Sunday, December 17

Well, I raced against the clock and now Consiracy of Angels will be available in a couple days. I've promo'd my country tushy off, I've juggled my other stories and met those deadlines and now...gulp...do I dare say it? The weekend deer season is over!

{insert loud horns and throw loads of confetti--hey, I ain't cleanin' it up either!}

Why the government didn't just put a couple extra days onto the regular deer season, I dunno. So instead of having one gun season to deal with, I had an extra weekend session of it.

I washed a mountain of laundry today, and since my regular washer is on the fritz, I washed them in the old wringer. I'm so tired. Actually, I think I'm typing this with my eyes shut, but I'm not sure.

The chickens have been restless lately. The cock of the walk decided he was going to sneak into the house. I found him pecking away at my keyboard. Needless to say, I blew a gasket and lunged at him. He squawked and pecked at me, his wings beating so hard they knocked things off my desk and the nearby shelves.

I won't type the choice words I shrieked at him (I had terrible visions of chicken poop in my desk chair), but I finally got the window open after tearing down the mistletoe and the lights that were strung over it.

The lunatic rooster flew out in a flurry of white and black feathers, crashed landed in the nearby tree, bounced off the limb, careened onto the woodshed roof and flopped onto the ground. I guess he decided his jet liner days were over because he ran the rest of the way--you know that goofy way chickens run--across the yard to the coup.

With a big sigh, I shut the window and looked in my desk chair. I couldn't believe my eyes. The chair was clean. The cursor on the pc screen kept flashing. I looked at it and saw: I know we don't always get along, but I have an image to keep. I just wanted you to know I'm your biggest fan. Good luck with Conspiracy of Angels on Tuesday.

Okay, so I'll have to lighten up on the feathery pecker head. For a while anyway...

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