Friday on the farm

Sometimes when I can't write, I get up and clean the toilets. Other times when I can't write, I go for a walk through the fields 350 cows use as a toilet. This propels me out of my funk, forces me to be alert, and makes me laugh. Particularly when I see things like...

The circus wagon, a.k .a. the cage some of the chickens used to call home.

Where they're living now...

And what they're wearing.
(I'm happy to see they finally ditched the Pashmina. But for plastic?)

Look! It's funk-free Suzy, hanging by the freezer and feeling much better.

Now, it's back to my desk where maybe I'll pen a normal post.

But I'm not promising.

Just Call Me Miss July

The other day I got the email below. Perhaps you heard me scream?

Hi Susan, I apologize that my reply is so late, but I wanted to thank you for sending along a note about your book. I've held onto it for several newsletters, waiting for the one in which I could put you in as Humor Writer of the Month. Congratulations -- July is the month.
Thanks again & best wishes, Matthew Dewald Director, Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop

I adore Erma Bombeck, have at least six of her many, many books, including this one, Aunt Erma's Cope Book, and even share a birthday with the late, great humorist. That's right; she and I were both born on February 21st. I've been over the moon since I got this note, and feeling a little Sally Field-ish. "They think I'm funny! They really think I'm funny!" I'm just a kid from Jersey. But Erma Bombeck is da bomb.

Boycotting Gold's Gym

The brain surgeons at Gold's Gym have declared July "Cankle Awareness Month," so I've made a declaration of my own. I'm going to do everything I can to get women across the country not to join them. I mean, we just don't need one more body part to obsess over. My campaign begins with a rant on DC Metro Moms. Check it out. But please, don't check them out.

This one time, at writing camp...

It’s Friday, and the writing camp I’ve been waiting to teach since March is over. I honestly can’t believe it.

I just spent four days with eleven terrific young women, ranging in age from twelve to sixteen. All were good writers, several were astounding. Most will have the work they produced during camp featured in Warrenton Lifestyle Magazine throughout the coming year, and every single last one of them reminded me of something I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten. And that’s when you sit down to write, just let it rip. Be brave. Bite the bullet. And put it on paper.

Oh, and once it’s on the paper? Put it out there. And if somebody doesn’t like it, who cares? They can go read someone else’s work.

Thanks for the thick skin refresher, gang. I only hope you got as much from me as I did from you.

Oh Sue, you're just so topical

First, I wrote about my children and their love of Cheetos (http://tinyurl.com/mcgzz4), and then I found this little tidbit on MSN this morning. Seems some couple in Tennessee ASSAULTED each other using the "puffy snacks." They were hauled off in cuffs and had to post $2,500 bail each. My kids could buy a lot of munchies for that kind of moola. http://tinyurl.com/kq6ww2

And speaking of munchies, last week I wrote about funerals at which remains-filled goody bags were given to attendees. Well this morning, also on MSN, I ran across this report. Some guy in Dallas hid 100 lbs of pot in a casket. http://tinyurl.com/m9gs47 Maybe it was meant to go with the deceased (for the traditional Stoner Send-off, of course). Or maybe it was going in the goody bags. If that's the case, they better fess up. Can you imagine smoking a doobie and suddenly thinking, My God, this smells just like George!

Yeah, me neither.

And now off to something safe. Like CNN.

Just sitting around, bitching about my birthday...

"You know, Susan, any birthday is preferable to the alternative."

This from my mother (paraphrasing Maurice Chevalier, of all people), when I called her to moan about my upcoming big day...

For the rest of my kvetch session, click here!

No goody bags at this girl's funeral

Being a girl, I have a natural affection for goody bags. For starters, they're pretty. And they're petite. And usually they're filled with something fabulous.

Usually.

If you haven't heard about the goody-bags-at-the-funeral-business, and the very special gift they contained, you need to read my rant.

I still love goody bags, but hand 'em out at my funeral and I'll haunt you.