So, I Nearly Died Today.

 So, yeah, I nearly cashed it all in today, and when that happens, and I survive, I feel the need to at least tell people who may actually read my blog because they will at least know that I care enough about them to think about them in these moments. I'll be really honest, I wasn't thinking about any of you when it was happening. I was too busy being really upset about my stupid body reacting the way it does.

    First, the wind up. I'll tell you what I do every day, and by every day, I mean I'm out there doing what I do, and if it gets done, it gets done. There are times when I think I do something when I actually haven't. OK, so I take supplements on what should be a daily basis. One of the ways I take them is by eyedropper -that is, the liquid supplements that I take. I take (or took) green tea extract this way.

    This morning, I took the same dosage as I typically do. Still, the extract decided on its own, and with intentional malice, to attack the back of my throat so violently that my esophagus closed up, and I was in the ravages of what some may call "dry drowning." I saw this on Quincy, so you know I know what I'm talking about. The good doctor warns people about singing in the shower, saying you should do it with your back to the water since the water can hit the back of your throat, and your throat then tries to protect your lungs by closing. This is what I think happened.

    My damn throat literally shut, but my body wasn't having it. I began hacking, not choking; there is a difference. I could not stop hacking, and it was deep drawings from my lungs to push the opening and to get whatever (felt like) liquid out of my throat, but this went on every 15-20 seconds for literally 30 full minutes. It slowed down after the 15th minute, and I only coughed every 30-40 seconds, but the cough's deepness was still causing me back pain.

    I sat on the couch, all the while assuring my daughter that I would be OK, though not really knowing if I was lying to her. Brave, brave soul that I am, I managed to stand up between coughs and go to the "important paper" box that we stored in the cabinet. I pulled out the insurance policies and set them on the cabinet next to the coffee machine so she could at least find them if she needed to. I'm so considerate! I am also the biggest dork on the planet, but at least I am cognitive. That really matters to me, too.

    The dogs were there, of course, laying beside me and licking my clothes and face and hands to let me know they wanted me to stay alive. They don't have opposable thumbs and can't pour their own dog food or get their own water. They do have Laura for that, so they're OK.  The cats looked at me as if I was a bother. I couldn't stop getting angry at my body for the way it was reacting. I was glad it was reacting, mind you, I knew what it was doing was trying to right what had gone so wrong, but you'd think after a few good coughs, it would all be alright. 

    Anyway, after all was said and done - and Laura was assured that she would not have to file for beneficiary benefits, I put the policies away and drank hot coffee until my stomach protested, asking me to switch to tea. Again, my body really needs to do what my head wants it to do; that's just me, but it's so annoying! I was praying during the time I was dying, asking God if this is really the way I should go out - it just seems so ridiculously common. He helped me. He always helps me. I love God.

    So, here I am, an hour later, still now and again clearing what seems to be lingering in the back of my throat, hoping I never have to go through that again. Like the dork that I am and embrace, I've thrown out the liquid supplements. I mean, I could put them in coffee or tea, but that may make them taste funny, and that, too, would annoy me. The things I do to remain unannoyed and/or uninconvenienced are amazing. 

    There you go—I'm still here, still writing. I hope to be so for a while, but if I'm not, and you see Laura's post stating that I've gone to see Jesus, I do hope you realize I am not coming back! Nope! If I cross that line, there is no return for me. I will grab onto whatever I can over on that side and refuse re-entry! I can't think of anything being better than being with my Lord -- so yeah, it's not that I mind dying, but the method of exit is a problem at times for me.  At least if I did die, I would go up in the rapture that much faster since the dead in Christ rise first!

Woot!

Stratford is Nearly Half Finished.

     When I reach Chapter 17, my favorite chapter in all of my books, I think I am about half finished with the book. It's time to start revving up and pouring on the thick of the book's plots, twists, and outcomes. I've got an idea of where I've been, where I've come from, and where I'm going, and I'm making my way through the hoops and the rocky stream to see how it all ends.

    Like most writers, I have the end in my head before I start the book, so the actual end was never in question. It's getting to the middle that takes most of my energy. The first eight to nine chapters of any book I write tend to drag on for me to write because they're just setting up the storyline or giving background information so that the readers are not caught off guard when the rollercoaster reaches the top of the track ready to make it's first big dig before swinging to the sides, and possibly riding through a pretzel of turns before landing smoothly; you just have to set it up first -- it's the same way with knocking over dominoes. No one likes to see the setup, but the setup is vastly and incredibly important.

    Today, I wrote three chapters; yesterday, I think I skipped out and didn't write, but on my birthday, I did. I'm at Chapter 17, and over the next two days, I'll likely sit out on the writing because I'm off for the Thanksgiving holiday from Wednesday through Sunday. That will be a good writing time. I've written Chapter 17 now and will be at Chapter 20 by the end of Wednesday (in three days) and at Chapter 22 or 23 by the end of the day on Thanksgiving. Friday will be a good writing day, so up through Chapters 24 and 25.  I can finish or get close to the end of the book by the weekend, but I don't need to. I'm not on any deadline. This is just me writing.

    The meatier it gets, the faster I write.  I take three full weeks to write the first few chapters and another two to get to where I am now; then, once it starts to spin, I can sit here and try to make my fingers keep up with my brain as it spews out the words to create the havoc and mayhem of the book until I reach a point that I can breathe and maybe eat something. It is not uncommon for me to go a day without eating if I'm pounding away at the keyboard. It happens.

    I think I'll finish the writing of the book by the first weekend in December, then take a week to read it, make corrections, fluff and stuff it, make more corrections, and then read it again to finalize it somewhere around December 8. It may be up for grabs around the ides of December, but if it takes 2 weeks to print and ship, I won't look for it to be in your hands before the first of the year. I'll have the EPUB or Kindle edition created at the time that I know there are no mistakes, so that's another week or two following the first print because after it's a printed book, I order one, go through it again, making even still more changes, and then when I know I've eliminated all I can, I re-release it, and ask Ingram Spark to publish it in EPUB form too; so think the end of January for that. (maybe in time for the inauguration.)

    Woot!!  Exciting times for Posh and MacRae now...they'd just found a dead body in the outhouse. No, I'm not kidding. It happened.

Photo Credit: Folkswaynotebook.com 

Coffee is Essential. ('nuff said)

     I woke up like I do most mornings and let the dogs out before showering. That's the way it is; that's the routine. I work best when my routine is not interrupted. After the shower, it's treat time. Dogs and cats both enjoy this time and once the furry faces are satisfied, it's my turn to treat myself to a hot cup of the best coffee on the planet. Again, it's routine; you don't mess with it. 

    I popped open the top of my three-month-old K-cup coffee maker, the one I bought literally three months ago, and I stuffed in the Caribou Breakfast Blend pod because that's how you start the best coffee on the planet -- but today, it was not to be.  There I was, waiting for the machine to gurgle a little, steam up the way it does, and then sort of poof out (a made-up term) the first few drips before completing its task. It has one job. I put the water in; it puts the water out. As it puts the hot water out, the hot water runs through the little K-cup through the funnel and into my cup. That's such a simple process...until it didn't happen.

    At first, I second-guessed myself; could I have forgotten to pour in the water? Is that why it's not spitting out the hot brown nectar of life? Whatever it was, it wasn't spitting anything, and I was standing there staring without the ability to move because that would have required a certain amount of concentration. I only concentrate after the first few sips, so you can understand my predicament. It was grave.

    I lifted the top of the thing, took out the K-cup, sort of shook it to see if it had water it in, and it did, so I dumped it out in the sink, thinking something was stuck, stopping it from making its way through to make the coffee...something had to be stuck, right? The water wasn't coming out. It may need to be cleaned with vinegar. I can do that. I have vinegar. That didn't work. Whatever it was INSIDE wasn't moving and it wasn't clearing, it wasn't getting me to the point that I could think clearly. 

    Plan B and Plan C are always buried in my head, so I searched my brain for whatever I could. I could make an Italian espresso with the little silver pot with the bottom that comes off, and you boil the water and pour it out...but I couldn't find the thing. Then I remembered I had donated it. Plan C works well when you can recall what it is, and after a few minutes, I remembered that the old drip coffee maker was in the garage and now, after three months, would be dirty. Still, a dirty cobwebbed pot was looking better all the time when I compared it to the possibility of having to get dressed and drive to 7-11 because I don't do Starbucks....my gosh, can you imagine? Lines, people, and then again, it's worth saying it again, I'd have to get my clothes on first.

    The cobwebs came off pretty easily, and there I was, cutting open the tops of the K-cups to make an old-fashioned drip-style coffee for myself. It happens, but I don't like it when it does. I threw out the cute cheap machine and took my new old-fashioned coffee with me to the couch to breathe a few deep breaths before hitting up Amazon for the replacement K-cup machine that I've told myself I can't live without. (even though I lived without one for about 6 years recently.)

    Looking over the choices, I let the spell of peer pressure do a number on me because my birthday was just yesterday. I bought a real brand name (Keurig) and told myself I was worth it. It wasn't that expensive. In fact, 15 years ago or so, when they first came out, it was twice as expensive as it is now. I'm good with that; life has a funny way of coming full circle occasionally. My new machine comes in tomorrow, and once again, I'll be normal, average, run-of-the-mill, and predictable. Routines are that important.

    Interestingly though, when I told my friends and my kids that the damn machine had quit after only three months of use, three out of four of them said something to the effect of at least it didn't go out on my birthday. It gave me one last push before it quit -- there's that, but after only about 100 uses, it should be mentioned that I won't ever recommend that brand to anyone. I thought about donating it to an engineering student to study to see if they could fix it, but no....in this disposable world, they would likely just chuck it, too. I saved them the bother.  Sigh.

    Once again, I find myself believing that some things are worth the money you put out for them. You do get what you pay for in most cases. A sad but truthful fact.

Photo Credit: Keurig.com  (This one is thinner than my first one, but it will also fit better in my kitchen.) 

Was That a Dog Barking?

     People can be so very very petty at times. I am never shocked or amazed by it; they are just so petty. If you think I'm wrong, please let me explain what happened today (on my birthday). I got a visit from the mailman, and as he handed me a letter, he said, "I bet I know what that is." I looked at the front of it to see who had sent it, and it was from the Oklahoma City Animal Welfare Department. He must see a few of these types of letters in his line of business, so I asked him what he thought it could be.  He said, "I bet it's the city saying someone complained about your dogs barking."

    First, (and when someone from the South starts a sentence off with "first," you know there's something big about to follow.) I have dogs; they go outside to have fun, do their business, and just chill.  As really good pet owners, such as we have always been and will always be, if our dogs bark for more than a minute, we open the back door to let them in -- or at least see what has caused them to bark insanely. A minute is a good long time when you stand there and count it out, so I can see why someone would be upset if I allowed it to happen for more than a full minute.

    The letter, the postman was correct, was, in fact, a warning from the city citing that someone had lodged a complaint against my dogs and, in doing so, put me at risk of having to pay a hefty fine for it.  The criteria for the citation states that they can bark for up to 10 minutes solid without there being a reason to complain. TEN MINUTES!  Or, they could be in violation if they barked "intermittently" and "excessively"  within a 30-minute period. They don't.  My dogs are out for more than 30 minutes at times, but they are not barking during that time unless a squirrel runs up the tree or a passerby walks past the fence, and even in these cases, it's literally for less than 1 minute because we hear them and step out onto the back porch to stop them. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

    When Laura and I go anywhere, we bring the dogs in. She takes Rose with us most of the time, and I'm aware of no law or ordinance against an animal barking inside the house. We couldn't figure it out, but then we did. We live in a rented house owned by the brother of the complex owner of the complex we lived in  for nine years. We were on the list to rent the house as soon as it became available, and you guessed it -- that upset someone (or two), and they've decided to report our dogs to see if we'll be nudged to leave the house. NOPE. No, we will not. They can pound dirt, kick rocks, or do whatever they think they need to do. We're staying right here.

    Now, the thing is, if my books sell well enough, I'll move to Scotland, but Laura will likely stay here. I get it, it's a great house, and they wanted it -- we were first on the list when it became available, and we accepted it. For someone (or two) to be so petty as to falsify records, make false reports, and to lie about us is just nonsense. We've decided to buy vibration collars for the dogs. They don't shock, they vibrate when they bark, so they'll stop doing it -- which in my opinion is cruel to say the least, but I'm also not going to rehome them or pay a big fat fine. I can prove we have remedied the situation, and when I find out exactly who did it, let's just say they'll get an eye full. I will write them a "You-Really-Need-Jesus" letter and hope they take me up on the offer. (It's a free offer, anyone can take it)

    If I were mean, nasty, and as pathetic as they are, you know I'd do something else, but I take Auntie Em's perspective on the whole thing...and I quote, "...now, being a Christian woman, I can't".  She was talking about telling Miss Almira Gulch what she really wanted to say about her!  I know the Holy Spirit likes to do that to me at times... I guess I have something like a vibration collar around my heart! Dang it. I guess I could accidently throw dog poop at them, but that's probably against another law.  I miss the 80s. I really do.

(((  UPDATE !! )) 

    The Oklahoma City Animal Control called me back. The officer was a young lady, and she was very kind. She said the warning was a verbal call-in, and they sent it to let me know of the potential for an issue. She said it was an anonymous caller, but I would know who they were if they wanted to file an actual complaint. She doubted very seriously that they would do that, mainly because there would be a hearing, and that person would have to prove the dog's excessive barking - which can't be done. I would also have their name, phone number, and address if they filed a formal complaint.

    I bought a vibration collar for Kiah just in case, and it will arrive tomorrow. I won't make her wear it if she is in any discomfort. It's there to train her to stop barking, not to punish her for being a dog.  The officer told me that these warnings are issued 99% of the time without anyone making a complaint. That made me feel good.  We're still making sure, of course, that the dogs behave themselves. We aren't bad pet owners, and our dogs aren't bad either - we just have the misfortune of having really petty, nasty, rude, and inconsiderate neighbors.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia.com 

Is it really Amazing? Maybe it's Just Unusual.

     Sometimes, my mind wanders off, and it begins to dig into the recesses of whatever substance it is that keeps piling up in the back of my brain, causing my head to tilt forward before I end up dosing off to sleep to create some of the wildest thoughts which then of course, turn into some of the more interesting dreams where I end up pulling the stripes off the Cheshire cat to knit them into booties for my feet. There I go again; it's thoughts like that....that keeps me awake!

    There was a time when I was in my tender years when a big, bright, fluffy, beautifully pinkish tangerine flamingo flew overhead and landed in the space in front of where I was standing in what became a park, but at that time, was simply a patch of land that I didn't have any right to explore. I was trespassing if I was using the correct terminology, but to a seven or eight-year-old, the word is useless and, in fact, meaningless. What is trespass? I was crossing the field. Mind you, it was someone else's field, but it was a field.

    The bird landed, and it began walking or strutting its way around the grassier parts of the field. It looked out of place, and you can imagine that it was, in fact, completely out of place. When I was that young, I resided in Bethany, Oklahoma, a place not known for its wateriness or flamingo-oriented spaces; it was almost urban. We had streets, houses, cars, people, dogs, and cats running around, but we didn't have tropical fowl flying over our heads and landing in our federally protected open fields. 

    That's when I had a thought that has never left me. I said to myself, since I was the only one there, that what I had just witnessed was amazing. Then, after I said it, I stopped my head from thinking about it, and I argued within that same head that what had happened was not amazing because birds do fly. What it was...was unusual. It did happen, and though it probably didn't happen very often, I could not say it was amazing. If the bird, I told myself, had done a backflip, something I knew I could do, that would be amazing. If I flew, which was something the bird could do, that, too, would be amazing. What I saw and what happened was unusual.

    Before I could get close enough to really look at it, the thing lifted itself as gently and as beautifully as I had seen them do at the zoo -- so again, it wasn't amazing, but it was different from the everyday life I lived; which made it interesting as well as unusual. I remember running home to tell my mom and my brother and sisters.  I saw my sisters first, who basically told me I was lying, and they hoped I got my mouth washed out with soap for it. My brother said it was cool, and my mother wanted to know exactly where it had happened, which I declined to be all that specific for reasons we won't get into - she was overly interested; we'll put it that way.

    The thoughts I had then are indicative of some of the thoughts I have now - my mind is a place I very much enjoy visiting, and when I stop and play inside of it, well, that's fun...it's neither amazing nor unusual, but more along the lines of normal and recurring. I have one of the best advantages of being alone with my thoughts; I like me. We (me and I) get along well enough to hang out without needing anyone else barging in on our playtime. 

    If it seems odd to hear me say these things, you don't know me. Tomorrow, in just about an hour now, I'll turn 63 years old, but you'd never know it if you spent any amount of your time inside my mind -- only the endless and the untamed can enter because to be otherwise would keep you out of it in the first place. Happy Birthday to me! 

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com 

    

The Foodie In Me.

 I write a lot of the time, and by that, I mean most of the time, but when I'm not writing or sleeping, I often find myself in the kitchen with all my other toys. I have pots, pans, skillets, and cookie sheets. I also now have a real-life cast iron Dutch oven, and if you don't think that makes me happy, you don't know me very well! I'm over the top about it. I should have done it years ago. 

    The main reason I didn't have a Dutch oven in the past was that I had a good iron skillet. Whatever I thought I needed to make in the Dutch oven, I could pretty much make in the skillet, but now I realize again... because I'm into being enlightened, I did need one years ago. I really did. Dutch ovens may become the gift I give to anyone and everyone now; just saying.

    So, today, I decided to make a Southwestern Mince Casserole. I am curious if that's the name you'll find it under in the fancy schmancy recipe books, but that's what I call it. It was fantabulous! No, really, it was just awesome. I still have a big portion left for tomorrow, so I will smile all day with anticipation! I'll post the recipe; I'm nice like that.

    When I decided to make it, I also decided to use a Pyrex square pan rather than the Dutch oven, which turns out is a preferred method among the Pinterest folks who also made something similar (or the exact thing). I made it, and I told my daughter I was making it. She likes to huff and puff about things, so I just sort of helped her out a little by telling her she could either eat it or drive herself to the fast food restaurant of her choice, but she couldn't use my car, and she doesn't own one. There you go; dictatorship at its finest!

    Once started, I took a lot of pictures of every step so if I wanted to, I could put all the photos in a really cool cookbook, but then when I saw that there were weird and odd things in the photos like mail, corners of dish towels, dog paws, and such, it dawned on me that people who make really cool cook books also have really cook photo studios and I don't have that in my house; I have mail, towels, dogs, cats, lizards, even dirty dishes which could end up serving as a character in one or more of the photos I took -- I'm so normal. Shockingly so, it turns out.

    Anyway, the meal took about 10 minutes to prep and about 18 minutes to cook, and that's it...done. I threw on a thing of instant potatoes to go with it as a side. I know they're the worst thing in the world, but I love them. I haven't peeled a spud in twenty years. I know how I just don't. If I cook potatoes, they have skin. The meal was thick, rich, hearty, and hot. It was delicious, flavorful, and really textured, too. I think it's going to be one of my go-to meals...Laura will just have to get over it. Being a Taurus, she really doesn't do change very often -- unless I corner her or give her no real alternatives. It's really, really good to be the Mom.

RECIPE:  Southwestern Mince Casserole

• 1 pound ground beef browned, drained (I use 85%)
• 1 can of diced tomatoes
• 1 small can of green chiles
• 2 TSP of taco seasoning (dry) sprinkled
• Onion powder to taste (1/2 teaspoon)
• That's the meat or mince part. Put that in the square 9x9 glass baking dish.
• Add in a medium mixing bowl --
• 1 small Jiffy cornbread mix or another brand but small
• 2 eggs beaten
• 1/3 cup buttermilk or milk with added melted butter (1 TSP)
• 1/4 cup of sour cream
• 1/2 cup of corn -- yellow corn (frozen or canned)
• 1/2 cup of cheddar cheese or other cheese
• Now, mix all that up and spoon it out on top of the meat and cook it in the oven on 350 for about 18 minutes until the cornbread mix is golden brown.

Here's what mine looked like. Enjoy!!

Photo Credit:  Me...you can tell because it's not all snazzy.

Happy Birthday to Me! (Well, a little early, but it's OK)

     I am a Scorpio baby. I was born in 1961, and being born on November 22 still allowed someone to be a Scorpio. It wasn't until I was old, and I mean really old, something like 30 before I found out that they'd changed all the alignments and called people born on November 22 by another Zodiac; Saggitarius! Now, it's not that I'm a hater, no, it's nothing like that, but you just don't go around calling an American Staffordshire anything but what he or she is. You'd say they were an English Setter just because they came out of their mother a day later than those in charge think is proper! No...I guess that was a dumb analogy, but I'm 100% Scorpio and maybe just a little Sagittarius, depending on what percentage is left after 100% is all used up. That's how much Saggitarius  I am. 

    This year, like every other year that I've been alive, and most assuredly even before that, there will be another November 22, and that day is the day I celebrate being born! If you know me, you know I was due on December 19th, but something inside of me simply couldn't wait. It's because every bone and muscle in my body knew that if I waited another moment, I'd be forever branded a Saggitarius! That's what I think. Again, I have too many friends born between November 23 and December 20th (Now, the 21st) to be too judgmental. They're super great, but I'm not one of them. To the last, they will adamantly agree, I assure you.

    So, this year, because I'm old because I love cooking, and because I can, I bought myself a truly wonderful gift. I will use it, I will absolutely use it, and anyone and/or everyone in my household at the time I use it will benefit. This, I can promise you.  I don't make that promise lightly; I've been doing what I do for too many years to pretend nothing less than sheer truth-telling when it comes to me and my use of cookware.

    I decided I needed a cast iron Dutch oven. I've gotten along with just owning a cast iron skillet for a while, and then when someone who will remain nameless put it in the washing machine a few years back, I lost it - by that, I mean I lost the use of the cast iron skillet, I did manage to keep most of my cool. I don't really freak too severely when things are lost, stolen, or broken -- which is odd, but it's another trait of the Scorpio, thus proving my mental strength and capacity to decide if there will be retaliation - you need a cool head for these things.

    I bought myself an 11" cast iron Dutch oven with a lid. I also bought silicone mitts, stainless steel spatulas, turners, and tongs. I've been playing with the cheap plastic ones for far too long; it's time to grow up a little. It's gonna hurt some, but at my age, it could help to admit I'm worthy of stainless steel utensils. I may even ceremoniously throw the others out, but I know me. I'm too Scottish; I'll clean them up and donate them. It's what I do, it's who I am.

    Friday is my birthday, so if one or the other kid doesn't take me out, I'll make a shepherd's pie using meatballs, melted mozz cheese, and basil for the top. If one or the other kid does end up taking me out, I'll make the meal on Saturday next. Either way, I'm happy to use the new Dutch oven, and anyone in the house will be happy I did. It would need to be deeper to make a bloomin' onion, but I can make onion fries and they're really good - especially when you use a good Southwest season on them.....ooohhhh...ahhhhh.

    Happy Birthday to me!! I've never been one to ask for anything for my birthday, but this year, I may ask the kids to consider letting me cook for them; if only there was a big family-oriented meal that could be cooked and celebrated sometime near my birthday each year -- hummmmm, well, I guess I can be thankful for what I do have. (Hint: My kids go to their "other sides" for Thanksgiving, but Laura has remained loyal, so she'll get the onion fries right next to her chicken breast, ham, potato salad with eggs, green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole, sweet buns, and pecan pie!) 

    Happy November to you!! (My Dutch oven is cream colored, not blue, but this one is nice too.) 

    

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com

Zach and Annie!! (Simple Scottish Living)

     Oh, the good life! If I could do what I want, I would travel (you know where I'd go) and write all day. That's just such a lie...I would wake up, lounge around, make my coffee, walk my dogs, write in my journal maybe, and pray a lot, then and only after the 2nd or 3rd cup of coffee would I actually write the books!  That, to me, is Simple Scottish Living! 

    Now, you have to bear with me because I'm super excited about my new weekend splurge, and yes, I'm going to tell you all about it. If there are three or four things I love, it's Jesus, my family, writing, and Scotland. I can't wait to get to the point where I can finally say I reside on both sides of the ocean and that my books are selling like Southern biscuits and gravy; who needs hotcakes when you have biscuits and gravy?

    My newest fun times, my newest me-time, has been waiting for and watching the REAL Simple Scottish Living. I watch Zach and Annie on YouTube and live vicariously (sort of) through them. I don't really want to repeat the whole raising a family thing again, but yeah, you know, the other stuff would be great! Sit back, sip a cuppa, and listen to me go on and on about them. You're going to love them—just like me.

    Zach and Annie are a married young couple living in East Lothian (east of Edinburgh), but it wasn't always that way; in fact, the whole thing about living in Scotland is only about six months old for those two.  Zach was born in Scotland, and Annie was born in the States. They met about 16 or 17 years ago while working as camp counselors in New England and fell in love. I'll let them fill you in on all the mushy details; they're too sweet not to listen to. You'll find yourself wishing they'd started their blogs years ago -- we can't get enough! (By we, I mean, of course, all the "ZacAnnies"...did I just totally coin that?  I mean, the many thousands of us who watch their wholesome and wonderful videos every weekend on YouTube!)

    Here's the link to their channel, "Simple Scottish Living." Go now...well, no, wait until you've finished reading the blog, then go...then go! Thank me later.  Oh, and do yourself a favor and watch the videos a second time to catch all the little things you missed the first time.  (Sorry, no matter how many times I watch it, or try it, I'm not eating Marmite...nope, not doin' it.) If you have a romantic drop of blood in you, you'll think this sweet couple was created right out of the clouds. They're so relatable, so interesting, and a lot of fun!

    I'd love to tell you more, but I don't want to spoil their many surprises and revelations about what it means to leave their comfortable middle-class lives in America to move to a place where time nearly stands still, but the rain makes up for it! You'll fall in love with their choices, experiences, love for each other, and, of course, their families! It's not just me; I'm not the only one who could only wish and dream that I had made the same choice when I was raising kids -- maybe if you're thinking about a change in your life, you'll give these two a little more of your time, they can certainly encourage you and even help you if you're serious about uprooting and making Scotland your end game!

    I'd say I double-dog dare you to watch, but I don't have to. You'll thank me twice after the first video!! Slainte! (No, it's not Irish! It's very very Scottish, thank you!) 

PHOTO CREDIT:  YouTube (and Zach and Annie) 

Kiba...the Fourth Dog.

 I told you about Kiba, our new little Chipom puppy that I bought from my co-worker about a month ago.  He was born around the 4th of July, but we're giving him the 7th of July as his birthday because the dog my daughter had for over 16 years was a small little Chihuahua mix, and he was literally born on 07-07-07.  Kiba is in good company if he can share a birthday with Sir Yuuki.

    Kiba, or "Kibbler" as I call him, because he's quite realistically small, as small as an elf you may come across, and he is just a menace, and we love it. He's always on the go, never stopping until he stops full tilt to go to sleep wherever it is that he lands, and then, once he's fully charged again, he is back at it, terrorizing anyone and everyone who lives within the walls of our house.

    Because he's still under two pounds, we're holding off on neutering him. He'll turn about seven months old before he reaches the critical weight size he needs to go under anesthesia for the operation. I completely agree with our vet on that one. He tells me he hasn't worked on a tiny dog in a while; he may have to break out the bifocals or some magnifying glass attached to his head so he can see the organs clearly. Kiba is one tiny little guy!

    As I type this, he's barking his head off, trying to make himself seen and heard. Apparently, something is happening in the other room that he simply can't be without. Still, since his owner, my daughter, has banned him from leaving my office until whatever she's doing is completed, he'll just have to suck it up, and by suck it up, I mean he's pacing the floor, biting the bottom of the door when he can, and he's prancing - doing the high step thing, to beat the band. You'd think he was being beaten to a pulp the way he sounds right now, but no,  he's just being ignored. I'm typing, she's working out, and he's not being paid attention to, and he won't have it.

    It was hilarious earlier, when I made myself dinner, and he decided, like the big dogs, he wanted whatever I was eating. OK...let's see; I had quiche...check, he took a piece of that.  I had an avocado, which wasn't exactly what he was expecting, and I had some carrots, too. He hasn't decided if he likes carrots or avocados, but if the other dogs are eating them, he's going to eat them, and if it means he can keep them from eating something, he's all about that, too.

    I call him a ChiPom rather than a PomChi because he's 3/4 Chihuahua and 1/4 Pomeranian. His mother is half and half, but his daddy is full Chihuahua! He's not as hairy as his mother, but not quite as big as his father...not yet. He'll top out around five or six pounds when he's finished growing, and we'll see him under our feet better than we do now.  

    The guy is 100% feisty, and that's just such a breath of freshness and a blessing, as he had parvo a few weeks back before we got him. He had to overcome so much at such a very young age -- no wonder he's taking life by the tail and swinging it around as much as possible! You know, Chihuahuas...they think they rule the world, and maybe they do.

Photo Credit: Me. (Kiba) 

My New New Book - The Grange

    I'm already thinking about and planning out my newest new book, and this one ...well, it won't be like the others. I knew it from the first time I began thinking about it, but I wasn't quite sure what genre I could or would eventually categorize it in so that I could plan the ending. You see, you have to have the end before you have the beginning -- at least, that's how I write anyway. 

     I knew the title of the book very early on; it comes from a place I love, absolutely love, and of course, it's in Edinburgh, Scotland. Oh, it's not Arthur's seat, the Salsbury crags, or even Calton Hill, Castlerock, or Canongate. The place that will be captured in the newest new book, is a cemetery called The Grange. Wait...what? Did she say it was going to take place in a cemetery? OK, that's weird, and it may be a little creepy too. OK, you've got me.

    I wanted to write a horror book. I did. I wanted to write a big, fat, scary, crazy-suspenseful book about blood, gore, and wickedness until I realized I'm not good at being all that bad. I keep thinking if I write something wicked, I may invite demons to dance in my head or something. No one wants that. I can't pull it off. I can pull off creepy. I can pull off strange, odd, weird, bizarre, and fringe -- but I can't pull off evil. It's just not there, and really, that's a good thing.

    The Grange is a relatively younger or newer cemetery, at least by Edinburgh or Scotland standards. Established in 1847, only a few graves were dug for a few years; it took a while for the dead to catch on. There will be a good enough story to tell about the place, and of course, as always, there will be some truth to it, and enough fiction to keep the book honestly untruthful. I can't have anyone accusing me of writing a true historical book -- not when I'm a novelist. That can't happen.  The disclaimer may be a couple of pages if I need to be really clear about some facts.

    Anyway, that's the big new story coming out of my heart right after the big new story I'm writing now, which took the place of another big story that I've set aside and will write it right after I write The Grange. I could use an entire year off so I could sit myself down and write the 10-12 books I have floating around in my head at the moment -- at least I have a plan! If I die before the plan comes to pass, so be it - if the Rapture comes before the plan comes to pass, even better. But...if we're all here, and nothing happens, I'll be the one writing -- and writing...and well, you know.

The Grange

Photo Credit:  Karen Treadwell