Chupacabra Terrorizes Giant Husband

Dear Friends,
All last week, before the giant husband and I began our daily 5 AM walk, we could hear the ‘local’ coyotes howling with abandon. Their sad, almost infant-like wails echoed through the woods at the end of our cul-de-sac. The raw cacophony was lyrically unnerving.

This morning, however, the coyotes melodic cries were too close for comfort. Though the giant husband and I probably outweighed their pack by at least two-hundred pounds, I gripped my trusty Swiffer and the giant husband carried his heavy-duty halogen flashlight. I guess our plan was to dust them off, then show them the light 😉

When I mentioned to the giant husband that the howling could be from the elusive Chupacabra, he howled like a coyote. I told him that in Puerto Rico, 1995, goats were found with lethal puncture wounds and their bodies drained of blood. The name Chupacabra literally translates to ‘goat sucker’ in Spanish. And since the discovery of the gruesome ‘vampiresque’ goat scene, there have been random attacks on all manner of livestock. Eyewitnesses have reported Chupacabra sightings from Maine, USA to Chile to Russia…

Some folks take Chupacabras’ legend quite seriously, while others believe they are simply coyotes with mange… Below is my version of the mysterious Chupacabra. So, what do you think: Are there coyotes with mange prowling about, or could blood-sucking Chupacabras be real? Or should I just continue toting my trusty Swiffer?

chupacabraThank you. May you dream of friendly monsters with fluffy fur.
Chupacabra created in 2009 for monster project
Blogtox injection – 5 days to go

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O Captain! My Captain!

Dear friends,
Years ago, the giant husband worked for a large wholesale plant distributor. Every summer his company held a barbecue on Calf Island, Long Island Sound in Connecticut. As you are aware, a boat is often required when crossing water. It was during one of these barbecue voyages, I met the most ‘Captainish’ looking Captain I ever laid eyes on. His vessel pulled up to the dock and we party-goers hopped aboard. I asked if he wouldn’t mind my taking his picture. I had to paint this introspective face. His ocean eyes twinkled bright beneath his devil-may-care thick brows, his great silver beard shone white in the sun, and his old sea-dog straw hat reflected the brilliant yellow of his fisherman’s slicker-

The Captain/acrylic

The Captain/acrylic

“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring…”
Walt Whitman penned, “O Captain, my Captain,” a somber yet beautiful poem in homage to Abraham Lincoln. I too admire Abraham Lincoln. Whenever I create a Lincoln portrait, I dress his figure in present-day attire. This makes me feel a bit more connected to Mr. Lincoln-

lincoln full I created this computer image with Adobe Illustrator. Again this was one of my earlier computer efforts so I used the mouse, good old-fashioned hand-eye coordination and a lot of patience…

lincoln closeAfter that barbecue, I never saw the Captain again. I have his stoic, sea-worn painted face to remember him by. As for Abraham Lincoln, I think of him often and wonder what we would have chatted about over tea…

Death of an Ancient One

As a kid, I found any morning walk to my bus stop after a heavy rain daunting. Neither me or my earthworm friends were very happy. I couldn’t bear to watch the endless sea of pinkish-brown bodies wriggling on the wet blacktop. Whenever this upsetting scene accosted my eyes, my inner-tomboy morphed into a worm-plucking machine. Running in a serpentine pattern, I’d grab as many worms as my little hands could carry. Then onto the nearest lawn went the hapless earthworms. I’d continue saving worms until the bus arrived. Once seated, I’d wipe my dirty hands on my navy-blue knee socks so the nuns couldn’t think I’d been digging for the devil.

I don’t save earthworms much these days. I’d like to think that over the last forty years their little earthworm brains have evolved and they’re better equipped at saving themselves. I’ve since taken up offering roadside assistance to bewildered dogs. To prepare myself for this challenge, a nylon leash is stowed in my car and I watch The Dog Whisperer, whenever I can. To date I’m happy to report-I’ve reunited several lost pooches with their owners (though one little dog with oddly big teeth scared the crap out of me).

Bringing me to the reptile saving. A few years back there was an incident which compels me to save turtles for the rest of my life. I learned a terrible, horrible and valuable lesson. Every spring where I live many turtles venture out onto the road. While driving the tank, if I happen to spy a slow-moving shell I pull over and return the turtle to safety.

On this particular spring day several years ago, I’d been rushing to collect the big son (who was much smaller at the time) from elementary school. We had to find a birthday gift then get to a party. On the way to his school, a large snapping turtle – the kind that live 150 years – was making his way across the road. He was better than halfway and the road was not heavily trafficked. A fleeting thought entered my mind, “Pull the car over and make sure the turtle gets across.” Followed by the next fleeting thought, “No time. Everyone will see that giant turtle. It’s impossible not too. He’ll be fine.” I continued on my journey feeling nary a twinge of guilt. I picked up the big son and we proceeded to Target.

On the return ride, my jaw dropped open, my mouth hung agape. I was in disbelief. The huge, ancient, beautiful turtle didn’t make it across the road. I was broken-hearted but the guilt was far worse. I vowed from that day forward, much to the giant husband’s chagrin, to save every single turtle or reptile, no matter the time, place or situation.

I will admit that picking up and carrying that giant snapping turtle last year was not very smart, but the darn thing wasn’t moving fast enough and I had to help him cross the road.

turtle head/Prisma

turtle head/Prisma

How Do You Know if Your Husband Still Likes You?

I’ve listed a few benchmarks based on years of experience for you-my friends, to help assess the status of your own unions. I personally use these common situations to answer the question: How do you know if your husband still likes you? Feel free to use the same criteria where applicable…

Your younger-married version of a healthy fish dinner – frying canned tuna, frozen mixed vegetables and mustard together is met with a fork and a smile (he might admit disgust years later).

He overcomes the enormous disappointment of marrying into large Italian family where only two people enjoy cooking and neither one of them is you (you fry canned tunafish).

He allows you to pick a tiny pimple on the tip of his nose. For the next several weeks, he roams the world with a scab the size of a pencil eraser on his face.

He does not get angry when you hand him his freshly-laundered, leather wallet complete with soggy money and warped business cards.

He is supportive when you’re temporarily replaced by an insane amalgam who calls herself  ‘first time mommy.’
Gene:ARK
You request drawer dividers to separate your numerous socks and he builds them.

He rubs your back whenever you say it’s sore, even though you complain that his back is “sooooo much bigger,” when he asks the same of you.

When you (both) forget your Anniversary and it’s no big deal, because you consider yourselves the most intimate of friends above and beyond any other titles.

To summarize: Your husband still likes you if he can recall what life was like before he met you, and he still chooses scabbed noses and fried tunafish.

An Unusual Exotic Dancer

Admitting sheer stupidity is depressing, so it is with great humility I share this story with you-my friends.

Not far from my home, but far enough away is an exotic establishment. The nondescript building sits along a main route. Now don’t let your imagination wander, there’s no nudity involved in this story unless exposing my naked soul counts. The brick exterior of this exotic house holds no aesthetic allure other than its ‘mysterious’ blackened windows. The tall, magenta sign in front of the building – nearest the road is another matter. Whenever I happen to be driving by and get a moment to read the neon sign, I find myself thoroughly entertained. I’m fascinated by dancers’ names like Mama Lucious and Dolla Tiny Feathers…
Cloven with HeartNow back to my stupidity…the giant husband’s folks were visiting from the Land of Enchantment. One night, New Mexico Nana and Papa wanted to treat us to dinner. The six of us packed into the car, drove to a nearby restaurant and enjoyed a lovely meal out. Returning home we took a different route which lead us passed the exotic dance establishment. When I spotted the neon, magenta sign ahead, I began telling my in-laws what fun it was to read the dancers’ names. As our car passed by the glowing words, I blurted out “Wow, look at that unusual name – Montofris. That’s the best name yet!”

The giant husband and in-laws burst into hysterical laughter. In my unbridled enthusiasm, had I been unwittingly humorous? I didn’t understand what had just transpired. It took several very long minutes for the giant husband to catch his breath. When he finally calmed down he simply said, “It’s not Montofris darling, you read the sign wrong it’s Mon to Fris.” Then he began laughing all over again.

All I could do to defend myself was stammer, “They forgot to put spaces in between the words!”

The giant husband stored the Montofris gaff in his arsenal. To this day, whenever I boast of how brilliant I am, he quickly shoots me with Montofris ammo.

But who knows, I may have the last laugh yet. Somewhere out there lovely Montofris could be making happy the hungry hearts of the well-intended…