Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon

By Terri Coop

Actually, this post has nothing to do with Kevin Bacon. I just believe that everything is better with bacon. A better title would be "Six Degrees of Peter Straub," or "How a small town lawyer closed down a bar with Erma blogmate Carole Oldroyd, author Jamie Mason, and a by-gawd literary legend." I owe it all to Erma Bombeck. Yeah, I said Erma Bombeck.

Let's see if I can sort it out.

1. Erma Bombeck pretty much invents the genre of household humor and an entire generation grows up knowing that the grass is always greener over the septic tank. 
2. A gang of writers get together and come up with the excellent idea of a blog celebrating the legacy of Bombeck with an updated version of her unique slice-of-life humor. Enter "An Army of Ermas." 
3. Fast forward to a contest to find two more recruits to the army. I entered my essay "The Chihuahua Whisperer" and launched a stormtrooper campaign among my friends and family to vote me in or prepare to spend the next year regretting it. 
4. Yes! I am inducted into a group of the best, funniest, and most wonderful gang of writers ever assembled. Over the many months of Facebook posts, blogs, deadlines, good times, and not so good times, I come to count many of the Ermas as friends, and some as family. I owe my Honorable Mention from the 2012 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition to the encouragement of this wonderful group. 
5. Some more fast-forwarding and I get a Facebook message saying, "Hey, can you come to Nashville in August?" Turns out Ms. Oldroyd was hitting me up to be roomies for the Killer Nashville writers' conference. My answer was a definitive, "heck yeah," and I had my conference registration and flight booked by breakfast. 
6. ::rurrururur:: (fast forward sound, roll with it) to the convention and an innocuous sounding suggestion from author-extraordinaire Jamie Mason, "let's check out the bar before we call it." 
7. There, sitting a-freaking-lone at the bar, was non-other than Peter Straub. Alone for about fifteen seconds, that is. And a finer, more charming, and funny person you will never meet. However, he would not answer my burning question, "Was it your idea or Stephen King's to kill Henry in The Talisman?" After all these years, that is still a literary open wound. ::sigh:: 
8. Toss in a side order of Jeffery Deaver and you have a formula for one of the best evenings ever. The blaring GET-OUT-DON'T-YOU-PEOPLE-HAVE-HOMES lights came on far too soon. 

Not Kevin Bacon.

My eternal thanks to the divine Erma Bombeck, who is certainly chuckling at this merry band of modern-day wo(men), and to each and every one of the Ermas. My wish is to someday close down a bar with every one of you. And to meet Kevin Bacon. Or to have bacon cheeseburgers with you all. You know what I mean. Dang it, I've got dust or something in my eye . . .

Terri Lynn Coop writes about car culture and hot rod collectibles at http://carmemorabilia.about.com and has been known to blog at http://readinrittinrhetoric.blogspot.com. Buddy up on Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/terri.l.coop or say hello on Twitter https://twitter.com/TerriLCoop

Bag-For-A-Buck Romance Book-ku

By Terri Coop

It's no secret that I like going to book sales.

Sometimes you find the raw material for dreams.

Many thanks to literary agent Janet Reid and her outrageous book poetry contest.

Terri Lynn Coop would give the local library $10 a year just to be able to go in and look at the books. It's way better when they let her bring her handtruck and take a bunch home. She is a practical dreamer who writes articles about everything from law to the history of pink fuzzy dice when not hacking away at her novel.

Sweeter by the Half Dozen

by Terri Coop

I was raised a cat person. However, in one instant, I was permanently transformed into a dog lover.

The time:  February 2001.

The place:  Just outside of Stillwater Oklahoma.

The catalyst:  A near perfect faceplant on the dashboard.

That last part is because my then husband had slammed on the brakes to make a 90-degree right turn at a hand-painted sign reading "CHIHUAUHAS." (Yes, you are reading incorrectly.)

When that grizzled old man put that little black and tan bundle into Noah's hands, my first words were,

 

"I'll get the checkbook."

He wanted a Chihuahua pup so much! No five-year old had ever promised more solemnly to take care of his dog. Being feline-oriented myself, I was skeptical. Now, I was smitten. Charlie had found a home. 

Fast forward to 2004. Noah had arranged with a breeder to have Charlie, um, ya know, serviced. Very soon, she lost her girlish figure and we knew puppies were on the way. No royal heir was more heavily anticipated than this litter. Noah read every book on Chi puppy care under the sun. On the appointed day, at ten in the morning, Charlie's temperature rose the fateful one degree. It was time.

::crickets::

Not a thing happened. For the next twelve hours we stared at her while she stared back wondering what she had done wrong. Finally, around midnight she started pacing and fussing. Suddenly, Noah remembered the camera was in the workshop and ran to fetch it. While he was gone, Charlie gave a little yelp, did half a backflip, and there was a puppy.  She and I stared at each other . . . both absolutely clueless.

We were still staring when Noah rushed back with the camera. Doggie doctor to the rescue. I held the mouse-sized pup while he tied the cord and then I cut it. Repeat three more times. We had four pups. Nestling them under Charlie, we thought four was a nice litter.

Then she began panting and fidgeting. Fifteen minutes later, to our consternation, we had six perfect wriggling black baby doggies. Pretty much unheard of in Chihuahuas, single and twin births are more common. 

The next twelve weeks were a joy as the little ones grew and thrived. I put away the good quilt and let them frolic and puppy-pee. We loved them while being careful not to hug the stuffings right out of them. Noah built an indoor pen and patiently weaned them on a gruel we called "smoosh." Once weaned though, pen cleaning became a lot less fun. One day, after changing the papers for the fourth time since dawn, he looked up and said, "run the ad." It was time our babies found their forever homes. 

Just in case you're curious:

1.  Pixie Willow went home with a female couple that brought a rhinestone collar and leash for her. 

2.  Fuzzy Bear was for a little boy whose father was shipping out to Iraq. 

3. Scruffy is my beloved pet and best friend. 

4. Lacey filled the hearts of a single mom and son who had recently lost their dog. 

5. Dobie went to an adorable young newlywed couple. 

6. Blaze became a companion to a wheelchair bound elderly lady.

Puppies rule.

Just Remember: M-M-M

By Terri Coop

Mash.

Mush.

Mold.

There, you now know how to make the world's easiest and tastiest dessert. You are now popular and in demand at every potluck and picnic. People think you are brilliant. You are thanking me.

What? You want more? Yeesh . . .

Okay, here is my recipe for Oreo (circle R trademark thingy) Truffles. No cooking or skill necessary.

The Ingredients:

1 bag of Oreos (keep sealed until you are ready, soggy cookies make for soggy truffles)

1 block of cream cheese (real cream cheese, not that weenie low-fat stuff)

You got that? Do you need a minute? The cool thing is the cookie-cream cheese ratio is constant. One Bag = One Block. Want to eat half the cookies and still have a platter for the office potluck? One-Half Bag = One-Half Block.

The Steps:

1. Mash the cookies into fine fluffy flour. I use a 2-cup food processor. You can also use a blender or a hammer if you have a lot of anger issues.

2. Gradually mush the cream cheese into the cookie flour. No utensils allowed. Pin back your hair and roll up your sleeves (and scratch your nose first, trust me on this one). Add the cream cheese bit by bit until you have a ball of firm dough that is shiny and slightly oily to the touch. Refrigerate for 30 minutes while you are cleaning cookie dough from under your nails (by the way, cream cheese is an excellent moisturizer).

3. Mold the dough into any shape you please. A melon baller works great, or just roll it into balls. Silicone molds, cookie cutters, whatever you want. Refrigerate for another 30 minutes.

4. Bonus step! Your truffles are now officially awesome. However, you can dip them in tasty stuff like melted chocolate chips, almond bark, dark chocolate, vanilla . . . you name it. If it is dippy, go for it. And sprinkles. Everything is better with sprinkles. Put a lollipop stick in it and everyone will think you are Martha-freaking-Stewart.   

Terri Lynn Coop is not a half-bad cook, but is a terrible baker. She was hesitant to give up her secret recipe that has rescued her from potluck embarrassment, but she does believe in sharing the wealth. She lives in Kansas with her two Chihuahuas. 

Learning to Love the Law

By Terri Coop

In 1995, my engineering career was cut short by mass layoffs. I decided to go to law school. I was 35, ready to downsize, and made what I now know was a really stupid choice.

I decided to live in the dorm.

Quit laughing! It seemed perfect. Newly remodeled, single rooms, parking, dining hall, walking distance to my daily classes, and no bathroom to clean.

Resident Assistants and rules to ensure a harmonious communal living environment.

I said stop laughing!

Never having studied anthropology, I was unacquainted with the sub-species undergradis-idiotus and had spent little time with this odd primate in its natural habitat.

It wasn’t the stereos. As an adult, my system beat anything they could throw at me. I see your gangsta rap and raise you Waylon Jennings (to watch their little hipster heads explode). It wasn’t my upstairs neighbor and her boyfriend (squeak, squeak, SQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAK, squeak, silence (oops).)

No, it was the inability of these young ladies, these future arbiters of fashion and captains of industry, these mothers of generations yet unborn, to walk like upright homo-sapiens.

There were the horses: “clippity-clomp, clippity-clomp, clippity-CLOMP.”

The buffalos: “STOMP STOMP STOMP.”

The Doppler air-raid sirens: “sssssscccccrrrrRREEEEEEEEEEEAAaaaaammmmmmm.”

Next door was a biology graduate student. She left after scoring a fellowship. It seemed that being on a trawler in the Arctic Circle beat dorm life.

My petition for contract release was denied. So, I learned to love the law while loathing the dorm.  

::cue college memories::

Hearing the usual ruckus in the hall, I stepped out of my room and saw the RAs screeching, “fly little butterfly, be free,” while galloping up and down the hall flapping their arms. The rule-enforcers greeted my gobsmacked expression with sullen muttering.

I was leaving for class when a girl skipped (yes, skipped) past, carrying a laundry basket. I said she might want to slow down. Glaring at me, she said she was in a hurry. I pointed down the hall at the line of laundry that had bounced out of her basket with every skip and told her then she’d better hurry. Cue pouty silence and resentful collection of scattered thongs.

Poor things. They’d escaped to college only to have their mom move in across the hall.

The final straw came at dark-thirty in the morning during midterms. A flock had gathered in the study room (supposedly closed at eleven) and every time they mastered something, they celebrated with a clap/stomp/scream cheerleader routine. Awake now, I gave them the law-student-glare-of-death as I shuffled to the bathroom.

The next day the dorm president summoned me and said the girls had filed a complaint against me for (wait for it) racial discrimination and harassment. Campus hate crimes.

I was told to appear before a student court on Monday. After I stopped laughing, I told her I wouldn’t be there, it was exam week at the real school and to get back to me when they rescheduled. She seemed quite nonplussed that being called a Klansman didn’t seem to bother me.

I never did get another hearing date. However, I did get a letter saying that my appeal (which I had never filed) was granted and I was free to leave the dorm. Next year when the school catalogs came out, they prominently read that graduate students were welcome only in campus apartments.

When in Rome...

Thanks to fellow Erma Jason Tudor for the photo.

 By Terri Coop

Me, the Internet, and stress are an interesting combination. During the day it will most likely be political arguments. However, if it’s after midnight, I often end up with plane tickets. My version of the fight-or-flight reflex.

That’s how, in the week before the Oklahoma Bar Exam, I found myself booked on a flight to Paris. I had originally wanted to go to Egypt, but knew Paris was more suited for solo wandering. I’d visited before, knew how to use the subway, and still had all my guidebooks. Other than that pesky language barrier, I looked forward to an uneventful week in the City of Lights shaking off the after-effects of writing test essays about the Uniform Commercial Code.

A secret about Paris: In August, the middle-class flees to the countryside, the tourists are in the Bahamas, and the city is blessedly quiet. Lines are short, and for a Midwesterner, the temperature is balmy.

Okay, most of the lines were short. On my obligatory trip to the top of Eiffel Tower, the queue wound round the second level. There may not have been many tourists in the city that week, but they were all determined to go to the top of the tower that day. The voluble French complaining also told me that a good number of locals were visiting as well. 

Two polite, but insistent, guides packed the elevators sardine-style with the sort of rude insistence that only the French can pull off with style. Shoulder to shoulder with my fellow travelers, I began the trip to the top. 

When I travel, my goal is to blend in as much as possible. No loud t-shirts with funny sayings. No obnoxious hats. No fanny packs. For Paris, I packed khakis, starched white shirts, and an array of silk scarves. When sightseeing, if it doesn’t fit in my faux-chic shoulder bag, it doesn’t go. Even my camera is discreet. (I know I’ve pulled it off when American tourists approach me, maps outstretched, saying, “See-Vu-Play . . .” with a pleading look.)

I evidently didn’t look too touristy that day in the elevator because my week became less uneventful when I realized there was a hand firmly planted on my backside. I shifted slightly and so did the hand. The hand wasn’t being overly obnoxious, but there was no doubt that this was no accident. 

I had a choice. I could go all American on the offender and raise a ruckus in a packed elevator, or I could cultivate my European elan a bit more and see what happened at the end of the journey. However, one minute and forty seconds is a lot longer when you have an unknown hand on your butt. I’m sure there’s something in Einstein’s theories about that.

When I left the elevator, the hand didn’t follow. I looked over my shoulder and saw a pleasant looking young European with his eyebrows arched in a question. That’s when I decided to channel my inner Parisian. I smiled, shrugged, shook my head, and got an adorable Gaelic pout in return. I took it for the compliment it was. 

In a city full of eminently grope-able women, I had made the cut.

One Bite at a Time

by Terri Coop

New skills? 2011 was nothing but learning things the hard way, by experience. Life’s unexpected twists left me single, with a struggling business, and a new home. Did I mention that new home was in a 300 square foot office tucked inside three stories and 12,000 square feet of damp drafty Civil War era bricks with a roof that is more of a suggestion than a reality? For the first three months I had no kitchen, hot water, or shower. 

Today, I was upstairs sweeping P4 (powdered-petrified-pigeon-poo) and thinking about this article. While some of my new skills will translate well to the zombie apocalypse (such as the ability to build a sump with an aquarium siphon and a kerosene pump), I realized I have honed one skill that will see me through whatever life throws at me.

 A few months ago, I remembered an old joke.

Q:  How do you eat an elephant?

A:  One bite at a time.

Those eleven words got me through winter when my tarp drains ruptured and water thundered onto the first floor and continue to see me through a clean-up that most men would have hired three guys to handle. 

The secret?

Since I can’t eat my elephant in one sitting, I carve off a hunk, slather on some ketchup, and swallow it one bite at a time. The cleaning never got done upstairs because the men in charge always wanted dumpsters and contractor bags and gigantic industrial brooms! Instead, I sweep the plaster and P4 into small piles and shovel those piles into Wal-Mart bags. When I come down the stairs, two bags of flotsam come with me. It isn’t a fast process, but it is relentless one. I know I’m only about twenty percent of the way there. Who cares? Architectural Digest hasn’t offered me their front cover.

I do get damn tired of elephant, day in and day out. Like someone who thought the thirty-five pound turkey was a good idea because it was on sale, I cringe every time I see the carcass. It never seems to get any smaller. Yet, when I least expect it, I get to throw away a bone.  

As winter slowly gives way to spring, I’m polishing up my elephant recipes and to-do list. My shower is framed in exposed 2X4s, the refrigerator is out in the warehouse, and I don’t have a stove. Who cares? The queen isn’t coming to visit any time soon and with my tankless hot water heater, I can shower until I am cozy and pruney. It took two cauldrons of salsa-stewed elephant to achieve this marginal level of liveability, but here I am. And I know that every elephant ka-bob brings me a bit closer to the finish line. 

My next goal, besides stalking unguarded trash cans to dump my bags of P4, is to apply this same principle to my novel. I am so busy that the prospect is daunting. Then I tell myself to not worry about the whole project. Just concentrate on the first act. 20,000 words. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of Dumbo-Delight club sandwiches to get that far. Then I can worry about the middle and the end. In fact, I think I’ll knock off a page right now. Elephant-in-a-blanket anyone?  

Terri Lynn Coop, along with being an accomplished elephant epicure, is a lawyer and writer. She and her two Chihuahuas dream of a day when the roof doesn’t leak and the garbage man picks up every week without a nasty phone call. It’s the simple things that make life grand. She writes about writing and tacky lawn art at www.readinrittinrhetoric.blogspot.com and stalks creepy clowns at www.whyifearclowns.net. She would be eternally grateful if you said hi to her on Twitter @TerriLCoop.

Image credit: Terri Coop

Tech Support

by Terri Lynn Coop

02/22/2012 transcript – for official use only 

::START CALL::

Tech: Yes, ma’am what can I do for you today?

Caller: Hi, um, in 2008, I got your Boyfriend v1.0 package. I was really happy with it. In fact, I added the Fiance v2.0 upgrade package in 2010.

Tech: Always glad to hear from a happy customer. Is there a problem?

Caller:  Well, my Fiance v2.0 was slow and got outdated, so I added one of the suggested expansion packs, therabbitdied.exe and before I knew it, he did a self-upgrade to Husband v1.0! However . . . 

Tech:  Glad to hear the software autoloaded. Occasionally, the user has to start the upgrade with the prompt shotgun.html. But, it still sounds like there is a problem.

Caller:  You didn’t tell me that the Husband v1.0 package included the macros farting.exe, snoring.exe, and that sports.exe would be constantly running in the background! It is really interfering with the happilyeverafter.doc template I purchased as part of the wedding package.

Tech:  Yes, those bloatware programs do come standard with Husband v1.0. However, we do have a Husband v1.2 security patch download. Type in mymotheriscomingtolivehere.html and you should see an immediate improvement in behaviors. Anything else?

Caller: Yes. Fiance v2.0 had some wonderful functionalities that don’t seem to be working now that I’ve upgraded. Flowers v2.4 and SnuggleBunny v3.1 haven’t worked for months now.

Tech:  Be honest now. Did you run the recommended diagnostic lingerie.html?

Caller: Yes! And it was no help.

Tech:  Let me check your root directory on the current Husband v1.0 package. Uh oh, I see what might be part of the problem. You may have a bimbo virus. There is a file in here titled Monique.exe. It’s in the subdirectory Motives and that heading is shaded. 

Caller: I knew something was going on. Is there anything I can do to remove that file? 

Tech: There is a diagnostic that’s been known to work. Type in communityproperty.html followed by childsupportorder.html and see what happens.

Caller: OMG! It worked! And it triggered a download of Flowers v3.0. You are a genius!

Tech:  Awesome. That’s a tough one. I do recommend regular diagnostics of lingerie.html along with our bimbo sweep pack including footrub.exe, lasagna.exe, and pokernight.exe. Even though the upgraded Husband v1.2 is a more stable program, it requires maintenance. It’s all in the manual.

Caller:  The manual?  Geez . . . it looked so easy in the demo. 

::END CALL:: 

Terri Lynn Coop lives in Kansas in a big spooky building with a leaky roof and two Chihuahuas to protect her from evildoers while she writes her novel. Check out her blogs www.whyifearclowns.net and www.readinrittinandrhetoric.blogspot.com for more funny.  She also hangs out on Twitter under the handle @TerriLCoop.

Wild Furniture Kingdom

by Terri Lynn Coop

Welcome to this edition of “Wild Furniture Kingdom,” featuring the “Five Best Feral Sofas of Kansas.” Join me on this photo safari featuring the wildlife that is probably lurking in your own backyard.

         Facing life in the wild, our first feral sofa developed a unique protective coloring that allowed it to blend into its environment.

           Our second wild sofa is a proudly displaying its plumage and staking its claim on the kingdom. Judging from its flashy stripes, it is most likely an alpha male.

          Over time, wild furniture will often lose its fear of man. Our third feral sofa seems comfortable lounging in alleys and likely scrounging in the garbage.

            Our fourth stop is a rare glimpse of a nocturnal feral sofa. They hide in dark corners during the day, coming out at night to hunt and forage.

               Unfortunately, not all sofas are suited for life in the wild. These two fell to predators and their carcasses serve as a reminder that nature is not always kind.

Many people wonder if they have feral sofas in their neighborhood and ask me about the signs of a wild furniture infestation. I tell them to look for droppings.

I hope you enjoyed this episode of “Wild Furniture Kingdom” and will tune in next time for, “When Recliners Go Wild.”

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer, a writer, a Chihuahua owner, a clown hunter, and stalks feral furniture so you don’t have to.

Happy Hollydaze

by Terri Lynn Coop

Christmas means different things to everyone. Fun, family, presents, a grueling ordeal at grandma’s house . . . 

To single people, it also means the chance to pick up some extra bucks at the mall. Work the Friday after Thanksgiving? No problem. Work Christmas Eve? No problem. We are the few, the proud – the elves – and it’s our minimum wage job to make sure you have a joyous holiday (insert sarcastic laugh). Hey, those awkward family photos aren’t going to take themselves.

That’s how I, an unmarried childless college student, became “The Talking Christmas Tree” at Sunrise Mall. It was a twelve-foot tall, garishly decorated, low-tech monster with hand-operated controls for the eyes and mouth. Fifteen hours a week I’d jump the candy cane fence, look both ways for idealistic children, open the hatch, and lock myself in the tree carcass, ready to spread joy and holiday spirit, as well as be nowhere near a bathroom for four to five hours.

As any college mascot will tell you, there’s something magical about a big galumphy character costume. Your inhibitions fly to the four winds. I found myself singing off-key Christmas carols at top volume as well as calling out to random passerbys, “Mewwwy Chwwwistmas” (when in character, I had a lisp for some unexplained reason). Break into a random chorus of “Jingle Bells” when someone has their back turned to you and watch the packages fly. Man, I loved that job.

Hey, but it’s all about the kids, right? Unfortunately, most of the little ones were scared to death of me.  I was a twelve-foot tall tree with a face bigger than they were. The animatronics were clunky and my sound system wasn’t exactly Dolby. I did my best, but more often than not when the parents coaxed them up my glittery candy cane path, they were rewarded with screeching howls. I wonder how many of the little darlings became lumberjacks to deal with the trauma. Ah, there are no memories like Christmas memories.

A first-grade class made a special trip just to see me (I know!). A fresh-faced moppet approached and I asked, “What’s your name?” (paragraph 3 of the training brochure, “using the child’s name makes a magical connection and enriches the experience.”) 

“Mewwy Chwistmas (the signature lisp), what’s your name?”

“TZighisblimi.”

“What?”

“TZighisblimi.”

“Okay . . .”

“The Z is silent and the gh pronounces like sh,” adds the teacher.

Awkward silence.

“Hi there, big boy! What would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

To this day, I address all unknown children as “big boy” and “pretty girl.”

One quiet night, I had some teenagers threaten to tip the tree over. They were rocking it back and forth when I turned the volume up to 10 and sang (yes, sang),“HO HO HO! HEE HEE HEE! SOMEONE CALL SECURITY! HELP THE TALKING CHRISTMAS TREE!” 

My band of would-be Scrooges scattered like autumn leaves.

When my tree time was up, I would extricate myself and head to the other mall to don my suspenders and pointy boots for a shift as “photo elf” at Santa’s workshop. It cheers me to know that those photos I took have embarrassed prom dates, fiancés, and now their own children. Ah, the circle of life.

To all the Ermas and our readers, I hope you have a Mewwwy Chwwwistmas!

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer by day and writer by night. With her two intrepid Chihuahua companions, she braves life on the prairie and her death-duel with a chronically leaky roof. Check out her photo blog at www.whyifearclowns.net if you dare.

The Score

by Terri Coop

Since 1995, I’ve shopped so you don’t have to. Or so you could, depending on your outlook. I’m one of the dealers you see at flea markets or don’t see at antique malls and online. Back in 1999, I was selling vintage toys on AOL bulletin boards when we heard a rumor, “there’s this new website called eBay, where you can sell stuff . . .” We were skeptical, but launched a legend. I’m an eBay OG, from the days when the system would only take 200 sales per hour.

So, where does all the stuff come from? From shopping. I’ve toughed it out at elegant auctions, froze at farm auctions, had a grandma whack me with her cane at a church sale, reached through a crowd of ten-year-olds to snatch a Barbie, and dug through dumpsters to rescue vintage Boy Scout memorabilia. But, most of it comes from relentless searching at garage sales, estate auctions, and out-of- the-way flea markets. 

It’s usually a measured job. “Hmmm, that’s a dollar and I can sell it for five.” However, the secret that keeps us digging through your junk is the search for the most elusive of all prey, “The Score.”

The Score is seeing a doll’s foot sticking out of the dollar box at a garage sale. It looks familiar. I approach cautiously. Odds are that half of the other shoppers are dealers as well. 

Keeping it cool. Keeping it cool.  

I pull out the doll and  . . . well . . . angels sing. That little lady is a 1970s icon. Fighting to keep my breathing steady and to project calm, I pick out a couple of generic teddy bears from the box to mask my treasure. On the way out I grabbed a doll dress as an afterthought. It would sell for about five dollars and, hey, gas is not cheap. 

Waving to the other dealers, I head to the check-out. Then I hear a voice, “I’m sorry, there’s been a mistake.”

My heart sank. I’d been had. Clutching my bundle tighter I turned to face the music.

“That doll dress is really valuable. It shouldn’t have been put out for sale. I want to keep it because it’s really old and rare.”

Trying not to jump for joy, I surrender the five-dollar doll dress with a poker-faced, “not a problem, I understand.”

I paid my three dollars and beat feet back to the car.  I sold the doll for $325.00. Hey, I gave back the dress without an argument and I had a receipt for my $3.00. All’s far in love, war, and garage sales.

I got out of it for a few years. However, a couple of weeks ago I randomly stopped at some garage sales. At one I saw a riot of color and smiling faces heaped in a box. Care Bears. Vintage 1985 Care Bears . . . for fifty cents each. Ignored by all the other shoppers. Was that the sound of angels? Time and sales will tell. However, as I carried the entire box back to my car, I thought, “I’ve still got it . . .”

Highway Robbery

by Terri Coop

I saw the white flash just a moment before the collision reverberated through the car and sent my
Doritos and ice tea flying.

What the hell was that?

Grabbing a flashlight, I got out to check for damage.

Not even a dent.

Walking down the road looking for a wounded animal, I saw nothing save a few scraps of litter around a signpost and my tire tracks in the gravel. Turning the beam onto the sign, I laughed.

“Hey, Wolfman! It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the House of Screams. Gave me nightmares for a month. Glad to see you’re such a responsible corporate citizen.” The tension relieved, I looked at my watch just as the numbers turned over to midnight.

I heard rustling and panned the flashlight toward the sound. Hands, dozens of them, skittered along the roadway. Some picked up bits of paper and others smoothed out the gravel.

This is insanity. I’m asleep or unconscious from the crash, I thought, backing away. I caught a whiff of cold rot and an icy hand grabbed my wrist. Raising my eyes, I saw a nightmare. The wrecked mouth moved in a chant while the dead eyes looked to the moon. She tightened her grip on my wrist and I saw a bracelet on her arm glow, disappear, and reappear on my arm. Then, with what looked like a smile, she dissolved into mist. The hands retreated into the night, leaving me alone on the side of the road.

“Well, that’s ten bucks I lost.”

In the dark silence, the cultured voice sounded like thunder. I turned and saw a slender well-dressed
man in the shadows.

“Let me introduce myself. Call me . . . “

“Wolfman.”

“Ah, you flatter me. Glad to see I’m recognized. Welcome to the staff of the House of Screams. I can’t believe you fell for Lila’s stunt. Most people don’t swerve. They run her down and keep going. But, you...” his voice trailed away as he pointed up the road.

My eyes followed his gesture and a veil of ice descended over me. My car was wrapped around the tree. Smoke crept out from underneath and through the window I could see a figure slumped over the wheel.

“No.”

“Yes.”

I dropped to my knees waiting for tears that didn’t come.

“Yes, you are quite dead and the dead don’t cry, so stop trying. And Lila was able to bind your soul when you went for a stroll, meaning that you took her place. This section of road now belongs to you. Stand up and meet your crew.”

Realization dawned in my soul. It wasn’t cold that I felt, it was lack of heat. I exhaled and saw no vapor cloud. I touched my hand and felt the smooth cool sensation of a marble statue. A noise interrupted my musing. The rustle of hundreds of hands dropping from the trees and emerging
from the weeds.

“Ah, here they are. Ready to get to work. I’ll cut you some slack tonight because you are new. However, from now on I expect this mile to be spotless.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” I said, watching what looked like my own blood trickling from a wound in my chest.

Wolfman came close enough for me to smell his warm fetid breath. As I watched, two tendrils of his
breath formed into small snarling beasts.

“Mocking me is a poor choice.”

Despite my new cold countenance, I drew back. Instinctively, I knew I didn’t want to press the matter.

“Smart girl. There are things worse than death. Now, I need to get back to the House of Screams. I have a show to organize. After you prove yourself, feel free to ask for an audition. You are a lovely thing and Marie Antoinette is starting to get a bit . . . um . . . scruffy.”

“What? Those were real ghosts?”

“Of course. Anyone can use projections. However, the real ones are so much scarier. You, yourself said you had nightmares for a month. Music to my ears. However, you need to get to work. First order of business is to clean up that mess,” he said, looking toward what was left of my car.

“What do I do?”

“Just tell them what you want. They are quite well trained,” he said, disappearing into the night.

I looked down. For a moment I had forgotten the hands. Row upon row of white hands. Not knowing
what else to do, I pointed and said, “Go on.”

The hands moved as one, swarming over the wreck, dragging and pushing it into the underbrush.
Dozens more followed picking up glass and smoothing out the ruts. Watching my body sink into its final resting place, I felt nothing. I belonged to the night now and I had work to do. This section of road wasn’t going to clean itself.

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer and writer who just scared herself. She’ll never drive Route 171 into Joplin again after dark. Come keep her company at http://www.whyifearclowns.net

Three Little Words

by Terri Coop

“Back to school.” Those words conjure visions of fresh-faced cherubs in new clothes eager to learn after a long summer break. It also brings to mind images of moms high-fiving each other over margaritas by the pool. Even though I’m not a parent, I go with the latter.

In August of 2002, I discovered the school bus stop was directly in front of my house. We’d moved in during the summer and this tidbit wasn’t shared by the real estate agent. Had I known, I would’ve knocked 10% off the offer.

On that fateful day the little darlings queued up at 7:00. It was a hot sunny morning, so several decided my front porch would be a nice shady place to share a pre-school juice box or two. After sweeping trash for a week, I realized an uncomfortable truth.

This was war.

I started my campaign cautiously. I was outnumbered, new in town, and my opponent was strong. On Monday, I was sitting on my porch with morning tea. Even a footstep onto my path was met with a sharp crackle of a lowered newspaper and my best lawyerly glare.

It worked.

It took a week, but the local offspring retreated to the telephone pole on the corner casting subdued and sullen glances my way. Even after it was too cold for sunrise tea, the trash stayed where it belonged, in the gutter, where the prevailing wind made it their parents’ problem.

Until my morning net surfing was disturbed by a loud KA-WHUMP. Storming outside to investigate, I found a baseball on the ground under a matching dent in my siding and a group of the world’s most innocent children standing with their backs to me.

I picked up the offending sphere and strolled over to the juvenile cadre. After plying my well-honed interrogation skills, I discovered that someone named “nobody” had thrown the ball and evidently all of the kids in my hood need glasses, because no one saw anything.

I had one card left – a daring bluff. Feigning nonchalance, I said, “Okay, how about I ride to school on the bus and talk to the principal. I’m sure he can give me a list of your parents and their phone numbers.”

Ah, the innocence of small town youth. They didn’t know the driver wouldn’t let me on the bus and the principal certainly wouldn’t give out that information. Another lawyer glare and a small rift formed in the wall of silence. One of the older girls stepped aside and, like the parting of the Red Sea, her friends followed. The brotherhood broken, it only took a few seconds for the cheese to be standing alone.

Tossing the ball from one hand to the other, I asked him to explain. A choked, “sorry,” spluttered out. It was enough. My siding was so hail-pocked that the new dent probably smoothed out an old dent. This was about principle and turf.

He reached for the ball and I said, “Nah, this is mine now. If you want it back, send your dad over to introduce himself.”

I still have that ball. And I never had another bus stop problem in the eight years I lived there.

So, those three little words,

Back

To

School

Are both a cry of relief and a call to battle.

Terri Lynn Coop lives in the Midwest and practices her lawyer glare every chance she gets. She has perfected some Jedi mind-tricks to keep local kids out of the backyard and relishes her title of the "mean lady on the corner."

It’s All Gravy . . .

by Terri Coop

It was the summer of 1965 in a small town in California. It was blistering hot, but I didn’t care. I was five years old and surrounded by cousins at a family picnic. I was young. I was happy. I was about to be betrayed in the cruelest way possible.

Yes, Mom. I’m talking to you!

How could you do such a thing?

The worst part is I should have known it was coming. I overheard my mom and my adult sister making a bet. It was simple enough. My dear sweet beloved mother had bet my dear sweet beloved big sister that a kid would eat anything if it had gravy on it.

I was sitting there, wide-eyed and innocent, eating a dill pickle (and probably scooping up gravy with it) while this diabolical plan was being hatched. But, being five, I had the attention span of a dragonfly and was soon off playing.

Until we were called for dinner and I walked right into their trap.

I took my plate from mom. A chicken leg (yummy and crusty, no “grilled with a bit of lemon zest” here). Some Jello (it my favorite flavor - red). A carrot stick (because you should). And a big fluffy mound of savory buttery mashed potatoes with just the right number of lumps, all smothered in brown gravy.

At least that’s what I thought. Until I took a bite.

Hiding under that brown gravy was boiled mashed cauliflower.

In her madness to win, my sainted mother had substituted boiled cauliflower for mashed potatoes on my plate. I was evidently the designated test case. All these years later I still remember the taste. The smell. The texture. When you expect mashed potatoes and get boiled cauliflower, it is indescribable and devastating.

I don’t remember much after that. I hope I spewed all over the table. And all over my clothes. And all over her apron. Because, mom, let’s face it, you deserved it. My only consolation is that she lost the bet.

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer by day and a writer by night. Some four decades later she tastes everything before she puts gravy on it and has never voluntarily eaten cauliflower in any way, shape or form.

Getting My Kicks . . . .

by Terri Coop

 Road. Trip. Two of the best words in the English language.

I’ve always been a road-tripper. During my stint in corporate America, my boss asked me to fill in for a couple of weeks during his vacation. I was in Chicago; he was in New Jersey. He told me to book a flight and my response was, “I’d rather drive.” I took a vacation day on Friday and was at his desk on Monday.

However, my best trips were of the random variety. During law school, in Tulsa Oklahoma, I developed a fascination with Route 66. Surrounded by history, the road called me. My first trip on 66 was an excuse to visit a friend in Los Angeles. My second trip had a different motivation.

Sitting in class, taking my last final, I suddenly wanted an omelet. Not just any omelet, I wanted a Spanish omelet. And it just so happened that the best Spanish omelet I had ever tasted was served at the Silver Moon Café in Santa Rosa New Mexico. The fact that it was 500 miles away did not deter me. I was hungry.

I got up early the next morning and took off.

Even as hungry as I was, I couldn’t make the trip in one jump, so I stopped at the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, Texas. No, I didn’t try to eat the 72-ounce steak in one hour to get a freebie, but the sirloin tips were well worth the stop. I needed a break anyway, because I’d seen a tornado about an hour earlier. Well off across the plains, it was a sight. A scary sight. One that spawned the worst hail storm I’ve ever driven through. I was ready for lunch.

However, I was undaunted, I still wanted an omelet. Hey, you know what they say about omelets and breaking eggs. No tornado was going to stop me. Refreshed, I hit the road.

I got to Santa Rosa just in time to check into the little dumpy hotel next door. Greeted by the sleepy clerk, I had only two questions:

“Any vacancies?”

“What time does the café open?”

The next morning the nice Mexican lady called me “chica” as she served up my omelet. I explained that I had driven from Tulsa the day before to have breakfast here and her response is forever etched in my heart and mind, even ten years later:

“Um, okay . . .”

It’s hard to explain to the uninitiated the power of the road trip.

Terri Coop is a lawyer by day and writer by night. She lives and works in a Civil War era pile of bricks with a leaky roof and past-due property tax bill and loves every minute of it. She still hates tornadoes and loves omelets and also has a hankering to go on a road trip.

My Little MBA

by Terri Coop

Not long ago, I was web-surfing and came across a cache of vintage postcards from my hometown. One particular scene slammed me into the past so hard I didn’t know if I was coming or going. The key to my time warp is in the lower right corner. A place called “Toyland.”

In the 1960s, the California Central Valley was a pretty good place to be a kid. Marysville and Yuba City had thriving downtowns full of wonders to an eight-year old who had wheedled a couple of quarters out of Dad.

Toyland was part of a genuine dime store. The main sign proudly read “5-10-25” and was stocked top to bottom with trinkets and treasures from exotic (at least to a kid from Hicksville California) places like “Japan” and “Hong Kong.” In the back was my personal mecca, a rack of knock-off Barbie accessories, all priced at ten cents per card.

No MBA candidate has ever performed a case study as thorough as my deliberations over how to make the most of my quarters. Did I need another place setting, or should gaudy candelabras grace Barbie's table? A floral centerpiece or a soup tureen? There’s only one set of red placemats left. So, should I hope they will restock, or go with the ample supply of pink? What to do . . . what to do. It was delicious agony.

While Dad was next door knocking one back at the “Blue Room,” I schemed, weighed my options, did the cost/benefit analysis and took down and put back my choices a dozen times before coming to a decision. When I had done my job correctly, I had change left over for candy. I’d wait under the store's awning wearing a pair of wax lips and cooing over my treasures until Dad collected me and we headed home. Life was good.

We were a blue-collar family and didn’t have a lot. However, I guarantee that no Barbie set a grander table. I learned lessons in frugality and decision-making that stuck with me to this day. I can still pinch a dime until Roosevelt chokes and I can still set a beautiful table at a bargain price. Who needs an MBA when you got your training at Toyland.

This postcard also did something I never thought would happen. This Fall I am going home. I left California in 1989, vowing to never return. Something in my head and heart changed and I want to revisit the places that were important to me. I know Toyland is long gone and the space is probably a taco stand or cell phone store. I don’t care. I want to stand on that bit of sidewalk and remember when a dime store in a hot dusty town in California was the center of my universe.     

And Justice For All . . .

by Terri Coop

Little ditty about Jack and Diane, two American kids growin' up in the heartland . . .

I worked for a county prosecutor’s office in law school and learned that the courtroom is a combination of boredom interspersed with moments of dignity and drama.

This moment was none of those things.

The backstory is basic. Two kids had been, um, having relations since they were old enough to figure out how things worked. Nothing, especially parental intervention, slowed them down for a minute. Then one fateful day, the boy, who I’ll call “Jack” turned eighteen. The girl, who I’ll call “Diane” was still seventeen. Diane’s mother immediately filed rape charges on Jack.

My boss did his best to talk mom out of it, but she badgered him day and night to prosecute. Finally, a warrant went out and Jack came to court. However, my boss wasn’t about to hang a rape charge on a kid. His resolution was rather brilliant (at least from a legal standpoint).

Jack had the misfortune to come up for sentencing on the busiest day of the week. The Art Deco courtroom hummed and buzzed as lawyers and clerks negotiated justice and tended to the county’s business. A full chain gang of shackled prisoners filled the jury box and every seat in the courtroom was occupied.

The judge swept in with much pomp and called his court to order. This wasn’t just any judge. This was a senior District Court judge with an imposing presence and a booming voice that rattled the chandeliers.

Jack’s case was called and he shuffled to the podium in a shiny ill-fitting suit bought or borrowed for the occasion. He looked more like eight than eighteen. This was the heinous sex criminal that had kept my boss on the phone for over a month.

Rather than felony rape, the prosecutor had negotiated a guilty plea of misdemeanor indecent exposure. No jail time, just a fine and a promise to keep his mitts off Diane.

Little did he know the plea was going to be the punishment that would make a prison stretch seem like a piece of cake.

The judge went through the formalities with his usual flair.

“Young man, you are charged with misdemeanor indecent exposure. How do you plead?”

Out came a tiny little squeak, “guilty . . . “

A few titters from the audience.

Then, out of the blue, the judge boomed, “DID YOU SHOW YOUR PENIS TO THAT GIRL?”

Pandemonium.

The shrieking laughter was nearly drowned out by the clanking of chains a a dozen hardcore prisoners high-fived and back-slapped and generally dissolved into hysteria. It took several minutes and a threat of contempt to quiet things down. I think the plaster is still cracked.

The suit hanging on Jack’s thin shoulders went from being one size too big to about three. He was melting before my eyes.

And, in case you’re wondering, the judge made Jack answer the question. It was “yes . . .”

It took three deputies and another five minutes to restore calm and dignity to the proceedings.

I don’t know what happened to Jack and Diane. I do know that a videotape of that fateful day in the criminal justice system should be played in every sex ed class in America. The teen pregnancy rate would plummet. 

 

“Jack and Diane,” by John Mellencamp, 1982.

Waterworld

by Terri Coop

Like many small town dwellers, I am surrounded by history on every side. Everywhere I look is old buildings, old streets, old trees, old roofs and even older plumbing.

The thirty foot wide pit in my town’s main street took five months to fill because every time they took out a layer of old piping, they found another layer underneath it. Sort of a plumbing archeological dig. If you ever wondered why building codes exist, look beneath the streets and houses of an old town.

So it was no surprise a few weeks ago when I woke up to a blistering five degree morning and found the water pipes frozen solid. Since this sort of thing usually works itself out, I went about my day without a second thought. When I got back that evening, I had running water. Unfortunately, it was running under the floorboards of the laundry room. Apparently the circa-1970 copper piping joined up to the circa-1940 unidentifiable metal piping and all cobbled up with the circa-2005 plastic piping had failed epically in high pressure spewing glory – on a Saturday. (I discovered how good the water pressure was a couple of weeks later when I got the $250 water bill!)

With the flood curbed on Monday, the handyman and I decided to move the laundry room down to my business building. The service porch plumbing was beyond repair and I had plenty of room downtown. My pride and joy is three stories tall and over 10,000 square feet of solid brick Americana. A little piping here, a little wiring there, and I was back in business.

Pffft . . . I’m a Kansan, I laugh at winter!

Then the two-foot thick snowpack began to melt. All week the sun shone warm and benevolent. The next Monday morning, I opened my shop door to the sound of running water. My Civil War-era roof, thick with Reagan-era tar, last repaired when Clinton was in the White House had decided to give it up. I had a 20-foot long reflecting pool in the main aisle and a waterfall over my work table. The steady dull thud of drops on soggy cardboard echoed through the main floor. 

The fact that I had spent the previous weekend trying to get water into one building only to have another building filling with water of its own accord was just a bit more irony than I needed for a Monday.  

Sighing, I did what any Midwestern small town denizen does in a situation like this; I went shopping for buckets and hoped for a drought this spring. 

Terri Coop battles life on the prairie with three intrepid Chihuahua companions and keeps the world’s handiest handyman on speed dial. When not mopping up after Mother Nature she is either lawyering, packing orders for her mail-order business or writing. In her non-existent free time she collects salt-and-pepper shakers and blogs about stuff like creepy clowns and abandoned furniture.