The Trouble With Chickens...

It all started out as just good fun, doesn't it always, but Rhett had to take it too far. Tuesday was nice, coffee with the girls. Then he did a little shopping.

Saturday we attended a BBQ for some lovely people new to our community. Later that night Rhett and his friend Pia were thrown out of Bojangles for laughing at the band.

I begged him to save his money, but once he'd emptied his bank account he headed straight for the casino. Our friend Bibian went along to keep him out of trouble, I see now I should have also sent someone to keep Bibi out of trouble. Bibi did, however,snap some lovely pictures of him being thrown out of the casino by security...

Like many other chooks gone wild, Rhett ended up in the river, that's the third time this week. Rhett's grounded now, so tonight he'll be going to bed early-- under a Texas star.

Working Title: Her Shiny Knight

Chapter One

"AAAhhhh" Gilli-Anna screamed for the fiftieth time. She'd been riding her father's destrier in a circle around the castle since she'd broken her fast that morning. Would her father's no brain knights ever discover her missing and come to her rescue? What did a fair maiden have to do these days to find herself a hunka-hunka burnin' love? Thunderhoof, her father's horse, was definitely getting as bored as she and had for the last ten minutes been rambling ever so slyly toward the copse of trees at the edge of the forest. If I can make it to that deciduous I'll use that low hanging limb to knock the crazy lassie off and be home in time for tea, Thunderhoof thought to himself, edging ever closer to freedom.

The Silver Wolf, as he was called by his enemies and more than a few of the ladies about the kingdom because of his mane of auburn waves that never seemed to stay in the perfect feather he worked so hard on each morning and the sterling silver armour he wore that took an army of squires to keep polished to perfection, was charging toward victory in his quest to oust the evil Sir Gruntel from his family home. Sir Gruntel had waited until The Wolf had left to do his part in the Crusades and had seized the opportunity to move onto the lands he had coveted since childhood. Wolf's castle boasted the tallest towers and the deepest dungeons of any in the North , a thing a man could be proud of for sure. He'd feared something like this might happen and had been careful to leave his keys with his most trusted friend, Friar Dan, but he must have left a window open or something. Ugh, he'd wracked his brain and couldn't figure out which one, oh well, it was done now and there was nothing for it but to undo it. In his fury to get home he'd almost missed the blushing maiden being rubbed off her destrier by one of his fine pine trees. He stopped a little sharp and several of his knights in tow had flown off their horses and into the meadow, squires came running from all directions to re-perch their masters onto their war beasts before the dampness of the morning dew on the lavender fields started to rust their chain mail.

Gilli-Anna lay sprawled in a perfect X on the edge of the tree line. Had her skirts not been over her head she would have noticed the audience she had attracted. After several long moments, she caught her breath and sat up thinking to give Thunderhoof the dressing down of his life, "Thunderhoof! You no good..." Thunderhoof was sprinting towards the keep at that moment and Gilli-Anna looked across his departing flanks and into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Had she not then been temporarily blinded by the mid morning sun reflecting off his overly polished armour, it would have been love at first sight...

Outback Dictionary

Snag-A food substance with the appearance of a breakfast link sausage, the size of a hotdog and the taste of absolutely nothing. Usually found wrapped in white bread and drowned in tomato sauce.

Damper-Food prepared and consumed in the outback. Usually involves kangaroo steaks and beer.


Trolley-A grocery cart with four wheels that turn 360 degrees in both directions. Widely believed to be used only in stores that Americans frequent for the entertainment of the locals.


Yank-Any American.


Dunny-Loo


Beanie-Knitted winter cap possibly resembling a bird house, a valcano or a potted plant. Usually hand-made in the desert and sold at a festival.


Jumper-Sweater or sweatshirt

Scone-Biscuit


Biscuit-Cookie


Fringe- Bangs


Morning Tea-Mid-day snack


Afternoon Tea-Early dinner


Chook-Chicken


Serviette-Napkin


Bobs your uncle-Whatever you want


How long is a piece of string?-How should I know?


Good on ya!-Aren't you clever

Fair dinkum-Pretty good

Grog-Beeya (or Beer)

'Heaps' good-Very satisfactory

Trod-You stepped on it


Verge-Curb


Garbo-Garbage guy


Rego-The seven thousand million dollars a year you must pay for the priviledge of driving. You get a stylish red sticker in exchange for your childs college fund.


NT time-Not Today, Not Tomorrow, Not on Tuesdays, Not on Thursdays

to be continued....

Working Title: Hey Baby What's Shaking

I've decided to write my own novel. I've read a few, so how hard can it be? Titling, I think, will be the hardest part, they're always so clever aren't they? Maybe Ro can help me with that one, in the meantime we're going to call it Hey Baby, What's Shaking?

Chapter One

Aaahhh, Delphina sighed as she waved at the car pulling away from the curb. The last one out of the nest, time for me, finally. Delphina had been happy to put her life on hold for the last thirty-four years to raise her seven brothers and sister after her parents had been so tragically cut down in their prime in an ugly skiing accident on Lake Okeechobee in the summer of '74. She herself had been only two at the time but someone had to take charge and keep the family together, and that someone had been her. Now with little Willie finally off the study the mating habits of the African Dung Beetle, Delphina could really start her life. First things first, she had to find a man and get rid of that pesky maidenhead that's been bothering her so much lately. Now, where to look?

Fabian was bored with life as a multi-billionaire sexy playboy professional athlete celebrity. He'd driven the fastest cars and even faster women and was tired of seeing his face, along with the latest super model de jour, on the cover of The Twiddler, the infamous celebrity rag. His father had just that morning threatened to cut him off without a penny if he didn't settle down and start producing heirs this very minute. Darn, Why didn't he finish that degree in wildlife management while he'd had the chance? Eight years at Oxford and another four at Harvard and nothing to show for it but a few varsity jackets and a hat with a propeller on it. He needed a wife and fast. Now where to find one?

Just then, as Fabian screeched his hundred thousand dollar Italian sports car around the corner on two wheels, Delphina was stepping off the curb...It was kismet.

To be continued...

What Do They Know?

I'm very disturbed by all the junk email I receive each day. I'm even more disturbed by the things these people think I need. The Pottery Barn has been trying to sell me new patio furniture--for the beach house I don't yet have, no less--for months now. How do they know that my current patio furniture is faded and used and in dire need of tossing to the curb? And really, how many secrets does Victoria think I need? Does she have superpowers that tell her when someone's unmentionables drawer has become unusually light due to wear and tear? I can't begin to imagine where on earth the Gap got the idea that I could possibly ever need a pair of ultra low-rise gauchos. I remember when acceptable rise gauchos were in style and I'm pretty sure the accessories to those, white leather roller skates with multiple pom-pons in a rainbow of colors and Dr. Pepper lip gloss, are hard to come by these days. I would never be caught dead in a pair of gauchos without the proper accessories. I'm really sorry to tell The Little Red School House, because I think that's such a cute name, that even at 65% off I could never get my kids Hooked on Phonics, but thanks for asking, again. Crate and Barrel, I love ya, but the last thing you mailed to me came in such an unreasonably sized box that Australia could not believe it was just eight iced tea glasses and held it in customs, presumably in a bomb proof room, until I'd forgotten I'd ordered it. It was quite a nice surprise when I did get it but six months is a long time to wait for a glass of tea. PB Teens recently took over for PB Kids as my top offender, I find this disturbing on so many levels because my kids just had a birthday, how did they know we had moved on from butterfly canopies to furry ipod docks? Scary, right? And to Spiro or Juan or Caesar or Donald, no I don't now nor will I ever need Viagra for one dollar, you must be nuts. Where do these people get their information?

That's Right Scarlet, I Have The Rooster....

To whom it may concern,


When people go on extended vacations to foreign lands (Texas) where they will be eating exotic foods (Chili Cheese fries), staying in fashionable locations (Fun Valley) and shopping at exclusive stores (Target) they really should be careful who they leave their keys with.

That's right chick, I have the rooster and I'm sending him on parade. If you want him back sober and single you'll leave a bag of Peppermint Patties in a location to be disclosed at a later time. Don't disappoint me.

E.

Oh, Scarlet, tomorrow is another day after all...

I'm a very busy woman. I have things to do. I have children to educate, laundry to fold, dinners to plan. I have an AWOL garden man I may have to hunt down with my superpowers and force to mow my yard. I have exercise tapes to avoid and years of reading I'm behind on. I haven't called my mother this week. I've forgotten where I left my fuzzy slippers so I'm wearing socks and that throws off my chi. But right now I can't think about all that because I have to go to my friends house and "borrow" her chicken...

The Happy Stacker?

My name is Rowena, and I am a stacker.

I have stacks of everything from mail to plates to picture frames to a patrillion and twelve issues of National Geographic and Oprah's magazine (I am a subscriber of neither).

I am on my 572nd homeschool organizational plan, and once again I am relying heavily on stacks. Now I like organization - no, change that: I love organization. There should be a place for everything. Is it ok if that place is a stack?

Stacking is hereditary. I am not sure if it is a dominate trait, but I know it can be a learned trait as well. My mom was a terrific stacker. It seems I either learned or inherited from one of the best. Some people only have the piling gene. Piling isn't nearly as organized, and it distresses me.

Please do not confuse stacking with piling. Piling is a weak and dangerous form of stacking. It seems to be two of my children's preferred method of storing stuff. My daughter's room is currently edged with piles (must keep the dance floor clear!). My second son's piles are practically volcanic. They flow, spew, and erupt. My eldest son, bless him, has some fine stacking skills in development, so it appears that the stacks will keep coming.


The Happy Stacker Poem.

I am a happy stacker. I happily stack, stack, stack
And if my stack should come unstacked, I happily stack it back.

I am such a happy stacker that I have learned to stack
A stack that stacks up four feet high - No stacking skills I lack!

I'm a happy stacker and I stack stacks everywhere
At any place in my house a stack is all stacked there.

I'm a stacker collector. I appreciate a good stack.
If I get tired of seeing a certain stack I upend it in a sack.

Whenever I have to move it will be a cinch to pack-
Just open up a box lid and stack and stack and stack..

I have tried other methods like file and tote and rack
But this happy stacker always returns to the stack.


happy stacking to you all!
Rowena

My Current Situation...

Dear Sirs,

I am applying for the job of Queen of the Universe. I understand that the position is open while the current Queen is heavily drugged following a difficult childbirth and the pursuant toddler years. My current situation, though rewarding, does not bestow upon me the proper amount of respect or, in my opinion, reverence.

First, I am a three Michelin star chef capable of taking on Gordon Ramsey and boys who can puke up anything too salty, too spicy or too mushy. I earned my stars while in Australia where my steering wheel was on the wrong side to go through the drive-thru at McDonald's.

I have a PhD in girl psychology and boy/husband psychotherapy. I can interpret the multiple meanings behind door slamming, humphing, pouting and cuddling and react with the appropriate amount of eye rolling, deep breathing or hugs and kisses. I can look a grown man in the eye and tell him that he is absolutely right there is no reason why, after eighteen years of marriage, he should know where we keep the sheets. I can also assure him he's not going senile, he never knew.

I am an Olympic qualified rock climber, long distance swimmer and I can drive a grocery cart with wheels that go in four different directions.

I can parallel park a SUV in a motorcycle parking space in a ten minute zone and buy groceries, pick up a package at the Post, run by the chemist for an eight dollar box of Epsom salts and return in time.

I have lived through a nine year old learning the violin.

I have pants in four different sizes in my closet.

I know the location of all five elevators in Alice Springs, Australia.

I can design award winning evening wear for Beanie Babies.

I have trekked through jungles, pilgrimaged across deserts, climbed mountains, white watered rafted, and been to the world's largest mall.

I once went back in time where I became the muse for travelling bards who wrote prose to my beauty and grace and my wispy waist.

I have coffee every Tuesday with an interesting assortment of ladies from four different countries that also have nothing else to do on Tuesday.

I will require a one month paid vacation in September 2012 and nights, weekends, holiday (both American and Australian) and Tuesday mornings off with pay.

Thank you for your consideration, I can be reached at the Yeperenye Shopping Center each Tuesday from 8:15 until 10:00.

Kind Regards,
Edwina Honoria Eloisa Daphne Hyacinth Featherbottom-Smythe

I Should Have Been Born in..

Do you ever wonder what time period you should have been born in? I mean, we all might of been better off in the Rubenesque Period when women were adored for their curves but strictly speaking I've never been that fond of laying around naked on a chaise. The Regency Period may have been interesting, women were getting a little more independent, but then there was all that frocking going on. One frock for morning, another frock for luncheon, a different frock for walking than riding through the park sidesaddle, a 'gentlemen might be calling' frock, a frock for night time entertaining, fancy ball frocks, meeting the king frocks, ugh, too many frocks, and whale bone stays, and chemises and pantaloons-or worse, no pantaloons. Let's think on that one. The Medieval Period could have been nice, you probably only owned one frock, but you had to drink beer or wine at every meal. I don't think there was a choice between red or white and I'm pretty sure all the beer was domestic. And you never knew when a bard might show up and hang around for a season, then share all your business around the kingdom in the form of poetry or song. Had I been born in that time I've no doubt I would have been the person to invent the chamber pot because I won't even walk the fifteen feet to my mailbox in the rain, I'm sure not hauling my fanny to the outhouse, down stone cold steps, over the moat and around the dog pens in the snow. I live in the outback and I'll admit to piddling behind a rock or two but I draw the line at visiting any port-a-loos. Unless, of course, I would have been the person in charge of emptying the chamber pots, then I might have to rethink that. There's always those crazy Romans, conquering the world, could've lived just about anywhere you fancied and they were clean at least. Might have found yourself the prize of one of those big strapping gladiators, it has some appeal and togas could hide a multitude of sins if you had been overly fond of the baklava, but well, the Roman Empire, we all know how that ends. Maybe the 1950's were the way to go. After the invention of the Hoover but before the Internet. You could have worn pearls and high heels while you baked after-school cookies. Just enough technology to make your life easy but not so much your kids had one up on you. Oh, they all have their appeal, which would you choose?

L,
Ed

Tripoley and Covered Dishes

One Thursday each month I get together with a group of ladies and play a game called Tripoley. This game consists of cards and dimes (or their equivalent in your current situation--right now we're using ten cent pieces) and is a combination of poker and maybe rummy? Anyway, you win by drawing certain cards and getting the opportunity to play them. I never win. If I take three dollars I come home with nothing, if I take a hundred dollars, I come home with nothing. The rest of the ladies show up with jars of coins from previous games, mine comes in the plastic baggies the banks here give you with your coin order. When you run out of money you should quit the game but my particular case is so pitiful that other people donate money to me. Last night I lost all of my money and then all the pity money I received. I really only go for the buffet and it's a good thing.

L,
E

Lord Trout, The First Lady, The Fish Club, And Miracles

My husband, Lord Trout, is currently the president of a local chapter of Trout Unlimited. This TU chapter is a fine organization dedicated to conservation, preservation, and restoration of trout streams in the area. Still I irreverently refer to it as The Fish Club. His presidency, however, makes me a First Lady ... The First Lady of Trout, I suppose.

Being the First Lady means a couple of things:

1) I am privileged to have a scepter fashioned from a fly rod standing watch in a bedroom corner

2) I am witness to Trout Miracles.

Now, a Trout Miracle can take many forms with the most common form being Lord Trout's ability to get off work on time just about any time a meeting of The Fish Club is taking place. I never cease to be amazed at this phenomenon, and I am astounded each time he squeaks in before dark to gather presidential supplies and head to a town 20-30 minuted away to preside over a gathering of fellow fisherpeople. Lord Trout rarely makes it home from work in time for a decent supper or to watch his beloved nerd news shows, so you can see just what a miracle it is that he can accomplish the aforementioned feat.

Another thing I've noticed is the assumption on the part of others that I share Lord Trout's love of fish tricking ways. Ironically, considering I am the First Lady and all and mothering a new generation of fishermen, I have absolutely no desire to catch fish. Fly fishing is an art form of sorts developed to trick fish into biting fake bugs. Somehow I consider myself above that. I could change my mind if my family is ever starving and in need of trout flesh nourishment, but as long as I am married to a guy who thinks this is fun, why bother? Right? And as long as there are unread books, songs to sing, cross stitch patterns to bring home and never use, toenails to paint, and shopping to perform, I cannot imagine spending a whole day in the pursuit of tricking fish. But, Lord Trout, more power to ya, Honey!

d