Hell Week

Is it just me or does that look like a guillotine?

Welcome to Astrea’s personal Hell: Master’s Week in Disgusta, GA.

It started weeks ago, but really the official start of this nightmare was today. Nine days of pure Hell where no local can do anything but stay home. Yesterday, I filled up my gas tank to avoid having to do so during the week. Forget going out to eat, even McDonald’s is packed. Gotta go to work? Good luck with that.

~~~~~

Feb 7th, the bus stop signs appeared…

Feb 8th, the billboards went up…

No, actually, I do not. Thanks.

Feb 17th, the Golden Ticket Bus arrived…

Bastards.

Feb 21st, the traffic signs appeared…

Because where FREE parking for a multi-million dollar tournament is located is good to know. ::eyeroll::

I'm thinking green and silver paint and a slight alteration to the arrows - because this one is directing traffic TOWARD my house!

But this one... this one Imma leave alone because 1) it's directing them away from my house and 2) because I-20 is the major corridor to LEAVE TOWN.

Feb 25th, the golf cars were strategically placed around town.

They are everywhere...

*smirk* And placement is everything.

Feb 27th, the parking lots of the Castle of Doom bloomed with the cars of the Minions to the Evil Overlords. They had a lot of work to do because the azaelia’s bloomed early and they had to pick each and every fucking faded bloom OFF those bushes because we just can’t have that shit. Those grounds have to be perfect. They’ll be on tv all freaking WEEK, after all.

Sucks to be you, bitches.

And so that was how it began.

It’s been well, well over a month, and yet… The Horsemen, holding the Signs of the Apocalypse… still have not come.

Let’s go find them, shall we?

Ok, I leave my house and this has nothing to do with nothing, but…

It's just not the same. Moving on...

Look to the right… WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?

Um...

I happen to drive to work that way. Fuck. Me. Running.

 Geez. Though, I do have an alternate route and no, I will not share. You, neighbors, are on your fucking own.

Ok…. back to the hunt.

I circle around town and go down The Path to Hell!

Here there be tourists. Here… there will be Horsemen…

NOT a "sign"

There seems to be some confusion among my friends as to what qualifies as a “sign”.

Those little pre-made signs don’t count. I call “cheater” on these people’s asses. Amateurs.

Wait... there... in the distance. Let's turn here and get a better view.

Could it be?

THERE! There is a Sign of the Apocalypse! But where is the Horseman?

There's his chair...

*sneak closer* Has he eluded us? Are we upwind or some shit? Fuck!!!

I have to do something! The light’s changing, I have to turn! THERE HE IS!! He’s come out from behind the SUV!

Camera in hand and randomly shooting out the window…

Bazinga, bitches.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a Horseman of the Apocalypse.

They are a special breed, only appearing in this town during Master’s week because, as each and every fucking handwritten – must be handwritten! – sign says,

“I NEED TICKETS”.

Here’s my personal sign that goes up in the back window of my van today:

Last year it said "Bullets" and a nice little cop suggested I remove it. *ahem*

The thing about the signs that chaps my ass the most is this: There’s a difference in “tickets” and “badges”. Tickets are for the “practice rounds” on Monday and Tuesday. They are also for Wednesday, which is the “Par 3″. “Badges” are what you have to have for Thursday, Friday, Saturday and – the biggest day – Sunday.

Get your fucking words right.

You may ask, “Why, dear Astrea, do you know so much about the Masters when you hate it so very much?”

Know your enemy, grasshopper.

~~~~

Horseman located, we must now do the inadvisable and let’s just say it, flat stupid thing, of actually going by the course to get home.

~insert theme from Psycho here~

Wow... that's a huge fucking tent.

And lo! The Castle Tower looms ahead!

Turn the corner onto Berckmans…

I will run you over, you minion of the Evil Overlords, you.

Do you see how far back that goes? That *USED* to be an entire neighborhood. The course bought it out for MILES and tore every house down. All but ONE that sits right out in the middle in the distance. Shit. How am I gonna get a shot of that house? Can I pull over?

*oh shit*

The castle guards are out in force. Hide the camera!! Yes, he did stop every single car – including mine – that went past that gate. No, seriously. Because they don’t want people that don’t LIVE down this road using this road much right now, and they certainly don’t want you taking pictures inside the gates.

*glance behind me at the cop*

*SNAP* In your face, flying-monkey boy! HA!

Like I give a shit, but *neener-neener*

Press Lot

Why is the Press Lot important to me? Because I hate them worse than the tourists. I went to the little pub by my house once during this hellish week – wtf was I thinking? – and a USA Today reporter asked me how I felt about Masters Week. On camera.

*heh*

“I think the tourists are rude sacks of shit that ruin my town for an entire goddamned week and I wish they’d all go the fuck home.”

Complete with cheesy smile.

The camera guy snerked and turned his light off. Reporter dude stood there gaping at me until his camerman grabbed his arm.

That was the same night some dude hits on me and tells me he’s Ben Affleck’s brother.

Eyes narrowed at him. “Are you actually Ben Affleck?”

“No, like I said, I’m his brother.” All puffed up and proud.

“Come back when you’re Ben Affleck.”

Speaking of "go the fuck home"...

I went ahead and passed my house so I could go here. Not a whole lot of planes yet, but I assure you that by Friday, it will be PACKED.

That’s a private airport about a half a mile from my house that a lot of the high-dollar jets use.

If I’m ever asked for directions by tourists, this is where I send them, no matter where they said they wanted to go.

Bitch much? Abso-fucking-LUTELY!

Home Sweet Home

When people ask me where I live, I say I live here, because I do. Summerville, not Augusta, even though Augusta swallowed up Summerville many, many moons ago.

I wish I’d won the lottery last night. I swear, I’d stay in town just one more year so I could LEAVE town for these entire nine days. Just so I could say I did it.

*bang head on table*

So, just remember when or if you see all the broadcasts and pictures on tv, that while it looks gorgeous – because the course is beautiful – people like me are in pure Hell.

HELL.

Gods, I hate this week. I have bail money stashed, just in case.

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Guest Blog today at Running From Hell With El!

Also titled…

“Astrea Is Scared Shitless!” 

Conversation between the Mouse and the Elephant while in line at the bank yesterday afternoon:

Mouse: You did this, you realize?

Elephant: Me? Why do you always blame me?

Mouse: Because you have the biggest mouth.

Elephant: How’s that  a bad thing?

Mouse: Because now you’ve gone and gotten us into our first guest blog.

Elephant: So…?

Mouse: We really shouldn’t be guest blogging anywhere.

Elephant. *sigh* Speaking of that, are you going to answer El?

Mouse: *grumbles* I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Elephant: *brow raised* Yes, you do. She asked us why “Astrea” has no Facebook page and you said…

Mouse: Because we haven’t earned one.

Elephant: Right. And remember, you chose the word earned.

Mouse: Well, we haven’t. The book isn’t even finished. And even then, there’s too much to do after that – like maybe land a publisher? This blog was just supposed to be a way to embarrass ourselves into finishing a book.

Elephant: Is it working?

Mouse: Yes.

Elephant: You having fun at the same time?

Mouse: Yes.

Elephant: ….

Mouse: *sigh* Listen, there’s seventeen blog followers here, six of which we’ve known for more than a decade – online and face-to-face – so they’re like… following us under the threat of The Axe ™. The others, we just got lucky.

Elephant: *snort* I’ll say. They’re great people. And Katy has a great rack, so that’s always a bonus.

Mouse: Perv.

Elephant: Like I’m wrong.

Mouse: …

Elephant: *smirk*

Mouse: That still doesn’t mean we’ve earned a Facebook page or a spot guest blogging.

Elephant: Are you going to let El post that blog or not? What’re you so damned afraid of?

Mouse: *quietly thinking… pull up a space in the bank line… *

Inner Editor: The blog sucked. You know it did.

Mouse: *ignoring the evil IE, turns up the radio… and “Walk Away” comes on, which is Muse’s song that he often plays to prove his point to Lady Astrea and remind her why she does what she does…

Muse: *fluffs his feather boa at Mouse* You can’t make this shit up, darlin’. You just can’t.

Mouse: *cusses under her breath*

It’s All You, Princess…

Guest Blog at Running From Hell With El!

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Cedar Waxwings

Or “What I Did While I Was Not Blogging… or Writing.”

I’m going to ignore the horrible shit-storm that was the earlier part of my week, save one detail. I cut my pinky up on an azalea bush Monday and ended up with an infection in my hand. Who knew dirt had germs? That kept me from typing just a whole lot all week, both here and at work. Yay. Me.

But here was a beautiful thing, before I cut my hand:

My husband and I are working in the yard and we start seeing little flits out of the corners of our eyes. Closer inspection reveals a few birds, acting rather crazy.

“What are they?” he asked.

“I dunno. *shhh*”

So, we waited. Very still and quiet.

A flock of at least thirty birds, darting and flashing beautiful colors, burst out of the trees. A buzzing sound grew louder as they made their way through the branches and into our bushes. Bees. They were chasing bees towards us and catching a damned lot of them, mid-air.

I’m useless without my glasses, so I’m frustrated that I can’t see them well. One obliged me by coming to sit on a bush not five feet from me. I had no idea what this bird was, only that he was stunning and I had never in my life seen one before. He reminds me so much of my Emperor Tetras, that I have to know what they are.

Emperor Tetra... I have six.

They’re Cedar Waxwings. The Internet is wonderful.

We watched until they moved into the neighbor’s yard and away. Totally amazed and just frozen in awe. I finally look at Bobby and he says, “That. That is what I’m looking forward to when this is done.”

I smiled. “We already have it.”

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I need minions. Again.

Once upon a time, I did have minions. Some I kept, some I disinherited, or I simply cut their annoying heads off. Now, they’re just all gone. The Internet giveth, the Internet taketh away.

I want a paperwork minion for the day job, but now I want one for the house – maybe a house elf instead –  and one for the Internet. How writers can keep up with social media and not lose their minds, and still get their work done – as in writing the freaking story – I haven’t a clue. I do know this much… if I’m ever blessed to be in the position to start a “fan page” on Facebook, I will be getting an admin to help out.

No writing done today. None. Zero. Sometimes, the voices in your head just refuse to play nice. Today, they flat told me to fuck off. And I vented, to an extreme, to a friend:

Why the hell is it that when I have hours and hours of quiet time to myself that I cannot write a goddamned WORD? I’ve blown hours this morning dicking around because I’m not in the mood to write. What’s-his-name in Dune said, “Mood is for love-play and cattle!” or something like that. No, it’s fucking not when you just DO NOT have anyone awake in your goddamned head. *boom* Argue with that, Picard. LOL! (points if you get it)

I’m giving up for the day and heading outside to work in the yard. My mind is blown by how great it looks already – even without the pond started – and can’t wait to share. My husband isn’t as excited as I am, but I think he’s damned well awesome as hell and not giving himself enough credit for what he’s pulled off. Ya’ll will seriously need to clap for this man when it’s done.

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Really? Really?

I feel like I’ve been saying that all week with the RCA dog-look permanently plastered to my face. Was it all the solar storms? Did CME’s blast everyone’s brain cells? WTF?

Word count: 64, 593. BOOYAH!

I actually got to work on it for a while. Not hard since I woke up at 4am having strange dreams about a shark in one of my fish tanks that was biting and holding onto an octopus, while said octopus stared at me with totally pleading eyes. *help meeee* One, I don’t have a shark, and two, I don’t have an octo, either. WTF pt. 2, right? At least the husband’s only brought up Sperm Whale cheese once in the last two days.

Bad news on the koi pond. Some of the materials we need are not yet at the supplier. Everyone’s ready to do yard stuff around here, but it got warm way, way too early and all the major seasonal landscaping materials haven’t yet arrived. I can go get everything we need except railroad ties, and without them, we can’t start the pond itself. Do everything else, meh, we could, but moving in the huge railroad ties really needs to be done first. They might be in Monday. Dammit.

But, hey. I worked on the book. Might get to do it again tomorrow, too.

 

 

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Sperm Whale Cheese

Me and husband, noticing the slice of cheese has “Farmer Owned” printed on the plastic.

Husband: They don’t own the cheese, just the plastic. The cheese is like some government radiated nuclear cheese.

Me: (starting to be very afraid, I walk out, walk back in)

Husband:  It’s Sperm Whale cheese.

Me: What?

Husband: Well, I couldn’t think of a word for a sea cow.

Me: What about a Sea Cow? They do have those. (he nods, but he’s smirking) Yes, I know, Sperm Whale was funnier.

Husband: (pulls down his sock and shows me the fang marks again) It’s the snake bite. It’s fighting to take over that last brain cell. The brain cell’s losing.

Me: Blaming it on the snake?

Husband: Absolutely.

 

I’m tellin’ ya. I’m starting to worry. LOL!

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“Lost Squirrel”

Watching “Lost Girl” last night…

Husband: Ok, some dude jumps out? Really?

Me: It was the guy from the office.

Husband: I know, but you’re telling me all those fae are standing around and dude gets jacked, anyway?

Me: Well, yeah, predictable.

Husband: I’d rather watch “Lost Squirrel” or some shit.

Me: Lost… what? Squirrel?

Husband: It’d be more entertaining.

Me: And just what would be the premise behind a show called ”Lost Squirrel”?

Husband: You don’t wanna know. You just need to know that he’s really, really… lost.

 

I don’t know whether to be proud that I’m rubbing off on him, or really, really afraid.

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*BWAINS*

Yard conversations.

 

Husband: Oh, I got bit by a snake behind the shed yesterday.

Me: *blank stare*

Husband: It’s fine, didn’t swell up or anything. (tugs his sock down and shows me FANG marks)

Me: You didn’t think it pertinent to tell me you got bit by a freaking snake for like a whole day?

Husband: Well, it was just a little snake. And I didn’t die.

Me: *blank stare*

~~~~~~~~~~

Me: (noticing a dove with no partner) Oh, that’s sad. Wonder where its buddy is?

Husband: That cat mighta’ got it. He got a robin yesterday. He’s kinda… way not tame.

Me: Ferel? Who Zombie? Wait. Did he eat his head?

Husband: Why?

Me: *BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINS*

Husband: *blank stare*

Me: He’s got mad skills, you know. Ghetto ninja’ skills.

Husband: Well, he needs to ninja the fuckin snakes.

 

 

 

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“Microburst” my ass!

It was a tornado. TOR-NA-DO.

That pic up there is the tree – that my neighbor still hasn’t taken care of – that was twisted like a dish rag. It was a huge mess. Yesterday, we worked on getting a very large arbor-thing over our back patio stable again. Once it’s stable, we’re adding an above ground koi pond smack in the middle of the patio. We’ve been planning it for two years and haven’t gotten off our asses and done it. The tornado kinda pushed the issue. Oh, and there is this little fact…

From my front door...

That’s my existing koi pond. Doesn’t look like much of a reason, maybe.

Now maybe...

I built that all by myself, yo. No, really. I did. But now, the iris have matured, and even bloomed, and taken over. This is bad because…

There are eight koi and two red fans in there. And the koi are now SHARKS.

It’s too SMALL.

*sigh*

So. Because this is taking me away from the MS, I’m gonna post before and after shots. We spent yesterday cleaning up and working a little. I really should have gotten some shots then, but you wouldn’t have been able to see anything. :-/

Doesn't look *too* bad from the back door.

*GRR*

The white house is my neighbor, the blue house is my other neighbor. Before the tornado, white house man hired a yard man to “trim the hedges” and the stupid shit cut them down to stumps. Before he did that, I could not SEE into their yards at all for the trees and bushes there. Add the tornado and *PFFT*. Now some massive vine is laying over on my azaleas and smooshing them. Project after this? Privacy fence. *sigh*

(right about where the couch is sitting is where the pond is gonna go – 6x6x3, above ground)

It’s gonna be a lot of work. But! That’s okay! This plant? It’s a type of Agave. They use those to make tequila.

It attacked the husband when he tried to move it. It’s got huge thorns.

I love my gate/fence. It rocks.

Crepe Myrtles

Notice, I do not commit “Crepe Murder” on my myrtles. My ex-husband was going to cut these down at his house, so my daughter and I dug them up (yes, when they were HUGE like that – which was hilarious) and brought them here in 2005. He used to “murder” them, so they still have scars.

I solemnly swear I will never, ever “murder” them.

The back entrance will get vinyl siding… one day.

I have a tiny, tiny back yard (it ends at the back of the shed) and I like it that way. Less upkeep, for sure, but it reminds me of New Orleans with the walled courtyards. It’s why I bought the house and why I love it so much. I’m very much in love with that 1953 concrete wall on that side. I like to keep the whole “Savage Garden” look where nothing is formally cut, it’s allowed to grow as it was meant to grow, with just a little training.  Above that trellis that you might not be able to see is a good old Southern tradition, a scuppernong vine. I hate them, they’re nasty, but who am I to cut it down? I love that yard.

And right now, it’s a freaking mess.

SO! That’s where I’ll be. In the back yard instead of working on the MS. But that’s okay, it really is. Because when we’re done, I can stand back and smile at my “Heathen’s Slice of New Orleans”.

I’ve had this house since 2004. It’s a cottage and was built in 1953 as one of the places for the “servants” from the “big houses” – and I do mean BIG houses – up the street to live .

It needs a name. Ya’ll get to work on that.

~

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March 10, A Month of Letters, The Conclusion

Eleven letters were posted, one to a cat and one to a friend no longer here, so lets make the count nine. There were many more days in the month than that, so what happened all the other letters?

Two people didn’t want their letters shared, and I don’t blame them because neither did I. They were too personal. That brings us back to eleven. One letter, not requested, I just flat didn’t write because of my own reasons. The others? There weren’t any. I made it voluntary, even changed the rules and said the receiver didn’t have to respond, and there were only eleven letters actually requested.

I’ve learned two things from all this. The post office made a killing in the month of February because of this project and my friends, and family, are just as busy as I am. I also had a freaking BLAST doing it.

So how about finishing up with a letter to myself?

Self, yes, I do remember that desk you wanted.

Yeah, that's it...

Yes, it’s covered in dust, cat food, and piles of paper because you haven’t sat down in front of it even once. NOT ONCE. Not even to work on a painting, never mind the MS.

Where are you instead?

The kitchen? Still?

Ok, that’s fine, at least you’re sitting at the laptop – it’s a start – and your back isn’t to the wall. Yes, I see that stack of paper to the right. The one under the card reader. That’s your manuscript. You’re forty pages from the end of rewrite number bahzillion. Forty pages! That’s all. So close! What’s that you say?

You… what?

Shut up. Just shut up, because I don’t want to hear it! Didn’t it already pass one round of beta reading? It’s not shit. Nia wouldn’t LET you write shit and Lex’s beta copy is dog-eared because she reads it over and over and bugs you about book two and a short on Juliet, the zombie. It is not shit. Is it publishable? Will anyone other than Nia and Lex like it? Not for you to say, but it’s not garbage. Your writing does not suck, the fight scene is not too complicated to rewrite, the sex scene is not stupid and you have not wasted ten months working on this thing.

You do not suck.

And quit reading anymore writing advice, you’re officially forbidden. All it does is make you second guess every freaking word on the page and, at this point, does more damage than it’s worth.

You know your not wanting to work on it isn’t really all about the self-doubt bullshit, or even the fear of a synopsis, don’t you? It’s also about the shitty last few months of stress at work that bleeds over into every blessed thing else. Last night you took rubbing alcohol to the new list on your arm that ran from wrist to elbow, kinda like that one, but much, muuuuch longer. You only draw on yourself when you’re overwhelmed, but you did that, erased it, because that list is done, it’s over. Taxes are done, the new koi pond is gonna get built, Bean’s trip to Nola in October is gonna get financed, the crap at work will even out, blah blah blah, and everything will be okay. Just… stop it. And breathe, dammit. You really do have a better handle on it all than you think you do.

Now that you’ve had a lecture on self-doubt and stress, what you most importantly need to remember is that it’s okay not to work on the edits.

 ~~ What?? What?? ~~

The good thing about a first novel is you’re not on a deadline. Save Deadline Stress Syndrome for when you actually have one. The koi pond? Your babies need a bigger home and you’re going to start working on that this weekend. And it’ll be beautiful and it seems such a wonderful idea to sit out there with the laptop and write while those fish swim lazy circles in their new home.

Get out of the funk you’ve been in for the last five days, dump the stress, quit projecting your stress on the MS, grab up your sizable man-balls, and get back to work.

When you can.

Forty pages. Forty. So close.  SO close, so true. But you could still be here. You’re too damned hard on yourself.

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