Not as ominous as it seems, I swear.  At least, I hope not.

This is the last day of high school for #2 son.  Also, the last high school project, which is an epic presentation on Somali piracy for International Relations.  There is a six foot long boat made of pink board on my dining room table, and foam scraps all over the house.

He asked if I minded. 

I told him it was fine as long as he never let it happen again.  Heh, heh, heh.

There are also, brownies. with chocolate butter cream frosting.  He should get an A based on that frosting. 

After this, he must find a job for summer, and will be going off to Edgewood College in Madison this fall.  This puts him just down the street from his big brother who is a computer science major at the UW.  And they are both close enough to me so that the boys will make appearances in my writing here, although they are unlikely to be doing cute kid things, since they are now damn near to being adults.

It comes as a shock to me, too.

But now that it is unlikely that they are going to be snatched off any playgrounds, I might be more likely to call them by their names, which are revealed in my book trailer.  I forced them to be voice talent.  And that deep voiced narrator is #2.  He has been narrating Powerpoint presentations for other kids, since his voice adds the gravitas that makes even mediocre work sound A worthy.

Or, he could just make them brownies. 

But since I have him handy, and he owes me bigtime for the foam scraps and multiple other reasons, I’ve forced him and his brother to help with the book trailer for my July US release

Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess. 

Havoc is in there as well.



Only days after taking a firm, No chicken stance, I am reconsidering poultry.

Not chickens. I still don’t want those. Someone at church was selling brown eggs. I am stocked, and one degree of separation from the hens. That is just about perfect.

But as I was driving to town this morning, I saw something on the side of the road that I assumed was a fallen log, or perhaps a strip of rubber. And then, it stood up and walked into the ditch.

It was a full grown, male peacock. And it is a quarter mile from my house. And yes, I need new glasses if I can’t tell the difference between a peacock and a log. Peacocks are not exactly native to Wisconsin. Not at all. It has to have escaped from somewhere. Or perhaps its parents did. I am imagining a Mrs. Peacock, and a clutch of eggs.

I know people abandon cats in the country when they get pregnant. This is how we got Fluffer. Maybe the same thing happens with birds. If you’ve ever heard a peacock, you can guess why someone might want to drive it out to the middle of nowhere and push it out of the car.

If it follows me home, I’m keeping it.

I think this bird is probably pretty close to self sufficient. That’s a quality I respect in a pet. It is also decorative, and nearly useless, rather like the cats. And it is big enough to scare the crap out of our other animals. The chances of catching it are slim to nonexistent. But the entertainment value would be enormous.

It was chick day at the local farm supply store yesterday. This is the day when the order of baby chickens is ready for pick up. I love chick day. It’s like live action Easter, with cute little peep peeping babies scratching, fluffing, eating and sleeping. I can watch them for a few minutes. Go “Awww.” And go home.

This is probably about enough chicken for me.

Don’t get me wrong. I like to eat them. And I like omelets. Since I live on a farm, it might seem logical to get a flock of them and move the egg supply directly into the front yard. But I have two cats that like to hunt things which are slow, stupid and handy. And a big dog that likes to jump on smaller animals not so much to hunt, but just to yell “Surprise!”

I am also maxed out on living creatures that need to be housed, fed and watched over. A few chickens would probably push me over the limit. Since I have bad eyesight but a good imagination, I tell my husband what I actually need is a page of chicken shaped stickers that I can put on the kitchen bay window. Then I will mark the spot of the floor where I need to stand to line up the images with the dilapidated chicken coop in the front yard to get the optical illusion that I have live poultry. Really, that will be good enough.

That and a neighbor willing to sell me fresh eggs. Since there seems to be a rush, both rural and urban, to keep chickens, I have got to have a few back to nature acquaintances that are going to be ass deep in eggs once their hobby hens start producing.

My mother, who grew up on a farm in the depression, hates chickens. She used to tell me horror stories about gathering eggs.

And about Ed Gein. I have a weird family. Let’s just talk about the chickens for now.

In my hometown, they were trying to pass an urban poultry ordinance, and my mother is incensed, and complains loudly and repeatedly about “Those people who want chickens.” It just so happened that I sat next to one of the people behind the ordinance at a banquet in Milwaukee last weekend. Her name is Georgette.

Georgette explained to me that, after careful research, she could prove that the number of chickens, the size of the coop, the lack of roosters, etc, would make these birds odorless, silent, and no bother to the community. But that wasn’t enough for the people who complained the loudest. These people objected to chickens on principal. They were all people who, at one time in their life, had been required to care for chickens. And they did not want to be anywhere near a chicken, ever again.

Apparently, actually being around chickens engenders a hatred normally reserved for Nazis and small pox.

I asked Georgette if maybe the chickens don’t bring some of this on themselves.

I am all atwitter this weekend.  A new movie theater opened in our area.

 Actually, it is the same movie theater, under new management.  The last one closed in December, after a slow slide to ruin.  We did our best to patronize the local establishment, but it was sometimes difficult to love.  Movies were almost always guaranteed to be out of frame, blurry or occasionally on fire. 

 One of the channels was out of the sound system, which left me worried when we went to Robert Downey’s Sherlock Holmes movie that I was going deaf, or perhaps had been stricken with an inability to understand English accents.

Until recently, if you wanted to go to a movie in town, you had to be patient, and forgiving of quirks.

But after a four month hiatus, it is open again, with the addition of fresh paint and a liquor license.  If I drank beer, I could do it at the movies!  I can also get a hotdog and real butter on my popcorn.  And the third screen is going to be playing vintage stuff instead of first runs.  It is also cheaper than the nearest big chain multiplex.

I am going to live there.  I swear to God. 

Last night, we went to Thor. 

There is much to like about Thor, although I am dubious of any super hero whose main power is swinging a hammer really fast.  I don’t care if he’s a Norse God.  It’s still kind of lame. 

But he has one superpower that, as a romance writer, I can definitely get behind.  He has the power of taking his shirt off.  Never mind the other Avengers.  In this respect, Thor is stronger than Jason Statham and Brad Pitt in Troy.

Natalie Portman’s character spends most of the movie giggling and walking in to walls. I read this described as ‘chemistry’ in a recent review.  IMHO, this is not so much romantic chemistry as a natural physical reaction to the fact that Chris Hemsworth is a very gifted actor in a way that Mila Kunis is not.

But the movie itself did leave me with a question. 

How many Rainbow Bridges are there, exactly?  Because they were constantly traveling it to get to Asgard. But every time one of our dogs die (which has happened far too often) someone sends me the Rainbow Bridge poem about the place where the good doggies go.

I did not see any dogs in Asgard.  Although there was one scene with Thor in a pet store, looking for a horse, but willing to settle for anything big enough to ride.  This was a direct shout out to Kaiju our last golden retriever.

Of course, now that I think about it, Valhalla is probably the appropriate heaven for most dogs.  Continual eating, fighting, and scratching in inappropriate places.  And probably drinking from Odin’s toilet. 

The verdict:  Thor is a good movie, but would have been better with dogs.

I’ve been away for a while again.  Sorry.  Writing.  The website needs updating, as does the blog.  Soon, there will be excerpts, giveaways, a newsletter… All singing, all dancing, and redesigned.

But I am back here now because something happened this weekend that was totally blog worthy.

No, not that.  Or that, either.  Something else.

It has been kind of an eventful couple of days, hasn’t it?  I spent Friday glued to the TV watching the wedding.  And then, of course, the news broke that they’d caught Osama Bin Laden.

But never mind that. The really important thing happened this morning.

We have a labradoodle named Havoc.  He is named Havoc for obvious reasons.  Havoc is two parts fuzzy cunning and one part enthusiastic stupidity. He can work out some simple problems easily.  Like what to do if the ball is under the couch (Stare until someone moves the furniture). Or what to do when you really have to go out.  (Attack mom, dragging on her arm until she screams at someone else to take care of the dog).

But other things leave him completely stumped.  Stairs, for example.  He is almost three years old.  But it took most of the first year to convince him to take even the simple porch stairs without being dragged like a lead weight on a leash.  The second year was for learning that it was possible to use the garage steps in two directions without opening a door.  The poor thing would get stuck half way, head down by the door and butt on the upper landing. If we didn’t notice and rescue him, he would stand there for an hour or more in silence, knees shaking, unable to comprehend a way out of this (Yes, there is room to turn around.  It was just in Havoc’s mental blind spot.)

But he has never quite figured out how to manage the stairs to the second floor of the house.  Every night, he watches us go to bed, sitting on the landing in abject despair.  He can make it up three or four if teased by a cat.  He will occasionally grab onto my foot and try to drag me back to his level.  But he avoids the full trip like it’s a hike up Everest.

Until 4:45 this morning, when I heard my husband wake up and say “What are you doing here?”

Havoc was standing by the bed, wagging furiously.

“This is where you go at night, seriously?  OH MY GOD?”

Scamper scamper scamper.  Wagwagwagwag.  “And there’s a door, and there’s a door, and there’s a door.  And there you are again.  And there’s a hall.

EVERYBODY GET UP.

CAT FOOOOOOOOD.”

Chompchompchomp.

“Rrrrwowwwwwwwwwwww!  Hisssssssssssssss!”

“Fluffer!  Hi!  HIHIHIHIHIHI HI!”

You get the picture. 

As far as I can tell, there is only one explanation for this sudden, middle of the night discovery.

My dog thought we had Osama Bin Laden hidden in the guest room.

And Happy New Year!

This year, at Casa de Dos Quesos, the gifts of the magi are Pepto Bismol, hand sanitizer and bleach wipes. Despite the fact that we are not sure how many of us can safely enjoy it, I am cooking symbolically again this year, in an effort to stay in the mood for my 2011 Christmas book (currently in progress).

Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and roast potatoes, since I am cooking for the North. A cauliflower recipe I got from the Dickens cookbook, and trifle for desert. Last night’s slapped together Christmas pudding was a disaster, but tasty.

And although we are currently enjoying the Doctor Who Christmas special, The Bourne Ultimatum seems to be on the TV, whenever I turn it on.

When I complained that this did not say Christmas to me, #1 son explained that it was because

Bourne is our Lord and Savior.

Rimshot!

For Jill, and anyone else who might have wondered, the nativity scene arrived safely. Apparently, it was a ceramic class project for some woman named Edyth S. Her name is etched in the bottoms. And where ever it had been, it has been sitting for quite a while. I washed a thick layer of dust off of it, and put it in the hall.

It’s huge.

With a normal holy family, ox and ass.

Three Kings with Fabulous camel!

Shepherds with flock of sheep and bonus camel!
And these are Bactrian camels. Two humps for the price of one.

An d finally, some girl that wandered in from the Book of Revelations.

And finally, a special gift link, from one of my readers, Lorna Toolis. This is a story that had us all snorting at the computer.

THe Year Kenny Loggins Ruined Christmas

This year, for Christmas, I am replacing the nativity scene.

The one we’d been putting up was something I bought when I was still a teenager, with cornhusk dolls and little wooden animals I’d picked up in an import store. It is heavy on the cute, heavy on the folksy, and good for a family with small kids.

And after 30 plus years it is falling apart. It doesn’t help that Fluffer the cat, who is obviously an atheist, likes to push Jesus out of the way and sleep in the manger. Or that Havoc the labradoodle ate one of the sheep last year.

Or maybe it was the dog. The animals are on the primitive side and the horse, sheep cat and dog don’t differ by much than color. They are also probably painted with lead paint. Although the dog is too smart for his own good, and almost too smart for us, and he could stand to lose a few IQ points, just to level the playing field, I would feel bad about purposely handicapping him by feeding him paint chips.

So I am in the market for a new set. And since I suspect that there would be good karma attached to a used nativity scene, I was shopping on EBay.

If there can be such a thing as karma on an avatar of Christianity. Anyway, I am thinking the aura, the warm fuzzy, the vibes, the past life, or whatever you want to call it, on a used nativity set is better than it would be on a used engagement ring, or a second hand firearm. I have no problem with buying used on this.
I also know that it will be cheaper. I bought cornhusks back in the 70’s. I am not the sort looking to upgrade to the full Fontanini crèche with extra buildings. Not only is it expensive, but my husband would prefer that I not cycle directly from a full Halloween village into the village of Bethlehem.

Although, for a couple of thousand dollars, I could get Mary, Joseph and sheep at almost life size…

But no. Going cheap. Ebay.

Right off the bat, I reject anything white (too bland) and brightly colored (too garnish). Jesus should not have glitter. And since I have already done folksy, I am not seeking anything too ethnic. The Peruvian set is interesting. But I do not want a llama in my manger.

Searching for maximum number of figures, I find one listed as having four kings. Interesting. But not traditional. Although, should Fluffer climb back into the barn and knock something over, I would have a spare.

And the set listed as “Nativity Scene with Black Man” might actually be breaking the no bad vibes rule. Apparently, the previous owner does not realize that the Three Kings are mixed race. On looking at the pictures of this set, I have to admit, I would have listed it as “With Al Jolson”. The king in question has an exceptionally bad paint job.

Scratch that one on “possibly racist” and “definitely ugly.”

I settle on one with a starting bid under $16 and 18 pieces. Ceramic, good condition. Brown tones with muted accents. No glitter.

We are good so far.

There are plenty of shepherds, plenty of sheep, an angel, the requisite number of kings, and a camel.
I have never had a camel. I want one.

But this is Ebay. There is always a catch. The kings have a servant. She has a hand thrown back to her forehead in what I suspect it awe. She also seems to have a pierced navel. And one exposed breast.

For $16 plus shipping, I’ve just bought a topless nativity scene.

Today, it is snowing.

I live in Wisconsin. It is December. Snow should not be a surprise. And so far, this is not the spirit lifting, fluffy Christmas card snow. Yesterday had the occasional icy flakes that tell you Fall is gone and is not coming back. Today is the sort of thin flurry that will never amount to much, other than a grey sky and a few icy patches on the road.

But in other ways, Wisconsin is doing me proud. Last night on The Colbert Report, Stephen was given a cheese sculpture of himself from Wisconsin.

Strangely enough, there is nothing on their website to trumpet this fact.

http://www.organicvalley.coop/

And I cannot find a picture on the web this morning. But I know I did not dream it, since I am not prone to dreaming of Stephen Colbert. Or cheddar.

And over Thanksgiving weekend, we went up North for a quick visit to my folks and saw a true Wisconsin moment. I did not do the crock pot and carry Thanksgiving I’ve done the last few years, since my mother was eager to go to the friendship dinner for the lonely and homeless, rather than having me cook.

Oh, come on. My cooking is not that bad. Really. We had a sit down meal here, complete with multiple sides and several pies. To the best of my knowledge, no one died from it. We took the leftovers from it up North, and left them in Mom’s fridge.

But while there, we took a quick trip to the Shopko on Black Friday. Probably because we are insane. And we spent some family time staring into the Heart of Darkness that is the bin of $10 gifts for the cheap and lazy. This is the place for office exchanges and white elephant swaps. Or for actual gifts for family members that you do not like very much.

#1 son pulled up a winner. A keychain breathalyzer. After the party, blow into it and it will tell you whether you’re safe to drive. And #1 pointed out that there was a flashlight attached for “When you decide to ignore it, and need help finding the ignition.”

Merry Christmas. Because nothing says “We all think you’re a drunk” quite like giving a breathalyzer for Christmas. This should be displayed next to the ironic exercise equipment and membership coupons for Weight Watchers.

But no. Shopko had put it in the same bin as hip flasks.

Welcome to Wisconsin. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.

A local church has a sign in front of it, that sets my teeth on edge. The slogans they put up there are intended to be catchy. but more often, they tend to be more hopelessly misguided than pithy. And they have a tendency to play fast and loose with grammar and punctuation that makes me want to knock on the door and take possession of their apostrophes for the good of mankind.

A plural does not need a sky comma. A possessive does.

And the shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” I think of it frequently, when I look at this sign.

But this week, they’ve outdone themselves.

What goes up, must come down.
Like Jesus.

Not trying to be unchristian here. But you can’t just add Jesus to every sentence to improve it.

Things go better with Coke! Jesus! will work, I suppose. But this particular thing on the sign does not.

It’s kind of like the way you can add in bed to any fortune cookie.
The time is right to reach your goals in bed works pretty well.
But Name the four basic food groups in bed…

Actually, that kind of works, too. And I really did get that fortune. It is top of my all time favorite cookie messages. Now that there is a food pyramid, I am nostalgic for those for basic groups.

But in the case of just add Jesus, you should make an effort to read what you are writing. What goes up, must come down is kind of like saying Pride goeth before a fall. Which is at least from the Bible. But it does not express the message you are trying to send.

And there is also the fact that, Jesus came down, and then went up. And then came down again, and went back up. So is the order on the sign even correct, or are we just starting in the middle of the story?

I am now brooding, like Tom Sizemore and Johnny Knoxville in the movie Big Trouble. “We’re arriving. But we’re departing…”

Anyway. Back to the question of what should be on the sign. Might I make some recommendations:

Yes

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
All good things come to he who waits.
April showers bring forth May flowers.
Don’t let the turkeys get you down.
In the midst of life we are in death.
To err is human; to forgive divine.

No

Life begins at forty.
Talk softly and carry a big stick.
When the cat’s away the mice will play.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

The Da Vinci Code

Behind every great man there’s a great woman.

And nine days late, of course. Although blogging regularly in October, in Novemeber I am already behind.

I finished the last two days of October, with a horror movie glut.

The Revenge of Frankenstein.
And
Frankenstein Created Woman
(Hammer time. Hammer studios, that is.)

Shaun of the Dead (Another perfect movie)

The Crazies (The new version. Not great, but good enough)

The Fly (The original Fly. Helllp Meeeeeeeee!)

The Tower of London (Only scary if you are one of the two princes).

House of Wax (In glorious 2D and with Vincent Price and not Paris Hilton.)

Jekyll (The BBC miniseries. Highly recommended.)

The Walking Dead on AMC.
I am already an episode behind on this series, since I watched Sherlock on PBS this Sunday. Still unsure. Do not steal a horse during a zombie apocalypse. It will get eaten.

Aside from the movies, the high point of the season for me was the discovery of pozole, traditional pork and hominy soup made for the Day of the Dead. Supposedly, it has pre-Columbian origins and was originally made with people.

Probably a good menu for a showing of Soylent Green.

Also, rumor has reached me from the UW, that #1 son’s Halloween costume was a partial failure. It seems, if you are out as Sid Vicious without #1 girlfriend to be Nancy, you will be mistaken for Edward Cullen.

So, it’s official. Heroin addicts and vampires look the same.