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Who the hell is Annalee and why has she taken over the house?

12/15/2013

a small fraction of my Annalee Christmas collection

Annalee: a line of felt dolls and animals with hand painted faces originally made in New Hampshire. Not to be confused with Annabelle, a creepy doll possessed by a demonic spirit.

You can tell it's Christmas at Casa Sullivan when the Annalee dolls take over the dining room. This year they've overflowed into the front parlor. I hadn't realized how many I had accumulated until I took them all out of storage. The long dining room table that can seat nine was COVERED with Annalee.

Me to hubs: Uh, look how many Annalee we have this year. I think I have a problem (as in, I've become a crazy collector/hoarder.)

Hubs: You think? (He wasn't amused, which is ironic since he's such an enabler and has even bought a bunch of the Annalee for me.)

Me: I don't know if I'm going to have enough room to display them all.

Hubs: Maybe you should stopping buying them?

Me; I blame my genes. My mom does stuff like this, too.

Hubs: *shakes his head*

Me: It could be worse Remember the Russ troll dolls I used to collect? And I read about a woman who has almost 800 Steiff animals.

Hubs: Eight HUNDRED????

Me: Hey, if I get that many, we'll open up a museum.

Hubs: I need some aspirin (for the headache I'm giving him.)

Some women collect handbags, some jewelry, some shoes. I collect animals.

I'm sure a psychiatrist could tell me why I have this need to collect and surround myself with animals both alive and artistic representations. Not only do I collect the holiday Annalee animals, but there are the antique Steiff that have recently taken over the house. And the master bedroom is decorated with a cat theme. The downstairs is decorated in a bear theme. The kitchen used to be pig themed. And then we have the "Cat Room" upstairs that is just for the cats--no dogs allowed.

In my defense, I did read somewhere that people who collect things have a higher IQ than people who don't. Although, I've seen collections that would challenge that notion.

But here's the ultimate irony along the lines of the pot calling the kettle black: the hubs collects Christmas village miniatures. His village is still in the process of being set up, but I'll post pictures once he has it finalized. In the meantime, here are some photos of the Christmas Annalee.

Click on each picture to enlarge:

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Hi Yo Flamingo???

12/14/2013

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Nothing says Christmas like an Elf on a Flamingo...surrounded by dogs. Happy Day 14 of Advent, y'all!

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Pet Porn and Confused Critters

12/13/2013

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Moxie and Ernie: pet porn???

Okay, I'll say right off the bat that this photo is NOT pet porn!

Ernie, however, is a very confused kitty. He's NURSING on our American Pit Bull Terrier, Moxie. Moxie had her last litter of pups (at the animal shelter) October of 2006. This picture was made late summer/early fall of 2011. So Moxie didn't even have any milk for Ernie to nurse. But she did have some bodaciously large nipples from all the puppies she had birthed during her previous life before we adopted her.

But giant nipples aside, Moxie looks nothing like a cat. And she smells like 100% dog. We even have four female cats that Ernie could have chosen for surrogate moms. But Ernie wanted Moxie. Kinda reminds me of Babe the Sheep Pig who took up with a litter of border collies in the movie BABE. If someone made a movie about our Not-So-Little Ernie Hemingway, it could be titled: Ernie, the American Pit Bull Maine Coon Kitty. Yeah, I know, it's a long title.

Ernie is all grown up now, but he STILL tries to nurse on Moxie from time to time. "You're too grown up for this," she tells him with a growl. But she WILL lick Ernie's privates clean, so I guess he's not too old for THAT! It's a service she's willing to provide for all of our felines.

The cats actually "ask" her to do it by walking up to her face and turning their backsides to her. She gladly obliges probably hoping some delectable kitty poop will pop out from their butts like candy from a gumball machine. Anyone with dogs and cats knows that cat poop is considered a delicacy to dogs.

Cat poop and cat on dog porn--just another kooky day at Casa Sullivan.

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Goodreads Giveaway: The Weredog Whisperer

12/12/2013

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Only five more days left to enter the Goodreads Giveaway for my forthcoming novel The Weredog Whisperer, the second book in the Cleo Tidwell Paranormal Mystery series. My publisher is giving away TWO copies--count 'em, two--copies of the book, and if you win, you'll receive your copy BEFORE the book's release date: December 31, 2013.

Click on this link to find out more and enter. No purchase necessary, no first born children required.

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/73565-the-weredog-whisperer

I'll also be performing a dramatic reading for the book on Monday, January 27 at the Jacksonville, Alabama Public Library at 5:30 PM and will have copies of both Weredog Whisperer and Haunted Housewives to sign and sell. And we may just have to sing "Fried Zombie Dee-light!" again, too.

These books make GREAT gifts for yourself and others and I also have two short story collections on eBook available, too.

Weredog Whisperer and Haunted Housewives will be/are available in both eBook and trade paperback from retailers like Books-A-Million, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, and Kobo.

Enter now for your chance to win big!

Books are inexpensive adventures to new places without the fear of losing your luggage!

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This Could Only Happen to Me: a trip to the ER after getting bitten by a rat in the pet store and passing out

12/11/2013

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Words of wisdom: NEVER stick your hand inside the habitat of a mama rat no matter WHAT the pet store people tell you.

My college dorm didn't allow pets, so of course I wanted a pet rat because they were small, quiet, smart, and easy to hide should the resident advisor come around.

The pet store employee told me they had a new litter of baby rats and to go in the back of the store and pick out the ones I wanted. Alone. Unsupervised. Pet Store rule #1: don't leave customers unsupervised in the back of the store.

The baby rats were sooooo cute. There were about ten to twelve of them in a large aquarium with their mama. Since the employee had told me to pick out a pet, I naturally assumed the mother rat was friendly.

Wrongo Bongo.

I reached into that habitat and the mama bit the stink out of my ring finger. I mean, she latched right on and was ready to rumble. The pain was bright like the sun going supernova and I reacted out of instinct and shook the poor rat off my hand like a terrier. I hated to do that to an animal, but dang, her giant rodent teeth were sunk into my finger.

I held up my wounded hand to see how bad the bite was and blood welled up from my knuckle and dripped onto the floor. The sight of the blood woozed me out and next thing I knew I was falling backwards, my left arm whacking several wire cages on the way down and I fell full out, smacking the back of my head on the hard concrete floor.

I came to with the pet store employee leaning over me. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"The rat bit me." My watch had been sliced right off my wrist during the fall.

Now, here was the amazing part. No first aid was administered, no accident report filled out, no discount offered, and me being young and naïve had no idea that I could scare the bejeezus out of the store manager by threatening a law suit over wrongful injury and misadventure in their store. Like a good little Southern girl I paid for my rats and left with a BITE wound and a big BUMP on my skull.

And then my finger swelled up. Like a sausage. Which wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been wearing my class ring. My finger was so big the ring was cutting into my flesh. Off to the ER I went.

These days doctors have to report animal bites of any kind to law enforcement. But this was back in the mid-80s. The ER doc looked at my giant finger. "We're going to have to cut your ring off."

"Just get it OFF! I don't care how you do it." I wouldn't normally talk that way to a doctor, but I was feeling desperate and quite anxious.

He cut the ring off. I still have it. Never got it fixed. It reminds me of what a naïve dumbass I was. And you should have seen the look on everone's face when they read my paperwork.

Reason for Visit: Bitten by rat in pet store.

They probably thought the place was infested by rats or something. It's amazing they didn't call fhe HEALTH DEPARMENT.

I was given antibiotics and sent home with my giant finger, ruined ring and a major life lesson. That knuckle was stiff and swollen for quite some time. It's amazing I didn't get sepsis in the joint. My dad was bitten (accidentally) by one of his dogs once and his hand swelled up and he had to go to the ER for sepsis (a serious bacterial infection).

The name of this post is "This Could Only Happen to Me," but now that I think about it, this could have happened to my sister. A basset hound bit her face when she was three, and when she was seven she got a nail stuck in her foot AND fell on some bleachers and cut her shin open to the BONE. She also fell off a ladder onto the high heel of a SHOE when she was working in a shoe store. So, this seems to be a genetic propensity--weird-ass accidents.

Oh, and then there's my brother who got a stick rammed down his throat and his leg sliced open by barnacles and who coughed so hard one time that he ruptured a lung. And my dad whose arm swelled up from wasp stings.

Lordy, it's amazing we've survived to pass on our genes.

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A Platter of Dirty Diapers or an Appetizing Hors d'oeuvre?

12/10/2013

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My boss wanted me to put together a "poo poo" platter for the staff Christmas party.

"A poo-poo platter?" I was immediately grossed out as I conjured up an image of a platter stacked with reeking dirty diapers.
What the hell?

The hubs and I had moved to Hawaii and were working for the Honolulu YMCA. I was the Physical Education Department Head of the Nuuanu Branch. Nuuanu = New-oo-on-oo, with the "oo" rhyming with new. Hawaiian pronunciation is a lot like Spanish--you sound out every vowel. The Hawaiian language has very few consonants so the five vowels get overused in the extreme.

And don't even try to pronounce a word like Kalanianiole. Your tongue will get seriously tangled and you'll have to go to the ER if you ever want to swallow again. There's a hilarious scene in the movie Honeymoon in Vegas where Nicolas Cage is in Hawaii and is trying to tell someone on the phone to go to a particular street that has four a's in a row rather than three. It's funny because it's so true!

So back to the platter of dirty diapers. Turns out a poo-poo platter is actually a puu-puu platter. Technically, it should be pronounced poo-oo poo-oo, but like many words that are used frequently, the syllables have been run together to make it sound like poo-poo. And a puu-puu platter is just the Hawaiian word for hors d'oeuvres.

Well that was a relief. Nice to know Hawaiians didn't eat crap--literally.

And speaking of Honeymoon in Vegas, check out this scene with Nicolas Cage and the Flying Elvises that served as inspiration for parts of my novel The Haunted Houswives of Allister. Alabama (paperback now on sale at Amazon.com).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJ7rd3ef_G4

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At Least I Had On Clean Underwear

12/9/2013

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You know how mothers always want you to have on clean underwear in case you're ever in an accident? When I was in the 7th grade, I passed out during an AMBULANCE demonstration, of all things, fell face first and ate the pavement, and then got carted off to the hospital in the very ambulance used in the demonstration. And the first thing my mother said to me in the ER was not "Are you okay," but "Why did you have to wear that today?"

My underwear, though, was clean. She should have been thankful for that.

I was wearing plaid pants, a t-shirt that didn't match, and what we called Hong Kong shoes which were flip flops made out of bamboo. Or maybe faux-bamboo. Also, being that I was a gawky tween, I hadn't washed my hair in several days and it lay lank and stringy on the back of my neck.

My mom was mortified that I'd gone to the hospital this way. Never mind that I'd scraped off half my face in the middle school parking lot or that I'd passed out for no apparent reason during class. Appearance was everything. I was mortified that she was mortified. Why couldn't I have gotten a call from the psychic hotline that morning to alert me to the impending doom that was to be the most embarrassing day of the 7th grade for me? Why, why, why?

Mr. Butler, my marketing teacher, thought an ambulance demonstration would be a cool teaching moment. Why we were studying occupations during a marketing class was beyond me since marketing is about ADVERTISING, but hey, this was 1976.

The class certainly got their teaching moment that day. I passed out face forward--BAM--and the EMTs whisked me onto a stretcher and zoomed me over the Pensacola Bay bridge to Sacred Heart Hospital. I was lucky I didn't break my nose (that would happen later that summer at the beach) or knock out my teeth (that would happen to my cousin while we were all jumping on my bed--in the DARK) or bust my lip on my braces.

Nope, a GIANT scab formed across one cheek and I was introduced to Neosporin (a wonderous ointment.) They never did figure out why I fainted. Probably locked my knees. The whole episode was far more embarrassing than painful. There's nothing like being the center of negative attention, especially in middle school when life is awkward enough.

But hey, at least I had on clean underwear.

The irony? No one even saw my underwear. I didn't have to get undressed or put on a hospital gown.

Oh, the humanity! Ha!

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Calling All Fruitcakes!

12/8/2013

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I'm starting a Fruitcake Sanctuary at Casa Sullivan this year for all of the hated, despised, and unwanted fruitcakes in the U.S.A. Every fruitcake will receive loving attention and unabashed adoration since I'm one of only about two people who actually likes fruitcake.

Please send your unwanted fruitcakes to:

A. Sullivan
C/O The Downtown YMCA
716 South Perry Street
Montgomery, AL 36104

And just to clarify: I'm talking about the Christmas dessert, not your crazy Aunt Betty.

Locals who know me personally are welcome to deliver their unwanted fruitcakes to my home or business.

Let the Fruitcake Frenzy begin!

P.S: this is a real address, so if you actually do mail a fruitcake, I'll receive it. It's not, however, my home address, so if you actually ARE a crazy fruitcake and not a delectable edible and decide to show up in person or try to stalk me, you'll be sadly disappointed.

P.P.S: There are some YMCAs that house people. So it's not out of the realm of possibility for someone to have a residence address at a YMCA. I just don't happen to be one of them.

P.P.P.S: If you're one of those people who doesn't read blog comments, I'm laughing my ass off over the image of someone mailing their crazy Aunt Betty or Uncle Mortimer to me. [Ding Dong! Here's my family fruitcake; please give them a good home.]

Hahahahahahaha! [yes, I'm sick and twisted--it comes in handy for fiction writing]

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Just Monkeying Around

12/7/2013

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Steiff Monkeys

I just wrote
this long-winded post about procrastination, and blathered on and on about all my rationalizations for it.

And then I deleted it.

Thank God for small blessings.

Besides, monkey pictures are always better than long winded posts about people's SAD, OCD, bipolar disorders, and just plain laziness. That's why we have sayings like life is like a barrel of monkeys. Because nobody says life is like a bunch of mopey depressives. Or life is like a bunch of manic bipolars.

So enjoy your monkey picture, people!

And happy SEC Championship Day! War Damn Eagle!

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Flying high: why you should take pain meds when flying post-op even if you think they'll make you barf

12/5/2013

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Seven years ago I flew out to Los Angeles from Alabama to become a partial cyborg.

Okay, maybe not a cyborg per se, but I did have one hip totally replaced with a titanium implant and the other one resurfaced with a--you guessed it--titanium implant, which may not make me a cyborg, but does make going through the metal detector at the airport a super fun and super slow experience. Since I'm still pretty young, airport security personnel always eye me suspiciously when they have to scan me for metal. It's a trade off: I get to walk, run, and dance again, but I have to suffer the perpetual delay in getting scanned, frisked, and patted down every single time I fly.

But I digress.

I lost a ton of blood during the operation to the point where I went into A-Fib which is short for Atrial Fibulation. Essentially my blood pressure bottomed out to zero and there was nothing left in the heart to pump. The surgeon had already left, but a cardiologist was called in and got my heart started again. Kinda like jump-starting a car that has stalled.

As a consequence of the blood loss, I was super nauseated and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach. But the doctors and nurses thought it was the pain meds, so I didn't get any after surgery. Fortunately, I didn't really feel much pain just lying around in the hospital bed. They finally gave me pain meds on the third day post-op when I went into mild shock and started shaking uncontrollably and feeling pretty darn yucky overall. Amazingly, the meds stopped the shaking and the yucky feeling and I was able to eat and keep down solid food.

So, fast forward now to the flight home cross country from Los Angeles to Atlanta. I didn't want to take the risk of having to throw up on a plane. I hate throwing up. HATE it. So on the off chance that the pain meds might make me throw up while several thousand feet in the air, I didn't take any. The hubs had been super thoughtful and booked us front row seats on a plane that was too small for first class. The idea was that I'd be close the restroom and would have more leg room.

Which was great until I started to feel yucky and shake uncontrollably during the final descent. And since there weren't any seats in front of us, the flight attendant had made me stow my purse in the overhead bin. I could hold a fifty pound Stephen King book in my lap the ENTIRE flight, but I couldn't have my little purse containing my MEDS in my lap. Go figure.

And right before the shock set in, we hit some turbulence and the captain put the fasten seat belt sign on. I asked the flight attendant if I could get my purse to take some medication and she said no. I gritted my teeth and hunkered down to get through the rest of the flight. But as soon as we landed, everyone else jumped up in the aisle and the hubs couldn't get to my purse in the overhead bin. Forget trying to appeal to people's empathy. There was no frelling way people were going to wait a single moment longer than they had to.

So more grinning and bearing ensued and I was counting the seconds before the plane cleared and I could get some #&^ %pain meds in my system.

So, the plane is FINALLY empty and I take my meds. I'm feeling REALLY BAD now and it took about half an hour for them to kick in. I hobble off the plane on my crutches, my hips swollen to the point where it looked like I had on a sideways bustle, and look for the wheelchair we had asked for back in Los Angeles.

"Where's the wheelchair?" I ask a flight attendant.

"There's not one?" she says. "I called for three."

I cuss up a storm in my head. Some lousy person took my wheelchair. Who would do such a thing?

So they call for another one. Now remember that only FOUR days before I'd had parts of my bones cut off and replaced with metal. FOUR days. I could use crutches, but not to hobble the ENTIRE length of the Atlanta airport.

So the hubs and I wait for a wheelchair.

And wait. And wait.

And wait some more.

When one finally arrives, one of the arm rests is dented in toward the seat and I just about have to jam my swollen hips into it to sit down. Of course, this jamming is right on my incision sites and hurts like hell and I start crying. The only thing I hate worse than crying in public is throwing up.

The flight attendant who wouldn't let me get my pain meds from the overhead bin said in this sing songy voice, "Oh look, she's crying."

If I hadn't just had major surgery, I would have leapt out of that wheelchair and kicked her sorry ass from there to Sunday. Of course, if I hadn't just had major surgery, I wouldn't have needed pain meds nor a wheelchair. But still...

So the moral of the story is: take your pain meds before you fly even if you think you'll throw up. Or stash your meds in a fake book on your lap.

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Forward>>

Who the hell is Annalee and why has she taken over the house?

Hi Yo Flamingo???

Pet Porn and Confused Critters

Goodreads Giveaway: The Weredog Whisperer

This Could Only Happen to Me: a trip to the ER after getting bitten by a rat in the pet store and passing out

A Platter of Dirty Diapers or an Appetizing Hors d'oeuvre?

At Least I Had On Clean Underwear

Calling All Fruitcakes!

Just Monkeying Around

Flying high: why you should take pain meds when flying post-op even if you think they'll make you barf

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