“I will not negotiate with the undead!” ― David Wellington, Monster Island

I was in Barnes and Noble's the other day and they had a cute lil display of a few Halloween items. What really drew my attention was the pile of Zombie books just in front of the cutesy-poo display.

Zombie Haiku

Lost Zombies

And your essential guide on how to survive a Zombie Apocalypse.

I'm thinking I might need to put a new twist on a old theme: Zombie Pirate!

Something new to scare the kiddes with!.

"Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?” ~Scrooge to the "Grim Reaper" (Ghost of Xmas yet to come)

OK...I know....the clock says 50....but it's only 40. Which scares me enough, cuz I'm so not ready to even start yet. BUT, that picture is the countdown clock that I bought a couple years ago at the after Halloween fire sale at Spirit of Halloween. And it will remind me to take it out of our attic and begin the countdown.

To that, there is no Spirit near me this year. I'm genuinely depressed. There is one across town. So what. I had one just up the way from me the last couple years and spent a LOT of lunch hours there.

Although, with Halloween so commercial now, a lot of props for mass market are getting cheaper looking. It's been almost impossible to find a fun addition to my Spooky Town. Terrible paint jobs and cheesy themes abound. I do have a pretty big spread, so I really don't need anything more. But ya know....it's fun to add.

And if you keep in mind what you might be adding for next year, like I do, you can get great deals after the holiday, if you hurry. Folks clear out Spirits after the holiday. Boy do they! Last year I got a great deal on a projector for a DVD player. I want to put a sheet inside the windows of the sunroom and project old black and white horror movies on it! I think that would be fun as the backdrop to the graveyard on the lawn.

Yes.....I'm that serious about it. Do you all not know me by now?

Everyone hail to the Pumpkin King ~ This Is Halloween

It's the lil things.

Rounding the corner at the local grocery store and seeing a maze of decorated boxes with Halloween candy in them. Candy corn on the impulse buy area of the checkout line. And that lil hint of fall in the air.

Or something so innocent and simple as my wife texing, "Would you like a re-usable pumpkin bag?"

The answer is always, "Yes!"

"IS IT SO SMALL A THING TO HAVE ENJOYED THE SUN?" ~MATTHEW ARNOLD

I love the beach. I'm a second generation Cali beach girl. My mom was the original Gidget: sand volleyball, hours in the sun, walking to the beach every day. My favorite moments were sitting at sunset, my toes curled into the cooling sand, breeze off the water, watching the sun slip past the horizon.

Syracuse...is landlocked. Yes, there are lakes, rivers, fake beaches with imported sand on bodies of water. But that's not the ocean. The mighty ocean. The rumble and roar of the surf, pounding the earth. I would roll in the waves until I was body tired, climb to the shore and crash on my towel. When my heart stopped beating so loud that was all I could hear, the voice of the ocean would replace it, through the towel, through the sand, just past the squawking gulls. The rolling thunder of the might ocean

When the opportunity came to stay at Cape Cod, the promise of laying on sand and playing in waves, was like a breath of life! When we got there, it was just like the pictures I had found on line: sea grass and grape stake fences. The sand, a lil coarser. The waves, a lil shallower.

But all in all, a fantastic replacement for my long lost west coast beach. After 8 years of visiting the Atlantic, I've created a new set of moments and memories. We got a puppy 7 years ago and now that beach will never be the same without Roxy running up and down it. Lifeguard towers, as only that Cape can do, now adorn our Christmas tree yearly as an ornament, due to the one right across from the house we rent. I can also say I've experienced 2 hurricanes there. (possibly a 3rd this year?) Never had to worry bout those on the Pacific!

And I can say I got married next to the Atlantic, on that east coast beach in the Cape. Our "first anniversary" this year, after said wedding, will be celebrated right where we stood.

I know the sun isn't good for you, but I just can't resist the warmth and berry brown glow on my skin that comes from it. So we go, as far east as we can, to find the beach once again.

"Shake, shake, shake, Señora, shake it all the time" ~Harry Belafonte

Yesterday a jolt in the earth in VA found it's way allllll the way up central NY. Pretty impressive! I didn't feel it, I was on my way into work, but everyone in the office experienced it. I sure heard about it when I got in tho. And I had the funniest reaction to it: I got homesick.

Earthquakes are so very California. I have been through a dozen or so, that were worth mentioning. Only one of them was really scary. Most of them were enough to say, "Meh....it will be over in a second."

I suppose one should fear the earth, taking it upon itself, to dance and flow as if suddenly liquid. The pictures on the wall, tuned askew and the various books and nick-naks flung akimbo.

Just another 6am wake up call for this second generation California girl.

I use to hear them, actually. Right before they would hit. A low rumble, the earth clearing it's throat, perhaps? Maybe it was more the vibrations that I could sense. But I could call them.

I remember working at Barnes Wholesale and I was sitting and jawing with a co-worker. There it was, the thundering moan of ancient earth turning under the crust that we call home.

"Earthquake." I said in almost a whisper.
"What?" said my co-worker
"We are about to have a earthquake."
"Shut up. You know if we did right now I would jump up an run my ass right outside screaming. I can't stand.......SWEET JESUS!"

I stayed seated on the small sofa in her office, she dove under her desk. When things stopped rocking, she poked her head out.

"Next time you get that juju thing going....walk away from me and don't say NUTHIN!"

I was in senior English when the class room started rocking. A scream from the class room next door and a thud. The sound of 20 sets of knees hitting the ground, shortly after. My teacher looked at us and we scooted back and forth in our desks. "Should we get under?" I reassured her, "It will end in a second." So we waited. And it did.

There was no way this 5'10" girl was going to squeeze under that tiny desk.

The teacher next door, poor thing, was from the middle of America and it was her first earthquake. She pretty much abandoned her class and dove under her own desk, leaving her students to follow on their own.

I've been in bed for most of them. On the toilet for one, when I was a lil kid. Walking across a college campus for another. The cars, bouncing and moving closer and closer to each other. Their alarms, defining. Their owners left to figure out how to get into the cars with the doors touching. I was in our family cabin in the mountains for another. The wagon wheel lights swinging.

There are two kinds of earthquakes: a roller and a shaker. One you can ride out, like being on a boat. The other will bring things off the wall. In 1994 the biggest in the history of my 44 years hit Northridge, CA. While it started out lightly waking me at 4am with its rolling action, it soon changed it's temperament to a shaker. So much so that I finally felt scared.

"HIT THE DOORS!" I yelled from my room. Instructions for my two sisters, who I could hear awake, next door to my room. They tell you to brace yourself in a load bearing door frame for safety. It was the first time ever that I had felt I needed to do just that. We camped out in our doorways like it was forever. 20 sec, tops. Pictures dropped, books flew, my parents scrambled down from upstairs.

We were fine, the house was fine, but a lot of other people weren't. The 6.2 magnitude quake was the worst on record since San Francisco.

Maybe I don't miss them too much. But they beat a hurricane or tornado, hands down. I mean, at least you know where you stuff is. In the other two you have to go two counties over to get it.

A grandmother pretends she doesn't know who you are on Halloween. ~Erma Bombeck

How early can I start talking about Halloween?

Well..it's my blog so I can start right now if I want too, so there :P

I'm already stalking my favorite sites that stock up early for the best holiday evah. I have a long history with Halloween. I think it might have been a favorite holiday of my grandmother. She loved to put on a mask to hand out candy. I have a picture of her with plastic, bloodshot eyes and vampire teeth.

On Halloween, we would hit our own neighborhood, but then it was off to my grandparents to really do it up right. Nan would put out apple cider and donuts. A long gone tradition of an older generation. Decorations that collectors hunt for now, adorned her house: The plastic arched cat with the pumpkin on its back that lit up, and probably a fire hazard. Paper pumpkin candy bags, in burnt orange,black, and a dash of bright yellow. It's googly eyes looking scared. Noise makers and rattles with sexy dancing witches on them, striped stockings and wide brimmed hats. Skeletons in the window, when you walked up to her backdoor, their joints sporting shiny brass brads that let them pose in a spooky greeting.

After bleeding the 'hood of all it's candy, we would travel across town to a family friends house, where 'Crazy Aunt Joan' would be in full wicked witch of the west garb. I would have to be ushered around back, too scared to go to the front. One year she let me pop the balloons on her back that made her witchy humps. Finally the spell broken, my fear gone with each pop.

When Nan passed, leaving a gaping hole in my life, my mom asked if there was anything I wanted, I knew exactly what I would like to have. I wanted the big orange serving dish she would put the candy on each year. It rested on the tall entry table, heaped with treats. She would answer the door, grab for the enormous plate and administer goodies to the kiddies.

We would root though our haul in our bags and sort out what we didn't want. A tangle of salt water taffy, DOTS, gum, black licorice, and donate it to the big orange plate. Then off we would go again, to fill our bags.

Halloween is in my DNA. In fact I think it was just last year, in a sad display of Halloween things in a drugstore, there were those same plastic, bloodshot bug eyes. And I smiled and thought of Nan.

The Devil came for me on a motorcycle

I was driving to work this morning. Earlier on Fridays, which is good for traffic. Very few folks are even going to work, let alone early, like me. My mind on the ice coffee and the breakfast panini I would be stopping off for in just a few minutes. Then I realized I was behind the slowest person alive.

My commute, while not a long one, was frustrating at 15 miles under the posted speed limit. As we plugged along up a hill, I took a glance to see if anyone was behind me, also annoyed.

There, staring back at me in my rear view mirror, was a man on a motorcycle. Gaunt, face half in shade from the morning light lifting over the tree tops. His eyes, piercing, even at the distance he was at behind me.

While he handled the bike smooth and even, he seemed so odd upon the seat. He didn't fit the type that would have that bike. It was unsettling to see his thin, pale frame controlling the iron beast that was the Harley.

77 degrees and it wasn't even 7 am yet.....a chill ran down my spine. "He looks like the Devil on a motorcycle." I said out loud, to no one.

He just continued his icy stare.

As we came around a bend to a stop sign, the light shifted and he appeared to have dark circles under his eyes, his old skin, worn with age, catching the light on the time etched crags.

Then I thought.....what if it was my time? What if the Devil had come for me? Working in tandem with the car in front to slow the traveler, so that Ol' Scratch could pull up along side of me at the next stop.

"Good morning miss," he would say with a Marlboro rasp and the smell, off his understated leather jacket, would be Old Spice with just a hint of sulfur and a touch of clove. "My name is Mr. Azazel, and if you would be so kind to hop on my bike with me....it's time to go."

And I would, cuz who can resist the Devil? And I would wonder, "What did I ever do so wrong? I thought I was a pretty good person." And he would read my thoughts and simply say, "They all think that....even the worst of them."

We came to the intersection that pitchforks into three paths. The slow driver continued right, the 'Devil' went left, and I continued forward. I got to the my lil coffee stop and was a bit hazy from my imagination. Bemused that I could even come up with such silliness.

"It's going to be hot as hell again out there today."

"Yes," I said to the owner, "hot as hell."

But, alas! what poor Woman is ever taught that she should have a higher Design than to get her a Husband? ~ Mary Astell

June 24th, it happened. After a failed attempt in 2009, 2011 brought marriage equality to NY.

Can you believe?

We had been married in MA in 2010, for fear a new NY governor would undo the bill that stated that: if you are married in a state that has gay marriage, NY will recognize your marriage.

So we played it safe. After waiting and waiting for our home state of NY to do the right thing, we wanted to get in, while the gettin' was good. So off to the Cape we went, to spend our money in another state.

Then it happened. The votes were there, in a state who's population is equal to all the other six states that have same sex marriage, combined! It was HUGE!

And while there were no new laws that would protect us. No new benefits to indulge in. There are over 1,200 laws protecting married couples: 100 are state, the rest are federal. We would have to be happy with the 100 while the federal end is not available to us.

It was, personally, a bitter sweet achievement. To be truthful, I really didn't expect to feel any different.

Then I drove to work that next Monday.

As I rode the streets of my lil town, with all the other cars, it dawned on me, "I'm equal to you. And to you. And yes...to you!" There was a new sense of "safety". That the laws, in this state, to a certain level, made me equal.

What a strange feeling that is, indeed.

How many people can say they feel like they are more 'equal' on a Monday morning?

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

It's a drive I take everyday. But last week I had one of those moments. You know when you catch some one's eye in passing and it feels like you've had a moment?

I was driving to work and my eyes landed on a lil ol lady, cleaning the windows of the funeral home. Working diligently from the inside of the entry way. She was on her tip toes, reaching with her paper towel, balancing the bottle of windex in her other hand. Trying to grip the bottle and the handle of the door for stability.

She made wide, sweeping motions and it struck me how someone has to keep the fingerprints of the living, off the doors to death.

The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for. ~ Maureen Dowd

Soooooo....say your paying for something aaaaaaand you don't get your moneys worth. You're promised things that don't come through. You're told it's all taken care of and nothing ever changes.

What do you do?

Let's say....you're renting a tennis court so you can play for an hour every week. Other folks use the court. You don't own it...you just rent the space once a week.

And it all starts out just fine.

Then one day when you get there, for your hour, there is another pair on there playing. They want to finish their set. So they eat into your time.

You complain to the manager of the facility. He apologizes and says he will let the boss know and this won't happen again.

OK....so what...who cares.

Then you notice the lines on the court are peeling and flaking up and you can't tell if the ball is in or out.

You complain to the manager of the facility. He apologizes and says he will let the boss know and this won't happen again.

But now you're really starting to wonder if the money that you are paying each week to be there is worth it.

Now you show up and the net is coming loose and fraying, the lines still aren't fixed and the couple before you seem to take more and more of your time.

This time, when you talk to the manager, you play a lil good cop/bad cop and try to drive the point home that you're not happy.

He apologizes and says he will let the boss know and this won't happen again.

When is enough enough and how do you get someone to care? (other than yourself, of course) Every where I look we are being taken advantage of: at the pump, in government, as a woman, in my paycheck, at my radio station.

Where do you go when your complaints fall on deaf ears? Do you go to another tennis facility and hope to get better treatment there? What are the odds they will be better? Especially in a world where customer service is dead and the client is ALWAYS wrong!

Some days...I just don't want to get out of bed in the morning. I have no more energy to fight the good fight. I use to write letters to companies that needed a good talkin' too. Now when I write, they can't be bothered to even send a form letter!

And the pang in my heart tells me that "If you don't complain, who will". All the while my head is screaming, "They just don't fuckin' care about people anymore."

My head is winning.

“Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.” ~ Dr. Seuss

When you move in with someone, there is the "mesh". Your stuff and their stuff has to cohabitate.

Understandable.

As time goes on, you BOTH get stuff together. Your taste changes. You evolve and hopefully improve. And then the day comes when that one item, that you have overlooked for years cuz it's just part of the environment, is an eyesore.

My overstuffed, plaid chair had reached that point.

It took up a HUGE space in the office of our house. It was comfy, don't get me wrong. It was one of the new items of furniture I bought when I moved from my folks and went out on my own. It looked fantastic in my cute lil apartment in Culver City, CA. We watched TV together. I ate my breakfast in it, every morning, while watching the Today Show. It's hugeness drew in stacks of party goers, who would cram into it, when I would have the friends over for a BBQ. I took a few naps in that chair as well. It's over-stuffed, wonderfulness, a catcher's mitt of snuggly comfort.

When it traveled the United States and ended up here in NY, it was a main part of our apartment living room. Then we moved to the house. Yes, it still held a spot in the living room. Then we decided our 1930's colonial needed a more sophisticated look. The plaid chair wasn't part of that.

Up to the office it went. And to good use! It was my video game chair. It was the "What chat doin' on the computer?" chair. It was still beloved.

Then.....things started to happen to it. Like a neighborhood that suddenly doesn't seem as nice. Like a bad element that moves in next door and the property value goes down.

The cats took it over!

My, once best friend, was now a cat napping place. Which kept you from just flopping down in it. There was always a cat in it OR enough fur in it to DIY a cat clone.

Then we started hearing it...the late night scratchings. Like the flesh being flogged from the back of a tortured soul. "RIIIIIIIIPPP! TUG TUG RIIIIIIIPPP!"

Morning would find the fabric split and the stuffing popping out like bleeding wounds. The chair injuries would drive me into a rage against the cats. But it never mattered. They didn't care. It would begin again the next night. On occasion...right in front of my very eyes. With a look on the cats face like, "What are you going to do about it?"

They were right...I was helpless to come to the aid of my old friend. Didn't matter what I sprayed on it, or covered in tin foil, or surrounded it with nip infused scratching pads with "as seen on TV" guarantees.

If that wasn't bad enough....the ultimate shame came when the hairballs flew. Nasty lil gifts of brownish hell. The liquid, long soaked into the cushion, leaving the matted stomach substance, high and dry and stuck to the fabric weave. Marks that will never quite come out. Like bruises on the fabric.

Ol' plaid had reached the end. No amount of cleaner, or trying to repair the torn fabric would ever fix it. And in the darkness the cats waited. Waited for me to fix up ol' plaid, so they could, once again, torture it.

So with a heft and a push and a roll down the front yard to the curb, I walked away. Leaving my friend outside, on the sidewalk, leaned up on telephone pole.

17 years together. My longest relationship, to date.

We left for dinner and, upon our return, low and behold, ol' plaid was GONE! A new home? A new family? A new life? Who knows where adventure will take that chair. It was good to know that it would live on, in some form.

Goodbye ol friend. May you find a house, free of cats.