Smokey Mountain Breakdown

about Tennessee doctors.

The most ironically named healthcare organization in the world, Mercy Health Partners, has granted me an audience after a year of them refusing to return my phone calls and, notably, of them leaving me to writhe in agony in a pool of my own feces for five days. That, you may remember was back in September (my birthday week) and I've been in therapy for PTSD ever since. I had begun to find a sense of peace with that when they called asking me to come kiss their ring or something. But of course, it all came roaring back and now I'm back to not sleeping and major crazy time burning in effigy and calling down curses upon the Assholes and the Assholes they rode in on (aka Rural Medical Services).

It's not good for me feeling rage like this. So, I deflect with humor as much as possible. But with all things truly hilariously funny--there's an edge to it. After all, it's only funny if the baby carriage actually does fall down the stairs or if the pain patient actually gets poo on themselves in my case. Anyway. I agreed to go to the appointment and now I find myself wondering if I'll be able to get through it without erupting into a Medea-esque crazy bitch rage. Or making unending references to their soullessness, lack of medical ethics or insatiable desire to kill kittens.

Do you remember the Germans episode of Fawlty Towers? If you are too young to remember this, go find it on YouTube. In it, Germans are staying at the hotel so no one is supposed to mention The War. So Basil (John Cleese) spends the entire episode making Hitler references.

How am I supposed to get through this appointment without mentioning The War, for God's sake?

My friend, Brad Green, asked me to submit something to The Legendary, a journal he's joined as editor. Brad has one of those strong, flavorful and most definitely virile Southern voices--the sort you expect from Texas. If you haven't checked out his blog, Elevate the Ordinary, I encourage you to do so. Read A Visit to a Tittie Bar. I like that one. A lot.

Anyways. I sent him a selection of what I had coming off the burner at the time and they chose The Adamantine Heart and Love Cats.

The Adamantine Heart (excerpt)

It's easier than you might think to turn your heart into Adamantine. It sneaks up on you while you are trying to get love right. It blindsides you when your teenage boyfriend drowns in a freak accident. It slides into you when your steady fellow in college smacks you around. It happens when your mother dies, then your father dies. It happens when you walk in on your best friend, hanging nude from your gravity boots while your husband, in a hood, whips her with your riding crop--the one you actually use on your horse.

Love Cats (excerpt)

Out on the pier they'd stand, looking out to the ocean with opal eyes, boding bad luck. They'd throw things into the sea from time to time. Someone said it was the ashes of their vanquished conquests. Someone else said it was the tiny bones of their hearts. And still another said it was a stack of handwritten valentines delivered into their hands by scores of damaged lovers. No doubt they were a couple, slinking through the night, all black eyeliner and sadness.

Many other excellent stories from writer friends-- Tim Yelvington-Jone's "Grace," Dawn Allison's "No Fear for Flowers," Frank O'Connor's "Raindrops," and many more. Go read!

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In other news...if you are whining because I'm not on Facebook more often--well, it ain't gonna happen until I get high speed something or other. Takes me six hours every two weeks to do what it takes most of you 20 minutes to accomplish on FB. Facebook's interface is about as elegant as a pile of dog poop--so, I've got better things to do than watch the swirling beachball of death and rebuilding my permissions every 20 minutes. But I love you guys and have no problem answering emails.

God, I love Spike TV--I can't be the only woman who'd rather watch Spike than Lifetime, am I?

Anyway, I've become addicted to Deadliest Warrior, which is basically Jackass with reenactors, computers and ballistics gel brain cases. It reminds me of being 12 and sticking firecrackers in metal tiki torches we'd put tin cans on to watch them go "boom." The epic pre-pubertal exploration of "gee, what can I blow up next?" Or later, as a teenager, launching bottle rockets by hand out the back of your friend's hatchback at night and that wonderful screaming sound they made--especially when you were really high. If you grow at all nostalgic for those more innocent, stupid times when gunpowder and marijuana went together like cake and ice cream, Deadliest Warrior is the show for you.

The basic premise is to match two historical warriors who would never have met each other in real life, rate their weapons then run computer simulations on who would win. The pairings are hilarious and unlikely: Apache vs Gladiator, Viking vs Samurai, Spartan vs Ninja, Pirate vs Knight... Here comes the funny part. They invite experts to whack the ballistics gel torso with their chosen warrior's weapons. A doctor comes out and explains in detail what just happened to the dummy and how terribly dead this guy now is. No, really, the funny part is getting the two teams of experts together and watching their faces when their warrior loses. Some of them actually whine at each other. I'm pretty sure if the show's producers allowed it, things would turn into an all out brawl. And if you want some real entertainment, check out the show's blog and read the comments.

Anyway. That's my guilty pleasure for the week.

Our first true, wet, Tennessee spring in two years has set the forest afire with flowers. Far up in the reaches, beyond the reach of dirty-foot dryads, are the poplar tulips. The blossoms are heavy like magnolias but not as big. Green, yellow and orange, you usually only see them on the ground after a big blow or a heavy rain. As luck would have it, I came across a huge limb blown down by a recent storm.

The flowers are pretty in the way I most like pretty--twisted with the colors off just-so. Like the pretty part of death or the pretty part of a dreadful calamity. I'm told not everyone is capable of appreciating such things. How pitcher plants and some orchids look like something from a dark place or a planet we couldn't possibly cohabit. But poplar tulips are like that, a delicate sickly green touched by jaundice with a splash of dangerous orange in the center. They look like something a clever fey would concoct a precious poison with--a poison fatal to inconstant lovers, perhaps. Or people who speak without thinking. Or the pompous. Or maybe not the pompous because they are just funny. Annoying sometimes but generally funny. I mean, it's funny when someone thinks they are better than you for whatever reason, since you can hear the thundering bootsteps of hubris clomping along behind them and the whistling displacement of air as said boot kicks the pompous in the arse. (As it always does...)

And poplar wood breaks with the exact brittleness of human bone. How cool is that?

So, Max is once again barking his frantic--OMG! OMG! OMFG! Lookit! Lookit! Lookit!--and that can mean only one thing--Snake. Or trapped something.

Anyway, I find he is yapping at a black racer snake living behind my heat pump. The racer has caught a baby bunny wabbit and is squeezing it to death. Not sure how the bunny got there--unless the bunnies are living there and the black racer came upon them. Or Max chased the bunny into the snake's opportunistic reach. Not sure, but squeezing was well under way by the time I found them.



I'm actually sort of glad to have this sort of snake living around the house because they eat mice and rats and all sorts of things I don't want around. But I've kept snakes before and I would have sworn this was a much more ambitious meal than a snake this size could handle. I found a big one in the chicken coop once that had eaten the fake easter eggs I'd put in the nests to encourage the hens to lay. Had to kill that one since it wouldn't have survived with all that plastic in its gullet.


I gave him some privacy to concentrate on consuming the bunny and when I came back out he had stuffed himself in the hidey hole between the heat pump and the house. So I didn't get a picture of the lump. But it might have looked like this:


Except with a bunny rabbit.

Well, since I no longer have the goat herd keeping the vegetation down, the snakes have arrived in spades. This morning, I go out and Max is having kittens over near the drop off. I go over because I know how a dog behaves around a snake before it has been bitten--and Max is doing just that happy dance. The one before they become intimately aware of what a massive envenomation feels like. I call him off and there right in front of him, reared up like a cobra and coiled in four zig-zagged, snakey neck springs--OH NOES--it's crotalus horridus! A Timber Rattler. Actually, it's the only rattler I've seen in the wild here, not counting Pastor Jimmy's church snakes. I stand there clapping my hands to keep Max's attention--he's scared because he thinks he's pissed me off--until the rattler backs down. Max and Shadow get frogmarched into the house where we wait for the snake to find a better place to hang out and for Max to lose interest.

Speaking of venomous reptiles, I ran into Pastor Jimmy and Pam outside the library last week. It reminded me how much I've missed their company and I think I should make an effort to go to church. Perhaps it will pull me out of my funk. And Jimmy should really come snake hunting up here now, especially now that the snakes are back.

The story I've been writing this week has not been going well. Primarily because I got sucked into my research. There's something about the late 18th century that calls to me in a very personal way. Anyway, I've been rereading Sade--yes, as in the Marquis de...and feeling very sympathetic towards him. I've actually shed a few tears for him this week. His life was such a train wreck and the deeper I delved into his life, the more I realized he reminded me of Scott--I think because Sade lacked filters like Scott does. And if you are reading this, going on what you think you know about Sade, then you may be a bit horrified I feel so sad for him. But really, if you compare him to the monsters that surrounded him--beings like Robespierre and Saint-Just--he comes off as a kitten. A sort of screwed up, self-involved, control freak kitten with issues needing serious therapy, but certainly not the boogie-man history painted him as. I think he was pretty much robbed. I hope he got a do-over without the maniacal monster-in-law.

Anyway, I started writing a story using Sade's voice but realized I wasn't ready. Sometimes you have to wait until you are ready to write a thing and no matter how much you force it, it won't come. I know that story is in me, it's just not ripe yet.

I go into the doctor today because I've had these icepick headaches for two months now. They've gone from being 3 minute crash-to-your-knees events but over quickly so easily ignored, to something akin to a migraine that requires I sleep on ice packs. Anyway. Can't ignore them anymore. My entire philosophy of survival with chronic illness is a delicate balance of denial and actually treating my problems. I've discussed this on the blog. It's all based on the idea that if you pretend nothing is wrong, then nothing will be wrong. Monty Python and the Holy Grail's Black Knight is my role model.



So, the crashing one-sided headaches have made it difficult for me to pretend nothing is wrong. Particularly since it's on the bad side of my brain. The left side. So a neurologist gets to be the latest in my merry band of medical caregivers. I don't know what they think he or she can do about this. But we must protect the brain because it's all I've got left.

But the nurse makes me get on the scale and I'm the fattest I've ever been. I'd gotten to a point where I was okay with my fatness, but damnit--it's not okay anymore. I don't look like me and yeah, I hate myself. Not in a weeping fat lady hanging all over Richard Simmons sort of way, but in a dark, emo, crawl into my cave because I'm Grendel the monster sort of way. Take up bulimia again, sort of way. But one of the library ladies is maybe giving me a treadmill so I can walk without fear of falling--so that's good.

Anyway. I'm completely owed a do-over. This life has obviously been one big fat karmic payback session because obviously I was some sort of monumental asshole in every previous incarnation I've had. Next time I want to be healthy and mildly stupid so stuff doesn't bother me so much. You know. Normal.

I love the golden light right before it becomes too dark. Here, like many places in the South today, it has been storming. Anyway, I looked out the window from the reviews I was writing and saw the sky as one bruise with the wind whipping. And there, just on this one mountaintop, was light, all gold and green. The rain has made everything so green here and it is at the point in the spring when each hill has thousands of hues of green--but fresh green not dead winter green. Just this one ridge in all that angry purple. Then just a smudge of rainbow appeared above it. Just an afterthought of a rainbow. Then darkness.

It reminds me why I love this place so much.

Tivo Alert!

Andrew Zimmern's Bizarre Foods visits Appalachia tomorrow night at 10:00. Looks like he's sampling some of my personal favorites like liver mush and chicken fried squirrel. Also on the menu are bear meat (which I've always wanted to do a Food Porn article on but haven't gotten any donated for the cause), wasp larvae (WTF?) and mushroom coffee. He actually goes squirrel hunting, which I gotta see. Looks like his promo even has a possum in the process of being "perished."

The dogwood trees are amazing this spring. The blooms are the size of saucers, the canopies dense as clouds--I don't think I've seen them quite like this before.

I've got a story that went live today on The Litterbox Magazine. It's called "The Ugly Tango Dancer." I hope you like it.

It was inspired was a stage I went through where I only dated people with disfigurements. Really. I think I had some metaphysical reason for doing so. I think I bought into the Hallmark idea that one's soul could somehow balance the accident of being born ugly. But I needed research to back up my belief. Thus, the ugly lover stage. What I found was that the two states, the physical and the spiritual, do not seem to be even distantly related. The ugly can indeed be ugly down to a cellular level. Their wounds do not ennoble them. The converse can be true of pretty people, but they are just as likely to be suppurating beneath their lovely skins. But the sad thing I found was that souls are much more likely to be ugly. They don't just pop out pretty--they are ugly like human babies are. Oh come-on--you know human babies aren't pretty! They come out looking for the world like blood drenched Shar-Peis.

Rail at me if you wish. Scream at me the things your mother told you. Or your minister. But it's true. We are ugly to the bone. If you aren't working on making your soul beautiful (and those who know me know I'm not talking about religion, Christianity or otherwise--you are as likely to adorn your soul in a church as you are to find a sensible, reasonably priced pair of Christian Louboutins) then you have the typical Quasimodo-ish human soul. And, as Stuart Smiley says, that's okay.

Anyway. I have to work at it lest I sink into a vat of bubbly nihilism. I'm way too fond of shadenfreude. I'm reading Andrew Davidson's beautiful debut novel, The Gargoyle, in an effort to sound less bitter and jaded. So far I found myself thinking, "Damn--he seems really vanilla for a porn star." 'Cause I'm ugly.

Many times when I've writing, I use something from the natural world as a jumping off point--or as an element in my story. Because I don't like being wrong--a particularly girly thing about me--I usually double check my facts, even if I think I know everything I could possibly want to know about a thing. I'm always amazed by how much I don't know. Take barnacles for instance...

I'm writing a story and bring up barnacles. I'm thinking I'm only going to use the clingyness of them, how they cement themselves to something then proceed to cover themselves with limestone secretions, living their lives in one spot until scraped off or eaten by stone crabs. Because that's what I know about them.

But HOLY MOLY! They gots penises that are 8 times and long as they are high! So, in human terms, that's like a 6 foot tall dude needing to lug around a 48 foot long schlong. Even given dips in too cold water or other shriveling type events, that's just johnson overkill.

The article, Barnacles Can Change Penis Size and Shape, was in Nat Geo over a year ago. Evidently, they had some trouble in the lab because "it's hard to get barnacles to extend their penises on demand..." so "the team artificially inflated the barnacles' genitalia with seawater using a custom-made penis pump built out of tubes and hypodermic syringes." This only after copies of PlayBivalve, Nekkid Stripper Oysters and unhampered access to Internet crustacean porn in their little cubicles failed to do the job.

Also, barnacles are hermaphrodites so they technically don't actually need these enormous snausages, being able to impregnate themselves just fine, but "barnacles prefer to mate with other individuals whenever possible." And I think we all can understand that just fine. Right there with you, buddy.

I've gotten so much done this week since I decided to stay off Facebook. Computer life is nice again now that I'm not waiting 30 seconds for their bloated crap to load. I think I'm going to limit my Facebook time to once a week or something--at least until I get something better than 26K dialup. Been thinking about doing satellite now the the prices seem to have come down a bit. If I can get rid of my AT & T (AKA: The Great Satan), it might be doable.

I've been tentatively venturing into the yard to do yardwork. You know, every spring for the past five years, I've suffered a pretty bad fall. It just seems to be something that happens. So I've been trying really hard not to fall. One year I tried to not go outside and ended up falling in the house. But I have high hopes for spring 2009. I'll let you know in June if I made it.

I've been really disgusted with people who make censorship a way of life. It's not the people you think. It's the entire reason I've backed out of every group I've ever identified with, wiping my mouth like I'd kissed a sewer. Why do people feel the need to control the thoughts, emotions and speech of others? I just so don't get it. Especially marginalized groups of people, who, more often than not are the most intolerant of all. I'm just too weary of the non-stop whining. If you want something just shut up and fucking take it. That's empowerment.

And it was great! Listened to to last night and enjoyed it very much.

"They Made Us Walk to Eat" is read on the Diet Soap Podcast, aka Charles Lain's Podcast. So, if you always wanted to experience one of my stories but were too lazy to read them--you can download the Diet Soap Podcast from Podmatic or from iTunes. I'm linking to Podmatic because I'm on 26K dialup and just loading my iTunes takes forever and I can't have too many things going at once with it or it shuts my computer down.

Doug reads from his intro to the Sabotage issue of Diet Soap, turning the concept of sabotage (which we usually think of as a tool for the underdog), on its head, pointing out how the practice of sabotage has moved from micro to macro. Everything from our government to our economy engaging in self-sabotage or sabotage by the biggest entities on larger constructs.

"They Made Us Walk to Eat" is my fat camp story and it's very appropriate for this theme.

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I'm watching The Tudors and am completely hooked! I wish I was well-off enough to afford premium satellite so I didn't have to wait for shows like that to go to DVD--but I'm almost done with season one. It's a complete rape of history, but I knew that when I saw the costumes which are gorgeous interpretations of the period. Love them, but not truly authentic. Sumptuous, nonetheless. As long as you aren't looking for historical accuracy and can just sink into the story, it's very enjoyable. I love all the little jabs at history and art. Definitely more enjoyable if you know your art and history as these writers obviously did, but are willing to have fun with it.

The Teabaggers came out yesterday in Cocke County to demonstrate at Newport City Park. I hate that I forgot all about it while I was in town--though obviously it was in the back of my mind when I saw that truck with the truck nuts. Really, I wouldn't normally have gone off on the truck nuts like that, but I now realize it was my brain telling me I forgot something. Like maybe I should drive by the Teabaggers and get some piccies or gawk or something. Snicker. Stuff like that. Payback for the glazed months I spent after 2002 curled in a fetal position, retreating into the fantasy world of West Wing.

And I was framing a mockity-mock incorporating "Pie Hole" and "Teabagging." And The Pie Hole did run at least one article--more I think, though there wasn't anything in today's paper. Curious, I thought, since they seemed really gung-ho about it and all starry-eyed about maybe being Rupert Murdoch's bitch. No really. They love Fox News.

But no, being Cocke County, we had to shame ourselves on a national level--and not just because we didn't realize "teabagging" meant something entirely different in today's vernacular. That's totally not our fault--evidently no one at Fox or the Republican Party caught that one. Just don't suggest they follow it up with a rusty trombone parade.

No, we made freaking Daily Kos with this one. Could we just keep our heads down for a few years? Please?

Okay. So, I'm in Walmart today after picking up the lawnmower and having a big ole pity party and a good cry at my therapist's. I leave with my groceries and as I'm walking off to my jeep, I spy a big truck. It has truck nuts. Big black ones. Truck scrotum. Srsly.

WTF is up with truck nuts, anyway? I mean, do they have some sort of purpose? Do they keep your trailer hitch from jouncing off? 'Cause if they do, then I might get some balls for the jeep--though I'd prolly see if they had jeep ovaries. Pink ones. Do truck nuts do anything? Anything, at all? Other than say, "My truck has balls and I have one of those mounted, singing fish hanging in a place of pride back home at the double-wide?"

This is my problem with the implied virile message of truck nuts. They are absurdly small if one was to take the anthropomorphic metaphor to it's ultimate conclusion. I mean, them's some tiny testicles to be dangling from the back of a Dodge Ram. And since they are swinging from the trailer hitch---the implication is the trailer hitch has something to do with it. And the trailer hitch is not the biggest part of the truck--if you get my drift. Maybe not the best thing to be advertising or drawing attention to, if you know what I mean. And they are sort of homoerotic in a Bubbalicious sort of way. I'm sure Scott would totally get what I mean, since he likes a bit of rough.

For one mad moment, there in the crowded Walmart parking lot--I sort of wanted to go over and give them a little squeeze. Just to see what everyone's reaction would be. If anyone would call me on it.

Woke up this morning to stark white snow coating tiny green leaves. House wrens puffed up in outrage on the porch, ruffled featherage. It started to snow yesterday while it was still warm. I had gone out to check the mail and caught a few chunks on my shirtfront. The problem with being bosomy is that everything lands on your shirtfront. It's like you carry around your own crumb receiver. And if you are in the slightest bit messy (and like most creative types, I take messy very seriously, indeed), then there isn't enough coinage in the world to cover your drycleaning. So I wear lots of black, washable garments. But this was just snow, so no harm, no foul. Luckily, it wasn't precipitating gravy.

It's still snowing.

I have two stories out in the current issue of The Birmingham Arts Journal. It's always very gratifying for me when a Southern publication accepts my work. It is my thang, after all. The two stories are: "A Pretty Little House" and "The Best Edible Wax Horse Teeth Ever."

"A Pretty Little House" is an all dialogue, experimental piece that takes place in a laundromat.

"The Best Edible Wax Horse Teeth Ever" is a period piece set in the late 1960's in Bluffton, S.C. Most people will recognize The Mercantile.

You can download a full copy of The Birmingham Arts Journal in .pdf HERE. Or, even better--get a subscription!

Everyone was so sweet to me while I was being fragile. I guess I still am, but the ice pick headaches I've been having have made me cranky---and that's always a good antidote for fragility. It's hard to be fragile when you want to kill something so very badly. I've been plagued by real-time stupid people recently and that does tend to make one cranky.

I see stupid people. Way more than I would like to.

Also, there appears to be a mildew ghost in my home. My wonderful neighbor who built my house is going to see if he can find it to exorcise it. It's very odd--there's a column of air in the middle of my kitchen--not attached to anything in particular--that smells of mildew. I've been sniffing everything trying to find the source. It reminds me of the cold spots ghosts hunters claim they can feel. But mine is smelly, too.

Hughes net sent me a free installation card. Price has come down on those so I'm seriously considering it. But a 2 year commitment is sort of silly. They are going to have to do away with that before most people will consider it.

But I've got several stories out right now. Dogmatika took "Applewhite." It went live on April 1st. I just found it yesterday--I have to keep an eye on these things and sometimes I forget what I have coming out.

In other news, they are going to read "They Made Us Walk to Eat" from Diet Soap #3 on a podcast. I'll let you know where when I find out. I got the copy of the magazine and it's really a beautiful thing. They even found a Shoney's Big Boy graphic for my story.

I am fragile. But fragile like my grandmother’s hands with their veins crossing like purple highways. My mother sat at her bedside holding those hands, she’d trace the veins and watch the blood fill them back up. There was a delay, like the blood was a sluggish river. My grandmother, she was too proud to come back after the stroke, refusing to speak rather than learn again. But I am fragile like her hands with their parchment skin, easily torn and see-through.

I’m standing in the Walmart where I am because I need some big sponges. I broke down in tears during my therapy appointment before coming here and my eyes are still red. I pluck myself up wondering how many of the people here have stood atop Glastonbury Tor and felt the wind try to carry them away…or been chased by gypsies outside the cathedral at Chatres…or made love in a seedy hotel in Versaille…or been torn a new one by a real British dame? It’s not like I don’t know the answer. These were my dangerous choices. The choices I made instead of staying home and living a quiet life. So now I am alone and worried I have nothing new, exciting or different to look forward to. And no one to share it with—whatever ‘it’ turns out to be. I get my sponges and carrot juice and check out, feeling spectacularly alone.

This all hit because the realtor comes by tomorrow to look at the farm. It’s too much for me to take care of by myself. And I can’t get the sort of medical care I need by myself because the doctors take advantage. And I can’t afford to take care of both the place and myself. So I must leave. The “by myself” phrase keeps coming up and I think, now, that I made terrible choices since being me means I am now this fragile, alone thing. The people around me don’t look different from me. I fit in here, externally. But I know what fills me is very different than what fills them.

So I am fragile and papery and vulnerable. Just like my grandmother’s hands.

And I got a very nice personal rejection, which didn’t help matters terribly.

My invisible sheep.

I've been a bit sheepish about writing about Bonnie, the new Jacob Sheep, because after these pictures were taken she disappeared--I presumed into the gullet of some wily coyote. I always feel a deep sense of shame when my livestock fails to thrive. Or just keels over dead which is more common. Actually, I was able to clean her up after this and shear most of the bad wool from her. I had to cut a lamb collar out of her neck that had grown into her throat. And then, that night, her butt got chewed up. I blamed Max but ended up having to shoot the neighbor's pit bulls off the ridge. (Didn't hit them though I totally wouldn't be sorry if I had.) Whosoever chewed up the sheep butt--it was pretty badly chewed, but I was able to doctor her up. But after so much trauma, it's not surprising Bonnie Sheep decided to become invisible.

I'd despaired of her returning, but she showed up again yesterday and today. I was hopeful she could incorporate herself into the small herd here, but it seems Jacob Sheep have little to no herding instinct. Which is too bad, since my two Shetland boys are badass eunuch warriors worthy of guarding any sheep seraglio. They would protect her if she'd let them and if they weren't just "not that into her." Actually, Mutton tried to beat the crap out of her. I really feel sorry for the poor baby. My place is much more Wild Kingdom than Mr. Greenjeans. And Bonnie is very much a pet.

Anyway, cross your fingers she is able to blend into the herd. It's the best thing for her. Mutton is the thinking sheep and she wouldn't have to do any thinking at all. Sheep are happiest when they don't have to think. Poor Mutton is mad as a hatter from all the thoughts he's had to endure.

Good thing she came with a name. Or I would have prolly named her "Shank". To go with Mutton and Chops.

Popcorn Sutton was found dead in his home today from apparent suicide. He was 61. There will be an autopsy tomorrow at UT to confirm the cause of death. He was scheduled to turn himself in this Friday to begin his 18 month sentence in federal prison for felony possession of a firearm and illegal distilling of liquor.

There have been some accidental deaths in Cocke County recently due to one of the newer prescription pain killers--one that evidently isn't as forgiving as oxycontin to being crushed, snorted or taken with liquor. If they do find drugs in his system--and Lord knows Popcorn had legitimate reasons to take them--there's no telling unless Popcorn left a note. They say he was very afraid of dying in prison. So he may indeed have decided to check out early.

Thus passes a true Cocke County original.

J. J. Stambaugh's Coverage on KnoxNews

Hold onto your hats, knickers, pants or anything you deem worth holding onto, my Sloe-eyed darlin's. I'm working the blogroll tonight--finally.

Blogrolling, while it shows up, has never gone back online and I'm declaring it officially dead. I can't add new or get into my files to edit existing entries.

So here's the deal. If you haven't posted to your blog in six weeks, I'm dumping you. Not to fear, though--if you need the link, just email me and I'll get you back up. I can't promise I won't lose people I didn't intend to lose--but same dealy-bob. Email and I shall put you back up.

I may be reorganizing a bit now that I have all my new lit-rary buddies.

I hung around in town last night to watch Watchmen, which was playing at the local cinema because they probably thought it was a regular type of superhero movie and not a 3 hour steampunked dark vision dripping with irony and all sorts of other smart stuff no one will probably get because they will be too busy being scandalized by Dr. Manhattan's junk.

I had a few hours to kill between my therapy appointment and the movie, so I went to Walmart to get a book and some carrot juice. Then parked behind the theater to read and listen to All Things Considered while I waited for the 7 o'clock showing.

It's funny, because I had been talking with my therapist about how no one looks like what I thought we'd all look like as we aged. I had written a story after looking at pictures of Robert Smith and Morrissey, both of whom are cemented firmly in my brain forever 25 or so--and it was shocking to see current photos of Smith not pulling off the eyeliner and hair (and bless his heart still trying to at 49) and Morrissey looking like a stodgy publican despite his lifelong veganinity. I mean, I always figured I was headed to Hell in a handbasket due to the lupus, poor healthcare, hard living and poor diet. But those beautiful boys and girls from the pages of Spin Magazine wrapped in their moodiness, I sort of would like them enshrined--wrapped in acid free tissue in their original box. None of us have aged like we thought we would, though I'm quite certain we feel the same in our heads.

There's no line in the theater since it's a week night and the show the movie only once during weekdays. The teen-something at the counter's eyes pop when I ask for one ticket to Watchmen. "Ouuu..." she says, "you know it's rated 'R'? It's got lots of blood, gore, nudity and sex."

"Hit me."

Actually what I said--and it sort of came out of my mouth like the ghost of my Aunt Emmy-Jo--was, "That's fine, dear. I'm not from around here."

I loved the film, which is full of balletic violence and Jackson Pollock blood splatter--and, thank you very much--finally--full frontal male nudity, albeit of the CGI variety for much of the film. The sex was okay--Torchwood has hotter sex scenes and that's for late night Brit TV. It's a very grownup film with stunning art direction. I'm talking Blade Runner gorgeous. The source material is masterful and they don't screw that up. If you are a history buff, there's delightful plays in that direction and wonderful period pop culture references. Costume design was uneven, but where it popped it popped big. Like Ozymandias' purple 80's business suit and the 1940's stuff. Wow. Hard to go wrong, but not appropriate for anyone under 17. Really.

But it was disquieting to see the 80's steampunked on film. I mean, I was twenty-something when Watchmen came out--then, it was an alternate reality. This felt like the first time I heard The Talking Heads rendered into Muzak.

I may go back and watch the movie again--it's that beautiful. Not for everyone, but I love artful blood splatter and realistic violence rendered lovingly. And there's really more subtext than can be absorbed in one viewing. And maybe I just want to get another gander at Dr. Manhattan's package.

This new magazine based out of Pittsburgh, Weave, announced the list of contributors for the upcoming issue on the 5th of this month. I knew my piece was going to be included in this April's issue, but they also emailed me and asked if they could use my story on the website. Of course, I'm thrilled and delighted to have it both online and in print.

It's funny--Pittsburgh is somewhere I always thought I should be. But have only spent extended periods of time in their excellent airport.

In addition to Davka's cover art, they also showcased poet, Karen J. Weyant's "The Girl Who Could Catch Echoes." My piece is "The Cancer Woman's Beautiful Daughters." But you've got to actually buy the issue, if only to read Damien Dressick's "What We Don't Talk About When We Talk About Your Cousin Who's in Prison." Best story title evah!

What is Weave?

Weave is a literary print publication and organization based out of Pittsburgh, PA. We seek to create a space for a cross-section of writers and artists of all walks of life to meet on the page, on the stage, and in workshop. We celebrate diversity in both the creator and their works and strive to showcase both novice and established writers and artists. Weave will host a series of workshops that focus on the writing and submissions processes as well as on bringing poetry to the stage as a viable performance art. Weave will also collaborate with writers from our publication, Weave Magazine, to present readings that will showcase Pittsburgh's young literary talent.

I have a story up on Southern Fried Weirdness for you. Unfortunately, it's the last issue of this zine that fills a niche unlike any other. Southern speculative fiction. Here's wishing T. J. McIntyre, the editor, the best of luck in his future endeavors and I'm hopeful he'll bring the zine back in some form or another, perhaps an anthology.

"Chestnut and Mountain Magnolia" is a "smashed" (multiple source elements smashed together) Appalachian fairy tale. Southern fiction, particularly the Appalachian inspired pieces, lends itself rather well to speculative and magically realistic stories. One of the source prompts for the story was the song, "The Wind and Rain," a haunting and very old murder ballad. You may know it from the Grateful Dead cover of it. Add animism, stir and voila. I hope you enjoy it.

After the blazing leaves fell to the forest floor and toads burrowed deep in cold mud and birds fell mute, he entered the mountain woods to set his traps and snares. In the lean-to shack, pushed against the side of a cliff where Creek tripped beneath Mountain, Joban the Trapper slept.

Perhaps silly Creek, with her gossiping babble told them. Everyone knew she couldn't keep a secret and carried tales both sour and sweet to ears that could hear (Water carrying Sound on her hip as she does). She also carried other things when she fought with Sky and sometimes Rain, howling and screaming, growing grim and foaming in rage--not herself. Perhaps they saw Joban as his boots broke the rime, seeking blood spreading in snow where his traps found their mark. Perhaps Winter Sun cleaved Sky, glanced off Joban's eyes showing the line of his jaw and the set of his brow. (Read the entire story...)

Happy Sunday!

I have a funny story that just went live on Feathertale called "Mrs. Snodderly's Letter to the Editor."

I think I actually wrote about the experience on the blog that prompted the Snodderly story. I was researching markets and there's this one experimental market I was looking into. The editor has a reputation of being either a genius or a complete and utter tool--depending on who you talk to. I swear to God, I couldn't find a single randomly brought up story on the site that didn't feature penises in some significant way. I spent so much time deciding to NOT submit anything to them that I deserved to get something out of it. Not that I don't do perfectly good experimental work that often gets published--I'm just more likely to feature bugs or something. And paragraph breaks.

Feathertale features literary humor. It's smart stuff and not at all boring like The New Yorker. I probably shouldn't badmouth The New Yorker. Don't tell them I said they were boring. But really--I think there are about 10% of people who actually find TNY's humor amusing and the rest of us try to look intelligent and do our art gallery laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Feathertale is much better.

I drove off the mountain into town today to do a few errands. It's funny, I seem to feel the isolation more when the snow and ice keep me from traveling. I can go for quite long periods without seeing anyone or feeling any need to do more than drive to the mailbox, but I do get stir-crazy if, for some reason, I can't actually leave.

Now, in case you think I'm a huge wuss about the driving in snow/ice (and I absolutely will agree that I am), it's not so much the ice and snow as it's the vertical slog up Thrust Road that has me so trapped. The bridges have been out and they routed us over a treacherous one lane gravel road. And we have to keep calling the highway department to have fresh gravel put down. Yes, the same highway department swimming in Maker's Mark, and boy, are they cranky during work hours (I myself, have been cranky following an evening that involved bourbon and sympathize). Anyway, Thrust Road is underlaid with mud, so the gravel just sinks into it. My jeep hasn't been out of 4WD this winter.

But I digress. You may not know this about me but I have a mouth like a sailor. Not sure how I got it--I remember having it from about age 12. Not sure where I picked it up since profanity wasn't spoken around my home. Perhaps it's just my love of all things word, but I like salty language. I like that it's language uttered with emotion. You spit it out sometimes as a challenge, as a curse. It's a vocalization of pain and frustration and passion. It's rarely whispered. There's nothing subtle about it. I have cleaned my act up since coming here. Such language is frowned upon in Cocke County.

So, I'm in Walmart getting some groceries. The problem with Walmart is that for some unknown reason, every single piece of shelving, every shopping cart, every surface in the store produces a severe static shock. I feel my pants clinging to my knees in fear the moment I walk in. I try to keep the F-bombs to a minimum and my voice down, but it's really hard when you are getting the shit shocked out of you every four feet. Also, I start doing this thing where I stab my finger back and forth before touching anything. It's not like it actually helps--I still get jolted--but I feel compelled to engage in this spastic behavior for some reason.

Everyone stares at me like I'm a candidate for demonic possession. And I can't blame them as I jerk, spit, roll and jump through the aisles. Really, they are fortunate I didn't just shuck all my clothes off and go running, screaming through the store. Some crap like this always happens to me in Walmart. Last time, I had one of my legendary nosebleeds in the magazine racks and had to run to automotive for paper towels.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe the store is possessed. I just wish the little children would stop averting their eyes.

I have to see a woman about a sheep tomorrow.

...inconvenient.

This was the view from my bedroom when I woke up at the crack of noon today. I went to bed early--around 2 a.m. so got up earlier than usual. The snow that fell most of yesterday that then turned to freezing rain and froze overnight made everything sparkle. I doubt I'll even make it to the mailbox to check mail today.

There's a slick little stretch of winding road not far from the house that keeps everyone locked up here when it ices. Not sure why--it may have a wet spring that drains onto it, but when the weather is like this it's a solid sheet of ice. It's our own little luge for 4WD vehicles--'cause even that won't do you no good there. So we are trapped here.

But I love the cleanness of everything when it's frozen. So stark. The switch grass in the pasture, feathering ghosts of this past summer, bend heads to the ground, curving tortuously. The wind has whipped them into that position and the ice has bound them. They wait for me--or someone--to come and free them with blades or fire.

But I didn't want to wake up this morning. I feel better after a shower. The dogs are inside. The sun is shining, melting what it can. 36 degrees.

It’s finally here! Diet Soap #3 is now available for purchase or download.

Diet Soap issue #3 features fiction, non-fiction, poetry and art by Doug Lain, William Peacock, Genevieve Valentine, Brian Brown, Rosanne Griffeth, Howard Waldrop, Steven Utley, Patricia Russo, Joshua Siegal, Heather Bell, James Maxwell, Gord Sellar, Brandon Chan-Yung, Louise Norlie, the Against Sleep and Nightmare collective, and Tara Bush.

The story I have in this issue is "They Made Us Walk to Eat." It's a bit of an experimental piece. A fat camp story. 'Cause, you know I write very authoritative fat camp stories. Here's a little taste:

Even if it rained, they made us walk to eat. Even if you were sick, you had to walk to eat. We walked to eat food that tasted of dust and tears and lemon juice. We walked to eat because it was all they offered and if you refused to walk, they made you.

You can purchase the issue in print or for download in .pdf format HERE.

I have a lovely Appalachian fairy tale that will be available online soon for you--so that's something to look forward to as well.

Oh. I think I’m going to get in trouble for this post. But sometimes, things just seem to burst forth and I can’t stop myself.

M’kay, Newport Plain Talk Pie Hole. I’ve been pretty gentle with them and genuinely admiring of the Police and Sheriff’s Department reportage. But the gloves sort of came off based on their head-up-their-asses non-coverage of the presidential election. You know. The little thing where we elected the U.S.’s first African American president and they decided it merited 400 words—not just below the fold but at the bottom of the page. They will never live that down, even if they make every day Black History Month.

So, the paper has been losing its integrity with a string of unpopular and sometimes nonsensical decisions, most notably ceasing printing the Sunday funny papers because the ink costs too much. (huh?) Then they changed the format to a long, skinny Barbie’s Dreamhouse size newspaper. I know what’s going on. The Pie Hole, like all newspapers around the nation is fighting for its life. But it being Newport and all, the panicked decisions just result in alienating more customers.

My alternate theory has to do with dementia.

This past Sunday’s paper was a hot tub of irony worth lolling in for a while. See, they arrested the Cocke County Superintendent of Highways in the Exxon station parking lot, drunk as a lord on Maker’s Mark. Good to know our tax dollars provide county employees a better class of whiskey. I’d have been offended if they’d found him drinking Old Granddad. It’s his second arrest involving the combination alcohol and highways. It’s widely known that job drives people over the edge. Something bad happened with the previous superintendent as well if I remember correctly.

I get to the editorial pages and find that they’ve given a column (and I use that term loosely since most of their “columns” are longer than my fiction--brevity isn't something they do well or maybe they are padding) complete with byline to some guy handing out really long Ted Kaczynski rants. The sort of thing we usually find on shady militia Internet web sites or the label of a Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap All-One. An absolutely nonsensical, Looney Tunes, cuckoo-for-cocoa pops manifesto. All on gun control. Now, I love things that go boom as much as the next red-blooded American girl. I like guns because sometimes, you know, a girl needs to kill something or someone. Guns are real good at that. And I’m quite sure there are cogent, articulate arguments to be made in favor of the 2nd Amendment. THIS WAS NOT ONE OF THEM. In fact, a more eloquent argument for removing guns from the hands of the obviously addled could not have been made.

He’s going to inflict a “Darwinian Evolution” (Yeah, he wrote that just like the church lady! Swear to God!) rant on us next time. I can’t wait read about that—and how we’uns are going to hell if we don’t follow K-K-Kreashunism.

Am I canceling my subscription?

No. Hell, no. Not because I want to support the Pie Hole, but because I love a good train wreck.

So the snow starts falling about 2:30 a.m. last night/morning. Great whopping chunks of it and continued most of today. Pretty, but the roads are a mess. Not that I’ve been out in them. I just don’t drive when it gets like that. So, I’ve not been doing much today. Watched some Japanese feudal drama. Gonna check out the pretty people at the Oscars on TV tonight.

But Issue #3 of Pank is out and I have a story in it. They’ve also just started putting some stories online so you can read the experimental, bug inspired short I have up. My bug pieces are always popular. It’s called “Because Magicicadas Have No Mouths.”

Cicadas were such a big part of my childhood. Something magical about leaving your skin behind. My Mom and I used to scream and squeal when they'd fly into our hair. Though Mom had it worse because she wore these big, backcombed hairdos with lots of hairspray. Little known fact--hair lacquer, the good, old kind, is made from crushed bugs, just like the shellac you get at the hardware. And it's so humid in Bluffton, that the hairspray was always a little on the tacky side. So bugs flying into it stuck real good. We have these giant flying cockroaches too. Swear to God.

Anyway...

And if you live in Chicago, you can pick up your very own copy at Quimby’s Bookstore.
Or you can order a Pank subscription online, HERE.

I've been thinking about how one approaches something precious. Valuable. Cherished. Desired.

How do you do that?

Do you roll in like the approaching storm? Do you bend down and sweep it up--gallop away with it? Do you gobble it up with both hands? Do you carpe diem it into your jacket pocket, steal it, grab it, take it? Overpower it with your needs? Is force your style?

Or do you approach it like a wild animal that needs taming? Sidle up to it, showing your teeth in a friendly way? Do you speak softly, pleasantly and soothingly? Do you throw cookies on the ground and avert your eyes?

Not that either one is wrong. I'm definitely more of the second type. Reverential. Calm. Forcefulness can be nice later. But things have a way of flying away when startled. Sliding out of your hands when handled roughly. And because my style is the second, it's also how I like being approached.

I spook easily. And once you've handled a creature roughly--it's gone forever.

Yes, I have come out of hiding to indulge in a bit of shameless self promotion. I just came out of an exhausting writing jag--toward the end of which I was falling into bed at 6:00 a.m. Had to up my prednisone to keep my eyes from exploding. Anyway, spent all day yesterday in bed after having discovered afresh the joys of bathing. Damn. I wish I drank. All of this would seem so much more glamorous if there were drugs or alcohol involved. As it is, it just sounds like me being a slob and failing to pull myself away from my work.

Anyhow. Back to me and a whole bunch of great articles and stories on the theme of "The Fabric of Appalachia." Now & Then is published by the Center for Appalachian Studies and Services at East Tennessee State University. The publication has serious legs and is celebrating its 25th anniversary this year. This issue includes an article by Georgia Bonesteel on "Appalachian Quilting," Michael Joslin visits Apple Hill Farm in Watauga County, N.C. for "A New Face in the Fields: Alpacas in Appalachia," and Jeff Mann contributes "Here and Queer."
In short, all the Appalachian goodness you guys look for here--is in Now & Then.

So of course, I require you to BUY IT! At 15 bucks a subscription, it's a steal! And it's not just the high-brow literary pubs I usually appear in--this is real Appalachian stuff! And I'm just thrilled to have one of my Appalachian pieces in a real Appalachian pub. I've had good luck placing them in mainstream literary journals, but it's always great to be recognized on the home front.

A! Magazine for the Arts has a nice write-up HERE.

So off you goes! Get Now & Then or Yang, the literary karma goat, will come and pee on all your shoes.

Winter Fucking Wonderland Already! Jesus Marimba, I am weary of walking around with tampons up my nose.

Gee Rosie, is that a tampon in your nose?

Yes, actually, it is. See, my bleeding thing means that nosebleeds last for one to three hours. Much blood is lost. I have to hold my nose for 30 to 45 minutes before even checking to to see if it's stopped--and going into the ER is no longer an option since September. And ever since I looked up on the internet what the ER idiots did for nosebleeds and found out they stuck tampons up your nose...

So yeah. I stick tampons up my nose. What of it? You want to start somethin' about it? Fuck you! Yes, I'm sure it is a mental picture you'd rather be without. And yes, it is pretty much as amusing as all that.

So. This weather means my nose bleeds more often. And tampons leave my hands free. So there.

But Friend Scott called last night and we had a good long talk. Scott's just TMI all the time and I so miss that about him. Did I ever tell you guys the ball sack itch story? Anyway. Suffice it to say he gets way more sex with straight people that most straight people do. A regular Frank-N-Furter.

Anyway, there is a story for you to read. I'm a bit peeved with them because they screwed up the formatting. Pretty much everyone who asked for .txt screws up the formatting. I asked them to fix it and they still haven't. So I'll probably ask them to withdraw it and remove the journal from my sub rotation. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to remove obviously extraneous hard returns and if they don't care how their journal looks I'm not interested in having my work appear there. It's HERE if you want to read it before I demand it be removed.

You guys have been really sweet about my lack of acceptances. But I'm actually sort of SMBD about my rejections--enjoy them really. It means I'm doing my job. And they are always very nice to me and very definitely ask me to submit again. They even send me the "nice" version of their form rejections. The one they send to writers who aren't psychopaths with editor parts wrapped in butcher paper in their basement freezer. So that's good? Don't worry--I'm cool--totally down with the rejections. They come in waves, you know.

Please sir! May I have another?

I got three rejections today and spent the better part of the day swimming in the frosty pool of my own shortcomings. I don't find this to be a particularly bad thing to do. In my twenties, it ranked right up there as a suicidal tendency, but I need to look at myself that way now and again. Take the cover off the mirror. Pull out the windex. Embrace my freakishness. My monsterhood.

It's easy in my isolation to see myself as normal. To think there is even such a thing. I go about my day. I function just fine. No one stares at me except the dogs and what they are saying is clearly transparent. So I give them each a biscuit. Good dog.

But I am different. I am apart. Up here on my mountain, I look out into the mist. Look out into the rain that drizzles like it did on Glastonbury Tor that day long ago. I'd climbed to the top of the Tor and stood on the remnants of the thirteenth century belltower--the only remaining structure from an earthquake in 1275 that shuddered beneath that limestone dragon's back. Curious thing--in that belltower, the wind cut through the center at 45 mph, trying to rip it from the nipple of that hill. I was sick then. Sick as I am now. Different as I am now.

I didn't let the wind knock me down.

It's hard to look at my shortcomings. But I sort of need to now and then. So the wind doesn't knock me down.

Well, the sentence came down today for Popcorn Sutton's trial in the Federal Court. The news said everyone gasped in the courtroom. They are sending him for 18 months in federal prison for the weapons moonshine charge with 2 years supervised probation after that. I'm sure the Newport Pie Hole Plain Talk, will have some of the details in tomorrow's paper. I'm not actually too worried about him. I think he'll be a rock star in jail. Still, I understand he's taken this all pretty hard. Bottom line though--he's not going to stop doing what he does and the courts know that now.



If you want to know more about what Popcorn Sutton does, there's a documentary running of the Documentary Channel called The Last One. The director, Neal Hutchinson, sent me a copy and it's a really wonderful documentary on the traditional way moonshine used to be made up here in the hills.

Filmed in the mountains of North Carolina, The Last One is a journey deep into Southern Appalachia, and Appalachian culture, as seen through the lens of a mason jar. Lifelong moonshiner Popcorn Sutton returns to the southern highlands in his treasured A-Model Ford to seek a suitable location to run one final batch of traditional bootleg whiskey. Through the laborious process of clearing a site, building a furnace, brewing corn mash and distilling high proof moonshine, Sutton reveals the craft of traditional distillation as practiced by his forbears and reveals a lifetime of memories in the trade.

Now, I've seen photos of Popcorn's more current installations and know they don't resemble anything like this...The Last One is more about the way 'shine was made back in the day. And Popcorn has a dying swan tendency to proclaim he's making a "last" run, but as his court sentence proves, it's his inability to stop making illegal liquor that's the problem.

You can pick up a copy of The Last One at Neal Hutchinson's Sucker Punch Pictures. It's a good historical A to Zed of setting a still up and the music is really good too.

Happy Inauguration Day!

Am I ready for a handsome, articulate man who oozes intelligence to take office?

Hell, yeah, beeotches! Let's make some history!



**************



The snow has been falling for two days now and we've got a nice blanket of white all over everything. The frogs woke up on January 8th this year, so I'm guessing they had to go back down in the mud.

I've not been a-blogging in a while. Basically I've got a bunch of stories coming out in print and the web this month and the next so I've been story wrangling.

The biggest thing of mine out now is the Mslexia story, "48 Years". This was an important story for me personally. It meant much when I wrote it and I'm really happy such an important publication as Mslexia recognized it as being of worth. I'm not sure there is a more important literary journal specializing in women writers and their craft. I'm really proud to be included.

I've already been getting congratulatory emails from my friends in the UK who have seen the issue and loved the story.

My issue has yet to arrive since it has to travel from the UK, and I'm jumping out of my skin waiting for it. Perhaps it will be here today! You really should subscribe to Mslexia. Or at least buy the issue I'm in so you can read "48 Years". Do it now. Or I'll send goats to your house.

Lavinia Greenlaw chose the selections for The Four Elements theme of the New Writing in this issue, of which I am part. She wrote a really smart introduction and had this to say about my story:

Other forms of disturbance include those of memory and recognition, finely illustrated in Rosanne Griffeth’s story ‘48 Years’ in which the global effects of agricultural policies are played out in parallel to a more local and intimate series of consequences.

So, yeah. I'm a happy camper. Snow falling. Story in Mslexia. Barack Obama in office. Life is good.

Thunder fog! We have thunder fog! Wonder what that means?

Happy New Year, peeps. I've been battling the mother of all insomnia flares. I haven't been to bed since day before yesterday. I'm getting into that sleep deprived zone where inanimate objects discuss politics with you in a purely rational way. And there's very little that is rational about that, now is there. I start feeling the confines of my filters slipping away.

Have you ever not said anything stupid or confrontational, but knew you were pretty much doomed to do so? It's a foreshadowing of shame that shows up in the gut, twisting and recoiling. Begging you to stay off the computer, not speak to anyone or write anything, because you are bound to put your foot in your mouth and offend. I've been feeling like that. My filters are wafer thin. I might say or do anything, beeeotch!

I've been having a really uncontrollable urge to mock the local paper. Though Caleb Abramson is still makes my heart go pitter-pat with his punsterliciousness. Those other dudes, though--they're fair game.

I have a new Appalachian word, I'd not heard before. As I may have mentioned, when women get together here the conversation invariably turns to women's health issues and the graphic details thereof--the more graphiccy the better. And this is definitely a women's word.

The Weed. The Weed is what the old folks called mastitis--or probably any ailment of the breast associated with lactating. I don't have much experience with this so I'm not sure what other ailments that might be. A story was related to me concerning a patent medicine everyone took--I'm guessing back in the 50's. I can't remember the name but I'd be dimes to billy goats it was chock full of alcohol, paragoric and other things of tonicy goodness. Medicinal. Anyway, there was this old guy who used to go on and on about how it sure helped his "weed" out--which all the women thought was hilarious.

I'll stop now before I say something dangerous.

Oh Noes! I've discovered the Blackadder Quote Generator at the BBC. It has ensorcelled me.

Flashheart: If word gets out that I'm missing, 500 girls will kill themselves and I wouldn't want them on my conscience - not when they ought to be on my face!

- Private Plane

...here's another:

Blackadder: Baldrick, does it have to be this way? Our valued friendship ending with me cutting you up into strips and telling the prince that you walked over a very sharp cattle grid in an extremely heavy hat?

- Duel and Duality

...and another:

George: My head... oh, my head... feels like the time I was initiated into the Silly Buggers Society at Cambridge. I misheard the rules and tried to push a whole aubergine up my earhole.

- Corporal Punishment

Anyway, I'm okay. This is the sort of thing I've been doing instead of posting in my blog like I aught to. And reading novels. Lots of novels. Bad ones with no redeeming features.

Happy Holidays everyone. Well, I know you are all wondering what sort of things you'll be saying about me tomorrow and Christmas Day in my absence. Never fear, Rumor Control is here with the best maybe true, maybe false fun fax about Rosie Griffeth. If this is your first time coming across a Rumor Control post, you'll want to bring yourself up to speed with Rumor Control and Rumor Control, Too. Feel free to scroll down to the good parts if you are in a hurry.

Complicated explanation in a nutshell, this is my random post in which I give you a dozen rumors to spread around about yours truly. Some are true. Some are false. Some are half-true, half-false.

The Rumor Control Dozen:

1. As you all know, I was born with a tail. While I now think of it as that "special", "fun" part of me, believe it or not, I did have my awkward moments as a teenager. Kids can be so cruel. Anyway, there was this boy I had a big crush on--I had a crush on his sister too, which in hindsight was typically bent for me--but anyway, he asked me out on a date and I was so thrilled. I must have spent an hour with the Tooth Pik shining my braces up. I found out later he only went out with me on a dare to find out if it was true. The tail thing. He got his answer while we parked at the beach that night. He never called me again, but his sister sure was interested in me after that.

2. I cut down a Christmas tree with a chainsaw. Indoors. A fully decorated Christmas tree. With lights. I wore my big boots. And I stomped on all the glass balls making a shiny carpet of green, red and gold slivers of glass. I was about to take my boots off and walk through the shards when I was interrupted.

3. One of my lovers was a bisexual surgical assistant with a name like Christmas. Noel. Every thing about him smelled like Betadyne. He either wore green scrubs or black leather and rode a motorcycle. He kidnapped me one day, took me out in a boat and sabotaged the engine. I had to lie, promising I'd see him again, to get him to fix the boat and take me back to shore. I got a really bad sunburn that day. There were sharks.

4. I played rugby. I was a prop. Rugby players eat their dead. I liked mine with a bit of salsa.

5. Nobody knows I'm a heterosexual.

6. This is really private and embarrassing. Anyway, you know I had this really bad series of surgeries back in 1997. It was really grim and I was in the hospital for six months. They removed my sternum. Obviously, it makes a mess of your chest when they do this--everything gets cut up and--well--it took some pretty radical plastic surgery to put me back together and make me look normal, with clothes on anyway. Well, somehow, all of my nerve endings to my nipples got reversed. Basically, everything that touches my left--I feel on the right and vice versa. Like I said, it's really private and embarrassing--but sort of cool and fun too. My extra two nipples aren't a problem--just the main ones.

7. I've eaten balut before. It's a bit soupy and eggy. Mmmmm, balut. Hot sauce.

8. I've had reams of bad lesbian love poetry aimed at me, which explains my aversion to poetry. One called me an "omnipotent angle".

9. My best friends and I ended up in a strip bar/brothel in a port city. It was chock full of Greek sailors. We were afraid to leave because we thought it would be impolite to do so without first having a beer or something. Anyway, we were really looking for a gay bar for our gay friend who was with us and sort of appalled by all the exotically clad women who kept approaching him. I guess they thought we wanted to watch or something. We asked the sailors if they knew where a gay bar was. And you know what? They knew exactly where one was. Who would have thought a bunch of rough and ready, macho sailors would know where a gay bar was? We were so surprised.

10. I singlehandedly caused 3 pub brawls while I lived in the UK and was banned from the pub. Permanently.

11. Nobody knows I'm extraspecialomnisexualexpyaladocious. But isn't it great they have words to describe everything these days?

12. Okay, this is really embarrassing too. But it's not like something I remember or anything. Just one of those little physical abnormalities they correct in infancy you never remember. Perhaps it's because of the tail, but I was born with another really rare medical condition called vagina dentata. Yeah, it's pretty much like it sounds. But they were just baby teeth and they pulled them shortly after I was born. This boyfriend of mine had a friend who had this fear of women with my condition. We explained to him that the teeth were removed and I was for all practical purposes vagina no dentata, but he'd just run screaming from the room every time he saw me. It was awkward. But the cool thing is, my mom saved the teeth. I had them made into a necklace and earrings and they are quite the conversation piece. People are always asking me what they are and boy are they surprised when I tell them they are vagina teeth.