 'fruitcake' in Latin means "Repulsive Reptile Cake".

*** According to those merry misfits at The International House of Pyramids, Papyrus & Pancakes, whenever Pharaoh Amen-Ramen Noodle III began to sulk and whine about how all the other pharaohs had a newer, nicer pyramid than he did, his priests would gather round and reassure him what a pretty Pharaoh he was, and how YES, he did deserve a nice, shiny new pyramid, and as soon as all the slaves finished up with all that embalming stuff, they would jump right on the new pyramid thing. While in reality, the priests weren't any keener than the slaves to run around in the hot sun and sand all day long getting heat boils. And having to bless each stupid block before it was set in place was just about the most mind-numbing job yet invented. [Everybody was a lot happier a few years later when a huge oasis full of plastic was discovered, and the pyramids could then be quickly fashioned out of colorful lightweight interlocking blocks, which - as every school child knows - is where LotsaLegos come from]

@I don't know why my mind works like this ...

The Best Part of Waking UP

You know it's not going to be a 'good day' when you wake up inside a coffin.

My first clue comes when I go to stretch, and my arm is stopped short by a hard, unforgiving surface just inches from my face. That is when I panic.
You cannot imagine what the panic is like, the desperate gasps for air, the squirming, the struggle for freedom ...

Little by little, as slow realization overcomes your sleep-drugged senses, you first scratch, then claw, your whimpers turn to screams.

And there is no one to hear.
No one to release you from your satin prison.
Insanity wars with resignation, resignation resigns itself to cold, clear-headed logic, ... only for the cycle to repeat itself endlessly.

I hate it.

See, this is the dirty little secret of vampires everywhere. The secret no one likes to talk about. The one nasty little ugly we keep quiet from the living. Our little place in Hell we rarely mention, but must visit every sundown.

We forget. For just a few moments (and, trust me ... those few moments are an eternity unlike any other) ... we FORGET all that has preceded us, and must begin again. For just a little while. Until our undead consciousness finds its place once more.

See, and though I never paid that much attention in school, it seems that the body consciousness (the brain - for all your dimwitted mortals) dies along with the body. The brain, of course, is where memory once resided. Yet, and this so sux, with the brain ... how shall I say this? ... no longer the captain of this undead ship, we vampires don't have access to yesterday's events in the same way that YOU have. We have to wait suffer linger until our soul consciousness kicks in.

And that can feel like a mighty long wait.

This lapse is what truly makes us vulnerable to you silly, stupid mortals. Otherwise we'd tear your lily white throats to shreds when you dared to disturb our slumber.

Once in a while, the fear is so great, I will actually wet myself. And you haven't lived, my peeps, until you've peed blood. Literally. Think they'll be making Depends for that one anytime soon?!

So forgive me if I'm a little bad tempered today. I woke up on the wrong side of the wood. TODAY took me a little longer than usual to remember who I was and where I was.

Forgive me for lunging at your throat.

But I'm usually better tempered once I've had breakfast. Nothing like a McMortal to start the day, I always say.

Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry 3 INSANITY QUIZ

In moments of quiet reflection, have you ever asked yourself what is the meaning of life? Have you ever pondered the mystery of the little light in your refrigerator, wondered if flies pass gas, and continue to insert cotton swabs into your ear canal even though package instructions explicitly state not to?

If so, you are obviously not right in the head, are probably suffering from an enormous brain tumor the size of a cantaloupe, and should not be left alone with anything more dangerous than a can opener (manual - not electric).

But that's okay, because most of us aren't right in the head either. We just pretend to be. Life is making all of us crazy.

See, the human brain contains a whole bunch of important cells - let's say 10 zillion - and due to stress, these cells are dying by the bucket each day until eventually most of us will be left to function with a brain the size of a Tic Tac.

According to secret information recently declassified under the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA), the only known safe cure in the war against stress is laughter. Which is why humor will be outlawed any day now.

So laugh while you can. Before the Feds show up to confiscate your old issues of MAD magazine and Monty Python tapes ... for your OWN good, you goober.

No, I'm only kidding about the Feds (not really) (please don't hurt me). But, the fact of the matter is that if life hasn't made you nuts yet, it's only a matter of time. THEREFORE, out of the goodness of my heart, I have taken valuable time out of my horrendously busy schedule in order to devise a simple quiz to measure how far along the insanity curve you are:

Q. You finally have an hour to yourself and are curled up with a new bestseller you've been dying to read for ages, when a neighbor pops by to present you with a dewy zucchini picked fresh from their garden. You ...

A) Discreetly put away your book, thank them for their thoughtfulness, and enjoy an hour of neighborly companionship over a freshly brewed pot of coffee. All your cups and saucers match.

B) Grunt something unintelligible, shove the zucchini between the pages to use as a biodegradable book mark, and try to act interested in their stupid garden for the next hour while you seriously consider faking a heart attack.

Q. It's 6 p.m., supper time. You are in the process of removing from the oven a pan a mouthwatering lasagna and hot, crisp garlic bread when the doorbell chimes - heralding the arrival of unexpected company. You ...

A) Smile and express your unbounded delight over this wonderful opportunity to share a home cooked meal with good friends such as these. You usher the unexpected guests into a dining room straight out of Country Living for People Who Don't Live In The Country, where candles burn discreetly, the table linens are hand crotched Irish Linens, and an organic centerpiece fashioned from natural fruits and berries grace the center of a 200-year old Amish great table. Broadway show tunes softly play in the background.

B) Grimace, grab up a spatula and then use it to vigorously scratch your back, thus making certain that NOBODY but you is going to want any of that lasagna. As added insurance, you casually - albeit in a loud voice - whine about how the recent hot weather has played havoc, absolute havoc with your recurring boils. You act surprised when, in the middle of fetching the crumby card table stuffed behind the hot water heater, the one you use to groom the dog on, your guests quickly announce they cannot stay. You scream at junior to turn down Mortal Kombat.

Q. Imagine yourself as a respected head-of-state in a closed door summit with a foreign dignitary whose country is on the verge of nuclear armament.

Tensions are high. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance. Face to face, eyeball to eyeball, you prepare to broach the subject of nuclear weaponry with every shred of tact and diplomacy millions of people pray you possess, when SUDDENLY you happen to notice that your potential adversary has so much hair sprouting from his ears it looks like he has a live weasel glued to each side of his head. You ...

A) Are a mature individual who sees nothing funny in hairy ears or weasels, AND - without batting an eye or missing a beat - you go on to give the best impromptu speech of your life, thereby averting disaster and saving the lives of millions in the process. Your mother is proud.

B) Are morbidly fascinated by this guy's ears. It looks like ZZTop is jamming in there. It's like a forest of hair. Bambi's mother could still be alive in this guy's ears!

And though you bite the inside of your lip to keep from laughing, though you give a discreet cough to cover up the chuckles threatening to erupt, your brain hates you and won't let up for a second, until you are helplessly convulsing so hard that tears are streaming from you eyes, you are snorting up small paperweights off the desk, and all you can manage to do is point, howl and try not to soil yourself.

The summit is a disaster. Millions of people die. Your mother included. And her little dog, too.

Now then. For each "A" answer award yourself 1 point. For each "B" answer, give yourself a a trillion points. Next, RUN to the nearest Electronics-Are-Extremely-Expensive-Store and buy one of those calculators like they use at NASA. When the purchase is denied by your Discovering Debt Card, write a check and leave your youngest child at the counter as collateral.

When (if) you get home, punch in your quiz score and then multiply by Pi (3.14), multiply by the square root of infinity, then calculate the cosine while figuring X as a negative integer of Y.

Avoid drooling on the keys while you ignore all the incoming messages from DCFS and the bank, piling up on your voice mail like lights on a Christmas tree.

If the end result of your calculations looks something like the Mandlebrot*** set, you are hopelessly insane but may still be able to secure a job in Congress.

Otherwise, stay on the line until an operator can assist you. Because your call is important to us.

*** Mandlebrot set: a simple fractal algorithm (also see Juliet sets). Colorized images of these fractals are incredibly beautiful.

Mary Ann DeBorde - New Digs

There Ghost the Neighborhood - A Halloween Tale


"It's pleased I am to meet you. I heard tell they's a new kid on the block. Reckon it's time we got around to sayin' our how do's. I hope you like it here. I do. Me and the Missus been here a long time, though it don't seem such. Time has a way of getting on, you'll see what I mean after a spell.



"I always thought this a purty place to take up. A good neighborhood, one of them fancy 'gated communities', even if it is a might on the rundown side of things. As long as they keep out the riff-raff, them wild 'uns, I 'spect it'll stay nice enough.



"I'll introduce you to folk first thing sundown when we all gets together. We're a fair sociable bunch, some a little too sociable like the Widder Brown, if you hark my meanin'. I don't take no truck with shenanigans and neither do the Missus. We been here a long time and a might set in our ways, I'm proud to say.



"Now, downhill yonder ... see that scrawny old birch what looks like a snake sheddin' its skin? They's where the Blackwells put down, the whole clan o' them. They's Ma and Pa Blackwell then they's some of the kids, and their kids, and I think mebbe a few blocks back behind they's cousins scattered 'bouts. Most all them Blackwells be okay, but ol' Pa Blackwell, he don't get up much once the weather turns cold-like. Rheumatism in the bones, Ma says.



"Okay. Now see over left yonder of your place, they's the Reverend Oliver George. He don't stand on no ceremony, so most of the folk call him Ollie. I still calls him Reverend and so do the Missus. We been here a long time and believe in showing respect where respect's due, by gum.



"Next door Reverend, they's the twins, Laverne and Leona. They like things all neat and tidy, grass all trimmed proper n' such with big fancy statues come all the way over from Italy. Nice enough gals but a might uppity for me and the Missus.

"Them lights? Oh no, they's a strange bunch backup yonder close by the old bridge. I ain't a tellin' you what is your business or none, just showin' you whichaway the wind's blowin', that's all. I'd keep my distance, boy. Even the Widder don't truck with that bunch.

"See, years back that area were let go and empty like, 'til this bunch took up by the old bridge - like carpetbaggers or such. They just moved right in and kinda took over the place without so much as a by-your-leave. A noisy lot of 'em ... always screamin' and a hollerin 'when good folks is trying to take a rest.

"Well, I guess they's about it. Sun be a comin' up before too long and these old bones tire out easy-like. I hope you get settled in right soon enough. That there coffin o' yours looks mighty comfortable, kinda flashy with all that red satin going on. But die and let die, I always says.

"You got any questions, just you ask me and the Missus. Oh, and I hope you're not a groaner or a moaner. Me and the Missus been here a long time and we don't take no truck with spooks makin' too much noise. We like things quiet in our part o' the cemetery, hope you remember that".

Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry 2

Not to be melodramatic, folks - but I think I am dying. Everyone says it's seasonal allergies, but I think they are lying. Based on personal experience, I'd have to guess it's some kind of medieval plague, like the Black Death, or even possibly an ancient Mayan curse unleashed by careless archaeologists on the heads of all mankind. I bet some twit built another shopping mall on top of one of those Indian burial grounds we're always tripping over in Illinois. They really should mark those things.

It hurts to breathe. It also hurts to stand, lay, sit, swallow and blink. My ears are full of some disgusting mucus-type substance that makes me dizzy, hard of hearing, and if it doesn't stop I am going to go smack dab nuts and do a Van Gogh on myself (although I'm not sure it's legal these days to mail ears to unrequited lovers. I could prop it up on the mantelpiece, but the last thing I need is one more stupid knick-knack cluttering up this stupid house).

Sigh. Even my hair hurts. It feels like I am combing razor blades across my scalp.

I want my mommy.

But I'm not the only one. A bunch of us at work are sick this week. You don't know ugly until you're stuck working around a slew of sinus-infested zombies who cough so hard they clog up the Xerox machine with bits of lung tissue. One feverish co-worker is especially talented at projectile sneezing - (which is a lot like paintball but messier, and you need a strong stomach to participate). Anyway, I do some of my best work hiding under the computer desk in the store room.

Sadly, the cure is worse than being sick. Don't you love how pharmaceuticals give nasty medicine those cutesy flavors that are supposed to render the drug more palatable, but instead make you want to hurl? This morning I took a slug of a viscous, purple cough syrup that claimed to be grape flavored, but in bitter actuality tasted more like some sicko ran Barney through the blender a few times too many.

As gross as that sounds, it was way better than another cold medicine I tried, the one that's a tablet you drop into a glass of water where it fizzes like Chernobyl going down, and leaves this minty-death-camp after taste in the mouth. My cat yaks up nicer stuff.

Sorry. It's hard to be witty when you're being sucked down a tunnel and beckoned towards the light. I can't tell if that's my grandpa waving at me from the Beyond, or just some hairy kid on his bike outside the living room window because I'm too weak to put on my glasses. I'm scared if I am really, truly dying, they'll just hand me a time card when I stumble into the Great Hereafter, cos God knows all I ever do is work, work, work anyway.

But... TAH DAH ... according to those marvelous medics at (you guessed it!) The International House of Disease Control & Pancakes, the only known cure for the Black Death and similar plagues is to listen to the same 70's Disco hit for about 8,000 times, thereby encouraging the cold germ to flee its surroundings and, out of sheer desperation, attaching itself to another host body, preferably one with better taste in music.

Are you tired of work? For the modest sum of only $99.99, I can show you how to retire by getting lots of innocent strangers to mail you checks for $99.99, barring legal complications, of course. This offer is good until the Aliens land on the White House lawn bearing gifts of advanced technology and wondrous cures for heinous diseases such as cancer, heart disease and polyester. (just kidding)(God. I've still gotta get that stupid laundry done...)

Mary Ann DeBorde - I WON AN AWARD

OH MY GOD...

I GOT AN AWARD!!!!!!!!!

Just minutes ago (I am still quivering with excitement) I received notice from myself that I have just awarded me the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD for consuming the most caffeine within a 30 minute period while typing a new post! Can you believe it? (this could explain the quivering)

I never ever in a million zillion kabillion years would have thought myself a potential candidate for the uber prestigious albeit little known MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD. Oh Em Gee. This award, or so I've informed myself, is a pinnacle of artificial achievement in the field of amateur bloggers everywhere (or at least within my living room).

Furthermore, I'd like to thank all the little people who have made this possible, namely my two cats and the stupid fruit fly that's been bugging me all day. Also, I want to assure my readers that I will continue to uphold the stupendous standards I have set for me, which mostly consists of writing whatever the heck I feel like, when I feel like, and trying to remember to use Spell Check occasionally.

Still furthermore, as an honorable recipient of the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD, comes the additional responsibility of someday getting around to actually drawing and uploading a bunch of goofy graphics, mainly because people like pictures (often of cute animals, or animals being cute, or cute beings dressed up like animals).

SOME day I promise, by all that is HOLEY, to learn to use Photo Shop, Adobe, Acrobat, Dingbat, Deadbeat, etc etc ... unless there is a new episode of The Office on T.V.

So in conclusion, thank you self, for blah blah blah, I am touched, humbled blah blah blah and now I need to get off this stupid computer and do some real work for a change, like the laundry. God, I hate laundry. There's a load of whites in the washer (no lie) that's been in there four days now. So of course I've gotta wash it all over again (there goes my Green award. Sigh.). Now I'll have to chip the clothes out of the laundry tub with an ice pick. I just hate laundry that much. I mean, the washing part isn't so bad, it's the stupid drying and folding and sorting and hanging and all that crapola. But since I'm the one with the uterus, it's my job to have to do. Right. Like the other morons in this family can't spin the dial and pour in a cupful of soap. They hate the drying part as much as I do. That's why we have lint the size of small wildlife dangling out the dryer vent. I suppose I get to vacuum that up, as well. No one around here ever vacuums, except maybe during a total solar eclipse. Then, when I do cave in and drag out the ol' Hoover, the family gripes about the noise. They can't hear the T.V. (insert sound of major, life transporting artery bursting in brain). Well gosh. I'd hate to drown out the sound of the latest Burger Barn commercial. I KNOW! Next time I vacuum, I'll rev that baby up like a '65 Harley and see what happens. Don't mess with the menopausal, is my motive here, folks.

Seriously, I've got so much I need to do today, and here I sit, amusing myself on the pc. I (YAY!) uncovered last night a stash of funny stuff I wrote a few years back, and I'm trying to get some of it posted. Why, I don't know. Is anyone reading this? It looks like it, but I don't get much feedback. I feel unloved, unwanted, dejected and alone. Wait. Maybe that's just gas from the vats of caffeine I've drank all morning long. Hard to tell.

Major sigh ;)

Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry

I love fall? Don't you love fall? I know it's already here because I just saw my first woolly worm of the season. It was jet black with an eerie glow and sported a tattoo on its back that read 'DOOM'. Chee. I didn't know they made tattoo needles that small.

So now we've got the cooler temps and great sleeping weather. My feet got cold this week and I had to put on my fuzzy socks with the pink pompoms. Cats (we have two) love pompoms. I didn't have those socks on five minutes before Polly turned into some kind of Naruto-crazed Ninja and began attacking my feet like they were mice dipped in catnip. By the way, nothing ... and I mean nothing, cleans up bloodstains off the linoleum like good ol' Pine-Sol.

Yup. Autumn is just around the corner and by golly, we females love this time of year. Spring may be the time of year when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, but fall is when a woman's estrogen levels reach heights exceeded only, perhaps, by the national debt.

Fall is when we women start nesting and cleaning like we are expecting the Queen Mother to drop in for a spot of tea and fat-free crumpets. After I'd scrubbed the house this weekend to the point you could've hosted an in-home heart transplant, I set out pumpkin candles and one of those cinnamon broom thingies to make things all cozy and autumn-ish. Now my house smells like the Mrs. Smith's pie factory exploded in my living room, which is fine unless the Queen Mother is a diabetic with allergies.

Anyway, this is such a terrific time of year. Fall. Before too long the leaves will kaleidoscope into brilliant shades of scarlet, maize and orange to turn our lawns into a patchwork quilt of autumn beauty. I feel like baking, too, so I tore out a couple of recipes from the October issue of Martha-Can-Afford-To-Live-In-Her-Own-Vineyard magazine, that I 'borrowed' from the library.

Speaking of magazine, did you happen to see in this month's Popular-Science-And-Pocket-Protectors the amazing article on how to turn kitty litter clumps into valuable mammoth diamonds using ordinary household ingredients such as vinegar and ... !!! WE ARE INTERRUPTING THIS POST TO BRING YOU A LATE BREAKING NEWS FLASH !!! Entomologists** report the discovery of unusually large yellow jacket nests uncovered in southern Alabama and parts of Georgia. While large wasp nests are common to fall, those nests being found are of such a size and magnitude as to puzzle experts. These 'supernests', are being found in undisturbed, remote locations locations including abandoned barns and cars. One such 'supernest' was verified to have filled the entire interior of a 1955 Chevrolet. Another supernest, found in a barn, was so large it had to be removed in sections. The cause of these supernests has not been determined. Speculations range from drought to global warming to harem battles between multiple insect queens! ... vinegar and ... and ... omg. What is this? Some kind of real life Fear Factor? First it was giant rats invading southern Florida, then intelligent mice in the labs, then the bedbug Olympics where the little stinkers are impervious to everything but flamethrowers, now I've got to worry about wasp nests the size of small planets turning up in the my garage or something. Where's that Hazmat suit when you need one?

Researchers are puzzled, my Aunt Fanny. I'll tell you why the yellow jackets are building huge nests and super duper colonies. Because they CAN, that's why. I may be wrong, but for some reason I don't think wasps feel the need to justify their actions, is why. Criminy.

Okay, so what we need here, and quickly, before it's too late, what we need here is some kind of protective, full body cover to protect us primates from the sick, twisted depravity of a Mother Nature who is also warped enough to create hissing, flying cockroaches and maggots (Joke: what is the difference between dead maggots and the cheap rice in your pantry? Answer: you only think there's a difference. Both swell when wet) along with gargantuan rats and bedbugs spelunking around at night inside your ear canal - probably with tiny flashlights equipped with batteries that keep going and going and going.

No. Seriously. I'm gonna barf. If I ever open my car door to find the inside of the entire vehicle engulfed in a wasp nest, I am going to softly shut the door, pretend I didn't see a thing, and keep walking in the opposite direction in a straight line until either a) I hopefully fall off the edge of this fubar planet or b) the sun explodes. Whichever.

So like I was saying. What we need here is some kind of nature-proof covering, like the kind recommended by the friendly folk at the International House of Stinging Pests and Pancakes. They suggest some kind of adhesive, waterproof substance, ideally cut into strips, with which to fully encase the human body until Mother Nature is done getting her jollies. Gosh, if only we had something like that available ...

INTRODUCING the adhesive, waterproof substance that you can cut into strips with which to fully encase the human body!!! For only 4-easy cheesy payments of $29.99, I will personally send you a roll of what looks suspiciously like duct-tape, but probably isn't.

Cheaper than a Hazmat, and a lot more flexible than a Plexiglas bubble, this anti-nature tape is just the thing you need to keep the primate in and the lower forms of disgusting life the heck away from your flesh. Yes. All you need is a roll of our no-money-back-guaranteed-anti-nature tape, an Exacto knife, and a very, very, very close friend who, after painstakingly binding your body like a big gray mummy with our miracle anti-nature tape, will carefully (make sure this is a TRUE friend instead of the sleeze bags you typically hang out with) use the Exacto knife to cut precise, crucial openings for you to see and breathe and all other necessary bodily functions that we are too mature to mention (right) here.

OR, if you are too cowardly and cheap to take advantage of this special offer, then YOU can spend the rest of your life curled up in a fetal position within the safety of your home, which is a lousy way to enjoy Fall, if you ask me.

Frankly, you get what you pay for.

To order the new, miracle Anti-Nature tape, please send $29.99 X4 to M.A.D.s Gullibility Research Project, c/0 M.A.D.s Super Secret Swiss Bank account. Please allow all of eternity for checks to clear. Thank you.

** Entomologists: people who don't scream like a big baby when a bug lands in their hair.