I don't know what scares me more. The fact that some spammer or his/her spambot has christened me "Crafty Peaches" or that I'm actually thinking of adopting the name as a user id for my spam email addresses. You known, the free email addresses you set up so you can go to some website and sign up for the newsletter and keep the surveys and "you won!" emails from getting mixed up with your real emails. Like the ones from Flylady and Sitemeter. I've been known to use character names, family names, dog names, but talented fruits? This is an area I have somehow missed. Crafty Peaches says so much more than Tranquil Waters (or was it Nyquil Waters?) Like fuzzy on the outside, then sweet, then poison at the core??
All I can say is that Crafty Peaches sure is popular! I get at least a dozen emails each day, all wanting Crafty Peaches' opinion on politics, softdrinks and televisons shows. And, Crafty Peaches is offered many discount pharmaceuticals. Some obviously for personal use and some to share with friends. And Crafty Peaches is invited to visit all kinds of websites. I wonder if Artsy White Grapes is ever invited.
Perhaps I can come up with a talented fruit id generator for my friends. There's Conniving Pears. Radical Oranges. Durable Apples. Yeah, that's a great userid. I can see the spam now...Hey, Durable Apples! Your Opinion Counts!
I guess it's better than Spoilt Persimmons.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
A journey starts with the first step...
And a novel starts with the first sentence. I'll playing with it, but here is the beginning thus far...
Rose Franklin found out she was conceived out of wedlock in the Walmart parking lot. Not that the actual conception happened there, but for some reason, her mother decided to reveal Rose’s history at the Navasota Walmart, next to a large dirty Ford F-150 that smelled like it had been hauling manure that morning. For a moment, Rose imagined her mother’s shopping list:
Walmart:
Laundry detergent
Paper turkey centerpiece and matching napkins
Tell first born daughter she’s a bastard
anti-perspirant
hemorroid cream
trash bags
“Gee, your dad and I got drunk, and three months later, I realized I was carrying you,” her mother blurted out, as if she were asking what aisle the soap was on. “I hope they’re not out of those turkeys. Alice had one at her house last year and it looked so cute on her table.”
Rose shook her head. Only her mother would think a paper turkey would be the perfect classy Thanksgiving centerpiece. After all, the woman hated fresh flowers. The F-150’s horn alerted her that it’s driver was ready to go get more manure and if she didn’t get out of the way, her life would end, fittingly, in the Walmart parking lot. Her mother was already in the doorway of the store, probably miffed that the retired shop teacher that welcomed shoppers wasn’t quite quick enough with the buggy. She had no idea that telling your daughter she was the product of a night of binge drinking wasn’t something you did while walking through a parking lot. It had to be difficult to be that inappropriate, yet at the same time, but hyper-concerned about what everyone thought of you. It was the dichotomy that defined Maura Kean’s life. And therefore, Rose’s as well.
Rose Franklin found out she was conceived out of wedlock in the Walmart parking lot. Not that the actual conception happened there, but for some reason, her mother decided to reveal Rose’s history at the Navasota Walmart, next to a large dirty Ford F-150 that smelled like it had been hauling manure that morning. For a moment, Rose imagined her mother’s shopping list:
Walmart:
Laundry detergent
Paper turkey centerpiece and matching napkins
Tell first born daughter she’s a bastard
anti-perspirant
hemorroid cream
trash bags
“Gee, your dad and I got drunk, and three months later, I realized I was carrying you,” her mother blurted out, as if she were asking what aisle the soap was on. “I hope they’re not out of those turkeys. Alice had one at her house last year and it looked so cute on her table.”
Rose shook her head. Only her mother would think a paper turkey would be the perfect classy Thanksgiving centerpiece. After all, the woman hated fresh flowers. The F-150’s horn alerted her that it’s driver was ready to go get more manure and if she didn’t get out of the way, her life would end, fittingly, in the Walmart parking lot. Her mother was already in the doorway of the store, probably miffed that the retired shop teacher that welcomed shoppers wasn’t quite quick enough with the buggy. She had no idea that telling your daughter she was the product of a night of binge drinking wasn’t something you did while walking through a parking lot. It had to be difficult to be that inappropriate, yet at the same time, but hyper-concerned about what everyone thought of you. It was the dichotomy that defined Maura Kean’s life. And therefore, Rose’s as well.
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