My very own DERECHO STORM STRAIGHT LINE WINDS TORNADO STORY. I could have subtitled this ‘Damn Dog’ or ‘Breast Cancer Cell Feeding Frenzy’ but I didn’t. The title is long enough. Tornado storm like a hurricane came through yet again, no funnel sighted. Don’t care, I know what takes out …
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The startling turquoise of the sky behind russet and golden leaves made me think of my mother the moment I opened my eyes this morning. . . . Mom has been gone for over a decade but the colours of autumn always bring the best of memories. These colours were …
Rabbits remind me of a story that I was just talking to my sister about this morning. They could just call it the Bunnies instead of the Birds and Bees. When my daughter was in grade school she and her friend who was a guy were always together, he went …
This cat just couldn’t stand it. All those juicy big birds. Why eat a mouse? Two minutes later the cat was flattened to the ground, pretending delirium to save its idiotic life. Because turkeys legs are ninety-inches long and they can run-walk far faster than it can bolt in terror.
Once again I will illustrate what an opinionated and callous man he could be. And hysterical, if one could remove their emotions and ego from the situation. This is by far one of his best moments – one of the most humorous dad stories he could have left us with.
The novel giveaway will begin anew in June 2010 using my newsletter subscriber list, ESSA’S LETTERS, which has been combined with the Age of Menopause Blog product giveaway and the Women’s Fiction Blog short stories and essays for women To always be in the book giveways, just subscribe to ESSA’S …
Frankly, the telephone call at one in the morning should have tipped me off that my day or dentist appointment would hold a glitch. Yes, one a.m., as in after midnight, calling from a restricted number. If only the young lady had not sounded so professional…. if only…
A health at every size short story on the lies we are told as women. You know, the media, where we ‘find out’ we are considered defective… less than beautiful. Soooo, did you hear the one about the plush girl? As a supporter of NAAFA, ASDAH, and HAES, I am republishing this one in honor of the statement just made by ASDAH for inclusion of fat representation in all fat program development to thwart the fat discrimination that is sweeping the nation and fully enhanced with junk science by the media. Picture, a pretty and slender girl’s photograph over this hornet-target, confidence-zinger, self-doubt-builder caption. “Do you think you are fat?” What does that mean? It means you are not pretty if you are fat. Be anything, but don’t be fat. That is the ultimate fat acceptance question. Do you think you are fat? The one that irks me the most.
I was always surprising my mother. I was born during a blizzard, right in our kitchen and when she was alone. First surprise. Cord around my neck, second. With self-inflicted concussions, broken arms, food poisoning, getting lost, finding wild mice and being bitten, trying to save bats, and on and on… by the time I was eight, I imagine it was surprise number eight hundred and forty-two when I made Mother’s Day breakfast for her. And gave her six hundred surprises in one sitting. Mother’s Day morning, I woke early, went out a few hours after sunrise to gather flowers for the table…..
Divorce fiction with a spiritual bent? Yes, divorce spiritually speaking, can be a peaceful, mature, life-enhancing growth experience for both partners. Many of the books represented here are inclined to a more mature divorce of the marriage while the female character finds a path that brings her closer to her center in life.
A reading list for FRIENDSHIP FICTION. Women readers appreciate more than relationships. The friends in fiction reveal a deep level of intimacy seldom realized because most characters are unwilling to divulge so much about themselves…. I find the deep intimacy of friends touches me, brings laughter and tears, when I would otherwise just be taking it in…. Why I choose women’s fiction novels with a chorus of friends around the main character.
The Young Balboas. The Postmistress. Husbands May Come and Go But Friends Are Forever. Around Every Corner. A Breath Floats By. First Wives Club. Year of Pleasures. Women characters over forty in contemporary fiction have transcended from backdrop mothers of perfectly lovely daughters to women who face challenges and love head-on. A wide selection of contemporary mature women’s fiction, age thirty-eight to sixty. Women change and grow. Their life journey takes them to an untidy, imperfect ending of the novel quite often. But as women readers know, especially women of a certain age, this imperfect ending is life. It’s the roads we choose on the path before us and how we deal with that ending when we get there that makes all the difference.
This hawk is so forward. It just sits over the birdfeeding table in the winter skeleton of the highbush cranberry tree and waits until an unsuspecting wild bird comes to feed….. But I have to ask? Isn’t there an alarm watchguard? Besides me?…. What bird would come? Really. Don’t they tell one another there is a hawk in the tree. Isn’t there a warrior watch like on Tinkerbell? Besides me? Because that is what I feel like, running out there and yelling, throwing old carrots left for the deer, waving towels at the hawk. Me, warning the birds…. Does the bird that is nabbed and ‘et’ each day actually have a falling out with the other birds, therefore they will not tell him? … So it’s just me then, I’m the guard….
To my defense, once upon a time I always scooped them up to take them outside and make a nice plot of leaves and stones for them to live under far from the house, just like I do for the mice. To my defense, I used to take my hanging lamps apart to get the fake ladybugs out before they fried their little feet on the bulbs. And when they fry they stink too. And now here she is on the windowsill, still staring at me, dead or dying. While I am trying to work. The story that gives my hubby the warm fuzzies. Not really.
One day Sagie went down the rabbit hole. I dove onto the floor, grabbing him by the scruff and pulling. I couldn’t let go or he would die. I pulled and stretched and pulled. It was like giving birth. Until out of a tiny hole popped a twelveteen-pound skunk.
Wing dog pile at side of neighbor’s garage. When it sticks you know they might get the idea…. Recycle coffee cans for neighborly gifts….. Pick up before the lawn crew arrives…… Wait until it freezes then rake it into piles and pick up… hoping the lady of house does not slide through it first.
Like we told you, they take getting used to. You have to point your nose at what you want to read. . . . Ah yes, point your nose at it! What that means to me is point your nose at the BOOK! Point your nose at the cereal box. Point your nose at the up-close computer monitor. Not the three words you want to read.
Forgive me if I am a bit cranky, but that is what the exotics pets said to me. The elder, smart-arsed cat said I am essentially a turnip. Rule number one with exotic pets, very old dogs and grandfather-like cats is to never break routine no matter how cold you are or unglamorous you look…. Do I hear the cat upchucking? Are the skunks in his food already? Oh man, lots of windows. Snowplow guy can see me. I cover my abundant bikini-clad arse with the not-large-enough blue dog bowl. Wade through skunks to get in the door. Shuffle through the kitchen with a pant leg dragging. No puke. No no, wait for it…