I happened across this ad for Sunight Federal Credit Union in the local paper:

I’ve been pretty vocal that Sheridan needs another place to hang out. Our only non-Starbucks coffee shop that isn’t a drive-by shack closes before most people get off work.

But this isn’t what I had in mind….

I haven’t been inside. I’m scared to.

The idea of “relaxing” with a supercharged stimulant is funny enough…but the idea of being able to do so surrounded by bibles is something else entirely.

My new rule: don’t read the local paper while eating. I almost choked on this one:

In defense of my adopted state: it’s a Montana area code. And in defense of Montana: the guy admits he’s a “Dick.”

First thing you should know about this story: it’s all true. Second: I am not  particularly susceptible to suggestion. I was one of the few kids at sleepovers who couldn’t be put into a trance. I consider myself rational. I am a devout atheist. Yet I am convinced that the house I work in is occupied by an otherworldly presence.

I was told by the weekday overnight guy that there was “a ghost” in the house. Yeah, right. This guy was obviously eating too much sugar. The first night shift I worked, though, I heard it. (Her, him, them.) I heard floorboards creaking and cabinet doors slamming. I distinctly heard footsteps. The good news: I was upstairs, and all of the activity was downstairs. But so was the coffee maker. That first shift, I decided that I would just have to rely on adrenaline to keep me awake. There was no way I was going to interrupt whatever was going on down there.

People asked me “wasn’t it just the sound of the radiator banging?” People. I lived in Brooklyn for a long time. I know from the sound of banging radiators. I also know what creaking floorboards sound like. And the only loose floorboards in the house are in the hallway, right at the base of the stairs.

Last weekend I worked two overnights and didn’t hear anything new. The same banging cabinets. Some footsteps. But it wasn’t really a big deal. I had almost convinced myself that I’d made it all up. And then last night something happened. There is absolutely no way to deny it, try as I may. I heard two very distinct, very unusual sounds between 2:20 and 5:45 in the morning. They repeated on and off thoughout that whole time: I heard a large animal, grunting, rutting. And the persistent sound of dripping water.

I assumed, of course, that one of the sinks was running. There are three sinks on the second floor. But I checked them all. I checked the tub. They were all bone dry. And the toilet wasn’t running, either.

I have no idea what to make of it. But I do know that I felt very afraid.

I can only hope that who or whatever I’ll be “spending the night” with can accept me being here again. After all, I’m willing to put up with a lot for a job in this economy. But the first time I find the chairs rearranged on the dining room table, I’m hauling ass down to the job service.

Tonight the coffee maker is coming upstairs with me.

Hot on the heels of holiday overindulgence–the new secret to slimming down quickly: 

I always knew that I was wasting my time actually exercising. Finally, a diet for couch potatoes! Plus, all the healthy tanning you can stand for a mere $45/month.

Note that they don’t promise you’ll “lose” inches. You’ll “luze” them, instead. Also, the vacustep “gently modles the figure.” To my count, there are 8 grammatical errors and/or typos in the last paragraph alone. Good thing I can spell..and utilize, the YMCA!

First, I have to blow my own horn. Before I moved out to Wyoming, the very thought of snakes terrified me. My only experience with them was at the “World of Darkness” exhibit at the Bronx Zoo. Then I came west for a one-month writer’s residency program. I immediately resolved not to hike up in the 80+ acre wilds behind the grounds when I found out that snakes lived there. But I’ve toughened up in the past five years. Snakes don’t scare me anymore.

What scares me is having a casual conversation with my husband, who interrupted our musings about what to do on Friday night with: “Oh. There’s a snake in the house.”

Oh.

Aaaaaaa!!

First of all. It’s been -10 degrees or colder almost all week. Shouldn’t the little guy (or gal) be dead by now? Second: where on earth do we have a hole in our house BIG ENOUGH FOR A SNAKE TO FIT THROUGH? “It’s just a baby,” my husband reassured me. And then he followed up with: “I wonder if there’s a nest.”

I repeat: Aaaaaaa!!

He’s got a good point, actually. It’s very possible that the little venom machine just crawled out of his egg. (BTW, some snakes are born live–but they still come from eggs. The eggs hatch inside the mother’s body.) (Gag.)

Worse: now that baby slither has been captured, my husband is reluctant to release him out of doors. “He’ll die!” mourns the suddenly-animal-rights-activist. Hold on a minute: I’ve been eating strictly vegan meals since August. Can’t I trade in four-months-worth of mammals I never ate for the justified homicide of a reptile? In all seriousness: if the animal who wandered into our home was human, we could legally shoot it. But we can’t let a snake fend for itself because there’s snow on the ground?

It’s been an hour now since I spoke with my husband/zookeeper. He’s not picking up his phone. I fear that we will have a new pet by the time I get home.

Just wait ’til I get my hands on a mongoose.

I’m all for the idea of governmental non-interference, but I seriously think that my student loan lendor (in this case the Federal Government) should’ve been legally required to advise me, as an English major, that I would have a greater chance in the future of being struck by lightning than I would of being able to pay my bills with creative writing.

This same law should have gone double for my decision to earn an MFA. Seriously, I think men in suits should have shown up at my door with actuarial tables. “See here: if you continue on your current career track, you will forgo vacations, new cars and the idea of ever being able to afford Christmas presents for anyone outside of your immediate family.” Short of that, I think the Fed should at least mail a letter. “Dear Sucka” might be an appropriate opening.

As far as my creative writing goes, I’ve earned more money writing t-shirts than I have with fiction, plays and screenplays combined. I can write a mean t-shirt. Literally. (See www.zencommandments.com.)  But it does rankle to realize that I simply don’t have the energy to write the shirts, burn the silkscreens, print them by hand and market them with any kind of effectivity. So right now my sole method of marketing is to set up shop at local holiday bazaars.

Allow me to be the first to warn future English majors that they might find themselves on the slippery slope of their thirties selling t-shirts at crafts fairs.

So there I was, yesterday in Buffalo, WY. The crowds were cool. I even met someone who understood what a “fatwa” was. And I also saw, in addition to some good wood carvings and jewelry, a stall featuring imported leather goods with awful fake jewels glued onto it. This look is actually common in this part of the country. My husband named it Christian Cowboy Bling.

It looks like this: A black or brown leather background with generic rhinestones and other fake diadems, often in the shape of a cross. I saw belts, bags, and jackets with this lovely combination on them. I also saw A LOT of money changing hands at those booths and nearly choked to death on my trail mix. Who, I wondered, would spend their hard-earned cash on gaudy Jesus bling when they could order a t-shirt from me with a slogan that combines global warming and fart jokes?

The more bazaars I attend, the more I realize that I don’t know my audience at all. Granted, I can safely guess that a woman with a shiny blue plastic cross on her purse is not going to be pulling her wallet out in my general direction. But I’ve sold to several people with crucifixes around their necks. It’s good, at least, to realize that Jesus has a sense of humor. He would have to, to appreciate that many of his followers are unironically sporting belts with horseheads and his name spelled out in worthless fake rubies and diamonds.

My ambitious plan to stay out past midnight on Halloween was dashed almost as soon as it was hatched. I swore that I could do it more than once a calendar year–I’d have two whole months to recover for New Year’s Eve–but my brain shut down at 9 after a full day of writing and screenprinting T-shirts by hand.

Now, a shut-down brain wouldn’t be a problem in a city. I could zombie-stumble anywhere in New York. But driving 25 miles each way during deer season–no dice. So I offered a contingency plan to my friends: I would meet them at a local place before they took off for the “real” entertainment.

The rented hall was alive with music when I arrived. A five piece band played swinging dance numbers. The guests ranged in age from elementary school kids to retirees. Everyone was in costume. And they all looked like they were having the best time of their lives.

It was spooky how much fun these people looked like they were having, square dancing to a caller in pajamas, strumming a washboard, in a rented hall at 9:30 on a Saturday night. I looked around for Rod Serling–seriously, I did. And I almost wished that I could have that kind of fun, too: innocent, wide-eyed fun. The kind I stopped having at, say, 12 years old.

A piece of me sure wishes that I could go to a local event–ever–and stop thinking about how small town it is. Another part–the larger part–is grateful that I have higher standards for entertainment. I’m sure my idea of fun is somebody else’s idea of rinky-dink. I won’t pretend otherwise. But at least I’m not swinging my partner round and round with a big hayseed grin on my face.

At 9:30 I was already too tired to muster up more than a smirk.

I’ve long suspected that the cruelest cuts come with a kiss. Today it arrived in the form of a Wyoming State Patrolman who let me off the hook for speeding, but then did something far, far worse.

He wrote a citation, all right–because I don’t have a WY driver’s license. Apparently, even though I have a valid NY license, I was supposed to get it changed over within a year of residency. Oops. Guess they forgot to include that tidbit with the welcome package. I could so with one less bucking bronco sticker and one more “Hey, here’s the state law regarding the operation of motor vehicles.” Might help.

Anyway, I get out of the moving violation. Yay! And then I read the citation. Boo! The legalese is all fine and dandy. But the devastaing part was the physical description. He listed my correct hair color, eye color, height…and proceeded to overestimate my weight by thirty pounds.

I wouldn’t even be that heavy if I were pregnant with twins.

Yes, I read and reread that number and it stayed the same. Triple digits. Mocking me. What kind of man charges you $100, makes you part with your NY license and then PUTS DOWN ON PAPER–IN TRIPLICATE–THAT YOU’RE A FATASS? A Wyoming Highway Patrolman, that’s who.

Sadist.

The man looks me in the eyes, tells me he’s giving me a break, and then proceeds to stab me in my neurotic back. (Through which, my ego insists on noting, you can see ribs.)

That’s it! I’m going to court! I must correct this error for the record! Did you not see the NY license? I don’t have country bones! I’m vegan! I do an hour of aerobic and 1,000 crunches a day!

The upshot was that it took me 27 minutes from the time I left my desk at work to drive to the DMV until I exited, temp WY license in hand. That includes the eye test, photo and fee processing. 27 minutes.

I was sad about parting with my home state until I realized how easy it is to get things done around here. I went to the DMV, the courthouse (they may throw out the ticket) the supermarket and the library all on my lunch break. Hey, maybe this country living ain’t so shabby.

So long as I keep my distance from psychologically devasting highway patrolmen, I’ll be fine.

If anyone asks, he was 450 pounds. Give or take.

We got over an inch of snow last night– September 30th. I was more angry at the fact that it couldn’t wait a night.  Snow in October just doesn’t sound so bad!

The last time it snowed was June 7th, the day after my wedding. I had a house full of family and friends, every last one commenting on the unseasonal weather. All I can say is, it doesn’t feel so damn unseasonal to me. Not when we’ve gone a mere 17 weeks without the white stuff.

Earlier this week, we hit the mid-eighties. And now, obviously, it’s below freezing. Between the super-hyped H1N1 going around and the fact that I can’t possibly figure out what to wear from one day to the next, it’s amazing that the entire state of Wyoming isn’t quarantined until, oh, say, next July, when it decides to warm up for a whole week at a time.

(Actually, it should be easy to get dressed, going forward. I’ll just wear everything in my closet at once. A dozen or so wool sweaters, skirts, pants, boots–oughta do the trick.)

Ah, summer. We came so late to your party, and left so early. Can you please issue an extended invitation to your brother, Indian Summer? I’d really, really, like to see him this year….