Murder and Mischief in the Hamptons

    Murder and Mischief in the Hamptons is now available on Smashwords. It should become available at B&N in time for Christmas. There is still a delay with Amazon picking up my books, their site is not large enough to carry the selection that B&N does. They are working to improve and enlarge their site (which I think is a good idea given that they carry and promote their own e-reader...), and hope to have it done soon. Apple has also fallen behind and has not picked up either of the Hamptons books (disappointing), and I'm hoping they'll pick them up soon. Not sure what the delay there is. Meanwhile, you can purchase both books (both FREE!!) from Smashwords for any e-reader, or from B&N.

 

   

Be advised, "Murder and Mischief in the Hamptons," is the second book in the series, so if you have not read, Living and Dying in the Hamptons, you will want to read that one first. I have felt exceptionally blessed by the reception of this first book in the series (great reviews), and it helped to make the decision to continue the series that much easier. I fell in love with these characters instantly, and I have to say, writing the Hamptons books has felt much less like work and a lot more like play. I hope you all enjoy them both! I am currently hard at work (play) on the third book, and I am already completely in love with it.

     The last thing I want to mention is the dedication of this book. All my books and short stories have had some sort of dedication linked to them, and there's always been a good reason. Murder and Mischief is no different. I dedicated this book to 'my biggest fan,' but in essence it is dedicated to all of them. It brings tears to my eyes when someone reads and enjoys something I've written. When they tell me they like something, be it through reviews, e-mails, private messages, or even sometimes in person, it's everything I can do to contain myself and not spin cartwheels across the room. (Which at my age is not advisable anyway.) Thank you all for your support and encouragement, it means more to me than I can ever say!

My Thanksgiving in a Nutshell a.k.a. Setting the Bar: How Low Can You Go? a.k.a. The Best Guest List EVER

   I hope that everyone had a happy holiday. Here's mine in a nutshell. (You must all realize by now that my nutshell is not small insomuch as the Hulk is small. It is the condominium of nutshells, and I shall take you through each and every room. Possibly several times.) You have been warned.

   To begin with, my husband and I, ever the pre-planners, found ourselves shopping on the weekend prior to Thanksgiving. On a Saturday. At two o'clock in the afternoon. The store could not have been busier if the TV news had announced a three week blizzard followed by a zombie apocalypse.

   The line for the turkeys- yes- the LINE- was long and winding. Though not nearly as pleasant as the road in the Beatles' ballad. Tempers were high, greed even higher, and everyone had the I'm-the-only-person-in-existence complex working for them. I advised one girl- a tiny, trim little thing- that was trying to wedge her way in to get a frozen bird to throw an elbow. She giggled. She thought I was joking.

   Alas, I was not.

   Eventually I got my bird without having to give one, and made my way through the rest of the aisles like Ethan Hunt in Mission Impossible (I even had the theme music running through my head), winding and weaving, twisting, turning, feinting and all but cart-wheeling through the store. I was grace and determination personified. At least I thought so.

   With our cache of food, we made it home, to wait for the DAY. Okay, so waiting really meant working eight to ten hour days and juggling in choir practice, all with a blinding migraine. It was AWESOME!

   The day finally arrived and I dragged myself out of the bed at the ungodly six o'clock hour, stumbled in the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition (thanks Dolly) and started wrestling the turkey. I bathed, buttered, seasoned, stocked and slapped the turkey into the roasting pan, all the while waiting for the oven to pre-heat. Meanwhile, I was reminiscing the Thanksgiving from Hell.

   This happened many moons ago, when my children were still small and cute. We were celebrating the holiday in our new home, and some very close friends of mine (more extended family than friends) were coming to join us. At that time, I was a pre-planner to the hilt. You have to be when you have kids. Now, I pretty much wing it.

   Anyway, Sunday: pre-turkey day, I awoke to a chill in the air. A cold, Artic chill. Hmmm. Whatever could be the problem? The furnace was out. Great. So I called the furnace guys. The furnace guys enlightened me with the glorious news that indeed, my furnace was kaput, in every sense of the word. Bad news: you need a new furnace. Good news: they could install it in time for the arrival of my guests and just before I slapped the turkey on the table. Goody.

   Monday: I awoke to a flood in my kitchen. Egads! Whatever shall I do? Build an ark or call a plumber? I called the plumber. He found a leak in the pipe going in or out of the water heater in the closet in my kitchen, replaced it and went on his merry way. Meanwhile the furnace guys were tinkering around in the other side of the closet.

   Tuesday: I awoke to yet ANOTHER flood in my kitchen. Figuring the plumber had been thrown off his game by working in such close proximity to the furnace guys (who by the way, were still finishing up the job), I called him back. He returned only to discover the leak was not ONLY in the pipe, but also out of the bottom of the water heater that was completely rusted out. Off to Menards to buy a new water heater. Oh, and also new flooring because the second flood was too much for the floor to handle and since it had been carpeted (WHO puts carpet in a kitchen anyway??) it had to all be torn out and replaced. I spent the rest of the day pulling out carpeting and laying new vinyl flooring until roughly two in the morning. At least it was toasty with the new furnace cycling merrily away.

   Wednesday: With a new floor, new water heater, new pipes running to and/or from said water heater, and a new furnace, I was feeling more than slightly broke, BUT relatively safe. Until I started baking. And the oven did NOT work. NO joke. Heated up to about 100 degrees and called it quits. Back to Menards to buy a new stove. KILL ME NOW.

   Thursday: TURKEY day!! Hallelujah! We made it! I dragged my butt out of the bed at the ungodly six o'clock hour, stumbled to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition- BUT WAIT- no- the coffee pot does NOT work. There is NO perk in the percolator. The stupid light doesn't even come on. I picked it up- not just the pot- THE WHOLE thing- and THREW it across my shiny new kitchen.

   So, back to the present, with the bar set that low there is NO way I can ever NOT clear it again for essentially the rest of my life. No matter how exhausted and over-worked I was, no matter how bad my migraine, I hadn't spent the week in mandatory remodeling. All was well.

   I went to shove the turkey into the oven when I realized that he/she was wearing a bracelet, or a watch, or something around it's ankle(?). What is this oddity? I wondered. I retrieved my glasses and looked closer. All of the turkey, with the exception of this one ankle, had been plucked smooth. The ankle was still fluffy with feathers. Weird. I plucked them and moved on. Who eats ankles anyway?

   The day went off without a hitch- except that I forgot to make my daughter's favorite green beans, and we had to scramble around at the last minute for an extra place setting due to errant counting. Overall though, it was a success. The guest list included some of my kids' friends, so it was a large group that sat elbow to elbow around the table, but everyone seemed to have a good time and they all seemed to enjoy the food. I was feeling gloriously triumphant. Victory was mine! The BEST Thanksgiving EVER.

   Until we went to my friends' house for a second, belated celebration of the same holiday. Upon entering their living room I found a life-sized cardboard stand-up of Saruman and another of Frodo waiting near the stairs. They were just in time for dinner. Damn. I had only invited family and friends. Obviously, their guest list was WAY better than mine…

Random Thoughts That Meander through My Brain a.k.a. Why I am Always Tired

   These are just some of the things that keep me up at night:

   1) Kudos

   The dictionary defines kudos as an honor or glory. It also stipulates that 'kudos' is considered the plural, while 'kudo' is considered the singular. A thing which my spell-check is currently objecting to, as apparently neither Miriam nor Webster has alerted it of this word's existence. Of this, I am not surprised, because I cannot recall in my lifetime having ever heard anyone utilize 'kudo' in any fashion, only 'kudos.'

   ie: Congratulations, George! Great job on building that stellar pyramid out of soup cans! And look at that replica of the Sphinx hovering right next to it! So realistic! And you made that out of Ramen noodles? Way to be resourceful! Kudos!

   Soooooo, as an alternative, I offer the following: Yo, George, nice job setting out that tomato soup can. And the Ramen noodles package right beside? Nice touch. Kudo…

   2) Plurals

   If the plural of cactus is cacti, and the plural of octopus is octopi, doesn't it stand to reason that the plural of sourpuss should be sourpi? And for that matter, pusses (get your minds out of the gutter folks- I mean cats, as in Puss in Boots a.k.a. Cat in Heavy-Duty Footgear), be pi? As in: Oh look! The Crazy Cat Lady has a passel of pi! Of course, that might just confuse folks. Does she in fact have a surplus number of mathematical equations, or simply an overflow of tasty desserts? Just one more thing to keep me awake at night…

   3) Bear Slide

   Is it just me that lies awake at night and wonders why Bear Slide is the name of a golf course (BORING) instead of a jolly, fun park for post-hibernatory bears? (Yeah, I know 'hibernatory' is not a word- deal with it- I make crap up all the time. If this annoys you, well then we are just not going to get along, now are we?) But the thought of all those bears frolicking in some woodsy atmosphere replete with waterslides and honey stands makes me smile and giggle a little bit. (Who doesn't smile at frolicking bears? My husband will tell you they are rampaging, but I disagree, bears are quite capable of gamboling and cavorting, same as the next guy.) On the other hand, the thought of old men in plaid pants/shorts smacking around a tiny, defenseless ball with a steel club makes me want to snore. Come to think of it, maybe I should be thinking about that…

   4) Stewing Over Signage

   Does anyone besides me spend hours stewing over various signage (usually handwritten) and feel the need to correct it in some manner? I believe I could make a grand career out of cat-burgling for the sole purpose of proofreading. I would be a Corrective Cat-Burglar, if you will. If I got a partner (thereby making it two cats- tada- we have Pi!!) we could be the Powerful Pi Proofers. Or I might decide to remain a solo-operation and go with the Revising Renegade. Whatever, I'm not sleeping; I've got plenty of time to sew up the costume.

   At any rate, it's usually grammatical errors and misspellings that bother me, but today it was something entirely different. While on the way to the local farmer's market (well, maybe not so local in that it is a forty minute drive from my house, but I digress…) I spotted a giant chalkboard sign advertising said farmer's market. The idea behind the sign was that it had two messages, the first being: Shaved ham available now. The second: Woo-hoo! We are still open! The problem was that the billboard scribbler had decided to make the two announcements side by side, with the first on the left and the second on the right. So as I was speeding (disclaimer to any law officials who may be reading this blog- I was not speeding- I never speed- I was obeying the properly posted speed limit signs to the letter- or, in this case, to the  number). Anyway, where was I? Oh, so as I was moving down the highway at a brusque pace, though not so much as one mile faster than the speed designated safe by the highway patrol and all its counterparts, I read the sign thusly: Shaved Woo-hoo! Ham we are now still open!

   Huh???

   Naturally, my SD (step-daughter), who was along for the ride, had some objection to entering the store if I were going to make the announcement that we were there to have our woo-hoos shaved. So I didn't.

   But I wanted to.

   5) What Are People Thinking?

   I have at least once before touched on the pits and perils of navigating the world of customer service in this area. I have had some experiences that made me go- What? Huh? Did this Really Just Happen? (Thus the name of the blog.) Recently, a friend of mine who was working register at a local supermarket, told me a male customer had come through her lane, remarked upon her prematurely graying hair, and followed it up with the comment, "I would never let my wife out of the house looking like that. She would have to dye her hair."

   Really?

   Really?!

   What makes you such a premium catch? Your suave manners? I think not.

   To me, there are so many things wrong with this declaration I can't even begin to enumerate them. But let me say just one thing (aside from the obvious fact that you are one rude dude to comment on someone's physical appearance- especially given that you don't even KNOW her), this whole, 'I would never let my wife out,' LET my wife out- LET??? Man, one day you're going to get home after a hard day's work and your wife is gonna choke you with that chain you used to shackle her ankle to the oven. And I hope it makes it onYou Tube. We'll see how you feel about 'letting her out' then...

   This is only a small sampling of the thoughts that enter my brain at any given moment. Is it any wonder that nearly every conversation with me ends in confusion for all parties involved? Everything I see and hear grabs my attention and I am like a kid with severe ADHD on Ritalin withdrawal.

   And now you know, in case you ever wondered, why I am always tired- which reminds me, I need to put air in my tires. No wait, I already did that. That's when I met the couple who had just hit a deer and watched the guy trek back and forth four times across the highway to fill his truck with diesel and gas 'cause he ran out less than fifty feet from the gas station.

   Hey? Did I ever tell you about the time…?

Super-Schizo! a.k.a. Night of the Living Head a.k.a. Who's a Big Sissy? This Girl!

   I know I am behind on blogging again- the juggling act gets harder towards the end of the haunt season. It's really kind of unavoidable considering so much of my life revolves around the haunt this time of year. Everything else sort of takes a back seat in the hearse. I am forever living my life like someone with split personalities (perfect for the haunt I'm sure!). Or maybe a super hero. I like that much better, let's run with it. Average citizen by day (during the week) I write fiction, sing in a choir and work in a bakery- innocuous enough, right? Extraordinary superhero by night (the weekends) I rat out my hair, cover myself in torn clothing and zombie make-up, and become an unbalanced paranoid schizophrenic who screams random things at people. I am Super Schizo! I am the terror that raves in the night! Let's get medicated!!

  

   Currently my two- three- fourteen- worlds are colliding more than ever. My choir is practicing for the Christmas show, so I find myself at least half of the time singing the Hallelujah Chorus and Go Tell it on the Mountain, and the rest of the time considering horrifying effects to terrorize people with. It's awesome to be inside my brain.

  

   Not that everything we've ever devised has worked to horrify… Mystify maybe… Confuse… Baffle… and otherwise amuse.

  

   Like the year we put together a prop that was supposed to sit up on a morgue table a la the Night of the Living Dead. It was a quite a simple mechanism really. The body bent at the waist, and thanks to pneumatics, sat up rapidly. It worked brilliantly the first dozen times. At least until our tour guide led one group through and the body rocketed up off the table on cue, but the head became detached and launched into space. It quickly became the Night of the Living Head and flew across the room and bounced off the wall, scaring the daylights out of our guide (not to mention the group). Too bad it isn't something that can be reproduced time after time. Like a yo-yo head on a retractable leash. Going to have to put a little thought into that one…

  

   Then there was the time our 'monster in a box' got stuck. Again, a relatively simple mechanism involving a motor, a cam, and a steamer trunk. It worked brilliantly until the motor got stuck and then there was some smoke involved… We were forced to halt the tour (causing our guides to pull some fairly brilliant delaying tactics out of their pockets) while we went to attend to the 'almost' fire.

  

   It isn’t always the props that create the bloopers. Sometimes it's the actors. Like the time one of our tour guides got lost in the graveyard and found himself leading the group around in circles for several minutes. Not deliberately. The scare actors had a heck of a time trying to find new places to leap out of. Repeatedly.

   This last weekend my life became jumbled into one big knot. I am a person that has a tendency to compartmentalize my life. Call me a control freak, but I find it easier to cope this way. When the lines become blurred I tend to panic and become confused. My worlds collided in a spectacular fashion when my co-workers, friends and choir buds all visited the haunt on the same night. My secret identity was exposed! The horrors! Except that NO one recognized me… There I was, acting the fool in the dayroom, and not a single one of my friends realized it was me. Cool. Superhero status intact, I live to haunt another day.

   I have to admit, my friends were some of my favorite groups- especially the choir member (who shall remain unnamed) whose catch phrase throughout the haunt was, 'What the (insert expletive here) is that!?' She made me giggle a little.

   As much as I enjoy entertaining and scaring people, I have to own up to one incontrovertible fact- I am a complete coward when it comes to haunted houses. I am an easy scare, the consummate target of any ogre, ghoul, evil clown, witch, specter, banshee, walking corpse, and for that matter, even the lame guy who only sticks his head out and says, 'Boo!' Allow me to elaborate.

   This last summer when we attended the Midwest Haunter's Convention in Ohio, (yeah I know, I already blogged about this, deal with it), part of the convention was a bus tour to a place called the Scare-A-Torium. My daughter led our particular group, with my husband bringing up the rear and me safely sandwiched in between. I felt fairly protected going in, surrounded by the armor of my loving family. I quickly found out I was wrong. It took no time at all for the scare actors to discover the weak link in the chain, especially considering my daughter was plunging on ahead, entranced by the inner workings of the haunt, and my husband was lagging behind, checking out every crack, crevice, nail and board in the place, leaving me to my own less than dubious devices. The actors sensed my (poorly concealed) fear and preyed upon me with unrelenting glee. I was stalked, terrorized, screamed at, and otherwise haunted beyond my capacity to endure.

   Before long I was shambling through the place at a rapid pace, chewing my own knuckles, and trying to make my way through with my eyes closed. Meanwhile, I was desperately attempting to keep up with my daughter who looked as if she were on a sight-seeing tour taking in all the remarkable sights while I saw absolutely NOTHING but my own eyelids. Every time I opened my eyes to find my way, another horror awaited me.

   I honestly thought I was never making it out of there. It seemed to go on forever. My daughter was laughing and pointing to various actors, saying things like, 'Good job! Got me there!' My husband was viewing various props and pneumatics and saying things like, 'Man! I wonder how they did that! Hey, honey, look at that! That's cool! Did you see that?'

   NO! NO I did NOT see that! In fact, I saw NOTHING but the big, creepy dude grunting at me (OBVIOUS misdirection, but I fell for it hook, line, and sinker) and then the other creepy dude who came out of nowhere and scared me nearly into fainting. But the props? Not a thing did I see. I couldn't tell you what color the walls were. In fact, I couldn't tell you if I was inside or out. I only knew I wanted back on the safety of the bus. Yesterday.

   Anyway, somehow I managed to make it through without completely humiliating myself or my family. (Lies, all lies! I humiliated us all in a grandiose fashion- BUT- the humiliation was not yet complete.)

   We hit the exit- oh rapture! Oh, heavenly joy!- I nearly tripped over my own feet shoving my last born, my one and only baby girl, to the side in an effort to save myself. (She's old enough to take care of herself, damn her.) I was breathing a sigh of relief -after a quick glance around for the cliché chainsaw guy- which thankfully they did not have- when I discovered what they did in fact have, was a SECOND haunt.

   COME ON! NO WAY! I barely made it through the first one. The only thing I could say for myself was that my pants were still dry. I had NO idea what had even happened in the first one. I could not tell you a single detail about ANYTHING in there! And now I was supposed to go through another one? Really??

   Okay, my husband and daughter, ever the supportive family, were more than happy to let me out of it- but I being the brave, COWARDLY soul that I am, I pulled up my big girl panties and said, 'Nope, it's cool. I can do it.'

   Brave last words from a BIG sissy.

   The gentlemen that greeted us at the door to the second haunt was dressed like a ringleader- which should have been my FIRST clue. After a few rambling sentences (no clue what he was saying I was busy chanting to myself, 'Keep calm, it's all pretend. Keep calm, it's all pretend…') then offered my daughter the opportunity to go in alone. It was obvious he didn't know her. She was pretty much like, 'Okay!' and off she went. The brat. Had he asked me the same thing I would probably have fainted dead away right there.

   Anyway, so there I stood with my husband, who eagerly volunteered the information of my sheer terror to the man at the door, who then said, 'You've been such a good girl, when you get inside the first room you'll see a wall of cotton candy, go ahead and grab one.' Now I am NOT a gullible girl. Cowardly should NOT be confused with gullible. Just saying. Naturally, I was not about to reach for the candy, which just as I suspected was a trap. The ONE and ONLY trap I didn't fall for…

   I raced through that haunt like my ass was on fire and my hair was catching and caught up to my daughter in no time. I then latched onto the back of her and allowed her to drag me pretty much the rest of the way through the haunt, which, by the way, was a mixture of clowns (OMG!!!) followed by some toxic science experiment gone wrong. By the time we reached the exit I literally could stand NO more. I gleefully followed my daughter through the exit only to find myself back at the BEGINNING. I felt like some kind of Alice in a VERY twisted Wonderland. I was NOT pleased. In fact, I burst into tears.

   My daughter turned to me and said, 'Mom? Are you CRYING?!'

   My very mature response was: 'Shut up!' Sob, sniffle, snob. 'Just find the exit and SHUT UP!' Sniffle, sniffle, sob, snort.

   We eventually made it out and I bought a T-shirt because, honestly, they had more than earned my money!! My superhero status has dwindled to Super Schizo Pee-pee Pants.

   If anyone doubts my terror, the Scare-A-Torium's commercial is even now running on cable TV in Ohio. Yours truly makes a cameo appearance and can be found screaming her brains out around the middle of the commercial…

   True story.

Everyone Dance to the Pumpkin Song

   Yep, more haunt blogging- 'tis the season- it's unavoidable. To begin with; this last weekend went off without a hitch.

   Mostly.

   Sort of.

   Okay, so it wasn't so much a hitch-free weekend as a hitch-ful weekend, but we managed success despite it all. The weather forecast for the weekend was supposed to be a balmy seventy degrees with a clear Saturday and a sixty percent chance of rain on Sunday. And then it changed. We got rain on both days- conveniently just prior to opening both nights- and violent storms on Sunday. These brought on various power outages- thankfully only lasting about half an hour- but it was enough to wreak havoc.

   The barn was leaking, the power was going on and off, the wind blew, and the cemetery flooded. I swear I saw an ark float by. Automated props set and reset themselves. Some became possessed and just ran at a steady frenetic pace. Rain dripped onto various props, tombstones blew over and tumbled like tumbleweeds racing about the graveyard (an awesome effect I will admit, but not necessarily one you can control), and the sign blew off the post on one side. We had a full cast, one over-worked make-up artist, and stress was running at an all time high. We were all running around like chickens with their heads cut off, mopping up the inside of the barn, cordoning off flooded sections of the cemetery, and praying that the power would in fact STAY ON. Just when I was about to give it up for a lost cause, the rain stopped, the messes had been cleaned, the automated props were behaving properly, the second make-up artist had arrived and everyone was ready. Crisis averted.

   Sort of.

   We might have been ready, but our guests were well delayed by the rain- the cowards. It was as if they thought they would melt if even on tiny drop of rain pattered upon their pretty little heads. We all sat in the break room in full regalia for nearly an hour waiting, checking our watches, and then waiting some more. I was just beginning to slip into the pit of despair when finally a steady flow of customers began to arrive and they kept on coming until a few minutes after close.

   Success!

   Now you have to understand, what makes us different from your average haunt is the fact that we are not your typical 'Boo!' scare haunt. We are in fact, as one person called us, a 'haunted experience.' Coming to our haunt is like stepping into a highly interactive play with an abundantly detailed set. We have exceptional actors who perform well beyond expectations- especially considering that they are volunteers. (We are a charity haunt with all proceeds going to any number of charities, therefore our actors are paid in pizza.) To create a haunt of this magnitude is a very expensive and time-consuming (year round) endeavor. Thank God for our sponsors and our volunteers!

   Every year we make changes in order to keep the haunt fresh, especially considering we have a lot of return customers who come year after year, and this year has been no different. These changes keep the experience unpredictable so that even return patrons aren't quite sure what's going to happen next. This formula has been exceptionally successful for us, as we have had a high rate of customer satisfaction (so far this year 100%- knock on wood that it remains that way!). We try to provide an enjoyable experience as well as a good scare. And we have come a long way since the first year.

   Having said this, the first year of our haunt the budget ran out (it's very expensive building all those wooden walls) and we were forced to make the last twenty or so walls out of fire retardant Visqueen- it's a heavy plastic material- think Hefty bag times a hundred. For the most part, this posed no difficulty. Until the woman who created her own escape route. Allow me to explain.

   In the beginning- wrong story- ummm- not long ago we used to have an evil clown living in our dot room (alas he is no more). One particular lady apparently had clown fear. Extreme clown fear. Make that EXTREME CLOWN FEAR.

   Anyway, this woman upon entering the dot room completely lost her mind. She began to run (against the rules, but hey, sometimes you just can't stop 'em), plowed through the first of several Visqueen walls, bounced off the second-which was indeed wood but didn't seem to slow her momentum any- spun around and completely ignoring the obvious hallway in front of her, burst through the next two walls landing just behind me INSIDE the ticket booth. She then screamed at me in terror, raced around the counter and flew down the drive whereupon she hooked a left and headed for sights unseen.

   When the rest of her group finally came out- utilizing authorized routes- they were surprised to find that she wasn't there waiting for them. After a quick explanation from me, they headed for the car assuming they would find her there. Meanwhile, at the front of the house (home house not haunted house), my husband was coming out the door on his way to pick up the pizzas for the haunt cast, and low and behold this woman ran screaming by. She was stopping for nothing. He met the other people at the gate, explained that their friend was heading for Peru and they hopped into the car to chase her. Judging by her reaction, she might have been better off remaining in the asylum for some treatment…

   It was last year when we had the oddest customer ever. This woman startled and screamed at everything. We've had people who were so shaky they literally screamed at inanimate objects- and by this I mean innocuous inanimate objects like candlesticks, spider webs, chairs, etc. Though, I have to admit, the lighting in some of the rooms is so bizarre that often even the chairs look shifty… Anyway, this lady was one of those. This would have been fabulous except she had the oddest scream we had ever heard. You could hear her all the way through the house and it was everything the cast could do to keep in character when she entered their rooms. Every time something startled her she would honk like a loud, angry goose. Literally. Boo! HONK HONK! Yah! HONK HONK! Thump! HONK HONK! You get the picture. She would follow this up with an emphysemac cackle. Now that I think about it, we should have asked her to work here…

   We also experience the ever popular coming completely unprepared. We have had numerous teenage girls, accompanied by their boyfriends naturally, who have come dressed in short-shorts and teeny tiny tank tops, to stand outside in the fifty and sixty degree October weather at NIGHT and then complain it was too cold- how much longer do we have to wait? Really? REALLY? You expect me to control the weather because you were not bright enough to dress for the occasion?

   Look little girls, I know you are trying to be sexy for your guys, but trust me when I say- 'cause I have seen this hundreds of times- your guy doesn't care what you are wearing. He's not even looking at you. In just a few minutes you are going to become little more than a meat-shield to him. Dress warmly, because when your boyfriend tosses you to the first scare (and he WILL) in order to create an escape route for himself, you will want more than Daisy Dukes to hide your peeing shame. And no, I'm not exaggerating. We have had a number of Biohazard spills over the years. Peeing is popular. And we almost had one vomiter- thank God she kept it in!

   We also get nitwits who wear high heels and flip-flops. This is a haunted house folks- complete with a cemetery. You will be walking upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber. (I know most of you do not get that reference- I am showing my age with that one- but by God I'm keeping it for the chuckle from the forty plus crowd!) You will also quite possibly be slogging through some mud in the cemetery, (should it rain- frowny face) and at the very least, it's uneven terrain. Wear sneakers, boots, or some other appropriate footwear. You will be glad you did.

   This past weekend my favorite group was a group of teenage boys ranging in age of thirteen-ish to seventeen-ish. Generally speaking, it's usually difficult having a group like this- usually they will do everything in their power to remain unaffected as if to prove they are tough and your haunt is less than haunty. By the time we reached the end of the tour, I was wearing at least four of these boys on my back and staggering through the haunt like a giant malformed turtle. I would venture a guess that the Doctor got the formula right… We are indeed haunty!

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the For- Um- Haunted House

   Warning: this is the first of- no doubt- many haunted house related blogs. I apologize ahead of time to all of you who do not approve. Who am I kidding? No, I do not.

   This is the time of year when my entire life revolves around and is sucked into the void of 'THE' haunted house. And I am not one to suffer in silence. I will take as many of you with me as I can…

   My busy life gets shoved aside, whether I want it to or not (heavy emphasis on the not), and I find myself juggling my job, my writing, my blogging, my extra-curricular activities, (choir folks- choir- get your minds out of the gutter!), and my houses. Yes, houses plural. Or is that hice? You know- mouse-mice, house-hice? No matter, I have decided- I hereby invent the word hice. The hice to which I am referring are my home house and the haunted house.

   Yep, that's right, haunted.

   I am not necessarily the biggest Halloween fan in the world- Christmas is more my holiday- give me a tree and some twinkling lights and I am a happy girl. Alas, I happen to be married to a Halloween enthusiast. A man who lives, eats and breathes all things spooky. He reveres Halloween in a way that makes Linus's yearly vigil for the Great Pumpkin look weak. My husband is devoted to each and every aspect of the holiday: from the gory ghosts and the gruesome goblins, to the menacing maniacs in the monster movies and the jaw-dropping jack o' lanterns on doorsteps. He collects spooky skulls and spine-tingling skeletons and does not shy away from those things that go bump in the night. (Which is usually me anyway…)

   And of course, he lives for the haunting of the houses- er- hice. He is passionate in a way that borders on obsession. Actually, his passion doesn't so much border on obsession as it encroaches and invades it. It sneaks up on it, tackles it, holds it down and gives it noogies until it can't breathe- just like your big brother. And there is no crying uncle.

   His obsession requires hours- make that months- of professional intervention, the type which we cannot afford. And so, my husband talks Halloween six hundred and sixty-six days of the year. (Yeah, I know there are not that many days in the year, but trust me, it feels like it sometimes- besides- the number worked.)

For this reason, when that hunk-o-man of mine (who during Halloween strongly resembles the Unabomber and is proud of it) came to me with the idea of building a haunted house, I was not surprised. What did surprise me however, was exactly how much of my own blood, sweat and tears would go into this creation. I have personally painted each and every wall panel in the haunt (of which there are thousands- okay maybe only hundreds- but you sort of lose count after the first ninety). I have put my interior decorating skills (or lack thereof) into the haunted décor of each and every room. I have taken pride in finding some of the ugliest pieces of furniture known to mankind to add "just the right touch" to the final product. I have rejoiced in the repulsive, reveled in the revolting, roistered in the repellent. Yes- it frightens even me. I may need an intervention of my own.

   My partner in crime (or should I say 'grime'?), is a friend who is the Lucy to my Ethel and who has helped me every step of the way. She is the go to girl when it comes to façade painting and is willing to do almost anything I suggest. For example:

   Ethel (me- pay attention): So, Lucy, what do you think about, say, um, painting a block wall façade in the laboratory (yes, pronounce it the Frankensteinian fashion please- la-bore-a-tore-ee- this is a blog about Halloween after all). It will only involve sixteen different colors of paint in eight layers and a final wash. Say, about, oh, I don’t know, thirty-six hours of work, give or take. And the fans will see it for all of about thirty seconds. Sound good?

   Lucy: So, what you're saying is: it's a complete waste of our time, right?

   Ethel: Pretty much.

   Lucy: Cool! Let's do it!

   If you think I exaggerate, ask Lucy- she'll set you straight.

   At last count, we have collectively painted over seven thousand bricks, four thousand plus rocks, hundreds of mathematical and scientific calculations (none of which make any sense to me and all of which hurt my head in the colossal migraine leaking out your ears kind of way), and one lab wall which took three days.

   Awesome.

   And then there's the blood. (Hey, only some of it is real- you can't bleed buckets and survive, so paint has to come into play at least once in awhile.) This time of year our hands are permanently stained a rainbow of colors, the worst of which is the red. It gets into our knuckles, under our nails and even stains our cuticles. It looks as if we have engaged in the cold blooded killings of many formerly live beings previously filled to the brim with platelets and plasma. (As tempting as that may be, especially considering we know where to hide the bodies, we have not.)

   There have also been some incidents of paint splattering that stained clothing and hair- and not all of it has been accidental in nature. Naturally, it's always Lucy who stirs up the trouble. But I keep her around, 'cause, hey, where else can I find someone fool enough to say, "Sure! No problem!" when I say, "Hey, whattaya think about painting another five hundred bricks over here?"

   I am also the proud (I use the term loosely) owner of my very own graveyard. Step out my back door and you'll see it. It ain't small. It's kind of hard to ignore. It contains numerous graves marked with tombstones- some elaborate and some quite plain- and two full-sized crypts. I believe all are unoccupied. (Here's to hoping!) It's a nice quiet place to have your morning coffee…

   Over the years that we have run the haunt we have been asked countless times if it's a real cemetery. We have also been asked how long ago the asylum was closed. You know- the asylum- in the barn. Now I love the fact that people buy into the façade so much that they think it's all real, but at the same time I can't help but to wonder- huh? I'm never really certain how to answer these questions. I'm always tempted to say, "Well, since it's a BARN, I think mad cow disease was more prevalent than mad people…" Or, the ever popular, "The asylum was closed NEVER, 'cause, duh!" But these responses (I was told) were considered rude. So instead I went with, "Um- well- uh- hmmm… You know this isn't real, right?"

   We've also had any number of people ask us (while purchasing tickets), "Is it scary?"

   Let me think about this.

   No.

   No, it is not scary at all. In fact, walking through the haunt is much the same experience as tip-toeing through a field of wild flowers, whilst puffy clouds float over your head and purple, sparkling unicorns prance merrily by. We call it The Edge of Insanity, 'cause, well, we liked the name…

A Rhoze by any other Nayme a.k.a. What's in a Name?

   Around the time that I was having my children, it started to become very popular for parents to alter the traditional spelling of a name in order to strive for uniqueness. I blame it on the eighties. (I could in fact blame almost anything on the eighties and still be right.) (Really. Think about it.) Anyway, with bands like Siouxsie and the Banshees and INXS (I have friends who still pronounce it 'inks' having failed to grasp the whole in excess thing…), it's no wonder people began to look for new ways to spell things. Mike, Jim and Sue just wouldn't cut it anymore. Now if you say Myke, Djimm and Sioux, you really got something!

   Or, let's blame it on rock music in general. (Maybe John Lithgow had it right in Footloose. And- back to the eighties…) Prince made infamy in the early nineties (as if any of his other antics hadn't garnered him enough notoriety already) simply by changing his name to some unpronounceable symbol mish-mash of the male and female gender symbols with a swirly line running through it. So blame it on the eighties, blame it on rock music, or blame it on the rain. Or is that rayne? Reign? Raene?

   Anyway, Brittany became Bryttani, and Amy became Aimee, etc. and so on. The basic rule of thumb was to swap any 'y' for an 'i' and vice versa. Further, anytime an additional vowel or vowels could be thrown into the mix- well do it!- that just makes things exciting! If your kid's name looks like a bowl of alphabet soup, you're doing it right!

   This has caused quite a lot of confusion for us boring folks when we try to figure out someone's name by reading it. And a lot of unfair outrage from the parents and the child should the child's name be mispronounced. Really? If your child's name is Siobhan there's a pretty good chance NO one is going to pronounce it correctly. (Although in all fairness this is a traditional Irish spelling, it's still a tricky endeavor for many of us on this side of the ocean.)

   Technically speaking, if you are trying to name your child with originality, you need not stick to unusual spellings and the conjoining of two names such as -Michael and Rene making Miche, or Renael. Try going old fashioned. How many Gertrudes do you deal with on a regular basis? Mildreds? Eugenias? Berthas?  Just sayin', if you name your bouncing baby girl Gertrude Eugenia, it's a pretty fair assumption she'll be the only five year old in kindergarten with that name. Plus, with the initials G.E. she might turn out to be brilliant. Bringing good things to light…

   Not that long ago, a woman named Eina filled out an application at the company I was working for and I was responsible for calling her references. The first was her mother. After the initial greeting, I explained the reason for my call, pronouncing the woman's name as I-na, and was immediately interrupted, "You should learn how to say someone's name before you call their references! Are you stupid?"

   Huh. Really. Now being the pleasant, patient (ha!!) person I am, I naturally kept my temper and, assuming I was having difficulty reading the handwriting, I said, "I'm sorry, I have the spelling as E-i-n-a. Is that correct?"

   "Yes," she said. "But it's pronounced Eena, as in Tina. It's not that hard to understand, unless you're stupid!"

   Alrighty then. Well, let me just point this out to you Einstein (see what I did there?). Eina designates I-na. Eichmann, Calvin Klein, Eisenhower, Gloria Steinem and even the Eiffel Tower would all agree. Now, if you had wanted her name to be pronounced Eena, you might have considered spelling it Iena- ask Steven Spielberg. Because, the general rule of thumb is- when you have a vowel immediately preceded by another vowel, you pronounce the second in the hard form. Now the fine example you have given alters the rule because the 'i' in Tina is immediately preceded by a consonant. Not hard to understand, unless you are stupid.

   Thus, I have come to the conclusion that along with Lamaze classes, people should be given baby naming classes and then pass a test in order to be allowed to name their own children. There are some relatively simple rules to follow. If your last name is Bush, you probably should not name your child Harry. I say this because I went to school with a boy who was saddled with this moniker and- true story- he was an extremely successful track runner, specifically in the long distance run. No kidding, who's shocked here? It's a talent the poor boy had years to hone. Similarly speaking, think twice if you intend to name your son Richard. There are a number of surnames that would lead to disaster. Pretty much, if your last name is also an action verb- ie: Bender, Holder, Barber, etc.- these are all BAD ideas.

   Rhyming names are also bad. It is not cute to name your child Belle Snell, or Ruth Bluth, or for that matter, to saddle them with the same first name as their surname, as in, James James, or Michael Michaels. And never, EVER, is the name 'Vaginia' appropriate for your daughter. I have met one such girl. Her parents must have hated her.

   In fact, it is exceptionally wise to take some names completely off the table. Poindexter is a prime example of table removal. Scrub that puppy off. Nope, it's not even up for debate. Move on. And though you might think your baby is Precious, it's not a particularly great name for anything that doesn't have a tail (which leads to a whole new set of problems).

   My particular favorite is a story my daughter told me. At some point in school, she came across a girl named Le-a. Naturally, everyone thought her parents named her Leah and added the hyphen for whimsy. The girl had the audacity to become outraged. Because, it turns out, her name was- are you ready for this?- Ledasha. What?!! To become enraged because people failed to enunciate the punctuation in your name (which, by the way would make your name Lehyphena), is the epitome of ignorance. When did we start articulating punctuation? It would certainly extend conversations to the point that we comma as a whole comma would all get very tired of hearing each other speak exclamation point.

   Before long children will be bearing names like @&*$%. 

   "No officer, I wasn't cursing at him, that's his name…"

Do the Zombie Shuffle a.ka. Giving the Bird a.k.a. Counting Not So Decapitated Heads

  Things at my house have begun to turn to the macabre. That is because we are sick, twisted people. It is also because we run a haunted house and this is the time of year we kick it into high gear to prepare for opening. New props are built, walls are painted, rooms are decorated, actors are located, you name it, we do it, in the name of all things unholy. We find ourselves running a bit behind due to life getting in the way (see previous blogs…) and we are running full force now trying to catch up things that should have been done months ago. Such is our life.

   In the midst of all this chaos, our haunt participated in something called the Zombie Walk, in South Bend. Please understand, zombies do not walk. Rather, they shuffle. They shamble. They drag their feet. They meander as if they are on a ten day drunk and their ankles are shackled together. So Zombie 'Walk' seems a bit out of character to me. So be it. We went anyway.

   This is a mini-convention of sorts, where people (weirdoes and other assorted nut-balls) get their zombie geek on. All sorts of people from all walks of life show up at the park dressed in full zombie regalia- torn clothes, missing limbs, full make-up and the like. It's pretty astounding to see. And, it's kind of awesome. (I have the pictures to prove it- who knew Tippi Hedren was going to turn out to be a zombie? Her birds too… Melanie Griffith is going to be so disappointed- not about the birds, about her zombie mother. It's gotta suck to have to decapitate your own mother. Though, some days, I think my kids could live with it…)

   Anyway, the set up is pretty easy. As with other conventions, vendors have booths, in a marked off area just for them. Our own little hundred square feet of the acreage just for us. Wheeee! So, we went about setting up the canopy (with way too many cooks to spoil the broth so it was a wonder the thing went up at all) and the tables and loaded those puppies down with the t-shirts we were selling. (With any luck. Hopefully. Maybe. Please?)

    Whilst in the throes of such set-up, I, who can find the single stick or rock or something in a wide, vast desert of NOTHING and trip over it, managed to catch my heel on the folding camp chairs that were laying in a pile near the edge of our 'temporary squatting grounds.' (There was absolutely NO squatting. Just saying. Making that perfectly clear. There were port-o-potties available at a not-too-far jaunt, though far enough to keep from damaging the air quality nearby. Okay, moving on.) So there I was, leaning backwards at a precarious angle (I had been backing up when I caught my heel), arms wind-milling through the air, and going, "Oh! Ooohhh! Ooohhhhh!!" while everyone ignored me.

   I fought it, I honestly did. With every ounce of willpower and fortitude I had ever owned (I think I even borrowed some from nearby people- er- zombies). Apparently, zombies do NOT have fortitude, because it was to no avail. All I managed to do was look like an idiot, flailing my arms and tipping like a skate-boarder balancing on a rail, before landing- KERTHUMP!- with a thud in the middle of the chairs. Which, by the way, are not nearly as comfortable to sit upon when they are still folded up. Just saying.

    I also landed on my step-daughter's pocketbook. Which had her glasses in it. Which were not in a case, just bumping around loosely inside. Awesome.

   Now, naturally, everyone wanted to run to my assistance and I couldn't help but to think, 'Where were you all, like, ten seconds ago?!' Anyway, I eventually pried myself off of the pile-o-chairs, bruised, sore, but not in the least embarrassed. Hey, falling is what I do. And by God, if there is something you do well, no matter how trivial, OWN it! And I do. I OWN falling! (I lend it out to my son sometimes.)

The purse was investigated and the glasses discovered whole and hearty- thank God for that! That could have been one very expensive fall.

   We finally finished setting up the booth and began to hawk our t-shirts and pass out flyers while the haunt kids went wandering to see what they could see. A number of zombies trailed by our booth through-out the day: Tippi Hedren (as I have already mentioned, but I did it again anyway, so there, sue me) giving everybody the bird-er- being attacked by her birds, Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandma Wolf, zombie prom queens abounded, zombies in pajamas. (which makes me think of Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs! Does anybody besides me remember that? My daughter loved that stupid show. Anyway, zombies… definitely not coming down the stairs. Falling maybe… Hey, we got something in common!)

   Um, let's see, where was I? Oh yeah, a zombie bride and groom, zombie princesses, a zombie ballerina, and even a zombie nutcracker. Who knew the zombie plague could take out inanimate objects? I have to warn my son, he collects nutcrackers. Just what he needs: to wake up one morning and be doing his own early morning shamble towards the bathroom when suddenly an assault team of zombie nutcrackers starts sliding across the floor after him, their little wooden jaws opening and closing with ominous intent. Chomp, chomp, chomp! Or maybe, Click, click, click. Which makes me think of that Christmas song, (fitting right?) about the reindeer on the rooftop, Click, click, click. Not nearly as ominous. More enjoyable. As long as you're not the one scraping reindeer poop off the shingles.

   So anyway, we managed to sell some shirts- meeting about half our goal for the cost of the event insurance (for the haunt) and all was well. The vendors were closing shop. It was time for the 'walk' to begin. The walk, in essence, is a mini-march down through part of the town, mimicking a zombie hoard shuffling through the streets of some fair city. You know, you've seen it enacted in many a zombie movie. I have to wonder though- does the town use this as some sort of a preparedness drill?  I mean, you have your tornado sirens and your emergency broadcast signals to help you prepare for various disasters. Are they getting ready for the zombie plague? If so, buddy, we might want to all jump on board. I mean, ask yourselves- are YOU ready for the zombie apocalypse? Doubt it.

   So, naturally our haunt kids wanted to join the shamble and since this gave us time to pack everything back up, clean up our area, and prepare to load the vehicles, this worked about perfectly.

   Until, that is, one of the event coordinators stopped by the booth and volunteered me to count zombies. "It's easy," she said. "Just stand at the head of the park and count heads as they leave."

   Sounds easy, doesn't it?

   Wrong.

   Have you ever tried to count hundreds of moving people? They are shuffling and shambling (as zombies do, we already discussed this) and bobbing and weaving (as zombies don't- see above) and moving in and out of one another. And don't even get me started on the kids. Suddenly the crowd would part and you'd see a group of like six or seven (because kids wander in packs a la zombies) that you had failed to count the heads of. This task would have been much easier if we had been allowed to decapitate the zombies and then count the heads. But that was apparently against the rules. They thought we needed a challenge. But the zombies weren't really giving us a sporting chance.

   I managed to count 720 of the blasted buggers- my count matched another person's to a T so I guess I wasn't that far off. However, I missed the MANY who went off course and cut through the park instead of coming up the stairs like they were supposed to. But who could blame them- zombies are not bananas in pajamas, instead they are like slinkies- they tumble down the stairs.

Food Glorious? Food a.k.a. All Things Erky

   Most people say I have a strange palate. My husband will go so far as to say I am un-American and call me a Communist. This is because I strongly dislike, loathe and despise most 'all American' foods. Hamburgers and hot dogs- yuck! As a rule I cannot tolerate red meat in general. I will not partake of ground beef, steak, or ribs, let alone ground-up, mish-mashed miscellaneous cow and/or chicken and pork parts. And anything that is on a bone is a 'Do Not Pass Go!' Do not, in fact, attempt to step near Go. Really, when you get right down to it, avoid Go like the plague- you WILL be turned away at the door.

   Hostess Twinkies and apple pie- double yuck!! I can't stand apples or anything made from them including, but not limited to, pies, ciders, juices, jellies and sauces. And I refuse to eat Twinkies on the grounds that they and the roaches are the only two things likely to survive a nuclear attack. I'll pass on both, thanks.

   Peanut butter and caramel- ewwwwww!! Oh my God! I want to do a 'Yuck! Yuck! Yucky!!' dance just at the thought of it. (For those of you interested- those of you who are not, look away- this dance is similar to the 'Chicken Dance,' though with much more extreme flapping and at a far more frantic pace.) I detest even the smell of peanut butter, it makes me nauseous. And the flavor of caramel revolts me as much as the stickiness. I don’t get the whole sticky thing. Why do you want to deliberately consume something that sticks not only to your fingers (ew!), but also to the roof of your mouth and your teeth? I can't stand it! I won't eat anything sticky- no caramels, marshmallows, taffy, or peanut butter. Nope. I take a big old happy PASS on the sticky.

   If you have been paying attention, you have come to realize that for me, the caramel apple with nuts is the epitome of all that is unholy. It is one of many torture devices utilized by Beelzebub in the seventh level of hell. No need for it here on Earth. Just saying.

   Instead, my palate is more herbivore than carnivore. Rarely have I met a vegetable that I didn't like.  You name it, Brussels sprouts to collard greens, turnips to parsnips, peas, beans and corn, I like them all. Even the strange ones that most people don't know what they are. I was raised on kohlrabi. For this (and many other reasons, I have no doubt) people think that I'm weird.

   Hmmmmm… Really?

   I think it's far weirder that my son will pry open little oyster shells to get to that dubious ball of nasty goo inside and slurp it down. Errggghhh, YAK!!! Or that my step-daughter (who has an adventurous palate), is not at all put off by the cannibalistic nature of ingesting crawfish, gleefully breaking their wee little necks and sucking their brains out of their cranial cavities… Mmhmm good! Forget the biscuits, Alton, that's good eats!

   Recently, my step-daughter and I had a conversation regarding her need to find a French restaurant. The reason? She was craving snails. What?! Hold the phone there, missy! WHO, I ask you, WHO, in the name of all that is holy, craves snails?? She went on to say, that if she could get hold of some 'prepared' snails she would be glad to make them herself, but she couldn't think where to find a specialty market around here for such things.

   'Prepared snails.' Prepared snails? Now my head is filled with jolly cartoonish pictures of happy little snails cavorting (do snails cavort?) around with petite knapsacks on their shells filled with all sorts of paraphernalia, such as teensy little compasses, microscopic bottles of water, infinitesimal rolls of duct tape, and diminutive Swiss Army knives - what you've got there is a prepared snail! That boy is READY for action!!

   So stupidly, I asked, "Exactly how do you prepare a snail for eating?" Of course, I was thinking: Do you give him a stern lecture? Is this something that requires a little heart to heart with the snail, such as: 'Hey, buddy, now I know this is gonna be tough on you, but you gotta brace yourself…" Is this a 'last rites' kind of thing? What exactly is going on here?

   The response was quick and decisive: You have to de-snot the snails.

   Erk.

   What?

   De-snot the snails.

   Erk.  'De-snot the snails.' In order to eat them.

   I'm sorry. If the word 'de-snot' is involved anywhere in the process of my food prep, I am NOT eating it.

   Thanks, I'll stick to carrots. All I gotta do is peel those bad boys and I am good to go…

Misadventures in the Great Outdoors a.k.a. Dude, Where's My Trail? a.k.a. Spider Saga

   I have three passions in life, reading, writing, and walking. More specifically, hiking. Lately, I have been afforded the ability to pursue the first two, but the latter has been more difficult to arrange. I walk for fun- weird I know. But I always have. It was something I got used to as a child when my family could not afford the luxury of owning a car. I was also blessed in that I had a grandmother whose favorite pastime was walking in the woods- it was a weekend activity that occurred in the winter, spring, summer and fall. And I loved every minute of it.

   Finally after years of limiting my walks to parks, neighborhoods and my own backyard, I had the opportunity to go hiking with my son and a friend. It was a small park- we were aware we weren't heading to Yellowstone- however we were determined to be prepared for a whole day of hiking. We were intending to spend anywhere from eight to ten hours and for this reason we planned ahead. We had one pack filled with bottled water, as well as my son's CamelBak and a third pack filled with protein bars, soy nuts, wasabi mix, and sunflower seeds. If we had gotten lost, we had enough to survive at least three days before being forced to resort to Donner party methods. Given that the highway was never more than two miles away at any given point in the park, the chance of that happening was next to nil. Still, we were prepared. (My son had gone so far as to pack two additional pairs of socks so that he might change every few hours in order to prevent blisters.)

   My friend- I shall call her The Navigator for reasons which will soon become obvious- arrived on time for our nine AM departure. And then we waited for my son, a young man who will without a doubt arrive fifteen minutes after his own funeral begins. So we sat. And we waited. And we looked at the clock. And we waited some more.

   When he finally arrived, he was decked out like Indiana Jones (which works, I suppose, since we do in fact live in Indiana) sans the whip. In its place there was instead, a hatchet. Not kidding. A hatchet. Now I am not certain if he thought we were headed into the wilds of some foreign and long forgotten jungle, or if he intended to kill me while we were out there and he had a convenient place to hide the body- I have no doubt my children have dreamed of this on more than one occasion- in fact I am so certain of this, that if my daughter had been on this trip as well, I would have made some excuse and bailed out immediately. Just saying.

   And so we finally headed out and arrived at our destination within the hour. Now, I must say, this is the first point at which The Navigator failed us. After turning into the park (thank goodness for the sign or I might still be driving up and down highway 24 looking for the park that The Navigator knew all about…), I drove down several narrow roads asking The Navigator where there was parking. At this point, The Navigator informed us that it had indeed been some time since she had been in this particular park and she was really not all that familiar with it.

   Yay adventure!

   We found parking (with no help from The Navigator I might add, although in all fairness I must report that I drove past it and didn't even notice it until Indiana Hatchet pointed it out; and this is why I was not The Navigator). I parked my car and loaded down with roughly fifteen pounds of gear split between us, we struck out on our first trail. Each time we reached a fork in the trail we waited while The Navigator consulted the map. Oftentimes upside-down. This should have been our next clue. Her success was, shall we say, limited. Varying. Mixed. Like nuts.

   We followed the trail and it didn't take long to discover that the spiders- for arbitrary reasons known only to them, consistently, insistently, nonsensically, strung their webs across the trails. Every two feet or so, whoever was first in line would face plant into an icky, sticky web. If we were lucky, no one was home. If not, we found ourselves littered with dead bugs and one very live, very agitated spider. Never fun for anyone. Except maybe the second in line who always got a first rate view of the action. Suddenly, whoever was in front would start to dance a frantic jig, waving their hands wildly and shaking every part of their body like they were suffering from the D.T.'s. It was awesome. Ahhh nature.

   It didn't take long to realize that the best course of action was for the person that was leading the way to carry a forked stick, waving it like a magic wand before them as they went. Which brings me to two thoughts: first- all this time we thought divining rods were used to find water- nope! - we were wrong!- they weren't looking for water- they were wiping away spider webs; and second- if this had been Massachusetts in 1692, we would all have been hanged- waving our de-webbing wands the way we were, we could easily be construed as conjuring some kind of wiccan magic. Of course, the only hocus pocus we were conjuring was the famous 'Spiders Begone!' spell. Or 'Eradicating Arachnids.' You choose.

   Anyway, aside from the spiders, we couldn't complain. The weather was perfect, the woods were pretty, and we were in good, if oddball, company. So if I sneezed a bit (allergy season is at its peak for me), I was okay with it. I was taking strong enough allergy medicine to compensate for the pollen in the air. All was well.

   It didn’t take long to discover the map was- among other things- inadequate and inaccurate. So much so, that it took about two hours for The Navigator to discover that the black squiggly lines indicated smaller side trails that branched off the main trail- which I will take this moment to point out encompassed roughly eighty percent of our hiking. In layman's terms, we had spent most of our time walking the black squiggly lines unbeknownst to The Navigator.

   That struggle aside, we were unconcerned. As I said, it wasn't ever likely we would get lost, just likely that we would stumble upon a sight-seeing opportunity depicted on the map while thinking we were on the opposite side of the park. After a bit of walking, we crossed over a wooden bridge. After a while longer, we crossed over another wooden bridge. After even more walking, we crossed over a third wooden bridge. Either we were walking in circles, or that bridge was following us.

   Eventually we came upon another bridge- a green metal one this time- ah ha! we had finally shaken the wooden bridge! - and a biker was sitting there consulting his own map. Turns out, he was having as much trouble with the map as The Navigator. According to his tale of woe, he had ridden in circles three times in an attempt to find the waterfall shown on the map. We were of little help to him and he finally gave up and rode off.

   We took a right off the bridge and walked roughly twenty yards and voila! There was the waterfall. Oops!

   Honestly, he wasn't missing much anyway. When I think waterfall, I think giant, massive rock face with hoards of water cascading heavily over the side. What I got was roughly a fifteen foot rock with buckets of water slipping over the side. It was tiny. It was the little brother of waterfalls. The tiny, baby, newborn, infant brother. Disappointing.

   This was also a dead end, so we returned to the green bridge and consulted the map some more. What to do? Stay on the main trail, which according to the map was going to take us out of the woods and onto the road before us, past a large playground, through an asphalt parking area, before it headed back into the woods, or head back the way we had come and rejoice in the nature we had come to see. We opted to rejoice. We returned along the same trail and eventually found ourselves back at the car which thankfully was parked near a bathroom. Indiana Hatchet was able to take care of business off trail, but The Navigator and I were not so eager. We'd seen enough spiders to know we didn't want to drop our pants anywhere.

   This also afforded me the time to scavenge in my car for much-needed napkins and tissues. My overflowing sinuses had in the last hour turned the faucets on full blast. My sneezing had increased exponentially and in all of our preparations, I had failed to prepare for this. All three packs were completely bereft of any piece of cloth that I might use to wipe or blow, save for Indiana Hatchet's dirty socks, which I hadn't gotten quite desperate enough to use. I had sniffed and snorted so much I was in fear of sucking my own eyeballs into my brain. In short, I was miserable.

   After filling up on water and partaking of the multitude of munchies we had to choose from, not to mention several rounds of emptying my sinuses, we decided to head back and try to hit some of the smaller trails we had missed. How we thought we were going to accomplish this was anyone's guess. So far the map had not been our friend. It had in fact proven that it was the enemy. It hated us and was out to get us. Why were we trusting it now? But hey, we were only three hours in and we had all day.

   After tackling two trails which were a complete disappointment because what looked as if it might be a mile or so on the map actually turned out to be roughly three hundred feet of hiking fun- whoopty-doo- we decided to go off-trail. Indiana Hatchet broke the way- hey, he had the hatchet, it's only fair- and The Navigator and I followed. That was the most fun we had in the day. We clambered up hills, climbed rocks, wedged between trees, picked our way across brooks, balanced on logs (one that broke) and slid down hills that were practically perpendicular. It was like being five again. And amazingly, no one got hurt.

   Eventually my sneezing, which was punctuating the quiet wilderness with machine-gun regularity, startling away any and all wildlife (with the exception of the spiders), put an end to our activities. I was out of tissues and refused to resort to the socks. I am however happy to report that I finally found a good use for the map. Revenge is sweet.