Archive for March, 2012

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…


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?


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,


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.


“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.


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


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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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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?


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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