Archive for March, 2013


I’m blessed. That’s about all I can say about that.




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I got nothin’

That happens a lot, eh? It’s only happening this weekend because I’ve spent most of it out of the house.

Yeah, I know, don’t everyone pass out at once.

I spent a healthy part of my day, yesterday, here:



The mill in the background is the same mill the husband and I explored on Halloween. He had to go into work yesterday and lucky me grabbed the camera and went with him. No big deal, he was just going to check something.

Then we found ourselves invited on the boat tour of the canal. They have longer ones, but we caught the one that only takes an hour.

Sibley Mill on the left, King Mill in the distance.

Sibley Mill on the left, King Mill in the distance. My husband’s hair on the right.

WordPress would probably lock my account down if I put up all 134 pictures I took, but I’ll give you two more real quick.

Turtles: the unofficial mascots of the canal.
Turtles: the unofficial mascots of the canal.


Once you get past the mill district, the view changes. The houses and buildings disappear and nature takes over. Unfortunately, we turned around at this bridge, otherwise it would have been…

wait for it…

a three hour tour.

I have come to love that canal and when Bobby wakes up today, we’re going back. This time, we’re taking Lily-dog and walking the tow path. What’s a tow path?


Just kidding. Go here. 

But wait! One last photo because this just… intrigues me.

The missing mill.

The missing mill.

This is what’s left of the gates of a hydro-electric generator. That means there once was a mill here, possibly one as large as the other jewels of the canal.

This is too hard to pass up. I wanna know what happened to it. I will find out.

See you guys in a bit.



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You thought I might say ‘go away’, but no. Though I may complain about how backbreaking it can be, I really do love working in my yard–but it’s my favorite spring time excuse for not writing. It’s raining like crazy, Lily is asleep on the bed behind me, hubs is on the couch taking a well deserved break instead of cranking up the chainsaw… and I have no excuse not to write that 2-10k anthology story that’s due June/July. So, I’m gonna. Gauntlet thrown.


I have lost two pounds.  I can also lift weights without feeling like someone’s tried to strip the muscles from my bones. Progress!

I have not yet been rejected! That’s my daily mantra, until it isn’t.

I beta read for someone this week and, dear gods, did I enjoy the read. Hi, I’m Astrea, and I’m a closet regency romance freak! I not only loved the book, but I owe this gal a debt of gratitude for making me feel like a writer again when my day-job was dragging me down. Community, people! Writing may be a solitary profession, but without the support of others–and just general bullshitting with another writer about writing–it gets damned lonely and you can easily lose your way. Gratitude.

Now, I’m seriously gonna write. No, seriously. I swear.


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I hear that from the hubs all the time. He says I played a good game and hid all my odd, geeky, and sometimes just damned strange proclivities from him until after we were married. I don’t think I did, but I will conceed that my meds at the time had me rather “Stepford Wived out” for a few years and now, minus meds–well, whatcha see is whatcha get. Besides, his life would be boring without me.

I like weird shit, and I cannot lie.

(you know you sang it)

I’m supposed to be working on the anthology sub, but I’m watching Youtube videos of one of my weird 70’s crushes instead. Yes, I know I was like seven when this song came out–two of my aunts say I’m an old soul, born at least a decade too late. I blame them for allowing me to stay up late to watch The Midnight Special (among other things!).

Behold all that is Todd Rundgren.

I’ll get back to writing later.

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The Horsemen Cometh

On February 24th I get a phone call.

“Ma, the bus is here.”

“It’s late. See anything else?”

“No, just the bus.”



Later that same day, I saw the bus myself and saw that the billboards and signs had sprung up like breeding crack-addled bunnies.

Last year, the bus got here on the 17th, preceded by the bus stop signs and billboards. This year, we got a longer break before all this crap started. Never fear, though, because with the appearance of The Bus of Doom, it has begun…

The Horsemen Cometh.

Masters Week in Disgusta, Georgia.

That’s how I felt last year and my feelings have not and will not ever change. Ever.

In a new development, the Evil Overlords have decided that they don’t like the “peasants” being able to even drive near the course–on a public road that has existed for at least fifty-freaking-years–lest we see what bounty hides behind the tall, leafy hedges of giant bamboo.

I’ve been there; I’ve seen it. It ain’t that fuckin’ special.

So, what the Augusta National wants, the Augusta National gets. 

I’ve seen all the plan choices. None of which benefit anyone but the Overlords and all of which will be paid for by the peasantsI think that if they could block off the main highway outside the front gates of the castle grounds, they would.

As you can tell, I’m not fond of this–any of it–so I want to have some fun.

I’m officially calling to order the First Annual Horseman Hunt.

Bring me the head a picture of a Horseman and I’ll think of a cool prize.

Everyone is free to participate, but mostly me because it amuses me to snap pictures of wanna-be-fratboy dudes in bad pastel-plaid that have probably never swung a golf club in their life.


May the odds be ever in your favor….

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Behold! The new TBR shelf! 

I went to a used bookstore today that’s closing and moving next week. They don’t wanna move books, so they priced everything from a buck to half-used-price and I’m all SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY.

I asked the hubs if he wanted to go with. He asked, “How long is it gonna take?”

“As long as it takes.”

“See ya when you get back.”

There are four books on that shelf that I’ve read because my OCD will not allow me to separate a series if I can help it. City of Bones, the first two Martin novels (I did not get that set today), and Dead Until Dark. Everything else (save Basilisk) I got today. I even managed to score some hardback versions of books I already own, but that I had only in paperback. (Those are not on that shelf because they have joined their author-shelves–as it should be!) Exciting, to me, because they’re really not easily found in hardback and GODSDAMMITALL I’m a book freak.

The clerk helped me carry the boxes to the van. He asked if I wanted to buy a book shelf. I laughed, but may have to go back and ask him if he was serious.

Thirty new books meant I had to part with a few books.

I put seven by my purse to give away. That’s all with which I could bear to part. 

I was like a little freaking kid while rearranging my shelves. I don’t wanna leave the room because I’m still basking in the wonder of new, to me, books.

Such a dork.

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A few weeks back, I walked into my kitchen and saw this:

IMG_9264Um. The little black dog? He’s not mine. Lemme ‘esplain.

This little unknown breed of a dog wandered up about two months ago and took up residence on our porch. He’s so soft and cuddly that we decided to keep him until we found him a home. We called him Weasel–that was the hubs! I have no idea!–but settled on Tyrone. (Yanno, as in ‘I think ya better call Tyrone…’ because he’s some little hood rat and it amused me.) It didn’t take long to find him somewhere to go. Our neighbor has a bully named Charlie and Charlie needed a friend. We thought that was the end of it, but as you can see, Tyrone kept ending up in our kitchen, our backyard, our laundry room… you get the picture.

Time to build a fence–a big one–because here’s how he kept getting in:



This house was built in 1953 and I think the wire fence between us is probably the same age. The dogs had but to jump on it and the wires would break, hence the newly named Samson (I like Tyrone so much better; we’re gonna call him that instead. So there.) ended up with free passage from one yard to the next. Let me be clear that I adore Tyrone. I don’t mind that he’s in the yard. What I mind is… if he can get in, my dogs can get out and I will have panic attacks galore.

So, we bought the stuff for the fence. Then we looked over here:


Well, that’s just a fecking mess.

We looked at that for about ten minutes and took out the hub’s brand new birthday gift chainsaw. I finally gave in and let him cut down part of my beloved Savage Garden.


Neighbor? Neighbor? We can’t SEE you anymore! But we can see a pretty fence!

Then Lily was allowed outside:


Da’fuque is all this shit cut down in my yard? And where is TYRONE?

Our young gentleman of The Hood no longer sneaks onto the grounds to speak to Lily of the tyranny of their families and plot running away together.

Sorry, Tyrone, but this is how it’s gotta be. My nerves couldn’t take it.

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