I’m sorry to report that not every short story is a walk in the park to write.  Sometimes, you just have those days where it’s a struggle to get the words out on the paper.  Enter my mind, if you will, for just a moment, and you will see why “Blossom vs. the Zombie Werewolves” was, sadly, never meant to be.

Me typing:
Blossom sat on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, watching as her mother pulled the pumpkin spice muffins out of the oven.

Wait a minute.  This is my story, and I hate pumpkin.

Blossom sat on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, watching as her mother pulled the chocolate chip muffins out of the oven.

Much better.  
I sure am hungry.

Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Rock for sixteen years.

Now I remember why I like the name Blossom Rock so much. That’s the actress that played Grandmamma on the Addams Family.  Crap.

Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Cohen for sixteen years.

I had a roommate in college with the last name Cohen.  Since my plan for Violette involves dismemberment by zombie, she could sue me for wrongful death of a literary character.  Could get messy.

Blossom’s mother, Violette, had been married to Harold Jones for sixteen years.

Am I supposed to write out sixteen?  Can’t I just use the number 16?  Where is my proofreading bible?

Found it.  Looks like the cat barfed on it, and now the pages are all stuck together.  Must be some other literary fix to this.

Blossom’s mother, Violette Jones, had never married Blossom's father, a struggling artist named Flea whom she had picked up hitchhiking one day.  After a night of passion among the desert cacti, she had left him outside of Phoenix, never to see him again.

Wasn’t Flea the name of that guitarist from Red Hot Chili Peppers?  And I was worried about my roommate suing me?

. . . a struggling artist named Roach whom she had picked up hitchhiking one day.

Do I have any chocolate chip muffin mix?  I sure could go for something sweet right now.  Wait--I think there’s an old Ring Ding in the junk food drawer.

Violette was late for her Weight Watchers meeting.

I suppose an apple and a cup of green tea would be more sensible.

Violette crouched down to where Blossom was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Blossom, honey? Will you be okay by yourself for a little while so that Momma can go learn how to be skinny?”  

Jeez, what kind of mother leaves her four-year-old home alone?  I’m glad she’s getting disemboweled.

Blossom sucked her fingers in reply.  Outside, the wolves were howling.

Uh-oh.  THAT can't be good.

Blossom stood by the front door, watching as her mother’s taillights receded into the darkness. Suddenly, a slobbering monstrosity of a wolf, with wild gray hair and burning red eyes, jumped onto the front stoop.  Blossom jumped back from the screen door, then smiled. “Good doggy,” she lisped, opening the door.

Well, so much for Blossom. Off to Dunkin' Donuts!

We had high hopes for our garden this year.  Last year, New England got about 16 feet of rain over the summer, so we wound up with a muddy patch of rot, but this year, the season looked promising.  Jason rototilled a large patch at the east end of the lawn, and I combed the local gardening stores for the best seeds, the finest bulbs, and the sturdiest seedlings.
We wound up planting pumpkins, watermelons, cucumbers, peppers, green beans, carrots, corn, and potatoes.
We had a ton of mulch left over from the year before, so I made sure to hill up the potatoes with mulch every few days.  After about a week, I noticed that my potato seedlings were squirming.  I uncovered a baby mouse.  Then another.  Seven pink babies later, I realized that we had mice in our shed where the cedar chips had been kept, and that I had just mulched with baby rodents.  Not a good sign for the future garden!
To keep pests away, we decided to take a chemical approach.  We picked up coyote urine at Mackey's, and I faithfully poured it around the garden every Saturday.  I quickly learned two very important things: coyote urine should never be administered during high winds, and it takes about 16 shampooings to get that smell out of your hair.  The woodchucks didn't seem to be bothered by it at all as they systematically dug up our carrots and ate them, using the leafy green carrot tops as garnish.  We needed another approach, which is about the time that Jason bought the air rifle.
For all of you animal rights nuts out there, let me assure you that the scope on this air rifle has never been calibrated, and Jason never had a chance of actually hitting a woodchuck and injuring it.  He is a terrible shot. However, the noise did seem to scare the woodchucks, and it was kind of fun to watch them jump up and waddle as fast as they could off in to the neighbor's garden. The carrots were a loss, but the rest of the garden was blossoming nicely.  Except for the peppers.  They never did seem to get over being transplanted.
Pumpkins, watermelons, and cucumbers are all traveling vines, which is why they should never be planted near each other, according to the website I looked up after my watermelons turned yellow and died a slow death.  The pumpkins spread out to the woods and the cucumbers overtook the pepper patch (really, they weren't going to make it anyway).  Our cucumbers began producing at an alarming rate, and we found ourselves overrun.  Our parents, siblings, carpool buddies, coworkers, and mailman began refusing to take any more, and I had to start coming up with some creative recipes.  We had cucumber sandwiches and cucumber dressing, cucumber gimlets and cucumber soup.  I perfected my cucumber salad recipe, which didn't matter, because Jason refused to eat any more after the 26th night in a row of cucumber as a side dish.  I started piling them up at the side of the road with a huge "free" sign next to them, but even our neighbors were apparently sick of them, because now we have a large compost heap of cukes in the front yard.
This compost heap came in handy once we started harvesting the pumpkins.  We proudly went out together to harvest our first one, holding hands and taking a moment to admire its perfect orange symmetry.  Then Jason lovingly cut the stem, and lifted up our first pumpkin.  The rotted-out bottom immediately gave, and a mountain of millipedes poured out of the bottom of this thing.  Had I not been vomiting on my bug-covered Crocs, I suppose I would have appreciated the Halloweenyness of this, but those black worms with their wriggling legs and pumpkin flesh still stuck to their pincers were enough to make me throw in the towel.  We tossed the pumpkin in the compost heap, and headed down to the farmer's market to buy a jack-o-lantern that was free of creepy-crawlies.
The corn, I can report, did remarkably well.  You realize, of course, that I hate corn.

 Everybody wants to lose weight, except for that really skinny witch from high school with the freakishly high metabolism.  You know, the one you would sit on every day because you hated her.  I hated her.  I was the one next to you holding her down and force-feeding her a Ho Ho.
The problem with losing weight is that it's hard, and it requires self-discipline.  Neither hard tasks nor tasks that require self-discipline are fun, which is why most people don't do well trying to lose weight.  
I have personally tried every diet out there.  The  Atkins Diet worked for a while, but I began having vivid dreams of giant bowls of pasta begging me to eat them.  Some would have found their little fettuccine mouths squeaking "You know you want me!" alarming, but I found them to be a perfect formation of buttery Parmesan goodness.  My Atkins days were done for.
The South Beach Diet was a little better, because it occasionally allowed for a carb or two.  However, one of the side effects of South Beach is atrociously bad breath, and I found that the cats would urinate spontaneously whenever I tried to lean in for a fuzzy feline kiss.  My boss asked me if I would consider a work-from-home program.  And the reality was, a fresh Hostess fruit pie had never given me halitosis.
Weight Watchers, that old tried and true, tends to work, as long as you count your points religiously.  After a while, I became an expert at reading the calories, fat, and fiber content on the nutritional information label of any food item and calculating the points value in my head. (That Hostess fruit pie?  11 points!  That's almost half a day's worth of food!  So long fruit pie, hello clementine--half a point each.)  
The problem with Weight Watchers is that the higher the fiber count, the lower the points, and I became a fiber fanatic.  Fiber One yogurt (zero points!) and 1/4 cup Fiber One cereal (also zero points) for breakfast, fresh vegetables in vinegar for lunch (zee-ro!), a Vita Top muffin for snack (one point) ... the effect of all this fiber on my system was distressing, to say the least.  I couldn't walk without experiencing excessive flatulence, and my boss asked me if I wanted to consider a work-from-the-bathroom program.  It was just too embarrassing to continue with all this healthy eating.
Sadly, it turns out that there is no miracle solution for losing weight.  It requires eating less and exercising more, no matter which way you cut it.  You just have to resign yourself to working hard at counting calories, avoiding the Hostess outlet, and joining a gym and then actually going to it.

Or abusing laxatives.  That works too.

I was just reading an online article about dating tips (only because I like to read, whether it's tips on dating or the back of a ketchup packet) and really, these people writing these self-help for singles articles are ridiculous.  They are LYING to you, ladies!  I remember being single, and NONE of these suggestions really work.  For example, they say to meet a man, go to:

1. Church.  Sure, you will see lots of men at church.  Accompanied by their wife and children.  If you do happen across the rare single man in the pew next to you and you do hit it off, remember: now you have to keep going to church.  Is it really worth it?

2.  The Supermarket.  The only guy I've met at the supermarket that struck up a conversation with me actually opened with the line "Hey, I like your melons."  This is not the kind of man with whom I want a long- term relationship!

3.  The Local Bookstore.  The theory here is that if you go somewhere of interest to you, you will meet someone with whom you already share a common interest.  It's a lie, ladies.  Have you seen some of the creeps that hang around the stacks at Barnes & Noble?  The men who go there to find a good book are really only interested in finding a good book, not cruising for chicks.  Plus, if you're an avid reader like me, you yourself will have your nose stuck in a novella and quickly shush Prince Charming if he happens to ask you to direct him to the biographies.

If you want to meet a man, here's where you really should hang out:

1.  The Bar.  Time-tested and true, this is the place to find a guy.  If you flirt shamelessly and act a little drunk, chances are, you won't be going home alone that night!  And really, half the time those one night stands DO pan out to a long-term relationship.  Unfortunately, it's usually with a drunk.

2.  Work.  I hate saying that, because this is a Human Resources nightmare, but really, you spend more time at work than anywhere else.  And you're working with people who (presumably) share the same career goals and interests and have the same problems with corporate as you do.  Just never, ever, date your boss or your subordinate.  That would be very bad.

3.  Online.  Although there is some social stigma attached to this, it's rapidly becoming more and more acceptable, especially as more people do it.  Just be smart about it, ladies.  Don't lie about your age, because if you do meet Mr. Right, you will eventually have to tell him you are a liar.  Don't use an old photo or your "thin" shots if you've put on a few (40) pounds.  You will only get your feelings hurt when you do meet.  And be wary of those who would lie to you.  If his profile photo makes him look like a Calvin Klein model, he's lying (and possibly looking to scam you).  If he says he's 6' 2" and you can see his grandmother towering over him in his profile pic, he's lying. And if he has a white band of skin on the finger where a wedding band should be, he is a liar, liar, pants on fire!

I hope these tips have been helpful for all my single friends.  I will now resume my  life as a smug married.