Oh Just Get Over Yourself!

I've been terrified of this post. I was petrified about what to write. Yes, I've hit post number 1000. It just feels like I should write something profound or interesting. But in the end, I've decided just to get it over with!


No, I had no idea what this blog would do to me back in November of 2006 when I started this journey. I gave it very little thought. I had been reading Velvet's blog and many on her blog list back then and after cautiously commenting on some, I felt I had something to say and took the plunge. I never dreamed it would lead to 1000 posts. I never really thought I had that much to say!

Mabel Lou the Super Model (photo by Rottrover)

Knowing I would hit 1000 (I thought it would be last year), I started a page (never published so don't bother looking!) called Essential Creekhiker. It was to feature one or two of my favorite posts from each month of this blog. Which led to Essential Mabel Lou... because she is my co-star and #1 muse. I started re-reading this blog from the begining... I got bored before I finished three years! If it bores me, it probably bores you too...

But I was always a writer.

I wrote as part of my job creating bids for commercial directors. Ad agencies are incapable of understanding budgets and so a "sales" letter must accompany every bid. Often I would be sitting at my computer in some motorhome on the set of some commercial and the writers would be quibbling over dialog. I would spit out the fix over my shoulder and go on with my work. I can't tell you how many times that happened!

I remember writing an addition to Rodgers and Hammerstein's King Arthur on the fly back in high school when a temperamental make up artist caused Morgan Le Fay to miss her entrance.

When I left my "real" production job to go through surgery and run my own business, I didn't miss commuting or people. I missed writing. I joined a local writing group. It was a blast. I wrote some of my best stuff ever. But then the men in the group started fighting over every little comma  and almost came to blows. I was done.

And then came blogging. I've met a number of bloggers in person since starting this process. I was most star struck to meet Velvet... she's one of my favorite writers and I simply adore her.  And I've encouraged many others to blog.  Taking photos while hiking, I explained to my hiking buddy what "blog fodder" was and that she could see pics of her rotts on my blog.  She started reading all the dog blogs and even started her own. It still smarts that she gets so many more comments than me. But I blog about too many subjects to really worry about that.

The Unfaithful Writer Tries to Find Herself...

Yes, this may have been my first blog... but it's not my one and only. I quickly realized what a good business practice it is to have a blog. And I tired of posting beads and my sales stuff here. It felt sacrilegious!  So I started a bead blog. I soon realized that the rss feed set up of a blog and places like etsy and artfire - that allows for instantaneous sharing when a new item is listed - would be excellent for a website! So after a few feeble attempts at my own dot com for my glass beads, I restarted it using a word press template with a shopping cart built in. All because I had learned to blog! So, that gets us to three!

I manage a team blog for other bead makers. Four!

Because I am forever in search of a gig or way to make some money, I needed a place to stash some of my published work. So... writing blog! (Sorely in need of updates!) That's Five!

Along the way, another friend started learning how to actually make money blogging. Not just pennies but a living! I was already curious about some of the repeat hits I get on this blog. A post about taking the CBEST constantly gets hits. Another post on a long cancelled tv show that jumped the shark gets tons of traffic to this day. A rejected article I wrote for aol about gifts for pet lovers...tons o hits. The post I wish I had not titled "Doggie Porn" ... way too many hits (Ewwww! Creepy!!).

All of this led to my "retail adventures in blogging" trying to find a way to get a blog popular enough to make a little dough. Jump the Shark and Retail Rants and Raves were utter failures. (Six and Seven! OMG! I'm tired!)

I suddenly realized, I really "should" have a blog for my day job...food safe rubber stamps as too many bloggers were writing about the technique and leading to much misinformation that can get people sick. So... Food Safe Rubber Stamping started last year! EIGHT!

And finally... I found my niche with number nine. In March of last year, I was googling the terms "glass beads" and "lampwork" and realized that no ONE artist was EVER going to crack the "Chinese Wall" of garbage glass beads on the internet. But... if a bunch of us were to use ONE public site over and over, we could make it to the first page of Google. And Glass Beads Daily was born. It has been successful beyond my dreams!

And no, number nine won't be my last... I have at least two more up my sleeve!

I realize that blogging came along at just the right time for me. I was working alone and from home. It was a creative outlet that allowed me to promote my businesses and connect with others.

I think I only have two or three readers from the beginning and I'm happy they've stayed with considering all the changes this blog has undergone. And though my fingertips may wander... this blog is home. It's more ME than any of the others.

And just for the record:

This is actually my 1006th post...if you count drafts. There is a post for Mr. Chewy pending. A post about my New Year's Resolution which is starting to bore me. Both of those will see the light of day.

But I have others I'm not sure why I started:

• A post about things I've had to rent. From the mundane helicopters, private jets, cranes and gorilla suits to the far more interesting submarines, reindeer and a working prison. 
• A post titled What Not to do to the Dying - my way of lashing out at some of the stupid things people said and did while my sister was sick. I may never have the guts to share that. 
• A Things that Make you go Hmmm... too short to bother
• A post about the best day of my life... that has no point

So it's really post 1006...No big deal

But then if you count those others:
Fire Divas - 142
Holly's Folly Beads  - 681
Writer Holly Dare - 28
Retail Rants n Raves - 7
Jump The Shark - 4
Food Safe Rubber Stamping - 26
Glass Beads Daily - 278

This post is actually my 2,172nd post... I don't know what I was so afraid of. No big deal, really.

Head Exploding

This crap drives my inner grammar geek NUTS! Good Morning America, you should be ashamed! (And your chyron operator should be shot!)

Gone to the Dogs

I feel like my blog has gone to the dogs.  Yes, it's true my dog is a HUGE part of my life. We are together 24/7 most days. And there are often times it feels like she is the only good and true thing in my life.  It's only natural to write about that...it is what I know.

But there are times, I just want to write about something else.  And I feel like I can't. Or I shouldn't.

It's all GABE's Fault - (mostly?)

Back in April, I participated in the Global Animal Blogging Event - GABE. Until then, I had been blogging along on what ever topic suited my fancy. I had some regular readers over the years but their comments had tapered off.. Suddenly after GABE, I had a whole bunch of new followers and folks leaving comments - which I loved. But the majority of them are dog bloggers...not that there's anything wrong with that.

Just a Comment Junkie

Yes, I will confess, I am a comment junkie. I love feedback. Which surprises me... ALOT!  I heard on the news the other day that the average human requires seven hours of human contact a day. I find this astounding! Seven whole HOURS!  I need like seven minutes and there are days when that's too much! I seriously think the only reason I tolerate my friends is that all of them have IQs in high 140s.

I am happiest when I'm working in the shop, prepping orders, listening to my ipod and talking to Mabel.  I can spend days / weeks on end like this with only an occasional customer to talk to and phone calls from my closest friends.

But let a blog go without a comment and I'm devastated.

Feeding the Beast

I'm torn over what I should do about it. Do I start yet another blog? I'm already overwhelmed with my bead blog (published M-Th), my duties overseeing the Fire Divas Blog and coming up with new ideas for it; I have a writing blog, where I store my favorite published pieces. I use that mostly for easy links when job-hunting.

I have two other blogs simply for SEO experimentation. I started them when i realized I was THISCLOSE to getting my first ever google paycheck.

While I'm never going to get rich off of this, every little bit helps! And I have still another bead blog I'm hoping to develop!

Needless to say, finding time to launch another blog to do what this one used to do feels pointless.

Do I keep plodding along here and risk "chasing away" the dog folks? Do I find a way to start another new venture?


No answers; just questions.

Down in the Dumps

I've been a bit down lately and I hate posting here when I am. I can fake it for the bead blog... but this place is all me...my haven; my one true place. I don't fake it well here. So maybe if I get it all off my chest, the fog will lift. Here goes:

Mother
My mom has been really sick. Scary sick. She's 87 and her mortality has always been near the surface of my fears ever since I was a child and my father died. Now that we have the correct diagnosis (equilibrium issues), she is on the mend. But it's been a frightening week. I bought and returned THREE plane tickets in one day, unable to decide if I should go to her or stay put. Of all the many versions of me, it's Indecisive Holly I dislike the most. In the end, my poor sister bore the brunt of this one with me making phone calls and giving advice from here.

The Website:
While working on my taxes, I started to distract myself with the need to totally rebuild my bead website (Still in progress...). You know I'm bored if html code suddenly sounds interesting. It has been an all consuming project which is what led to the next problem....

My Left Elbow:
My left arm is numb...like it's asleep ALL the time. I've somehow damaged a nerve in my arm. I never knew how many things I do with my non-dominant arm until it started hurting. I hang onto the phone as if I'm sliding off Mt. Everest. On the computer, my elbow remains on the edge of the desk until I need to two-handed type. I drive with my elbow resting on the window sill. When Mabel joins me on the sofa, I scoot to the right; to keep from falling off the edge, I lean left. I sleep on my left side with the elbow bent and the arm tucked under OR on my back, lots of pillows and weight on my left elbow. If my hands get cold, I tuck them under my behind and put more pressure on the elbow. I rest on that elbow making beads.

WHO KNEW my world could be turned upside down by one freaking little elbow???

I went to the local massage school yesterday for a $20 massage and managed to leave with feeling in my index finger and thumb. Now, if the rest of them would wake up...

The IRS:
I owe more money to the IRS than I have ever owed in my life! And yes, I'm spitting mad about it. I took money out of a retirement account because I had NOTHING at Christmas. I took the money to pay property taxes and my house note... that's it. No Christmas shopping - I didn't give gifts this year. NOTHING frivolous... just keeping a roof over my head. And even though my business lost money last year, I still owe... a penalty for taking my own damn money. ARGH!!!

It wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't think it would be going to buy flowers for Nancy Pelosi or half of a screwdriver for the Pentagon.

The Job Prospects:
I send out resumes all the time and have come to accept I may not hear back as I always seem to be grossly overqualified or missing ONE thing out of literally forty required skills. But I've applied for no less than three jobs in the past month that I am a dead on skill match for. And... NOTHING.

But, there is always one cheery, wonderful thing in every blessed day. The one creature who can get me out of my head and out of my house. The girl who always makes me laugh. Here she is on a hike with Twinkie's pack.

And, you might enjoy this photo essay of the girl eating cream with her furiends from Twinkie's blog. And... these next pics are not photoshopped at all...just cropped! Hope they make you smile!

On Grief

It's November and I am once again recommitting to blogging every day this month. I'm actually participating "officially" this year with NaBloPlMo.

Years ago, I belonged to a cooking group and it was my job to host on Halloween. Researching ideas for a menu, I ended up studying the holiday and was amazed to learn what I thought of as a pagan holiday actually has some deep religious connotations in many cultures, especially in Spain and Mexico.

It is believed the end of harvest signals the end of one year and the beginning of the next and, as we transition from one to the other, there is an opening between heaven and earth and souls are allowed to come back to visit their loved ones.

I've written about my own experience with spirits and I must admit, I find this thought comforting.

I guess that was on my mind this week when I read about the yearly women's conference hosted by our first lady for women to come together and... It always makes the news because of the speakers that they book.

This year, there was a panel on grief. It was lead by First Lady Maria Shriver - her mother had recently passed away; Elizabeth Edwards who lost a teenaged son, Wade; Susan St. James who also lost a young son, Teddy, in a plane crash; and Lisa Niemi, wife of Patrick Swayze.

A local reporter commented that a woman, trying to comfort St. James after the loss of her son, told her that she knew how she felt because she had just lost her dog.

Immediately, my heart is aching for this woman (and St. James)... and then I heard the reporter's snarky comments. Apparently this had put St. James off too.

I understand that people say dumb things at funerals and I'm not trying to compare the life of an animal to the life of a person. BUT... come on! Grief is grief.

The longest short story I've written to date is about all the deaths that I dealt with as a child - loved ones and good friends and even a parent lost at such a young age. Just off of the top of my head, I can think of eleven deaths that impacted my childhood.

And I've lost two dogs in my adult life... one was terribly tragic, the other terribly sudden.

I tell you this so that it is clear: I know a thing or two about grief.

Grief is ugly. It races into disbelieving ears and heads straight for the gut where it sucker-punches you and takes the breath right out of you. Your face contorts into the "ugly cry" only, because you have no breath, no sound escapes. Your chest burns, searching, gasping for air until you feel as if it is you who has died and, at the last possible moment, you suck in some air and let out a wail. There are angry tears, hurt tears, sad tears, tears of disbelief, tears of consolation, tears that fall even when you think there are no more. Your body wants to run and collapse all at the same time. And that's all in the first five minutes.

The next days are full of shock, tears, hugs, loving people, stupid people, nosey people, decisions and more tears. Sleep is elusive, then deep; then you wake up crying.

Months / Years go by and you find that Grief still is not done with you. A smell, a sound, a memory can take you right back to that ugly place.

And it is absolutely no different if you are given some warning that death is dancing on the doorstep of your heart. I was given this warning with both my grandmother and my uncle (a father-figure to me). While it did give me time to say goodbye, the emptiness, the pain, the ache of grief is no less with preparation.

I live alone and share all my time with a dog. I have issues... I don't let people in. But dogs - they get me. They are what I spend my time loving. My grief when my girls passed was devastating. And I would bet that is the case for that woman who tried to comfort Ms. St. James.

Grief chases all of us. It impacts us all. No one here gets out alive. I guess I just wish we were all a bit more patient and loving with one another, no matter what we choose to spend our time loving and allowing to love us.

You KNOW Where That Is, Don't You?

Welcome To Hickville.

I come from a small area that many would consider a hick town - although McComb is quite large as towns in Mississippi go. And I guess it's no wonder that I settled in what could be called the most hick part of Los Angeles. I don't think anyone has ever taken a census on this but it wouldn't surprise me to learn we have more horses than people here.

And while this town wouldn't look like anything more than a grouping of nail salons and auto repair shops to someone passing through, this place suits me. I love that it's size is limited by three mountains and a freeway. And most of the people here work hard at their jobs, come home and work on their yard or some artistic pursuit, hit the hay at a decent hour and do it all again.

But if there is one thing that gets my dander up, regardless of how small and unsophisticated a town is, it is poor writing. Even when growing up in my Mississippi hick town, it was impressed upon me that we were expected to write well. Every poster on campus required the signature of three English teachers.

If only Sunland had such a rule. The subject of my ire is these posters appearing around town:

All good advertising is like a hard news story. You need the basics: Who, What, Where, When, Why and sometimes, How? And these posters seem to missing some of those details.

It reminds me of being on location in Argentina. It is customary, when a crew is on location and not filming at a studio, to include a map with the next day's call sheet. Whenever we phoned our location manager to inquire as to the whereabouts of tomorrow's map, the answer was always the same: "Everybody knows where that is!" And I would reply, "I don't."

I'm sure the group that is sponsoring the fireworks would say, "Oh, everyone knows." But what about newcomers? Or heaven forbid, give us locals a time to show up!

And really, if you're not going to give passersby all the details, wouldn't the advertising money that Bank of America and the myriad of other sponsors paid be better spent on - um... MORE fireworks?

See ya at the fireworks show... It's after the parade... You DO know about the parade, don't you?

Comment on No Comment

I'm sort of amazed at the comments from my previous post. Thanks for letting me know.

I probably will be back but I need to get some other things going. In the meantime, my I suggest you check out my writing blog. Some of the things I'm putting up are really humorous. I'm posting old articles as I find them and by publication date.... So I'll try to put a header up with the new stuff.

Maggie on my Mind

Ode to a Friend

by Holly Dare Copyright 2002

It has been a week and still I am in shock. The pain seems too much to bear. It is amazing to realize what huge part of my life Maggie is. It’s overwhelming to realize that life can change in an instant.

It all starts so innocently. Maggie has a huge cactus stuck in her front right paw. I run to her, taking off my sweatshirt as I sprint. I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand in the thick fabric and yank. She limps back to the Jeep.

I pull out the myriad of photos I have taken of her over the last six years. I love taking pictures… she loves posing: a match made in heaven. I laugh out loud at the ones with her goofy looks. Maggie has a tendency to get her upper lip hung up on her canines, causing her to look like a dog-clown. My favorites are of her smiling. Or the ones where she looks as if she’s bearing the weight of the world; she must be thinking of the year she spent in Rottweiler Rescue or the first year of her life, when no one loved her at all.

As I look at each photo, caressing them as if I can feel her fur, I can see myself reflected in her eyes. I wonder what I ever did to deserve such love and devotion.



As I drive her home for the first time, I turn to look at her in the backseat of the Celica. She looks frightened but she is smiling, happy to be going somewhere… anywhere. I let her in the back gate to snoop around the yard and then unlock the back door. She bounds in the laundry and makes a beeline for my four-poster. She looks around with satisfaction as if to say, “This’ll do quite nicely.”

“No girl, THAT is NOT your bed!” I tug her down and show her the crate I expect her to sleep in. That night, she struggles against getting in it. As I lock the door, I comment about how much training she has in store for her. Little did I realize it was me who would be trained in matter of months.

The limp gets worse as the days tick by. I take her to a vet near the house and we are given something for inflammation. We take our evening stroll. Maggie is excited to see the peacocks preening in the sun. She stops to rest. She did that the other day running with her friends. I have the sinking feeling that something is wrong.

I give her the medication before bedtime. The last time I gave her this pill, when she was three and suffering from displaysia, she slept so much. The pill will not have the same effect tonight. Every ten minutes, she groans and changes positions. Even when she gets in bed with me and I rub her tummy, she cannot get comfortable. She lumbers through the house barely placing weight on the front right paw and landing with a thud on her left. The raised foundation of the house vibrates with every step she takes. I get up at four and begin a cleaning frenzy. My mother and sister are coming for Mother’s Day.

Maggie needs OUT! I feel her tugging at my arm and my covers. She’s whining. I can’t wake up. She jumps on the bed and off again. I’m only vaguely aware of her. She’s whining and poking me with her nose. She goes to the sliding glass door and runs her head back and forth across the blinds causing the light from my neighbor’s backyard to stab violently into the room. She’s at my side, poking again. I…just can’t… wake up. In the few months we’ve been together, Maggie just touches the blinds with her nose and I am up. But not tonight. Again, she swings her head back and forth across the blinds and I finally realize she is sick. As I stand up, I can’t quite figure out where I am and I suddenly need to throw up. Head spinning, I bolt from the bed as she pukes on the carpet. I throw the blinds open and shove Maggie through the laundry room and into the cold January night. I’m running to the toilet when I smell it…the rotten eggshell odor of gas. I pull a phone outside and call the gas company.

After I give the gas lady my address, she instructs me, “Don’t turn anything on. Don’t turn anything off. Any spark could cause an explosion. You may be outside for a couple of hours so get your coat and get out of the house.”

“Yes Ma’m. Thank you.”

“You’re very lucky…You realize your dog saved your life don’t you?”

I hug Maggie close and promise her, “You have a home as long as I have a shopping cart, baby!”

Maggie is still struggling to find a comfortable position. I lie on the floor beside her and beg God to let me find the splinter in her foot. The paw is ice cold. I know I have to get Maggie to her regular vet.

I open the front closet to get her leash and she half stumbles, half runs to the front door, ever eager for a walk. “No honey, we’re going in the car.” She turns and limps out the back door. As I watch her, I realize Maggie is no longer holding up the paw. Her toenails are dragging along the concrete. Still, she jumps into the Jeep. Getting her down to go into the vet’s office is another matter. Maggie will not let me pick her up and ease her to the ground. Beverly, the Rottie Rescue lady, arrives and comes over to say hi.

She looks at Maggie’s dangling paw. “Oh, this is not good. I just put a three and a half year old down last week with bone cancer and it looked just like this.” I hate her for her abrupt honesty.

Beverly helps me get Maggie down and we go inside. The vet is in surgery and another Rottweiler has had a stroke, so we wait. I begin to bawl. Maggie May is my reason for living; she’s kept me going when nothing else would. She’s seen me through a bad love affair, career changes, a stressful move, not to mention a fire and a flood. Maggie has been my rock through so much that I truly believe she is an angel in a dog suit. I never knew I could love this much. Losing her is too painful to contemplate.

The vet finally sees us. He barely touches her shoulder and my normally docile, sweet baby tries to bite him. He sedates her and tells me to check in later. The news is not good. It is cancer in her shoulder bone.

“If it hasn’t spread, your only choice is to amputate. And then, in my experience, it comes back within 6 months in about 65% of the cases,” he says dryly. “You really need to see an oncologist before you make a decision.”

I drive her home in a fog of silent tears. I get her to step down backwards on a stool and she hobbles just inside the back gate and drops. She is dragging the top of the foot now. I line her six beds up from outside to inside so that Maggie can sort of fall from one to the next. I pull a mattress on the floor to be by her. The house is a blur of activity with the arrival of my mother and sister. Maggie stirs out of the anesthetic haze the second she hears her Granny’s voice. Neighbors and friends stop by to hold her and give her cookies.

Somewhere in all the chaos, I make a decision about the day ahead. I start to think back on the last few months and all the signs that something was wrong: The limp that was noticed by several friends yet remained oblivious to me; Maggie was so tired after walking and her breathing was… different; She rarely jumped on my bed anymore. I thought of how painful it would be for her to get in and out of the car and how much pain she is in now. And I knew I owed her more. She was my hero and heroines deserve to leave the world with dignity. And lots of love. And a little steak.

“MAGGIE MAY,” I yell. “Why in hell do you always have to lay here?” I am pointing at the flower bed underneath my bedroom window. She has dug a hole and buried a favorite miniature rosebush for what feels like the 87^th time. I continue my tirade as the poor dog scrunches herself up into a ball. “A year and a half and that rose has never bloomed and it never will if you don’t quit burying it in dirt! I’ll never understand why you have to lay here when you have a perfectly fine four bedroom house with six beds of your own, not to mention two queen size beds and ceiling fans galore to keep you cool!” She looks up at me with sad, sorry eyes and I feel like the fool that I know I look like.

The sedative wears off around 11. Even though we had fed her catfish and chicken broth, Maggie is quite upset at having been put to bed without her dinner. I fix her kibble, she eats and wants to do one of her favorite things: star gaze. She always loved to stare at the heavens. On this night, I sit near her and wish that love could somehow cure cancer.

We spend the night crying in pain. Hers is physical, mine is a heartache. I try my best to not let her see me cry so I smother my face in my pillow, keeping my hand on her behind. Around 5:30, I try to adjust the sock on her paw and she nips at my hand. I know she is not herself. The paw has managed to grow even colder.

Mother sits outside with Maggie, while I cook her a ribeye in garlic and butter. She wolfs it down. Then, a squirrel heads for the mulberry tree and its all you can eat Springtime buffet. Maggie forgets her pain and dashes to the trunk of the tree, remembers and drops onto her tummy, ever watchful of the squirrel.

Mother and I head into the house to eat breakfast, thinking Maggie would be busy with the squirrel. Maggie has other plans. Not one to miss a meal, she comes hobbling in the living room and lies down near the dining table. I give her a popover with berries and whipped cream and she is thrilled.

We take pictures of her and get her into the car. I can see in the rear-view mirror that she is smiling and my heart breaks all over again. The nurse asks me to muzzle her and the doctor takes her into the surgery room. He shaves her arm as I tell her what a good friend she is. He gets out the needle and I sing her the “Maggie May Song” - just a stupid ditty that I sing on our walks.

“She’s a beauty booty bee and a
Beauty booty bye.”

The needle enters and she jerks back. I take her head in my hands.

“And I love her all the day
and I love her all the time.”

I see a gray cloud forming over her eyes. I move in closer and continue singing.

“She’s a good old girl and her name is Maggie May
And I love her so much every day.”

Her breath is short. I say, “Thank you so much for all your love. I love you. You’re the best good girl. I love you.” I move even closer, “I love you!”

She lets out a deep, long breath. The vet removes the muzzle and I move to the other side as they lay her completely down. Her tongue is hanging down and I lift her head for one last kiss. I hold her for a moment and then smell her feet one last time, inhaling their earthy odor deep into my lungs.

I am sleepless and surfing. I find a canine cancer site. I am wondering if there is anything I should have done for Maggie. A woman writes of her dog not eating. It drags its body into the darkness of the garage during the day and then comes into the house during the black of night. I’m glad that I was not that selfish with my Mags.

I walk the mountain trail at Crescenta Valley Park alone and am awestruck by all the side trails I never noticed when I was there with Maggie. I know it is a sign of the proverbial window opening when a door gets slammed in your face.

Insomnia again. The house is so quiet – except for my tears. When I’m not crying, I pray for a sign. Just a sign. Any sign will do.

I gather up pictures and take them to an artist friend. She is going to paint Maggie’s portrait on a little valise that I will use as an urn.

The ashes arrive and I sob when I find her metal hip joint loose in the box. At least I know the contents of this box belong to my baby. Having her ashes makes my pain, my loss, even more real.

I can’t sleep. I pace the floors looking for her. I listen for her breathing, for the tinkle of her collar, the thunder of her feet on the deck when she was chasing a squirrel. I wonder where she is when I put on my tennis shoes. I roll over and close my eyes once more.

A baby girl with dark hair is holding my fingers as she tries to walk. She takes each step cautiously. Suddenly a squirrel runs across the yard and she lets go of my right hand to point at the squirrel and squeals in her little girl voice, “Skirrel!!” The squirrel startles and makes a run for the mulberry tree. “Skirel!!! SKIREL!!!!” Her delightful squeals jerk me awake.

I stumble out on the porch, tears falling on my nightgown, and sit on the step. I bury my face in my hands and wonder about my dream. Was that Mags? Was that my sign? If she’s a baby, who’s taking care of her and loving her?

I wrap my arms around my legs and rock my body back and forth. There, under the bedroom window, is a fully open yellow and pink miniature rose. A feeling of peace settles over me as I realize that God has shared one of His babies with me for six years. And now, she is His baby again. He is loving her.

Maggie May, June 25, 1994 - May 8, 2002

Devil Winds - Update 10 pm

Photo credit: Kristine Dery

I awoke at 4:30 this morning to shop door being slammed. The Santa Anas have arrived.

I certainly am not the first writer to try and explain this Southern California phenomenon, nor will I be the last. For the record, Janet Fitch's White Oleander is one of the best.

The winds blow in at hurricane force from the desert, earning the name "Devil Winds" for the hot, dry air that follows. They are devilish in more ways than one.

Of the four Los Angeles seasons known to Angelenos, Wind has earned his rightful place as one of them - the other three being Fire, Earthquake and Flood. There are rules about these seasons and when they occur. For example: Fire is a sneaky one, usually riding on one of the other three season's coattails. While Earthquake season is the least predictable, within days of a major quake, (which is quite often followed by Fire), there will be a rainstorm which often brings on a Flood. While Wind season typically occurs here in what's known as Fall and Winter to the rest of the country, it actually can appear at any time.

The last serious wind event did this to the tree in my front yard. I loved that tree. It was the only interesting thing about the front of the house. I had just returned from dragging two of my trash cans home from almost a mile away. (That's the other thing about Wind season - It always happens on a trash day!) I had found one of them around the corner early that Monday and walked a few more blocks looking for the other two. Returning home from an errand in the car, I noticed two cans in the middle of the street... everyone had gotten their cans in early, so they were mine. It was an uphill battle literally but I was hiking into 90 mph gusts. As I secured the cans, I looked at my beautiful tree and thought Well, she's hanging in there.

Not two minutes later, my next door neighbor was knocking frantically on my door, yelling that my tree had fallen on a car.

The Devil wind wreaks its havoc on everything. Patio furniture is tossed about as are automobiles and tractor trailers. Leaves that hadn't had a single thought about the oncoming of winter suddenly loose their will to live after being blown to bits and rapidly find their way to the bottom of the pool. Doors, windows and nerves rattle. Animals, human and otherwise, are on edge...waiting for the next gust and the damage that it brings. Sleep comes in fits and spurts. And then there is the heat. We are to hit 102 by Tuesday.

And sure enough, that pesky Fire has followed the Winds. This morning, there were two. Now, there are seven. [10p.m. update: Now there are 12 fires!] One is so close to my beady buddy, Kris' house, her hubby found warm embers in their yard. When we spoke this afternoon, she said the sun was mostly blocked by smoke and the air was hideous orange. The above photo was taken from her backyard.


It's going to be a rough couple of days. It's starting to make Baton Rouge look good...
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My Sweetest Admirers

I've been at a loss for a subject lately partly because of my schedule and partly due to the pressure of my upcoming trip to Baton Rouge. Closing the shop for 10 days is really stressful.

I decided to post a short story about a certain nameless hiker and her crazy dog being chased by the police. I wrote is several years ago and am very distressed to say I can't find the darn thing and have spent way too much time looking for it.

Leave it to our dear Velvet to provide me with inspiration for this piece with her love letter story.

When I was in high school, I worked summers in our Mini Park system. It was a program of sports, games, crafts and organized activities designed to keep kids off the street. No one ever seemed to want the little kids, ages 4 - 5, and, since I was low man on the totem pole, that job fell to me. I could never understand why no one wanted to supervise them...they were easy peasy.

The little kids preferred to hang on the swing sets which were far from the rec room and the a/c. But other than making sure the big kids left them alone, my job basically consisted of pushing them on the swing or allowing them to push me.

In my group were two little boys, age 4 and first cousins. Dixon and Dylan were both blond with blue eyes - the epitome of cute. Both had a massive crush on me. Each was the complete opposite as far as their courting techniques.

Dylan was my favorite because he was just so sweet. At break, he would return to the swings with soda and candy. He would also bring a cup to share his soda with me and offer up his candy willingly. The boy would seem downright hurt if I refused to partake. When he found what kind of candy I preferred, that became his favorite. He would pick flowers and bring them to me. Dylan would tell me I was pretty and compliment my outfits. Boy, did I wish he was another dozen years older. This went on every summer of my employment there.

On the other hand, Dylan's cousin Dixon, did his best to get my negative attention. He would stare at me until I glanced his direction, then look away. If I spoke to him, he would simply ignore me. Once, as I was headed to the rec room, Dixon was coming towards me on the field. He looked up, saw me, turned sharply to his left. He walked about ten feet, turned to his right and once I had passed him, he made another left and continued on his way. Sometimes he would call me names and yell at me. I really thought the kid hated me.

But the boys' grandmother lived across the street from me. She told me Dixon really had a crush on me too. He just didn't express it as kindly as his cousin. Apparently when he would visit her, he would sit on her swing, never going inside, hoping to see me.

Years later, my mom ran into the boys. They were both around 14 at the time. My mother teased them a bit about their crush on me and was floored by Dixon's starry-eyed response.

"Yeah, that {Creekhiker} is gonna sure make some man a mighty fine wife. Too bad she's just a little too old for me!"

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Free Fall

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I startled two hawks
from the cottonwood trees.

Away they flew.
Away from me.

I watched them soaring
I admired their dance.

They fly so high
and spin down, down.

Flapping wildly
then falling free.

I am them;
they are me.

I am beside them,
up, up in the air.

For just one moment,
I know their rapture.

My dog brushes my leg.
My reverie is gone.

But the hawks, still there.
I shake off my dream.

I will find them again
and soar high, we shall.

Be Careful Choosing Your Friends

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This is a short story I wrote years ago about a childhood friend. Velvet reminded me of it with her post about a very friendly pregnant cow.

At one point, I had submitted it to some very Southern magazines hoping to have it published... so forgive my Southern twang but I was writing for the potential audience. Hope ya'll like it.

Be Careful Choosing Your Friends
Holly Dare
copyright 2000

Mama always told me to be careful when choosing my friends but it didn’t really matter because I never had a lot of friends growin’ up. See, Mama had me kinda late in life and all my siblings were grown by the time I showed up. I related much better to older folks on account of everyone in my family being so much older than me. They called me “growny” for my age. Whatever you call it, I was a lonely child.

We lived in the city of McComb, Mississippi, which was really a small town but to the country folks, it was huge. I spent most every weekend on the farm of some relative. My grandmother lived North of Tylertown and had a large farm and many of my older cousins lived on various farms around hers. I was a tomboy and could fool most folks into thinkin’ I was a country kid. I could chase a chicken down for Sunday dinner with the best of ‘em. I even helped my uncle catch the turkeys for holiday dinners. It was my job to hold that turkey still while my uncle chopped his head off.

Sometimes we went to Aunt Nell’s, who wasn’t really my aunt on account she was my stepfather Fred’s sister.

Aunt Nell and her goofy husband Tommy were retired for as long as I could remember. (I call Tommy goofy because, if at all possible, he ate out of a red bowl or plate… said it made his food taste better. If there wasn’t a red bowl, pink ‘ould do! If there wasn’t a pink one, he’d pretty much go hungry!) They had about 15 acres of land out from Osyka which is the Southern part of Pike county Mississippi. They leased their land to farmers or cattle ranchers but I liked to go there because the catfishin’ was good. Very good.

Tommy and Aunt Nell fed their catfish and sometimes, when it was getting’ dark and we hadn’t caught anything, Tommy would bring out a few dipnets and start feedin’ the fish. Those catfish would storm to the side of the pond and the water would boil from all the commotion. Fred and Tommy would just wade in and scoop ‘em out.

Fred had a big hook that he would hang on a low tree branch out in the backyard. Tommy would open the gills of the catfish and place it on the hook so that the metal curved up and out of the fish’s mouth. Fred would score the fish just under the gills on both sides. He’d take these flat pincher pliers and yank, skinning the fish alive. Sometimes the fish would wiggle & writhe even after its skin was yanked off. Fred would hand the fish to Tommy who would cut it’s head off and gut it. Mama and Aunt Nell would be in the kitchen getting the batter ready, cuttin’ up the taters, and makin’ hush puppies. Add some soft white bread to sop up the grease, salt, pepper, ketchup and corn meal crumbs from the plate and you got a meal fit for a king.

It was always just me and the grownups until the spring of my 12th year. That was the year Aunt Nell adopted Buster. Buster was a cow – a bull to be precise. I had never really known a cow before but Buster seemed kindly enough. He was not much taller than me when I first met him. His legs looked like toothpicks under that fat black & white body. He had big, kind eyes and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. Buster wailed the first night Aunt Nell had ‘im. I figured he was missin’ his mama. I snuck outside when the grownups weren’t lookin’ and went to the corral that Buster slept in and scratched his neck. “It’ll be O.K. boy. You’re gonna like your new home.” He seemed to like that.

I’m not quite sure how Buster and I became such good friends. I seem to recollect that that was the year the pond was low and we had to fish the normal way – a pole with a hook and bait at one end and a fool on the other. It was slow going and not too excitin’ to a child with no patience.

I took to wandering the pastures and flinging cow chips at trees to watch ‘em explode into powder. And somehow, Buster took to followin’ me. I was a little frightened the first time he did it. I think he sensed this and kept his distance. It wasn’t long before I grew to appreciate his company and he followed along on my heels. Sometimes, he would even goose my behind makin’ me jump and squeal. I would run and he would take off right behind me.

I liked to walk the ridge overlooking the pond. My folks could see me and yet I was out of earshot. I would curl up under the shade of a pine grove there and tell Buster stories. He never interrupted like the grownups. Buster was a very good listener and I loved him for it.

One Sunday in July, the grownups were fishin’. I had tried for awhile and got bored started to wander off, knowin’ Buster would follow. Mama yelled, “Take a bucket or two with you. Nell says those blackberries are ready for pickin’.”

“Yessum.” I grabbed two buckets and gave whistle, knowing my friend would find me. We wandered up on the ridge and sure ‘nough, there were berries everywhere. I had picked one bucket pretty near full when I got hungry. From that point on, most of the berries went in my mouth and of course, a few went to Buster. I kept working my way around this berry thicket, pickin’ and eatin’, pickin’ and eatin’, until I heard a loud “Mmmmmmmmoooooooooooou.” I turned to see where Buster was. There was only a wall of briars. I turned round and round but everywhere I looked, briars. I had eaten my way clean into the middle of the briar patch. I couldn’t figure out how I got in there and now I was scared. I guess I started to whimper a bit because Buster started mooing and scratchin’ his hoof on the ground. I could hear a loud thud followed by twigs snapping. Buster was trying to get to me! I decided to walk toward the sound carefully lifting briars up or pushing them down with my foot. I yelled, “I’m comin’ Buster!” When I finally broke free, Buster gave me a literal tongue lashing. He was as happy to see me as I was him.



Winter came and went. It was too cold to fish so we didn’t go to Aunt Nell’s as much. I always made sure to take my winter coat whenever we did go there. That way, Buster and I could walk while the grownups visited. But I was grateful for the return of Spring and warm weather. If my parents could fish, we stayed longer and I got more time with my friend.

I was particularly glad when Easter came. I wanted to teach Buster how to hunt Easter eggs. Fred, Mama and I went to church but sat in the back so we could get out faster. Folks always seemed to need to talk to the preacher more after Easter services. We quickly walked the half block home and loaded up the car with the ham Mama had in the oven.

All of Fred’s family was already at Aunt Nell’s by the time we got there. Tommy opened the front door and said, “Ya’ll hurry up and fix yer plates. We’re ‘bout to start without ya.” Fred and I hurried to the counter to grab plates as Mama put the ham down. “That red one’s mine,” Tommy unnecessarily reminded us.

We fixed our plates with the feast Nell had prepared: steak, butter beans, corn, sweet potatoes, okra, and Mama’s ham. There was rice and gravy and Nell’s renowned biscuits with the crunchy butter and salt tops. We sat down and Tommy asked the Lord for His blessin’ and we started to eat. I was about halfway done when I realized I had better save room for dessert. I put my fork down and looked around the room at everyone eatin’ and talkin’. And then I looked out back to Buster’s corral.

“Hey! Where’s Buster?”

The room grew quiet. A few put their forks down.

Aunt Nell said as gently as she could, “Honey… Buster’s on your plate.”

My face must have twisted to reveal the torment going through my head because suddenly all the grownups were laughing.

There was nothing left to do but finish my dinner. Mama leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You don’t have to eat the ste – Buster - if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s allright. I’ll eat ‘im,” I sadly replied. “If Buster had to die to be food, I’m sure he’d want it to be me who ate ‘im.” I finished my meal in silence and went outside to sit in Buster’s corral alone.


I really did miss Buster tagging along on my walks through the pasture. And I’ve learned to be a bit more careful about choosing my friends. And I vowed to never again make friends with something I might end up havin’ to eat for dinner.

Ma's Brassiere

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I've been trying to get a post written somewhere other than my head but can't seem to accomplish that for a variety of reasons...namely needing to reinstall windows 3 times in the past week and fearing that a 4th is imminent. (And NO, I did NOT upgrade to Vista.)

That being said, I'm going to leave you with one of my favorite short stories. What you should know about my writing: It is basically the truth with the names changed to protect the guilty. I believe the in vogue name for it is "Faction."

Hope you enjoy.

Ma’s Brassiere
By Holly Dare (copyright 2005)

“I want a brassiere,” my grandmother said matter-of- factly between bites of mashed potatoes and the dehydrated mass they call Salisbury steak at the nursing home where she lives. She said it as calmly as if she had asked us to pass the salt.

My mother and I sit there, mouths agape, not certain we heard her correctly. Mother looks at me with her best have I lost my mind look and asks her mother, “You want what?”

“A brassiere. Can ya get me one?”

Mother’s head was shaking left and right in a non verbal no as she answered slowly. “Well… yes, I can get you one …but why on earth would you want it?

“I just do,” was all she’d say.

I suspect the answer is not that simple. Ma has a boyfriend. I am certain she wants it because her main competition at the nursing home is a very svelte lady named Ethel. Ethel is always dressed to the nines.

But still – a bra? Ma always looked rather flat-chested to me. She didn’t have the “big ole’ good ‘uns” as my father called my mother’s breasts. Maybe she is hopin’ for some of that liftin and separatin’ I had seen advertised on t.v. Being a young woman of twelve, I’ve got my first brassiere. After the novelty of having it wore off and the reality of the boys in my junior high hallway unclasping it as I walked to class with an armload of books set in, I pretty much hate the contraption. I just can’t understand why anyone who had managed to make it eighty five years without wearing a bra would suddenly want one. Besides, who would deliberately add another layer of clothing in the Mississippi humidity?

Maybe she’s just decided to live a little. Ma took to her bed when Pa died back in 1960 – four years before I was born. She spent six years there waitin’ to die. “I just want to be with my Kirb,” she’d say over and over. Old age had mellowed her and Pa and they were in love like when they were newlyweds at the time he passed on. It was as if all the times she and the kids had to sleep in the cornfield when he came home drunk and lookin’ for a fight never happened. Or all the times she left him alone with the six children to raise while she explored Texas and California for months on end had been forgiven.

When she finally figured out that death wasn’t gonna come knockin’ on her schedule, she was too feeble to care for herself. She would fall a lot and all of her children worked. So Mother brought her to this dismal nursing home near our house in McComb.

At first she hated it and was determined to go back home. Mother and I would find her sittin’ on the front porch of the nursing home starin’ up the big hill on Locust St. It was as if she was sizing it up, tryin’ to figure out how to get up that hill and on back to Tylertown. She shared a room with an invalid named Louise Thompson. Ma had the bright half of the room with a window looking out onto a courtyard. But the room was tiny and she had no room for a suitcase. So she took to wearin’ her clothes – all of ‘em. Which is quite somethin’ in the Mississippi summer. We once found her sittin’ on that porch wearing her winter coat, two sweaters, fourteen dresses – the record was seventeen – and two slips.

This went on for a year or so. An arts and crafts program got her feelin’ more at home and pretty soon ever’one in our extended family had all the egg carton wastebaskets and lamps we could handle. Ma started selling her stuff and was right proud of the pocket money she earned.

But Ma was a hard-headed woman once she got an idea in her head. And she pretty much did what she damn well pleased, which is why we knew there was no talkin’ her out of the bra.

Ma was twelfth of sixteen children. She and her older sister Addy were barely ten months apart in age and grew up thick as thieves. They both dropped out of school in the eighth grade to help out on their father’s farm. Shortly after, Addy’s boyfriend proposed to her and she married. Even with a houseful of siblings, Ma was still lonely. So she went out and found a boy to marry her.

Her husband was in his early twenties and had done well for himself, managing to save enough money to buy a farm of his own. Ma set about bein’ a good farmer’s wife. She would rise before dawn to fire up the old wood stove to make biscuits and fry up bacon and eggs. Her husband – no one in my family ever knew his name- would head off to the fields and Ma would tidy up their two room shack. She’d slop the hogs and then feed and water the chickens and turkeys and be off the fields to help out. As the sun would start to set, most farm wives would head to the house to start supper. But Ma was not allowed to do this. Her husband was the jealous type and did not want her anywhere he could not see her. If she had mending or clothes to sew, she had to bring them to the field to work on. This did not set well with Ma. But she was determined to be a good wife and went along with his bizarre wishes - for a while.

The end came when her older brother, Edo, got married. Edo had met Susie Whitaker in Tylertown. Susie had come south from Missouri as a nurse in the army. When she ended her tour of duty on the Gulf Coast, she had bought a bus ticket to take as far north as she could get. That was Tylertown. The bus station was just a two block walk from the hospital. She took a room at the Brumfield boarding house and then she met Edo. Being a good farmer, Edo married Susie in the dead of winter so that he could take her away for a proper honeymoon. The family surprised them both with enough money to make it to Missouri and back so Susie could see her family for the first time in years. Their four week trip turned into six as Edo got on well with his new in-laws and was pleased to see his bride so happy. Ma and all her siblings missed Edo somethin’ fierce. Everyone had gathered at the family home for Edo and Susie’s arrival from Missouri. When Edo stepped out of his truck, Ma was the first one to kiss him. That’s when the trouble started. Ma’s husband was astonished to see all of his in-laws kissing Edo and Susie right smack on the mouth. He accused them all of incest! Ma did not go home with him. Now she knew at this point she was considered a “had” woman and that no man in his right mind would ever marry her, but, she just did not care. Even though her sisters begged her to try and work it out, she refused. “I ain’t gonna live with no man that cain’t trust me! ‘sides, Ma and Pa are getting’ older. I’ll be the one to see after ‘em.”

And with that, she decided her future. At least the next ten years of it. If she ever spoke of her first husband, all she’d say was, “It’s amazin’ I never got p.g. by him.” She always had a smile on her face and twinkle in her eye when she said it. I would look awkwardly at the floor, shocked that she was talkin’ about sex to me.

She was an old lady of twenty six when my grandfather rode into her life on a fine specimen of a horse. He fell for her at first sight. Ma’d been sittin’ on the front porch, shelling butter beans when she decided to take her hair down in the cool afternoon breeze and give it the daily one hundred strokes. She was gorgeous in her colorful, handmade dress with her dark black hair flowing below her waist and framing her pale face so that her green eyes sparkled like emeralds.

Kirby Smith was equally as handsome with dark, tanned skin and eyes as black as his dark hair. His Scotch Irish side, although not apparent in his looks, gave him a taste for whiskey. His ruggedly handsome appearance favored more the four Indian tribes that ran through is bloodline. That made the whiskey a bad idea. Considered an oddity in the community, he was still single at twenty-six. Yet he ran his daddy’s farm and had 160 acres of his own. Kirby was considered quite the catch. He pulled the reins and stopped his steed abruptly in front of the house.

“Pardon me miss, but have you seen any cattle roaming loose? I’m missin’ ‘bout ten head from my daddy’s herd.

“No I can’t say as I have and I’ve been sittin’ here all afternoon.”

“Well, thank you anyway.” Kirby got all shy and rode off.

That night, there was a knock at the door. Ma opened it there stood Kirby, clutching some wildflowers he had picked for her and a basket of vegetables he had brought for Ma’s ma. “Howdy miss. May I speak to yer Pa?”

Most of their courtin’ was done in her father’s parlor. Her past or her head-strong ways did not matter to him. They married a few months later. The early years were good. They were followed by years of Pa drinkin’ too much and Ma gettin’ fed up and leavin’ but she would always come back. The bad times were buried with him and she saw their fifty plus years through rose colored glasses. So I find it somewhat astounding that she has taken interest in another man – especially one she would be willing to don a bra for.

We walk her back to her room and she’s still talkin’ about the bra when my mother confesses, “Ma, I have no idea what size to buy you. I’ll just have to bring a tape measure next time we come.” This is a ploy on my mother’s part. She will forget that tape measure next time and the time after that, hoping that her mother will forget. But Ma is on to her.

“Honey,” Ma says to me, “go out to the front desk and ask for Nurse Wilson. She likes to sew and she’s got a measure in her pocketbook.”

I find Nurse Wilson and am soon back in my grandmother’s room.

Mother looks at me, exasperated, and turns to undress my grandmother. I look away as my mother stoops to wrap the measure around Ma’s chest.

“Here, hold this one for me. Now, lift this one up…Now hold ‘em up high. I have to get the measure around your chest.” My mother gets the number and writes it down in the back of her checkbook. “Now we have to measure from the top to the nipple.”

I walk out in the hall and shut the door but I can still hear them. “Now we have to measure around each one.” I decide to stand by the door across the hall.

My mother emerges shortly, checkbook notes in hand. We get in the car and head to the Kelwood Factory Store. Kelwood makes all kinds of ladies lingerie and the factory store sells them for a fair price. You can buy it much cheaper than if you drove into town to the J.C. Penney or the Sears Roebuck. We go inside and mother explains the situation to the gentleman behind the counter. I make myself busy in the panty section, wanting no part of this.

“Holly, come on. I’m ready.” Mother is by the door, package in hand.

We get in the car. “I think we oughta go back over t’ the home and take this to ‘er. She seems to want it so bad.”

“Did you find her size?” I ask.

Mother laughs, “Yeah! She’s a 44 double E!!

I look at mother in astonishment. How could this be? “That’s bigger than you are!!”

“I know!!”

As we drive, I stare at the road and ponder the impossibility of the size of Ma’s breasts. I finally conclude that Mother must have measured wrong.

We arrive and Mother takes Ma in the bathroom. I hear a series of grunts and then Ma says, “How does this thing work?”

“It snaps in the back but it’s best to put it on upside down and backwards. You can snap it and then turn it around. You lift the straps up on your arms and then adjust your boobs.”

I was praying no one in the adjoining room could hear them. I decide to take a walk. I come back into Ma’s room a few minutes later and there she is… sitting up straight and proper with boobies big enough to set her lunch tray on!!! And a skinny waist!!! This is NOT my grandmother.

“Where did those come from??” I ask to no one in particular.

My mother answers, “Well she had ‘em all along… there’s no paddin’ in there!”

Mother and I stand side by side, admiring my grandmother’s new body, awed by the transformation.

“But Mother, where were they before?”

“Well honey, that was her waist.” I look up at her, more confused than ever. “That’s what happens when you don’t wear a bra and breast feed six children.”

I make a silent vow to always wear my bra and never to breast feed.

But while we were talkin’ Ma started squirming. “Cather’ne, take this blasted thang off me.”

Mother rushes to Ma’s side, “What’s wrong Ma?”

“This thing hurts! Take it off me, NOW!”

And with that, Ma’s brassiere wearing days were over. After all, Ma was the type of woman who would choose her family’s trust and affection over an unloving husband; she chose divorce in an era when it was socially unacceptable; she chose flights of her own fancy, husband and children be damned. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that she would choose comfort over a chance to win her beau’s affections. And if her potential beau liked her any less, that was just his loss. After all, Ma had hidden assets.

123MEME

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Velvet Sacks blog today suggested taking the closest book, turning to page 123 and writing the # 4,5, & 6 sentences.

Since I'm swamped with my new job and my old clients suddenly figuring out that if they paid me on time, I wouldn't be working elsewhere. Not to mention sales taxes and commissions to artists are due this week, my teaching gig started, the largest craft show in the world is going on and every person I know from my old job will be in town and many of them wanting my attention, let's just say, I'M BUSY! And since I lost the dang cord that connects my camera to this computer and there is no way to show you all those fabulous pictures I've been taking, this idea hit the spot tonight.

My closest book is Bryson's Dictionary of Troublesome Words. I used it quite a bit when I was a freelance writer and my second closest book would The Chicago Manual of Style. But Bryson's little guide is small and stores easily by my desk and rarely fails to have the answer I need. It's a must for any writer.

Page 123, Sentences 4 - 6: (on the subject of like, as)"On the face of it, the rule is simple: as and as if are always followed by a verb; like never is. Therefore, you would say, "He plays tennis as if his life depended on it" (verb depended)

Although that is the rule, you may wish to suspend it at times."

So there. A grammar lesson to boot! Hope to be back with a more substantail post in a week or so.

Critical Biticle

I was perusing Velvet's page the other night - She really has the best links - and found a link to Little Bald Doctor's site. I was most alarmed by the Oct. 9 (and apparently last)Post.

Bald Doc explains how a website in Spain is stealing content from Blogger and posting it on their site to make ad revenue. I checked for my own site and I'm not there yet. But...

Velvet, if you are reading this, I apologize for you finding out this way. I didn't want to add a comment to your birthday celebration post. But, you have been hijacked! My stomach dropped when your posts started coming up on this website. I couldn't look around any further.

I have been a writer for years. I've spent my entire career around artists and I am deeply offended by such blatant theft.

There are all kinds of links in Bald Docs post but I'm just left feeling confused as to WHAT to do about this. If anyone has any ideas...let me know. My personal email can be found on my business website linked to this page.

(P.S.) - I chose not to put a link to the .org I am writing about... more links to their website only lends to their credibilty. I refuse to help them in any way.