What Can I Stop?

Sydney, the Australian Shepherd who allowed us to take her home from the animal shelter a decade ago, was all a frolic and joyful when she saw me take out a plastic bag from under the kitchen sink. It's our little communication that it is time for a potty trip. Although she is taken out four times a day, it is still like a mini-doggie Disneyland excursion each time. She was hopping and full of glee, as only an old dog can muster, until the door was opened and she discovered the truly rare of San Diego...RAIN!

She looked back at me and kindly asked me to turn off that water. It was not her intention to wet her coat. That beautiful black, brown and white fur of which she is so proud does not smell nice when wet.

Well, I told her, I can't stop the rain. 

Humph! She answered, and made her way down the stairs with raindrops falling in her world.

So that got me to thinking about what else I can't do. I can't change the amount they put in 12 ounce cans, and I would like to be able to. What about all those times when I am at a 13 ounce thirst level? What am I supposed to do then? Bust into a whole 'nother soda and pour out the other 11 ounces? Talk about waste. I couldn't even mail it to some thirsty person because by the time they got it, it would be flat and lifeless.

I can't change the color of the sky when it rains. I mean, who picked gray? Gray is an indecisive color. It's always asking if it should be black or white and ends up being in-between. It's unsettling for everyone outside taking their dog for a potty run. When we look up, all we see is an ambiguous, non-color formed gray. 

And what about skunks? Aren't they like the cutest animal, ever? Watch one waddle on those four tiny legs, with the thick batch of fur, and the white racing stripes, and tell me you don't want one. If, that is, it weren't for their whole stink issue. Another thing I can't change.

(Someone out there is going to ramble on about skunk stink removal operations, but I'm not going to go around de-flowering skunks. They have their protective ego thing, and I have mine. Let's leave it at that.)

There has got to be one thing I can change with out missing up the grand scheme of things. Oh, I can go see the last of the Hobbit trilogies tonight and finally change my status of not knowing how they end the series. Well, that puts me back into control of my universe.

Thank you, oh heavens that be, for a smidgen of something I can stop.

Heather Leigh

Physical Body and the After Life

Last night I received another fantastic, mind-blowing massage by Erin of Organic Energetix. And while relishing in the feel of stress and muscle pain relief, my mind formulated this question: If, when we die, we leave behind our bodies and drift around as a soul (in heaven or where ever we end up), do we get to partake in the sensations of massage?

If I am body-less, what compensation is there for massage, a good hair shampooing at the salon, or a sugar scrub from a pedicure? Hand holding? Ear whispering? My cats licking tuna oil from my fingers?
This is a (almost) G-rated blog, so I will just refer to the things we do towards making babies.

As the After Life is always (unless you go to a place that is hot, of which I will not discuss as per my personal beliefs) tooted as being so great, what are they dishing out in replace of the good body stuff?
With out a tongue, can I taste sea salt, chocolate covered caramels, fancy Italian Cabernet, or Uncle Jerry's home made apple pie? With out ears, how do I hear ( I know I'm a classical music loving geek) Vivaldi's Four Seasons, my boys telling me they love me, or my friend Heather laughing with me at that Improv show we went to last week?

And don't get me started about the things I'd miss seeing with no eyeballs. I can spend hours watching palm tree fronds swaying in the wind and seeking out dolphins past the breakers on the beach. How do I feel sunshine on my skin, with out skin?

All of these tough questions have put my old dog into a deep meditative sleep. She'll probably wake with the answers, but have no voice to tell me. And no opposable thumbs to use a pen and write it down.

If she is having that many problems trying to communicate her answers, how do I pursue my love of writing with no brain matter when I die?

So, as the After Life is supposed to be great and all, I want, at the very least, a brochure as to what they offer souls when we leave behind our bodies. Because we are giving up a lot of good stuff here.

If you don't believe in the After Life, I hope you at least appreciated the irony and humor that his blog was making a stab at.

Have a wonderful day appreciating what the world has to offer the physical human body you are in right now,

Heather Leigh
current owner of a 46 year old, healthy body

Writer-loving Zombies

There is something wrong with me. Monday, December First, I spent ten hours completing the rough draft of 'Suicide Soda'. As some of you may know, I was a willing participant of the National November Writing Month (affectionately known as NaNovWriMo), and I wanted to get the book done, albeit a day late. The goal was clawing at me like a loving zombie with raccoon-like nails.

And now, rather than sit back and wait until November to write the next novel, that loving zombie is whispering into my ear ideas for my next series of young adult novels.

I'm an addict, aren't I? Where is that loving Intervention crew of friends and family to help me stop? Are they just going to stand by and let the Undead drool on my cheek with his fowl breath and rotten teeth? Is my team of supportive writing friends just a bunch of inebriated enablers?

And why didn't I wind up with a normal addiction, like Crack, or chardonnay, or chewing my hair? At least those wouldn't make me a social outcast. I mean, who wants to hang out with the writer? All we do is ask questions to get story ideas and ignore people when we're working. Boring.

I also want to share with you my story idea, but I have a superstition about talking about plots before I've written them: if I let go of the idea, it will drift away like a helium balloon and be captured by another writer, before I've even typed a word. And this also goes with why I HAVE to start writing it. If I don't start, someone in the world with telepathic abilities will read my mind and steal my fabulous story. In order for me to avoid this catastrophe, I HAVE to start writing NOW!

Did you have any idea writers were so crazy? Because, I think we all, at some level, have these ideas. I mean, it's not like we choose to write. It's more like the ideas come from that writer-loving Zombie and we are forced to type out the story to avoid being eaten by the Undead.

Okay, the zombie is now chewing on my ear, so I have to go write an outline. Eww, zombie spit is so gross.

Heather Leigh, friend of Zombies