Four Posts Rolled Into One- Sponsored by NyQuil

When I was in elementary school, I received a red pencil from the cafeteria lady that read, "Eat Spuds. Not Drugs."

Who the heck says, "eat" when referring to crack? I thought it was "use", not "eat". But, nevertheless, I do NOT eat drugs. However, I will eat the nom nom nom out of some spuds. Carbs, baby. Buttery, potato-y, carbs.

That being said, I'm totally tripping on Nyquil right now. I have a sinus headache that would make you punch your Grandmaw in the jugular. And laugh about it. My sinus cavities are so gooked up that my teeth hurt. I even had to break out the Netti Pot and flush my snoz into the sink. Then I had to clean the sink with an SOS pad. But, that's a totally different blog post.

Since I'm under the influence of the 'Quil, I promise you that this post will take a strange turn at some point. Just go back and read the following posts where I was goofed up on some sort of over the counter med.

I once was electrocuted and then got all goofed up on Advil PM and talked about a bunch of weird stuff here. No, not there. Here.

Then I had a terrible bout of insomnia and took a generic sleep aid and talked about laugh tracks and how I think those dudes on American Pickers want to spoon. Check that genius literature here.

And last, but certainly least, I was tripping on some allergy meds and chocolate cake and managed to ramble on about onomatopoeias or something here.

There are three examples of the way I ramble incoherently while under the influence of Walgreen's candy, but I don't do drugs. Well, not hard ones anyway.

And I certainly don't eat them. Damn, cafeteria lady. Use the right terminolgy the next time you print up some pencils.

So, since I'm tripping daylilies over here, I'm going to combine several different blog posts into one. I will separate the posts with the following little symbols- ***

This will help you to skip through this blog post comprised of several blog posts until hopefully you can find a story that tickles your cat fancy.

If you read this post in its entirety, then God bless you, have a nice day and continue to support our troops.

 

***

 

COPULATION CABIN

 

Copulation.

I've never been one to talk about copulation. I've been married for nearly eight years, and I still blush at the very idea. In fact, I only copulate on Christmas and my husband's birthday- which explains why I get so depressed around the holidays.

That last part is a joke. Really, it is.

My husband's birthday isn't even close to Christmas.

However, it's true that I've never been one to talk about such acts, and I do, in fact, blush at the very idea. This world is so wrapped up in sex, sex and more sex. I was raised that this is a private affair, sacred between husband and wife, so I don't dig all this copulation talk on television and movies and the Copulation Station on Pandora.

And thanks to Korn, I still can't bring myself to wear a pair of Adidas tennis shoes.

I wanted to do something special for my husband, and I've also been craving some "kid free" time for the last few weeks, so I concocted a wonderful plan to kidnap him to a cabin in the mountains for the weekend.

I began searching for cabins on the internets, and every single one had "copulation" written all over it. The following description is for real.

"Beautiful mountain view. Feed deer from the back porch. Watch the squirrels nesting in the majestic pines. Amenities include king size bed, jacuzzi tub, coffee maker, 8 foot brass dance pole and flat screen television."



INSERT RECORD SCRATCH SOUND HERE.

Eight foot brass dance pole!? Right there, nestled between the coffee maker and LCD television, they casually mentioned a brass dance pole. Amenities did not include Clorox wipes and birth control, so I hurled in my mouth and continued the search.

I finally found the perfect place for our weekend getaway. Although it didn't have a stripper pole, it still had "copulation" written all over it.

Picture a beautiful log cabin with a wrap around porch and tin roof. Inside, it was wonderfully cozy and beautifully decorated. Looking down at the living area from the loft made you want to wear Uggs and curl up on a bear rug next to the crackling fire.

It was evident that couples came here to copulate. Whirlpool tub for two. Track lighting. Hot tub on the back porch. Mirrors. And various signs posted that read things like, "Do not lean against this shelf. It will break." "Do not bear weight on this table. It will break." "You will be charged for any stained towels." "Do not lean on loft railing. It will break. You will fall 25 feet. You will die. Naked."

As soon as my husband entered the front door, he said, "Wooooooh. People have been getting busy up in here!"

I blushed.

When we met the owners of the cabin, 85 year old Herbert and his 83 year old wife, Doreen, I blushed again.

"I just put fresh water in the hot tub, dear," Herb winked at me, as if he knew I was about to copulate in the hot tub, and as if he knew someone had copulated in the hot tub before me.

While swallowing vomit, I thanked him.

"You kids have a good time," Doreen winked at me, as if she knew I was about to copulate in the cabin, and as if she knew that everyone that had ever stayed in the cabin before us had copulated.

While swallowing more vomit, I thanked her.

I get it, okay? Copulating is just a fact of life. It was created by God. It's what we are supposed to do. But I'm still embarrassed that other people know that its probable that I will copulate in a cabin in the woods.

I don't want people to think I'm going to get busy. I just don't. The very idea makes me feel dirty. I feel like I should defend myself. Although it's completely natural, and I've been with the same man for over a decade, I don't want Herb and Doreen to wink at me and then talk about what they think I may or may not do once they've pulled away from the cabin in their golf cart.

Next time husband and I want a getaway, we are going to the least romantic place on earth where no one will be whispering and snickering and winking and posting any sort of signs that read the words, "do not bear weight."

The Western Kentucky Tractor Pull is coming up soon.

Perfect.

Side note- I was going to include an actual picture of the cabin in this section of the post, but my brain ain't working right. Dang, NyQuil, why won't you let me post a picture with your mind altering-ness?

***

 

REJECTION HAS GOT ME SO LOW

 

As some of you know, I finally completed my novel, with the working title, "A KEPT WOMAN." It's about this chick that is kidnapped and taken to live with some prominent family on the other side of the country while she formulates plans to return home to her child. It's not very humorous. It's all deep and stuffs, but I like it. It's a pretty good book. I hope I will earn your 14 bones and some change on it some day while it rests upon your local bookseller's shelf.

 

However, the literary agent that I sent it to didn't quite dig it. That's cool. She was very kind in her rejection letter. It read something like this, "After careful consideration, I don't believe this book is the right fit for me. Bla, bla, follow your dreams, bla, bla. Stephanie Meyer, JK Rowling and Stephen King all received multiple rejection letters for their most notable works. This is a very subjective business. Don't give up."

 

My first reaction wasn't sadness that I'd been rejected. No, my first reaction was utter shock that someone had rejected Twilight. Who would reject such a gem?

 

That was sarcasm.

 

Alas, I am searching for another agent. I'm keeping the faith. If you'd like to represent my novel and make a crapload of money for me and for you, shoot me a message.

 

Hey, I just presented you with an invitation to make history. If you want to turn it down, then shame on you. There aren't even any vampires or pale chicks in my book. Use your noodle and represent my book. Please? I will give you licorice. And corn dogs. And a North Face jacket with a ketchup stain on the sleeve and a missing zipper.

 

 

***

 

AND THEN THIS

 

So, when the sadness of my book being rejected started to creep upon me, I received word that I'd gotten Top Ten for the Southern Writer's Short Story Contest. I got Top Ten in the same contest last year, so I was really stoked. Winning the second time was just as thrilling as winning the first. I'm so humbled and thankful that my words will be published again.

 

When the magazine comes out, I will be sure to promote it more than Jordan Knight sending out Tweets about his performance of "Hangin' Tough" at one of Boston's local karaoke bars. In other words, I will become a self-promoting ass hat. Please don't hate me.

 

 

***

 

NYQUIL RAMBLINGS FROM HERE ON OUT

 

As the title beneath the little *** states, the rest of this post will be pure nonsense. Hunter S. Thompson kind of nonsense, without the acid or the Las Vegas hotel room.

 

 

Every time my husband farts, I punch him in the arm and he declares, "It's not going to sti-". Before he can get the "nk" out, everyone is gagging and scurrying for cover beneath the potted ficus in the corner of the living room. The moral of this story? Hubs should quit doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

 

I received another Liebster award from the really fun Mis Anthropy. Please go check out this blog. I just read a post there about how she likes men the way she likes her bacon. ",,,thick, with syrup. And depending on the man, dead." This made me laugh. Go over there and laugh, too. That is, if you like laughter. If you don't like laughter, well, then you suck.

 

I know I'm supposed to do stuff for the Liebster award, but do you trust a person that just shuffled into the kitchen with a retainer, a California Raisins t-shirt, a Nyquil high, 3 loose bobby pins hanging from the *ends* of her hair, and sifting through the fridge for a Fanta (I never buy Fanta. Why was I looking?) to actually answer questions for a blogging award?

 

The answer is not on Wednesdays.

 

And it is Wednesday.

 

But, thank you so much for the award. Awards make me feel special. I like feeling special. It's all warm and fizzy. Like hot Fanta.

 

Again with the Fanta. I don't even think I've ever had Fanta. But I want a Fanta. I need a Fanta. Got to have a Fanta.

 

Too bad I can't drive in the state I'm in or I'd go down to the Shell station and get a Fanta, but I think I'd blow a 23 in the breathalyzer right now. What the hell do they put in NyQuil, anyway? Vodka? It is Vodka, isn't it? I don't do Vodka well.

 

I once ate the worm and thought there were chickens pecking at me. Wait, that was on the movie Friday. Remember when Smokey did LSD and ended up in Deebo's coop? And he thought pigeons or chickens or some kind of fowl was pecking at him all the time? Ha. That didn't happen to me. That happened to Smokey on Friday. Whew!

 

And I just re-read that. Worms come in Tequila. I said Vodka. Hey, if you find a worm in your Vodka, then you got more problems than a duck in the ocean.

 

I've got to go. (I say that like I'm ending a phone call.) I hope you stuck with me for this novella blog post.

 

If you didn't, I totally understand.

 

God bless, have a good day and support our troops,anyway.

 

Drops Mic. Exits Stage Left. In search of Fanta.