It's Halloween today!  As you may have guessed, Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.  We were invited to two parties this year, so I wanted to make sure we looked good.
Jason first suggested that we go as Gomez and Morticia Addams, but since he is 6'5", I suggested that he was more the Herman Munster type.  He then suggested we go as Lurch and Grandmama.  A word to the wise: do not tell a late-thirtysomething woman you want her to dress up as an old hag.
After Jason removed my fist from his teeth, he suggested we go as Marilyn Monroe and JFK.  Not bad.  You want me to dress up as the sexiest woman that ever lived?  I can get on board with that.
I waited until Friday night to dye my hair platinum.  Except that it didn't come out platinum.  It came out yellow.  Crayola yellow.  I went to the experts - my Facebook friends - for help.  After consulting with one of the EMTs at work and a girl from high school who once dyed her hair three colors in three days, I went back to the beauty supply store.  I bought some Quick Blue and some more hair dye, and I was good to go.
I'm guessing the fact that I used major bleaching chemicals on my hair three times in 24 hours may be why my scalp is bleeding, but it worked.  I was finally Marilyn Platinum.
We had a great time at Jessica's house, and we stopped by the house of one of Jason's coworkers afterwards, which was also a good time.  I was freezing in my beaded gown, my feet were killing me in my stilettos, and my hair felt like crispy straw, but it was worth it.  Another successful Halloween!

It's inevitable that we all will turn in to our parents someday. As I get older, I see my mother in my reflection more and more often. Luckily, I can call her up and yell at her about this.
I have my mother's face (which is always a bit startling when I go to the hairdresser and she slicks my hair back, and it's Mom squinting in the mirror back at me) and my mother's shape. This is not all bad - my mother's family was not a small-chested lot, and my curves have served me well over the years. That's right, I'm not above using a low-cut top to get a free sample from the stock boy at the grocery store. And the women in Mom's family all have great legs. Honestly, my mother is in her sixties and could still get hired as a Rockette with her gams. (Her lack of tap-dancing abilities would, however, immediately get her fired. I inherited that, too.)  
Not to say that Dad didn't have his genetic input. I'm thankful for his blond hair (which, if I follow his lead, will stay blond until my 44th birthday, on which date I should expect to wake up to a full head of white.) But Dad's side isn't all curly blond goodness. It was the Longo side that most likely gave my my heart condition that required surgery, and my sensitive skin - to the point where I can't use certain toilet papers because I get a rash - is all courtesy of Dad. But I'm not here to beat up on Dad. I'm focusing on Mom.
My folly, you see, was to grumble as my transformation into my mother was happening. I should have welcomed the varicose veins and bunions. Because the other day, as I was pulling on a pair of pantyhose and they got stuck in the crease of my hip, I saw them: my grandmother's saddle bags had emerged on my butt. Honestly, I could ride a horse on these things.
Sure, my Grandma Annie is gone, and for the briefest of moments it was nice to see something that reminded me of her, but I wasn't expecting that little bit of nostalgia to pop up on my thighs.
I called my mother to tell her the news. "Well, dear, I guess I should warn you now," she sighed. "Grandma sprouted a moustache at 50."
Hey, fate is fate, and you can't fight your family tree.  I'm asking Jason for a moustache trimmer for Christmas.

*Check back tomorrow for Halloween photos - Jason and I are dressing up as JFK and Marilyn Monroe!

My parents always emphasized the importance of voting. Party lines didn’t matter, they said. Just listen to the candidates, get involved, and make a choice.
When my sister turned 18 and registered as a Democrat, my father didn’t speak to her for several months (turns out party lines did matter a little bit to Dad). So when I was finally able to register to vote, I registered as a Republican in a shameless effort to win my father’s love. Then I went to college and promptly became the Co-President of the Penn State Clinton-Gore Fan Club. With my Co-President and roommate, Heather, and Beki and Denise as Co-VPs, our fan club membership totaled four. We were a proud group.
Over the years, I have listened to the candidates and made my decisions based on who I thought made the most sense, regardless of party. This year, in Connecticut, Chris Dodd is retiring, and the race for his Senate seat is wide open. One of my first bosses on Block Island was a strong, smart businesswoman who constantly faced (and still faces) opposition simply because she has a brilliant (okay, and stubborn) head on her shoulders. It was this fondness for my former boss Mary Jane that really made me like Linda McMahon as a candidate. She’s the former CEO of a male-dominated industry – the WWE – and I respect that. My childhood crush on Stone Cold Steve Austin probably had nothing to do with my decision.
I agreed to distribute signs in my town for the McMahon campaign. This got me invited to the third debate between her and Dick Blumenthal in New London. I heard my parents’ voices in my head: “Get involved! Wear clean underwear!” So I went.
When I arrived, there were people rallying outside. Some guy with a microphone was shouting in support of Blumenthal, but he was saying things like “Linda McMahon wants you all on steroids!” and “Vince McMahon is the son of Satan!” Note to the Blumenthal campaign: get people who are not crazy as fruit bats to speak on your behalf. I quickly got in to line to wait for the doors to open. A gentleman next to me noticed my Linda sign and leaned over. “You’re voting for the right person,” he opened. “I know,” I smiled back, and we began chatting. Rich was a Republican, and this was his first senatorial debate (mine, too!) We agreed to sit together and bask in our smug self-righteousness over our decision to back Linda. We were herded inside, and while we were waiting, Rich continued the conversation. “So you listen to Rush, right?”

Uh-oh. He’s not talking about the band.

I started to get a little scared. I don’t listen to Rush Limbaugh. As a matter of fact, I own a copy of Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot. In hardcover.
Panicked, I lied. Sort of. I nodded. Forgive me, Al Franken!
Rich continued, “And of course you watch Fox news. I don’t know why these liberal Democrats won’t watch Fox news. They should be more informed.”
Um, maybe because Fox news is so unbelievably slanted and biased that it’s kind of like watching tobacco companies argue about why cigarettes are good for your health? I kept silent. Cold terror was coursing through my veins.
He continued to talk, and I continued to nod and add things like “yup” and “mm-hmm” to the conversation.  What if he found me out? What would I do if he suddenly started pointing at me and screaming “Democrat!  Demmmm-oooo-cratttt!” I might have to make a run for it.
We made it through the debate, which was fun, I’ll admit. The crowd was restless and rude, the candidates were snarky, and I was really glad I went. I was a little distracted, however, by visions of death by rabid Republican.
 We shook hands after the debate was over, and Rich went on his way.  I managed to shake the crazy Blumenthal guy with the microphone when he tried to follow me home.  I called my sister and promised her that I would never, ever, try to masquerade as one of the politically passionate again.
Then I curled up with a book and a cup of tea.  A little Jon Stewart did wonders to soothe my nerves.

I do not know my neighbors. I used to occasionally feel bad about that, but not any more. With the exception of Brenda, whom I just haven’t offended yet (might happen with this column), the rest of my neighbors just aren’t very nice.

To be fair, I’m not particularly friendly. I don’t bring homemade cookies over when someone new moves to the street. In fact, the only time I ever see my neighbors is if I get the wild notion to leave my house, which usually only happens when I am leaving to go to work. I see all sorts of fruitcakes at that time of morning. There is one lone jogger who apparently enjoys freezing his butt off in teeny short-shorts that are really inappropriate for his age in the early morning hours, and I always pass him on the way to the commuter lot. I used to wave to him, but he never waved back, so now I flip him off when I pass him. Sometimes I swerve towards him like I’m going to hit him, too – it’s a fun little game I like to play with him.

Someone egged the front door of our house once, and I’m pretty sure it was him. Cranky jerk.

There’s a woman who lives in the boarding house across the street who likes to let her dog wander around the neighborhood. I’ve met her twice, both times when I screamed at her dog for squatting in our yard and pooping.  She hasn’t spoken to me since I scooped up the dog poo with a shovel and flung it at her. The plus side is she doesn’t let her dog come over any more, either, though that might be because of the air rifle we bought to discourage Fido from coming over to play. Hard to say if it was the flying dookie or the gun that really turned her off from being our friend.

There was one girl down the street that used to stop by occasionally, but she showed up unexpectedly one evening just to say ‘hi’. It happened to be the day that my divorce from my first husband was finalized, and let’s just say I was celebrating. A lot. I might even have been slurring my words. I’m pretty sure I winked at her husband. She’s never come by since. I’m not too sad about that, though, because really, I hate it when people drop by unannounced. Makes it awkward if I want to walk around the house wearing my Hannibal Lecter mask.

So suffice to say we are the last ones on the block invited to participate in the neighborhood tag sale or block party. This Halloween, I decided to make amends. I carefully painted lifelike dummies of all of my neighbors, and  laid them around the yard. Then I put out a bunch of animated zombies and made it look like they were eating the disemboweled innards of everyone who lives on our street. If my neighbors don’t appreciate the gesture, well, then there’s just no pleasing them!



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Cover Art!10/08/2010

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The cover art for Daily Bites of Flesh has been released!  (I have two stories in this anthology.) Pretty sweet, right?




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FAQs10/02/2010

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I am constantly being bombarded with fan mail and questions from my loyal readers.  I thought I'd take the time today to answer some of the questions that have been posed.

Where do you get your ideas?
Some stuff comes from real life experiences - I think everyone’s childhood is filled with pleasant memories of the shambling undead and zombie infestations.  My short story “Down the Pike”, however, about a woman who is desperately unhappy and plans to murder her morbidly obese husband and his little dog, too, is pure fantasy.  It’s purely just coincidence that my morbidly obese ex-husband has a Chihuahua.

What does your family think about what you write?
My mother is wondering when I am going to give up the horror stuff and get cracking on my career as the next Erma Bombeck.  My sister is happy that I’m writing at all.  My Aunt Joanne, who has a similar sense of humor to my own, finds my stories of mulching with baby mice hilarious.  And I suspect my in-laws might not be aware of my budding horror writing career at all.

I think you still owe me $20 from college.
Who is this?  Heather?

Remember?  When we hung out on Lance’s balcony and we were all going to chip in for beer?  You never chipped in.
Debbie?  Is that you?

How much does writing pay, anyway?
Not a lot.  Unless you’re Stephen King, you may want to keep your day job.

No, I mean, does it pay you enough to pay me back for the beer?  With interest?
Nope.  I can offer you a free copy of “Rapid Decomposition” when it comes out.  Maybe. I have to check with the editor – let me get back to you on that.

Besides killing off your ex, have any of your other acquaintances shown up in your stories?
Sure!  The main character in “Good Night, Francine” is based on the sweet little old lady that lived across the street from me growing up.  Max Elliot, Exterminator, is a hybrid of actor Sam Elliot and my father. And one of the dispatchers where I work shows up in my short story “In Sickness” as the unfortunate victim of one of the newlyundead.  I do try to keep my libel lawsuits to a minimum, though.

Does your family know you’re a deadbeat?
Let’s look at this rationally.  It was over 15 years ago.  Clearly there was alcohol involved.   Of course I didn’t remember to chip in for beer.  I probably didn’t remember my name by the end of that party. Let it go!

Why do you mention cat barf so much?
Writers write about what they know.  I have two cats, Wednesday and Pugsley, and they both have veeeerry sensitive stomachs.  Unfortunately, cat vomit happens every day in my life.

I hope that this has answered all of your questions about my fabulous life as an author.  I do not have the answers to what the secret of happiness is, and I do not know which one's Pink.  I didn't try to seduce Joe Hill when I met him because I am happily married (really, Mom, what a question!)  Any further questions or debt settlement requests should be directed to Attorney Tom Kane, New London Tpke, Glastonbury, CT.

And for the record, that really was a great party on the balcony!
 



4 Comments
 

I am constantly being bombarded with fan mail and questions from my loyal readers. I thought I'd take the time today to answer some of the questions that have been posed.

Where do you get your ideas?
Some stuff comes from real life experiences--I think everyone’s childhood is filled with pleasant memories of the shambling undead and zombie infestations.  My short story “Down the Pike,” however, about a woman who is desperately unhappy and plans to murder her morbidly obese husband and his little dog, too--is pure fantasy.  It’s  just coincidence that my morbidly obese ex-husband has a Chihuahua.

What does your family think about what you write?
My mother is wondering when I am going to give up the horror stuff and get cracking on my career as the next Erma Bombeck. My sister is happy that I’m writing at all. My Aunt Joanne, who has a similar sense of humor to my own, finds my stories of mulching with baby mice hilarious. And I suspect my in-laws might not be aware of my budding horror-writing career at all.

I think you still owe me $20 from college.
Who is this? Heather?

Remember? When we hung out on Lance’s balcony and we were all going to chip in for beer? You never chipped in.
Debbie? Is that you?

How much does writing pay, anyway?
Not a lot. Unless you’re Stephen King, you may want to keep your day job.

No, I mean, does it pay you enough to pay me back for the beer? With interest?
Nope. I can offer you a free copy of “Rapid Decomposition” when it comes out. Maybe. I have to check with the editor – let me get back to you on that.

Besides killing off your ex, have any of your other acquaintances shown up in your stories?
Sure! The main character in “Good Night, Francine” is based on the sweet little old lady that lived across the street from me growing up. "Max Elliot, Exterminator," is a hybrid of actor Sam Elliot and my father. And one of the dispatchers where I work shows up in my short story “In Sickness” as the unfortunate victim of one of the newly undead. I do try to keep my libel lawsuits to a minimum, though.

Does your family know you’re a deadbeat?
Let’s look at this rationally. It was over 15 years ago. Clearly there was alcohol involved.  Of course I didn’t remember to chip in for beer. I probably didn’t remember my name by the end of that party. Let it go!

Why do you mention cat barf so much?
Writers write about what they know. I have two cats, Wednesday and Pugsley, and they both have veeeerry sensitive stomachs. Unfortunately, cat vomit happens every day in my life.

I hope that this has answered all of your questions about my fabulous life as an author. I do not have the answers to what the secret of happiness is, and I do not know which one's Pink. I didn't try to seduce Joe Hill when I met him because I am happily married (really, Mom, what a question!) Any further questions or debt settlement requests should be directed to Attorney Tom Kane, New London Tpke, Glastonbury, CT.

And for the record, that really was a great party on the balcony.