Be careful of the stories you tell, Maggie would think as she set out to write a particularly contentious piece, because they had a habit of coming true.

It seems this is how life works. The way I view life is what determines whether or not I am happy or sad. It doesn’t matter how many blogs I read about how to be happier, as it turns out, even winning the lotto might not make me happy.

This quote explains it best:

“Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture, but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.”

Don Delillo quotes (American Novelist born in New York City, b.1926)

I am just trying to survive in this mega-maniacal monopoly of corporate citizenship we call America. When you get back out on the streets of small towns everywhere, and get to know the locals, where everybody really does know everybody else, then it gets up close and personal.

This is what my first book Dead Lines is about. The underculture of a small American town and what it feels like, as reported by Maggie, a small town reporter. I could have taken the high road, and in a way I did, as I wrote about characters who have trouble getting through the day, if not their lives. They have a lot of faults, but mean well, if you know what I mean. And, oh, there are two sex scenes.

Here’s one of my blurbs I made up:

Dead Lines is set in the borderlands between the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the Great Basin Desert. It is both a tale of the traditional small American town and the new story of the great American West.

Here’s a quote from a reader:

“A neat read about a small town reporter in the mid 1990′s when we were still tethered to land lines and answering machines. As many of us 40 and 50 somethings know mid-life assessments are often triggered by events outside of our control. Take a journey with Maggie as her life unfolds from what was to what will be. This is an independently published book by a dedicated author whose quick and reflective style echoes the spontaneous prose of Wolfe and Kerouac” (Roy Cuellar).

 I should probably post a picture.

Dead Lines

In the meantime, you can read Dead Lines, to see what this character Maggie is all about.

Only 99 cents on Kindle or 10 bucks for a paperback copy.

Click on the Amazon link on the right side of this page, and you can read all about it.

I’m writing a second book about the further adventures of Maggie. There’s a description of it on the About page.

I’m done pitching for now. Back to writing or procrastinating or other stuff.

Talk to you soon.

Image Source Page: http://www.theanimalfiles.com/mammals/carnivores/raccoon_common.html

Raccoons are cute but fierce when challenged over food or family. Kind of like humans a bit, I guess.

Early one morning, years ago, a raccoon came in through our pet door about 5 am in the morning. I was up making coffee, and wondered what all of the ruckus in the laundry room was about, so I opened the door between and there was the biggest raccoon I’d ever seen digging into the dog food bag.

I had a 5 pound Pomeranian, and she ate back there. She was also up at this ungodly hour of the morning, and as soon as she saw that raccoon stealing her dog food she was after him. Barking like mad she ran into the laundry room and launched herself at this hissing creature 5 times her size. He must have weighed 25 pounds.

Fat even in the middle of winter, he was out raiding back porches. I thought I had seen sign of an animal back there—prints, the bag open when it shouldn’t have been, unusual looking animal droppings. So I wasn’t surprised to see it there that morning.

As soon as Midnight, my little black 4 pound Pomeranian attacked this thief in the night I knew all hell was just breaking loose. Wild Raccoons aren’t nearly as cute and friendly as they look. This one grabbed my dog in its jaws and ran off with her back out the dog door in the pitch black backyard full of snow.

I could hear her pitiable horrible screaming fill the early morning air. My heart beat like crazy and I ran out the back door after them, with no idea what I would do. The raccoon ran over to the side yard by the old playhouse, and stopped. I don’t know why; maybe Midnight was squirming and screaming so loud he had to stop and get a better grip.

He stood there on his hind legs, about 3 feet tall holding my dying dog, it sounded like, in his jaws, and he stood up to me as if to say, “This is my dog now, Lady.”

What to do? What to do? I worried hurriedly as my dog squealed in the raccoon’s mouth, and he didn’t run off with her yet.

I looked around and by my side was an old 4 wheeled cart, like a wheelbarrow but lighter duty. It was rusted and broke, and snow had piled up on it, but it had a big cross handle that came up and out and was still firmly attached.

I grabbed the handle, wrenched the cart from the snow and brought it down on the head of the raccoon. Nothing, he just continued to stand there in his strength and brawn. I brought the cart down on his head 2 or 3 more times, and he realized I was serious, and dropped my dog and ran off into the night.

I was afraid to look, but I scooped her up and ran back in the house, thinking all the while she must be all torn up.

When I got back in the bright light of the kitchen I could see blood smeared on her and on my hands. Oh what to do? Assess the situation.

I laid her out on the linoleum and she allowed me to inspect her for wounds. She was black, and I didn’t see anything at first, or then at all. I combed through all the hair on her body with my fingers, felt her feet and legs with my hands, and found no breaks or any more blood.

Finally, all I found was a scrape on her belly which was bleeding. She probably got it going through the dog door in the Raccoon’s mouth.

I could not believe what had just happened, but most of all, that she was all right. I grabbed a towel and dried her off, and cuddled her in my arms, while drinking a cup of coffee. Talk about a moment of pure bliss.

Then my husband came walking in the kitchen scratching his head, yawning.

“Coffee ready?” he asked.

Nine-thirty on a cold Sunday morning, and he said, “The coffee shop you picked is closed.” I glanced over and saw the place was dark and cold. Having just met this match from the Internet I said well why don’t we go to another coffee shop then.

Image Source Page: http://www.nuacco.com/2007/12/11/drinking-liquids-is-twice-as-pleasant-now/

The first thing that came to my mind was the Sunrise Café around the corner on Main St. He looked at me like I was crazy, but I had always wanted to go there, so I said “Yes, let’s go, I’ll meet you there,”

 which we did. He walked in a head of me and grabbed a table, and I

The old town Cafe by permanently scatterbrained

We sat down across from each other at the table. “And I suppose they go in your car?” It turns out he also knew people who sleep with their dogs. So far in his catalog of sins, I was guilty on all accounts.

by A Gude on flikr

We ordered coffee and I ordered French Toast,

cup of coffee by Double Image Photography

which he scoffed at, as if there was no reason to order such common breakfast treats. That’s what you want in your French toast, though. Six triangles of some kind of bread laid out in two opposing triads of fried bread, butter, and powdered sugar, syrup on the side. Nothing fancy, not even any hash brown or eggs.

Turns out he had a brand new house since his divorce 11 years ago, and thus the pet hair quandary. He’d been married 30 years. Wife cheated on him. Been single last 11 years. On Match.com 7 years. No one has met his match, yet, and I wasn’t about to break his long stretch.

Then he asks how long I’d been married, and I say “Once, but I’ve had 3 long-term relationships, that were monogamous,” and so on and so forth. I might as well have said I’d worked for Heidi Fleiss, by the look on his face and his comment along the lines of how I had been around a bit. He’s lucky I didn’t reach across the table right them and cuff him on the chin, but then who knows what was beneath the skin with him.

If I’d had fighting gloves on me, they’d been on by now.

Not really me or him by Mr. Thomas on flikr

“Women just want a guy making $75,000 to $100,000. They all have a grand-kid on their hip. I’d only want to see a grand-kid once a month. Or they’re on disability. Just want a sugar daddy”
he said, “But I have chilled champagne at my house; we could go there.”

Fortunately, my French Toast showed up, and things proceeded nicely for a while. He thought to invite me to his house for some ice-cold champagne one last time and I quit eating long enough to say, “Are you kidding? I’ll leave dog hair for sure.”

That must have pissed him off, and he made a crack about my rock star hair, which was actually a complement in my mind. I’ve been working hard on my hair. Rock star is good. He was a witty guy, though, which is what had drawn me in, and he made me laugh and I smiled and he said, “nice teeth. Who paid for ‘em?” And I looked at him in shock, and said “my father” because he did. I was owed some nice teeth, but that’s another story, anyhow, I have them. The gloves were on.

He noticed the amethyst ring on my left ring finger, as I put on my left glove, and I admit it’s ex-boyfriend jewelry, but I like it, yet he acted like I was trying to trick him by wearing a ring on that finger, which is just the one it fits.

To get through this meet and greet, I finished my French Toast, and chatted about something on Facebook. He wasn’t on Facebook, and thought it was stupid, for some reason I didn’t care to hear. If you haven’t been on Facebook them don’t critique it until you have. This is true of many things in life, but not all.

He brought up his house and cold champagne again. Like that was a seller on a cold winter Sunday morning. Like a 51 one year old woman hasn’t had champagne before.

Now take me to breakfast, and with our Eggs Benedict, order a cold bottle of bubbly, and I’ll be thrilled, and maybe take you back …oh but that’s another story.

I got my ten dollar bill out of my wallet and he got his two for his coffee, and we went out  to our vehicles. He commented on the fact that I had a nice car, so really this should be a Toyota Camry commercial, because I drive the most common car in America. That’s me—an All-American woman, looking for someone to have a cup of coffee with and maybe some good conversation.

Fancy Panys dinner with a freebee dessert (chocolate dippin' sauce). by dpstyles™'s photostream

When I lived up in the High Country, I admired the men a lot. 

Bandit's mug shot in Vegas. By Tina of Sherwood's photostream

Which reminds of a dog I had one time named Bandit. Now Bandit used to take off for days at a time when he would go visit the ladies in the neighborhood. He was the classic garbage-can tipping, car-chasing hound. Bandit would show back up at my house wearing that hang-dog look, worn out and starving. If dogs had money, he would have been broke. “Bandit!”, I would always say, “If you were a man I wouldn’t let you back in my house, let alone feed you!” Being the dog that he was Bandit finally disappeared for good one Fourth of July. I got a postcard from Vegas a while back that smelled like garbage. I think it was from him. 

In Vegas it’s not unusual to see a man walking around wearing a suit, and there’s not a man on the planet who doesn’t look fine in a three-piece suit. Up in the high-country though, where even the lawyers wear plaid, there’s just not a lot of reason to run around town dressed to kill. Which is fine by me because I’ve never been the kind of woman who dresses like women do who hang with suit-wearing men. My blue jean and boots tend to look funny next to pin-stripes and polish. 

The high-country men cut fine figures up here no matter what they wear, from the scruffy loggers in tattered, oil-soaked threads, and eyes glittering out from a web of lines etched in dirt. Or the blackened faces of firemen peering out in exhaustion from the sooty yellow of their protective gear. Then there are the green-eyed, beer-swilling, ridge-dwellers who lean towards camo green, creating a personal fashion statement that has no match! 

Correctional Officers and all the others who dress up every day in the various uniforms of their trades all look suitable to me. Could it be the danger factor of their assorted occupations? Possibly, danger is such an aphrodisiac. 

Except for the Cowboys, of course. We have real Cowboys up here, not just the store-bought kind. I’m sorry, but give me a slow-talking, fast-thinking, boot-stomping, hat-wearing man any day even if he is bald in church on Sunday. 

Actually, give me a man with eyes like blue skies and promises to match and I’m pretty well much a goner. 

Which reminds of a dog I had one time named Bandit. . .

This post is around almost 20 years old. I suppose. Getting close. I wrote it when I lived in Susanville for a few years. A lot happened during those years that ended up being pivotal moments in life.

Times Square - alliecouture's photostream

This year I technically enter my 53rd year on Earth, even though I am only turning 52 on my birthday. But you know how you’ve already been here a year when you turn one, so I figure the same premise still applies.   

So, this year, when I turn 52 is the beginning of my 53^rd  year of life here on Earth. Either way, I now officially have more time behind me than I do in front of me; of the time-span of my lifespan.   

Just in case nobody cares, remember you’re all in the same boat. Even if you’re young, you’re still a whole year older than you think you are. Of course that won’t buy you any beer on New Year’s Eve, unless your license says you were born in 1991. I’m not too good at math so check that number, would you please?   

I guess they have to look at the year and the month when they check to see if you’re old enough to get drunk, even though we all know you’ve been drunk before, just like we all were long before turning 21 or 18 depending on where you live.   

Dancing New Year's Girls kayceeparker's photostream

I live in a mandatory check your license state, so they just pretend to look at my license, I’m sure. Being a year older than is designated on all of your important papers gets you nothing on this Earth,  absolutely nothing: And certainly not drunk on New Year’s.   

But is drinking and getting drunk on New Year’s Eve really what it’s all about? I went to a sober New Year’s Eve party in downtown Santa Rosa, and it was fun. We got home at 12:05 am and felt bright and cheery as two squirrels with cheeks full of nuts. Too bad it had to end due to lack of participation.   

So, does drinking make for a better New Year’s Eve? Or a better Eve of any Day any time of year? Well, when you are in the golden glow of inebriation, when you’ve had the perfect number of drinks, when everything you say sounds profound and funny at the same time, and you can dance like Beyonce, then yes, it’s better. But later, when your head is in the toilet and you’ve given up and are just sleeping on the bathroom floor in between waves of nausea, well then, no, it’s not worth it at all.   

Hugging the Can- kayceeparker's photostream

Geez, all this talk about drinking makes me want a drink. Excuse me a moment,   

Crash…..bang…………………..hmmmmmm…………………………mmmmmmmum…………………glass…tumbler………….uhem…………….ice.cubes…tinkling………………pour ……  Underground…………..made in…………Utah…………………………………..all………..done.   

Okay, I’m back now.   

Wow, I lost my train of thought, but really it’s more like a stream of thought, or maybe a rivulet of thought, a trickle, losing its steam like an old train. Liquor will do that for you.   

But the question is how to spend the eve of  the New Year 2011.   

Well, there is always Dick Clark at Times Square. He just exudes the promise of a New Year all bright and shiny and uh new.   

So what’s the big deal with New Years? It’s just another day. Like my birthday. I prefer to celebrate New Year’s Day.  Because New Years Eve is still the old year, which is kind of silly when you think about it all.   

Celebrating New Year’s Day; however, now there’s a plan, a bright and shiny brand new plan for the year ahead when anything is still possible no matter how old or young you may be, regardless of what your driver’s license says.   

Happy New Year to all of my readers, all five of you, thanks for sticking with me this far.

Sweet America, Pikes Peak by Beverly & Pack’s Photostream

Simply Sunrise by 29cm's photostream