What They Are Saying...

"This book was a fast easy read, and a fun romp. All in all, the book charmed me."

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

A Day at Witherspoon Manor: Jack likes eggs?

 “How are eggs okay?” she asked for the third time, arms folded.
I could tell Jack didn’t want to answer. His bright red ears signaled his fluster. He looked at me for help.
Frankly, I too was intrigued. Jack Frost, my healer, followed a strict vegan lifestyle. The cooks in our house (oh, yes, two of ‘em) took his preferences seriously, making creative and sumptuous vegan dishes for him while the rest of us ate our veggies the way we do in New Orleans–flavored with pork products! (Rumor has it that a certain chef never realized you could serve vegetables without meat until he joined the Army.) Jack snubbed meats (clearly), seafood, and any kind of dairy. His acceptance of eggs stunned me too.
Reading my gaze, and realizing he was on his own, Jack cleared his throat. “You have to understand why I don’t eat meat in the first place.”
Immediately, a revolting image flooded my mind. I clasped my hand to my mouth, then managed, “Please don’t tell me meat comes back to life when you chew it.” I grimaced, dreading the answer.
The instigator of this now wholly unsavory topic, Saffron Jolly, took an alarmed step back. “Oh, dear god!”
“No, no,” Jack calmed us. “Nothing like that.”
Thank goodness. ‘Cause the idea totally grossed me out.
Jack’s healing abilities far surpassed your typical doctor. He could heal with a touch, as in well-and-truly heal. No pain, no scar, and in no time at all. He can even bring back the dead. Well, dead-ish. That might make my horrible vision a little less insane, cold comfort that may seem…
“In fact, I’m not sure vegetarianism is something all healers adopt. We didn’t eat together.” At “healer school,” I assumed. “Others may very well eat meat.”
“Then why?”
Jack has always been and remains an extremely private person. I know little about him, even though we spend a great deal of time together. As my healer, he’s attached to me, for lack of a better term. Wherever I go, he goes. Whatever I do, he does. All a precaution; should something happen to me, he’ll be there.
Truth be told, a fair number of things happen to me. Long story, that.
“When I eat … certain foods, I’m aware of the consciousness of the animal. It’s last few moments of life become a part of me. And typically, that features tremendous amounts of fear.”
I hung my head. “I had no idea.”
“Even in dairy. While most cows aren’t in pain or afraid, the circumstances of their existence become mine. Usually boredom, but sometimes aggravation or, in some cases, horrible depression.” He stuffed his gloved hands in his pockets. “So, I avoid those foods.”
“Okay,” Saffron nodded. “But eggs don’t give you any of that?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s the lack of consciousness since the would-be chick hasn’t yet developed one, or if the ooze of what’s-to-be is just peaceful, but eggs are quite … relaxing. I often feel like I’m floating, adrift in a warm bath.”
She nodded in understanding. “I’ll go fix you some eggs.”
“I’m sorry we pried,” I said.
“To be honest, I’m surprised no one has asked sooner.” He gave a small nod. “No need for apology, ma’am.”
“There you are,” Nathan Marble, my brother-in-law said as he joined us. “Hey, there’s a new place that just opened, In The Raw.”
“Like vegetables?” Jack perked.
“No. Like sushi, steak tartar, stuff like that. I hear they serve some bloody burgers. Wanna go?” He asked me.
The revolting image of reanimated meat still loomed. I clutched my abdomen. “Um. No thanks.”

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

The Mindless Rant of a Bug [repost]

In case you haven't been paying attention, there's a whole new me. Well, not a new me, just a construct of the Great Hercule. The monkey who owns this blog finally paid a real artist to catch my best side, instead of that insipid line drawing she made.

Just because I look nicer does not, in any way, mean I am nicer. No. I am still a cranky cockroach with a, how do you say…? A chip on my shoulder!

I have my own blog I call In A Bug's Mind. I find some of the most inane, insane, and outrageously things you people do, then expose them—you—to your peers. This brings me great joy. There are a number of articles, however, I have not shared due to some kind of circumstance. Movies or video clips, for example, are taxing to my tiny laptop. Or a webpage so full of pictures and stories that I simply cannot select a single one to expose—THEY MUST ALL BE EXPOSED.

So I'm usurping this blog to share with you some articles that did not make my blog.

I have said, many times, how astounded I am that you all rule the world. First, you have to survive your idiotic childhoods to get far enough along to even vote. And I have proof this is tricky for you. I give you exhibit A. Moron children. <-- CLICK THE LINK, YOU FOOL!

Your inability to understand how things works leaves me speechless. Trust me, that is hard to do.

"The resident was quoted, 'I had no idea that's how I got mail. I thought it was magic.'" Idiot.

Or this story about the man who had a heart attack while mowing his lawn

After saving his life the paramedics proceed to do his yard work. On second thought, that's actually a "feel good" kind of story. I hate feel good stories.

Which brings me to what you chimpanzees do on your free time.

In case this is not clear to you, a man, using his GPS, took a six-month trek about Japan to proposed to his beloved. You know what she said? "No. You could have spent that time earning us a nest egg so we could move out of your parent's basement and rent us a real apartment!" Um. Okay, truth be told, that is what would have said.

The following video disgusts me. I love that. I can't help but watch it repeatedly, over and over. In fact, I chase Winki around the house while singing it. (LANGUAGE ALERT…. F-bomb at :07! You've been warned.)

Not all I see irritates and annoys me. I have to say about about ten percent of the muck out there brings a smile to this woeful, little bug. I give my “shout out” to the following:

This lovely gallery of mushrooms (what can I say? I love the world of the small. It is what I see everyday.)

Awkward yeti, which exposes the humorous conflicts between the heart and the mind (I love the heart… who knew?).

Bloom County, (a Facebook page) Oh, Opus. You are such a fool…

Now. Add my blog to your RSS feed. You banana-eating, nocturnal-drooling, bi-pedal bozo.

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

REPOST: Winki goes to Mardi Gras

REPOST: Tis the Season!
It’s hard explaining this time of year if you’ve never experienced it. Sure, you’ve seen stuff on TV, about parades, beads, debauchery, drinking, and all the while, women — and men — behaving badly.
But it’s not typically like that. Most of the parades start waaaaaaay uptown, beyond the manor, and wind their way down Magazine and Napoleon before turning onto St. Charles.
“From there,” I finished explaining to Jack, who stood at my side, “they still have miles to go before they finish on Tchoup.” Tchoupitoulas, for us locals.
Jack, being quite tall, scooched behind me, politely letting two women, each just tall enough to ride the “big kid” rides at Disney, get a better view. One of them yelled, “Throw me somethin’, mistah!” at the looming, pink float that lumbered passed us.
“I know that, ma’am,” Jack hollered to be heard over the roar of the crowd, the effort almost costing him his British accent. “I have seen Mardi Gras before.”
“Ah, but you were a cop before, not a participant.” I gestured across the street from us to the neutral ground of St. Charles. Typically, that large green strip of grass only supported streetcars filled with tourists, runners, and the occasional dog walker. Now it was stuffed with tents, bar-b-ques, coolers, shade structures, boom boxes powered by portable generators, tarps, a thousand ladders topped with small children, and tens of thousands of people standing, waving, jumping, and shouting. “Out here, it’s all about families. Days of block parties. Free entertainment, free stuff. Music, food, —”
“And drink.”
I stood with my heels firmly planted on the granite curb, my toes dangling into space over the street. I leaned into Jack as the high school band marched by, the bass drummer in his enthusiasm nearly whacking us with his mallet. Jack pulled me closer into him, just in case.
Exploiting the darkness the Krewe of Bacchus had wonderful illuminations, emphasizing details of each float. The next one coming was a clown, its eyes, nose, and mouth shimmering in multi-colored LEDs. But the parade had stopped, not uncommon, and the bass drummer remained before me, thumping away.
“It’s like a big tailgater,” I added.
“Ah,” he said loudly, “but tailgating is a way to entertain oneself while waiting for the game. What are they waiting for?”
“Lent?” I shrugged. Not a real answer, but it quelled my healer.
Finally the band moved on, followed by a pickup truck pulling a trailer fitted with cannons shooting confetti, bubble machines, and fog makers. Behind it plodded the next float, the clown one. As it approached, the krewe members atop it showered us with beads, doubloons, and whatnot.
The crowd helped keep the chill of the night air at bay. That, and my puffy down coat, scarf, knit cap, fleece pants, wool socks, and insulated gloves.
Hey, I’m from New Orleans. Anything below 62 degrees is downright nippy!
The float riders, too, were bundled up, wearing warm clothes beneath their costumes. Even their faces, hidden behind various masks or, in the case of this float, veils covering their noses and mouths. From the curb, we could only see their eyes.
The eyes are important. Don’t just wave your arms and jump up and down; if you want to get something from a rider, look them in the eyes. That connection often yields rewards.
I scanned the riders on the lower tier of the float, the ones closest to me. One already had his eyes on me. I smiled and waved. He gave a nod, reaching for something below the float’s railing. As he neared, he leaned down to pass me a cluster of beads rather than tossing it. I reached up.
Jack rudely grabbed my wrist, yanking me back into him. At the same moment the two short women also grabbed my arm, one tearing the glove from my hand, the other jerking me toward the rider. I became the rope in a tug o’war, Jack pulling me into the crowd behind us and the women pulling me closer to the rider.
It took me a moment to realize…the rider wore no glove.
No longer holding the beads, his arm reached out for me.
Touching is a no-no in my world. Very bad things can happen if you’re touched by very bad people. Sadly, my world was rife with very bad people.
Since my toes weren't on the earth, dangling over the curb, I had little to leverage myself backward, other than Jack's arms. The float inched forward, the unwelcoming hand got closer, and I stood unmoving, balanced between Jack and the women. Panic filled me.
“Stop!” I screamed. The float in front of us did. So, too, did the world immediately around us; the crowds, the music, even beads in mid-air. Everything in a hundred foot radius stood completely still, except for the women, Jack, and myself, who remained battling over my arm.
My talent has no effect if you're touching me.
Realizing something had changed the women looked around, confused by the sudden silence. It was enough to allow Jack and me to wrench free from their grasp. Hysteria filled their eyes as Jack and I shoved our way into the crowd. I stomped my foot and muttered “Go” under my breath. Around us, everything and everyone moved again.
We hurried away, squeezing ourselves onto the sidewalk, leaving a wake of erupting commotion. The people who fell just outside my time-stopping talent, those who didn’t freeze, freaked at the people who had. The two women pointed at me, jumping up and down, shouting, “Witch! Witch!
Some folks looked at me. “Yeah,” I nodded rolling my eyes, “I wish.”
Jack shuffled me along. I looked back at the float. The rider lifted his veil. I recognized the chiseled jawline, the groomed facial hair, and the perfect lips that formed into a pucker and blew me a kiss.
I stopped Jack. I blew a kiss back. Nice try.
“Was that…?” Jack stammered.
“Yes,” I nodded. “Good to know. Malador’s in Krewe of Bacchus.”
Next year, I’ll make a point of saying a proper hello.