Did The Enterprise Really Steal Bigfoot And Chupacabra?

“What is that?”

“What?” Rabbit mused.

“That?”

We sat on the lawn chairs outside soaking up warmth from the Florida sun.  Fall in Florida is my favorite time of year.  Suddenly all the humidity is gone.  Me, Mooch, and the Rabbit can spend all the time outside we desire without fear of wilting from staggering heat and humidity.  

A moment here, if you will. All this time that I’ve been calling my husband the Hubster and Hubby-Poo, well…that’s not really what I call him.  I call him Rabbit.  It’s a nickname that stuck from the time we got together.  Mainly because he is very much like a Rabbit.  Soundless.  One minute he’s there, the next minute he’s not.  I can be talking to him and turn around and realize I’ve been talking to myself.  Likewise, I can be standing in the kitchen washing dishes, thinking I’m alone, and suddenly he starts talking to me from behind.  After I get my heart rate back under control from the sudden fright, I patiently listen to what he has to say without reaming him out for scaring the hell out of me.  It reminds me of the time machine thingie Hermione had in that Harry Potter movie, where she was always suddenly appearing beside Harry and Ron.  I wonder if Rabbit has one of those. 

Plus, Rabbit has Kruger toes.  More specifically, he has dagger-like toenails that scratch like hell, just like a Rabbit.  But mostly, I call him Rabbit because he is born under the sign of the Rabbit in the Chinese astrology.

But I digress…where were we?  Ah, yes, sitting outside soaking up the sun.  And I was asking Rabbit, “What is that?”

He stared at me.  “Can you be more specific?”

I poked a finger on my belly.  “That.  Where did it come from?  It’s all jiggly and jelly-like, and I can’t suck it in.”

He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“You’re not dealing with middle-age very well, are you?”

“Does anyone?”

“I suppose not.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes.  “It makes me ornery.”

“What does?”

“That.”  I poked my finger on my belly again.  “I never thought I’d have one of those.”

“Neither did I,” Rabbit mused.

I lifted my head off the chair pillow and stared at him.  “I don’t know how to take that.”

“What?”

“Were you meaning you never thought I’d have a belly, or you never thought you’d have a belly.”

“I never thought I’d have a belly.”

I relaxed again.  It’s difficult having a drop-dead gorgeous husband.  Besides which, he has no belly.  He’s reed thin.

“On my wife,” he finished.

“Smartass,” I grumbled.  “Ugh.  I feel sleepy,” I murmured.

“Me too.”

We stared off into the Preserve behind our house.

“I think I see Bigfoot,” I said.

“Nah.  It’s just Chupacabra.”

“We’d make good Bigfoot Hunters, huh.  Can’t even lift a finger to go investigate.”

“You know why no one ever has evidence of Bigfoot and Chupacabra, don’t you?” Rabbit asked.

“No, why?”

“Because The Enterprise stole them.”

“I’d laugh but I can’t find the humor there, Hun.”

“Me either,” he mumbled, too lazy from the warmth of the sun to even move his lips.  “It’s there, it just didn’t come out.  Too tired.”

“Life would be a lot more interesting if I could see a Bigfoot, a UFO, or even your run of the mill ghost.”

“You’ve already seen a ghost.”

“I wanna see more.  Something.  Anything.”

Silence.

“Hun?”

Silence.

I glanced over at my husband.  He was asleep in his chair.  I sighed, poked around on my belly in disgust, and eventually closed my eyes, too.  It’s not an exciting life, but at least it’s a comfortable one.  A few seconds later, I opened my eyes again.  I stared at my husband’s toes.  He was still sound asleep.  This might be a good time to get the toenail clippers out. 

I eased out of my chair and snuck into the house.  A few minutes later I returned with a sturdy pair of toenail clippers.  Mooch lifted her head off her paws, took one look at the toenail clippers, and ran like hell.  (She hates having her toenails clipped.) 

“These aren’t for you, silly,” I called after her.

She watched from the backdoor as I loomed over the Rabbit.  Perhaps it was the vision of a woman grinning madly, whose face was in shadow, looming over him with the sun glinting off a pair of steel clippers that made him scream.  Or perhaps it was the visage of Bigfoot peering over the back fence.  We may never know.  But Rabbit opened his eyes, screamed in terror, leapt from his chair, and bolted for the house.

“Geez,” I muttered.  “Can’t keep the dog or the husband groomed.”

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.

Wanna see?  www.cdblizzard.com

A Medical Condition Of The Middle-Aged

My husband was propped in bed for the evening when I posed this somewhat philosophical question.  “Hun, do you think I have a medical condition that causes all this…this…”

Hubby-Poo set aside his science magazine, sighed wearily, and looked over his reading glasses at me.  “This what?”

“This.”  I poked at my knees.  “My knees are wrinkly, and I have this going on.”  I tapped both cheeks.  “You know…this…I don’t even want to say it.”

My husband didn’t say a word. He simply continued to peer at me over the top of his reading glasses.

“You know…all this wrinkly stuff.  Do you think it’s a medical condition?”

“Yeah, it’s called Shar Pei-ism,” he nonchalantly said, then promptly went back to reading his magazine.

I draped myself over the edge of the bed, allowing my toes to rest on the floor as I propped myself on my elbows and gazed at him.

“Seriously, hun, it all seems to be happening too fast, like there’s something wrong with me.”

He grunted and kept his eyes on his magazine.

“I’m abnormal, or something.”

“Yes, you are definitely that,” he agreed, his eyes still on his magazine.  “Actually, it’s reassuring that you noticed that.”

I lay on my belly, reflecting over the past few years.  “You know.  Something else recently occurred to me.  My eyesight is not what it used to be.  So, if I think I look bad…without looking at myself through reading glasses…then I must look a whole lot worse than I think I do.  I mean, the reality is clouded by my poor vision, so I must be really icky old.”

Hubby-Poo grunted.

I stared at him for a long time.  He stared at his magazine for a long time. 

“Well, at least I’m not alone.  Mooch has Shar Pei-ism, too.”

My husband stared at his magazine more earnestly.

“Did I tell you that I just spent seven thousand dollars at the mall?”  I was trying desperately to see if he was even listening to me. 

Hubby-Poo stared at his magazine.

“I’d buy that if you actually turned the page once in awhile,” I mused.

A grin broke over his face.

“S**thead,” I muttered.  “I’m being serious here.  I think I have a medical condition that’s making me look wrinkly faster than I should be looking wrinkly.”

“Hun, we all have a medical condition that makes us look wrinkly faster than we want to look wrinkly.  The important thing is: I still love you.   Now shut up and get in bed.”

Copyright 2008  C. D. Blizzard    www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile

A Mooch Perspective On Thunderstorms

Snnzzzz, drool, snnnzzz, drool, snnnzzzz….

A low rumble ripped through the night, rattling the glass window panes and causing the rafters to shudder. 

‘Wha…?  Whazzat?’  Mooch lifted her head off the pillow and looked around.  A sudden, blinding flash of light caused her eyes to narrow.  ‘Agh!  What was that?  Aliens!! Aliens are coming to get me!!’ 

The room popped with more flashes of light.  Mooch automatically began to tremble.  ‘Okay, okay, calm down.  It’s not aliens.’

Thunder rumbled through the earth, shaking the house.

‘Oh, no!!! Not again.  It’s another one of those scary storms.’

Another flash of light danced in the night sky, lighting up the bedroom.  The windows rattled, the rafters shuddered.  Mooch glanced around.  She was too afraid to get off her bed.  The crazy lights, the scary sounds, and then suddenly…the sound of water pouring loudly onto the roof.

‘Oh, God, what do I do? What do I do?’

As she lay there trembling, drool formed on her lips and dripped onto her folded paws.  ‘Eeks!! There it is again!  That terrible, scary flash of light.’

She whined softly.  She wanted to run hide, but she was too boofy to get under the bed.  Maybe she could get in bed with mom and dad.  Yeah.  That was a good idea.  Get in bed with mom.  Wake mom up.  Mom will know what to do.  She always knows what to do.

Mooch cautiously eased out of bed, then ducked in terror when light flashed outside the window.  After the loud rumble passed, she hurried to mom’s side of the bed and nudged the hand draped over the mattress.

“Ngh!” A grunt came from the figure curled beneath the blankets.

Mooch nudged the hand again, then whined softly.

“Ngh!! What’s wrong, Mooch?” mom’s sleepy voice whispered through the darkness of the room.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mooch whined and whimpered.  ‘What’s wrong?  How can you say that?  Can’t you hear that rumble? The sky is on fire, the earth is cracking in half, we’re all gonna diiiiiiiiee.’

“Mooch, it’s Florida.  You’ve seen these storms before.  Settle down, it’s okay.  Go back to bed.”

‘Back to bed?  Back to bed?  How can I sleep at a time like this?  How can you sleep at a time like this? The world is coming to an end!’

“Mooch, how old are you now?  Eight?  For eight years, you’ve survived the flashing and the rumbling.  You’re safe inside.  Nothing’s going to happen to you.  Go back to bed. It’s okay.”

Mooch trembled so hard that she shook the bed she leaned against.  In an effort to get mom to pay attention to her, she rested her nose on the mattress and stared into mom’s face.

“Oh, God,” mom groaned.  “Stop drooling.  I’m gonna have to change the sheets.”

Mooch trembled and drooled harder.

“Ugh!” mom moaned.  “Mooch.  Really.  It’s okay.  Go back to bed.”

A particularly loud boom shook the entire house.  Wind lashed rain against the windows.  Shadows of trees dancing in the wild wind darted across the walls.  It was all so frightening, so terrifying.  How could mom and dad sleep through this?

Mooch jumped on the bed and nestled tightly against mom’s side.

“Oh, God,” mom grumbled. “Just what I need.  Okay, fine.  You can stay, but don’t drool.  If you drool, you’re out. Understand, dog?”

Mooch trembled.

Mom lifted her head off the pillow and looked at Mooch, then nudged her.  “Stop drooling.”

Mooch dutifully licked her lips.  ‘I’m not trying to drool, mom, honest.  It just happens.’

With a groan mom rolled over and pulled the blankets closer.  “Lick your lips, Mooch,” she mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.

Mooch dutifully licked her lips and stared at the window, waiting in terror for the next flash and rumble.  At least she got to be close to mom.  Mom wouldn’t let anything happen to her.  Mom took good care of her.  Mom took good care of everyone.

‘I love you, mom.’

All mom heard was a whining dog.  Still, she muttered.  “Love you, Mooch.  Go to sleep.  Everything will be okay.  You’ll see.”

And it was.  Just like mom said.  In the wee hours of the morning, the rain stopped, the flashes of light stopped, the earth stopped shuddering.  Everything went back to normal.  The best part, Mooch got to sleep next to mom and dad.  All night long.  That was worth smiling about.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.

There’s A Reason Why C. D. Blizzard Does Not Write Romance

My husband is one of the most romantic guys around.  He’s very sweet, kind, thoughtful, and generous.  I will often emerge from my office to find a flower on the kitchen table, waiting for me.  He sends me beautiful notes in my email.  Leaves me notes in the shower.  It’s all so wonderful.  So, why does he laugh whenever I say the word romance?

I guess I can’t blame him.  In fact, it’s really hard to be romantic when you’re with a total clutz.  I can mess up the most romantic of situations, all by accident, of course.  I’ll give you an example.  My husband and I love to go to certain nearby parks.  On a beautiful Fall day, we went to one such park where we liked to go sit near the “picture window” oak tree.  To get to this unusually shaped, and very ancient tree, we had to travel a narrow path through woods thick with small oaks that spread their branches all around, through, and over the narrow path.  My husband walked ahead of me, occasionally pausing to look back to see that I was okay.  I would smile, happy that he cared enough about me to check on me.

As we walked, he began to talk about how important I was to him, how much I meant to him, and how wonderful it was that we liked the same things.  He ducked under a thick oak branch as he spoke, never breaking his speech.

“I’ve always wanted to be with someone like y¾”

CLOP!!!

My husband stopped mid-sentence, and mid-stride.  After a split second pause he turned and looked back at me.  “Was that the sound of your head hitting that branch?”

I giggled.  In truth, I had hoped he wouldn’t notice that I’d just bashed my head on a very hard branch that sported some very rough bark, some of which was now pressed into my aching forehead.  (Hey, being tall sucks.  Sometimes I forget just how tall I am, and I apparently didn’t bend far enough down to get under this tree.)  Anyway, I was hoping he wouldn’t notice because I didn’t want anything to interrupt this wonderful stream of words flowing from his gorgeous mouth.  It was all too dreamy and romantic to interrupt.  Besides, I wanted him to finish because it was darn nice to hear all these good things.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.  Yeah, sure.  Fine.”  I gingerly rubbed my forehead.  “You were saying,” I prompted.

Hubby-Poo turned and proceeded forward along the path, ducking beneath yet another low-lying oak branch.  “I was saying that I’ve never been with anyone like you, and I’m so happy that we are together.  I’m so glad we¾”

CLOP!!!

My husband paused.  This time he didn’t turn back in a split second.  This time he simply stood with his back to me for a short time.  Still without turning, he said, “Was that your head hitting that second branch?”

I giggled.  He turned around and looked at me.  “Hun, what are the odds of that?”

I shook my head, giggling a little harder.  Sure, my head hurt like hell, but it was too funny.

He sighed.  “Are you okay?”

I nodded, pressed my lips together hard and tried to contain my giggles, which were growing by the minute.

“What’s so funny?”

I couldn’t answer.  I couldn’t even hold myself upright.  I collapsed onto my knees on the forest floor and proceeded to laugh until my sides hurt and I could barely take a breath.  My husband, staunch as he is, couldn’t take more than a minute of this.  He too began to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he said between laughter.  “It’s not funny.  It’s just….”

“F-funny,” I said, the words exploding through more laughter.

“You know this could only happen to you,” he said.

“I know.”

“What am I gonna do with you?” he teased.

I shrugged.  He came back to where I was and put his hand out to help me off the forest floor.  “Are you gonna be okay?”

I nodded and wiped tears from my eyes.

“Does it hurt?”

I nodded.  “Some. But I’ll be okay.”

“You have bits of bark embedded in your forehead,” he said, gently brushing at my skin.  “And a big red mark.”

I tried to stifle giggles.  When I got myself under control, I said, “So, you were saying?”

“Can you make it to the tree?”

“Of course I can.”

He squeezed my hand.  “Okay, come on then.”  He turned back, ducked under the branch I’d just banged my head on and proceeded up the path.  “You know, I really¾”

CLOP!!!

This time I tried hard not to screech OWIE.  After so many bangs my forehead was getting very sore.

My husband’s back was to me, and he stood frozen on the path ahead.  After a rather long pause, without turning back to look at me, he said,  “Did you just bang your head on the oak branch that you already banged your head on?”

I clapped a hand over my mouth to try to hold back the raucous laughter that wanted to break through the pain of once again embedding oak bark into my forehead as I tried unsuccessfully to duck under the oak branch I’d just banged my head on moments earlier.

Finally, after a few minutes, my husband slowly turned and looked at me. “Do you think you can make it back to the car without knocking yourself out?”

I nodded, my hand still squeezed over my mouth to hold back the laughter.  This time, he took my hand and went with me through the trees, pushing my head down as we went under the branches to prevent me from knocking my head on the trees.

Back at the car, he said again, “What am I gonna do with you?”

I shrugged, gave him a quick kiss, and grinned back at him.

“You’re awful cute, though.”  He smiled.  “Can’t take you anywhere, but you’re awful cute.”

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard    www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.

The Beggar’s Breakfast

I am such a sucker.  I need a peanut delivery truck the size of a semi-trailer.  www.cdblizzard.com/blog/video-archive

A Mooch Perspective on Author C. D. Blizzard

‘Oooh, look, there’s mom.  Sitting in that nice chair dad built her.  What’s she doing?  Oh, she’s beating her fingers on that funny thing that makes words on that weird screen.’

Mooch pranced over and put her chin on mom’s arm.  ‘I love you, mom.  You’re so cool.  You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.  Have I told you I love you?’

Mooch took two steps away from mom and barked once, her tump wagging.  Mom absently patted her head, her free hand still typing away on the funny contraption that made words appear on the weird screen.

Mooch drew closer and put her chin on mom’s arm again.  ‘I love you so much, mom.  Have I told you how much I love you?’

Mom rubbed Mooch’s back, her eyes still gazing at the weird screen, her free hand still typing away at the funny contraption.

Mooch whined.  ‘Let’s go outside, mom.  I like it when we go outside together.  I like it when we sit in the sun together.’

Mom absently scratched behind Mooch’s ears.  “Love you, Mooch,” she crooned.

‘Love you, too, mom.  Can we go outside?  I’d really like to go outside, but I want you to come with me.  Come on, mom.  Let’s go play.’

“What’s up, Mooch?  You wanna go outside?”

Mooch took two steps backwards, wagged her tump hard, and woofed once.  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.  Let’s go outside, mom.’

“Okay, just two more sentences, and I can pause here.”  Mom tapped rapidly, then jabbed a single button and pushed the funny contraption away from her.  “Okay, Mooch.  Let’s go.”

Mooch barked happily. 

“Get dad, Mooch,” mom called as she slid her feet into her flipflops.  “Hurry.  Go get dad.”

Mooch ran into dad’s office, wagged her tump hard, and woofed once.  Dad stopped tapping on his funny square box and stood up.   Mooch leaped in the air, woofing, and wagging her tump hard as she followed mom and dad down the hall.  At the back door, dad grabbed her Frisbee and ran outside.  Mooch ran after him.

‘God, I love you guys!’ she barked as she chased the Frisbee dad tossed.  ‘You guys are the best thing that ever happened to me.  Better than peanut butter cookies.’

She brought the Frisbee back to dad and dropped it at his feet.  Dad was busy kissing mom.  Mooch stared up at them, grinning broadly and wagging her tump.  Mom and dad really loved each other.  She could feel it in every bone of her body.  It was a good feeling.  It made their house happy and comfortable.

“Woof!”

Mom and dad paused and looked down at her.

“Gosh, a Mooch is a good thing to have,” mom said.

“Yep,” Dad agreed as he quickly swiped up the Frisbee Mooch had left at his feet.

‘I love you guys!’ Mooch crowed as she chased the Frisbee across the yard.  ‘Life can’t get any better than this!’

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard     www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile

Why Is It That Everything That Tastes Yucky Has To Be Shared?

“Honey!  Come smell this!” I called from the kitchen.

I heard a groan, a sigh, and then my husband came clomping down the hallway.  “What now?” he moaned as he came into the kitchen.

“What do you mean, what now?  I’m the woman who washes your undies.  Don’t ever forget that.  I deserve some respect—

“Hun!”  Hubster gave me a warning look.  “I was in the middle of something.”

I thrust a jug of milk at him.  “Does this smell okay to you?”

He gave it a sniff.  “Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Double damn sure?”

“Yep.”  He paused for a moment.  “Can I go now?”

“Wait.  I want you to smell this.”  I held a pan of raw bacon under his nose. 

He gave the pan a sniff.  “Smells fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Double damn sure?”

He sighed. 

I grinned.  “Okay, thanks, hun.”

I giggled as he shuffled off down the hallway again.  Poor guy.  I do that to him all the time.  My husband is my official food sniffer and taster.  Not that I can’t taste or smell myself, but sometimes I want confirmation.  Plus, he’s so cute when he’s exasperated.  But he’s starting to get savvy to me.  He’ll still sniff food for me on a regular basis, but he’s starting to draw the line at tasting things, especially when I say, “Oh, God, you gotta taste this!” 

Why is it that everything that tastes yucky needs to be shared?  Like, if you bite into a piece of avocado that tastes absolutely nasty, like it was going rotten but it didn’t look rotten.  As you’re spitting it out, don’t you ever think, “Hey, I need so-and-so to taste this. This is absolutely awful.”  But I can take that to the nth degree. Like the day I convinced my husband to put a green olive and a piece of chocolate in his mouth at the same time and chew.  I’d already tasted this, by the way.  It was awful.  Hey, what can I say, I needed to share the experience.  One really has to taste this for themselves to see what I mean about awful.  (I’m in no way implying that anyone reading this blog should actually try this.  Repeat: Warning: Do not try this at home.)  The green olive with the red pimento thingie and some good milk chocolate.  It seemed like a decent idea at the time.  My two favorite things together.

“Ugh!!!” Hubby-Poo reached for a paper towel and immediately cleared his mouth of the combination.  (I might mention here that my husband hates green olives, so he already disliked the idea before he even tried it.  But he was game enough to give it a go.)  “Why did you think that would taste good in the first place?” he wanted to know.

I shrugged.  “I don’t know.  The olives are salty, the chocolate is sweet…I don’t know.  People eat chocolate covered spiders, how bad could a chocolate covered olive be?”

“Oh!! Gross!! Thanks for the visual image.”  He covered his eyes as if that would erase the image from his brain.  “I need a soda, or something.  I gotta get this taste out of my mouth.  Ick.”

“Gross, ain’t it?” I asked as I rummaged in the fridge for a soda.

“Why did you have to share that?”

“Sorry,” I answered, feeling truly chagrined.  “Maybe it’s a holdover from the days when Kenny used to convince me to try awful things just for fun.  Maybe it’s in the genes.”

Kenny is my brother, and my husband’s best friend since grade school.

“Kenny tried to convince you to eat stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

I sighed and thought back in time.  “Like…when I was four…he convinced me that chewing tobacco was the yummiest thing on planet earth.”

Hubby-Poo laughed.  “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

“Hey, I was four.  I didn’t know any better.”  I paused, still recalling those beautiful moments shared between siblings.  “Then, when I was five, he convinced me to eat a bite of dog food.  You know the kind that is smooshed like a fake hamburger.”

“What?  And you did it?” Hubby-Poo squawked.

“I was five,” I said, getting a little irritated with him for sounding so incredulous.  “Besides, he told me that Blitz ate it, and I loved our dog Blitz, so Blitz couldn’t be wrong, right?”

“And?”

“I took a little nibble.”

“And?” Hubby-Poo prompted.

“I still, to this day, feel sorry for Blitz for having to eat that stuff.”

“That good, huh?”

“Mmm.”  I grimaced.  “Ick.  I think I need some of that soda.  Just thinking about it is making the taste come back.”

Come to think of it, maybe I should reform my ways.  I don’t always have to share icky things.  And…maybe I should change Mooch’s diet.  I wonder if Hubby-Poo will taste her food and tell me if it’s icky.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard   www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.

Why Mooch Hates To Go Ghost Hunting With C. D. Blizzard

So, I was giggling…a little bit.  It was just as annoying for me as it was for Mooch, Rabbit, and apparently the ghosts who chose not to show.

See Ghost Hunting Video on  http://cdblizzard.com/blog/video-archives

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard

Skeeter Fu: The New Martial Arts

Not only have I found a good exercise program, but I’ve also discovered a new form of martial arts.  Just live in a southern state, keep the door open (thanks to Hubby-Poo) and invite all the skeeters into your house that happen by.  You will spend loads of time jabbing, slapping, hopping, jumping and waving your hands around, flipping around, beating the ceiling with a t-shirt.  It’s quite energetic, and when you get really good at it, you can actually jab a skeeter out of mid-flight with a quick finger thrust.  Skeeter Fu burns calories, gets your heart rate up, and builds balance and coordination.   Advanced Skeeter Fu practitioners even have a skeeter-swatting version of a flying drop kick.  It’s not as graceful, but it works…well, okay, admittedly, the Skeeter Fu drop kick only works after about forty tries.  It typically takes twenty minutes to Skeeter Fu a single mosquito.  They are devilishly good at avoiding Skeeter Fu jabs, thrusts, kicks, somersaults, and pokes. 

There is an easier way, however.  A flame-thrower.

Now before you panic, this method has been used, on the largest wolf spider my husband has ever seen in his life.  I better not tell the tale, I might get put in jail by the ASPCA.  Suffice it to say there was a lot of screaming (on my part), the heavy sound of gargantuan wolf spider paws running against drywall, the crackle of burning spider hair, and a spider that refused to die, not to mention a growing concern of accidentally burning the house down.  I never knew a spider had body armor quite that solid or protective.  I’d always been told that spiders were rather delicate.  Of course, when they’re the size of a can of beans, maybe delicate goes out the window. The big can of beans, by the way. The one that feeds four cowboys and their horses. (For bean-eating horses, see my novel Blackwater.)

Anyway, the only downside to Skeeter Fu, in my house, is that it terrifies Mooch.  Mooch knows I’m a little wiggy, but when I start swatting frantically at things she can’t see, she has a tendency to slink out of the room looking concerned for her owners.  My husband doesn’t know this, but I like getting him involved in Skeeter Fu antics.  My husband is very repressed, what one might call ultra proper, starched.  (Makes you wonder what he sees in me, huh?) It takes a lot to get him to loosen up.  I’ve spent up to an hour begging him to wiggle his butt like a fish, but he won’t do it.  He won’t sing silly songs with me, won’t dance, won’t pretend to be a rock star. Nothing. Skeeter Fu, however, is another story.  I can easily engage him with a simple, “didjoo hear that?”  Pause.  “Grab a t-shirt, it’s over there.”

Then I just sit back and watch him prance around like an idiot. Skeeter Fu keeps us limber, too.  You’ll find your body moving in ways you never imagined were possible.

Yup.  Definitely the up and coming thing.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard   www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.

Jogging: No Pain, More Gain, No Problem

I recently decided to take up jogging.  This comes as a shock to my family since I’ve never jogged before in my life.  Walked, yes.  Biking, yes.  Hiking, weight lifting, swimming, yes.  But never jogging.  I was always too puny to jog.  My persistent allergy to the entire state of Florida has always prevented me from having the lung power to jog.  But, lately, I felt like taking a good jog.  First, I consulted with my husband on the matter.  I often seek his wise counsel before I do something stupid.  Sometimes, rarely, but sometimes he can talk me out of it.

“Do you think I’ll drop dead of a heart attack if I start jogging at my age?” I asked him.

He laughed.  That’s all.  He just laughed.  I wasn’t too sure how to take that.  And…I never did get an answer.  So, I decided to just do it. 

Naturally, being me, I had to have all the proper gear for this endeavor.  I ventured to my local sports shop to make some purchases.  After going through a lot of choices, I settled on a pair of cross training shoes that felt comfortable, added a few pair of socks, selected a pair of bicycle shorts and then…the woman helping me informed me that I should do something about my bosom.

“What?”  I looked down at my chest.   I wasn’t too sure where she was going with her comment.  Was she suggesting I needed a boob job, or something?

“Your breasts aren’t…er…small.  You’ll need a proper sports bra to reduce painful bounce.”

“Painful bounce?”  That didn’t sound good.

Despite my trepidation, I followed her across the store and allowed her to show me the best selling sports bra line.  I picked two that looked reasonable and went into the ladies changing room.  Selena waited outside the door of the cubicle.

After considerable grunting, several curse words, and a very uncomfortable increase in body temperature that resulted in perspiration, I managed to get the @#!@% first sports bra on.

“Are you okay in there?” Selena’s muffled voice called through the slatted door…for the tenth time.

“Fine. Fine.  I think I got it on now,” I answered.  Indeed.  Having the sports bra on was one thing, having it become part of your exoskeleton was another thing altogether.  “Just one hitch, though,” I wheezed. 

“What’s that?” Selena asked.

“I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, dear.”  Selena knocked on the door.  “May I come in?”

“Of course,” I groaned as I put a hand on the wall to keep myself upright.

Selena came in and shut the little door behind her.  She peered at my chest for a moment, then smiled. “Well, it looks like a perfect fit.”

“Perfect fit?  It’s squeezing the life out of me.”

“It’s supposed to be rather tight.  It helps prevent—

“Painful bounce,” I finished for her.   “Yeah. I got that part.”

Fast forwarding this story, I ended up having to buy the dumb sports bra anyway, simply because I could not get the @#!$# thing off.  I didn’t have the upper body strength required to pull something that tight over my head.  When I arrived home, Hubster aka Hubby-Poo met me at the door.  His smile quickly faded when he saw the look on my face.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, following me into the bedroom, his face a mask of concern.

“Sort of,” I squeaked out.

“Why is your face blue?”

“Oh, God.  My face is blue?”

He nodded.  “A bit.”

I pulled my shirt off, revealing my new bounce-free sports bra.  Hubster stared at it.  “What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s supposed to prevent painful bounce.  The bigger question is: can you help me get this thing off?”

He studied the contraption for a moment.  “I think so.”

“You think so?  What do you mean, you think so?  Do I have to go to the @#!@% emergency room to get out of this thing?”

“Calm down.  I’ll get it off.”

It went something like this.  Hubster grabbed the bottom of the front of the sports bra and pulled it upward.  I howled in protest as his fingernails scratched my skin.  He apologized, then tugged again.  His hand slipped and he accidentally punched me under the chin, sending me reeling backwards, my arms wheeling wildly as I tried to get my balance.  As I was falling backwards onto the bed, my husband grabbed the sports bra at the cleavage line and pulled me back upright.  Our dog Mooch, watching from nearby, wagged her tump and woofed, thinking mom and dad were playing some weird game.  I groaned as Hubby-Poo tried pulling the bra off by the straps.  The action succeeded in lifting me onto my toes, but the sports bra didn’t budge an inch.

“Put your arms up,” he demanded.

“How up do you want them? They’re already so up I’m losing circulation,” I grumbled.  “Ouch!”

He tugged, my body twitched, I hopped, rocked, and slid sideways.  He pulled, we hopped in the other direction.  I screamed when he pulled my hair by accident.  Mooch woofed and hopped alongside of us.  Hubby-Poo tried to shove her aside with his leg, became unbalanced and again accidentally cuffed me under the chin when his grip slipped off the bra.

“ACH!!!  GET THIS THING OFF ME!!!” I yowled, getting alarmed, frustrated, and worried that the bra had become a permanent fixture.  “I’m getting claustrophobic and my arms are falling asleep.”

“Here. Try bending forward at the waist.  Maybe I can get a better grip,” he suggested.

I anchored my behind against the wall and dutifully bent forward at the waist with my arms still over my head.  He grabbed the bottom portion of the sports bra and yanked…and yanked.  After a lot of grunting, he managed to get the bra up around my chin.  Now my arms were trapped over my head and squooshed up around my face, held together by the elastic contraption that had become a part of me.

“Gnnt thssss  thgggg  offfff,” I said through my squished face.  “Aymmm  gnna kllll  smmonnnn  ffff  yooooo dnnnnn  gnnnt thsss thggg offff.”

My husband started laughing.  I glared at him.

“Stay put, hun.  I’m getting the camera.”

I hopped closer to him and gave him a squished look that would fry a buzzard.  He got the message and started tugging on the bra again. 

Tug, hop, tug, hop, OUCH!!!, tug, tug, hop, hop, @#!$%@, OWWWWW.  Tug, hop. I pressed my butt against the wall and tried not to budge as my husband put one foot on one of my shoulders and yanked hard at the sports bra.  I felt like my shoulder was going to dislocate. It took twenty minutes, but he finally got the @#%!$ off.

“Never again!” I shouted.

Meanwhile, my husband was examining the sports bra he held in his hands.  It had shrunken to the size of an average rubber band.  “What the hell made you think you could wear this?”

I stared at the bra.  “It didn’t look that small on the rack.  And it is my size.”

He looked at the size printed on the tag.  “Yeah?”  He flung the offensive garment onto the bed.  “So, you goin’ jogging today?”

“Um…I think I’ve had enough exercise for one day.  I’m just gonna go sit down for a few hours.”

“What’s painful bounce?” Hubby-Poo asked.

“Something I’m gonna do to you if you ever let me out the door to go jogging,” I calmly explained.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard    www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.