He Looks Just Like His Father

The contractions gripped Mary. She had seen babies born, heard the wailing of the mothers. But she never imagined she would be the one making the deep, guttural noises. Not this way. No midwife. No mother or sister to guide her. She was terrified. And, her fiancé there seeing her like this. He had seen no more of her than her face, hands and feet. Along with the agony of birth, she ached from embarrassment. 

With each painful wave, the angels grabbed one another by the arm. They stamped their feet, waiting for it to pass. When it did, they exhaled and looked up at the throne to see The King doing the same thing. The Creator was beside Himself, wringing His omnipotent hands. He knew all, but He had never been born. Even if He had chosen to go through the experience, it wasn’t Him going through it now. It was something far more precious. It was His Son, a piece of Him and all of Him. 

The Spirit reached out and touched the King’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be long now. Yes, God nodded, no much longer. Yet so long. He wanted so badly to stop the pain and the relentless contractions gripping His Boy like a great fist. If He struggled to restrain Himself now, how would He be able to withstand the end? He would simply have to turn away. It would be too much. 

A final push and the Prince of Peace was born into the cold world of mortality. Heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug the proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at those curls,” the angels marveled. “Hello little Messiah. You are a jewel.” “Look at those fat cheeks.” “He looks just like His Father.” “Quiet everyone, He needs to sleep.”

A tear glossed God’s cheek. Was He so proud, so relieved, so blissfully in love with His precious Baby that all He could do was smile and cry. He wanted to reach out, to put His hand on Joseph’s shoulder. The man was so scared, so afraid he hadn’t done enough. He had apologized to God for the stable. Mary deserved better. The little Miracle deserved the best.

The messenger angels stood at the door bouncing foot to foot, shaking their hands, ready to burst forth from heaven like holy fire. They had been practicing, they were ready. But most of all, they were excited to be just a little closer to Him. They had missed Him so.

That night, as Mary slept, Joseph stared in wonder at his boy. A boy! His first born was a boy. A son! But, no. Could he even call Jesus, son? Was that allowed? What did YWHW want? I want you, Joseph. I trust you. 

Jesus stirred. Joseph carefully picked Him up and laid the Savior of mankind against his human shoulder. He smelled the Baby’s silky hair and smiled. He’s yours to raise Joseph. Love him as your own. It’s ok. I want it this way. Joseph smiled. The little One did feel like his own and he would raise Him as if He were. Oh, the things he would teach Him. They would build things together, play games, hunt, fish. And one day, Jesus would make him a grandpa. The house would run wild with little ones. 

That’s how it would happen, right? That’s how life was supposed to go. Joseph walked back and forth, bouncing the baby. Yes, men had children, grew old and died peacefully, surrounded by their grandchildren and great grandchildren. Of course, life hadn’t gone as it was supposed to go thus far. Since that precious little Miracle had entered their lives, nothing had gone right. Here they were in a cave, more or less, surrounded by animals. What kind of father was he letting it happen this way? He apologized to the LORD again.

A knock at the entrance. Shepherds stood quietly, still a little pale and shocked from the  celestial chorus. They had been told they would find exactly what they found. Why them, they had wondered as they made their way to the stable. The dregs of society: bug bites on their ankles, the smell of filth and the weariness of work on their clothes and skin. Why had they been chosen for this? They looked at the baby then one another. Their souls leaped in their chests and they stood dumbstruck, lowly shepherds in the presence of the greatest Shepherd. 

Time passed quickly. Mary grew heavy with another child. She and Joseph knew Jesus was the Son of God. But, did they? He didn’t seem divine. To them, He was their just little man, toddling everywhere, grabbing everything. “Jesus, no, no! Joseph, grab that nail from Him.” “Oh, come now Mary. Just a nail. We are carpenters, strong men. Show mommy Your muscle, Jesus. Yes, there it is. Growl for her. Grrrr. He’s a Samson, He is. A little nail in the hand couldn’t hurt You, could it? No, never.”

The Magi arrived at the door and the reality of Who was pulling at their robes came back to Joseph and Mary. Such strange gifts for a baby: gold, frankincense, myrrh. A gift for a king, an anointment for a sacrifice and a spice to embalm a corpse. The proud parents gave each other side-ways looks and smiled. Perhaps that was the custom from the Magi’s distant lands. Surely it didn’t mean something. Did it?

Children filled the house. The Son of Man became a big brother. His beloved father Joseph died. “Father, let me save Him.” “No, Son. He’s here with me and happy to stay.” 

The time came. Jesus began teaching. His family was shamed, embarrassed. He was the talk of gatherings. Mary stayed quiet. She had always stayed quiet. If she kept much more in her heart, it would explode. James understood. Finally. Or, at least he tried. It was a lot to take in. His big Brother was his Heavenly Father. The prophesied Messiah. Why had it taken him so long to see it? He and his mother exchanged looks as the aunts, uncles, distant kin and the whole of the city gossiped about the One they loved, lived with and were now living for.

And then, the trial. How had this happened? What had gone wrong? Mary wretched bile, her body devouring its own self with grief. Her baby. So fat, so happy. What had she done wrong? What could she do? Could she climb the cross, pull out the nails and take them herself? “Please. Please, YWHW, let me die instead. Not my baby boy.”

God turned away. He knew He would have to. It would be too much. The angels were beside themselves. “Great King, send us! We’ll kill them all! Our swords are ready! Please, King, Our Savior is screaming!” The earth shook with rage. 

The Spirit held up His hand. The earth stilled. Heaven was silent. Except for the laughter of one. The one who thought he had won. 

Christ returned home. The angels rushed to Him, to comfort Him, feed Him, tend to Him. He thanked them but refused. He only wanted to see His Abba. And there He was, The Holy One, The Creator, His Abba, His Daddy, running from the throne to hug His Boy. His Son. The missing piece of His heart.

And then, the third day. Once again, the Savior found Himself in a cave, in the dark, born into the cold world of mortality. But this time, He would walk out on His own. Not only as a man, but a Lion. Death devoured. The laughter silenced as heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug His proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at Him,” the angels marveled. “He looks just like His Father.”  

Blog by a Dummi

Blogging For by a Dummies


My blog is doing ok. Especially considering how little I know about the whole thing (yes still) and how anti-social I am. It’s not that I don’t like people, they just make me uncomfortable. Yes, really. So strange they are, what with all their body hair and opposable thumbs. 

But, again, the blog is doing ok despite me and by that I mean I’m averaging about…oh, I don’t know like around a dozen folks a day. I think. (Pretty sure it would be better for business if I lied and said my daily numbers rival Candy Crush but I’m not a liar unless it makes a post funnier in which case it is justified. Here  it’s just not. Also, I know my # of readers isn’t impressive compared to other blogs. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned by still shopping in the kids department, it’s not to compare myself to others.) I’ve a little following outside the blessed motherland - and I don’t mean Texas. I mean internationally. Good to know my tyrannical rants, ill conceived notions and social awkwardness translate.

The blog is its own animal at this point is what I’m getting at. It lives beyond my laboratory and I figured I should make it better. Slap a little lipstick on it. So, I looked up what makes a great blog. Here’s what I found and I wish I’d never seen. Some are from, in fact, Blogging for Dummies.

Suggestion 1:
Update Often! Every two or three days!


Say what? Every two or three days? What could I possibly say every two or three days that anyone would want to hear except, congratulations, you’re a winner. Apparently though, it doesn’t matter how mundane. People like their blogs like their BMs: regular. Which, mine pretty much are thank you very much. Thank you, kale. But, again, what would I say? My sister told me about a blog where this woman just said what she does everyday and folks are clambering for it. Dear heavens, I don’t like knowing what I’ve done in the course of a day! In case you’re wondering though, drank coffee, went to see a man about dog (that's Southern for restroom break), wrote a post, not this one, oh, wait - before that I got husband off to work at 5:30AM - on a Saturday!!!! My son was already up watching TV. I went back to bed and couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about my book I’m still not finished writing. Finally got up at 8:15 because I wasn’t in the mood to lie in my own urine. 

See, what I’m saying? Who cares about that junk? OH! I made my kids a space ship with cardboard boxes and duct tape. Which, btw, is duct tape’s achilles heel: cardboard. It don’t do cardboard. Unfortunately ground control here was out of packing tape. No biggie. Wasn’t like Major Tom was coming home anyway. Who cares if the duct tape gave up in the stratosphere? I will post a pic of the mess.

How I imagined it.

How it turned out...

Now, I ask you, does this look like the work of a person that should blog more often? 

Oh well, we'll see how it goes. Stay tuned for another installment...soonish... 

Turning 42 aka My Flying Squirrel Neck.

You'll understand. Keep reading.

       Two years ago I wrote an article regarding turning 40. I was against it, stomping my foot at it and giving it the whole Gandalf-you-shall-not-pass treatment. But, after looking at my over forty pals, as well as my inability to find a time-machine with Amazon Prime shipping convenience, I let it happen. And, as I was assured by others, I found it to be true that turning forty is a whole lot harder than being forty. Or, as I am now, 42.

There’s something quite liberating about the fourth decade. It’s the one when the organ responsible for caring what others think starts to decay. Not to say you become rude to others, you just become kinder to yourself. You don’t worry about what folks expect of you so much. You embrace what you do well and don’t kvetch over what you don’t. Trivial drama becomes more tiresome and you find yourself drawing closer to folks that feel the same. And, for the most part, every expenditure of your energy is considered, no matter how small, and, whenever possible, more reasonably appropriated to activities and thoughts that fill you up rather than suck you dry. 

I’m not saying that life becomes easier after forty. In some ways, it’s tougher. Your parents and children begin reaching an age that requires more of your attention and your wallet. Retirement looms in the distance and job security becomes important in a way that it wasn't before. However, the blessings of age will help you handle those tough situations better. You’ll see things clearer, have more perspective and wisdom. You’ll be the you you couldn’t be until now and that's pretty great. Sure, sometimes gray roots will shine from your head like light is trying to escape from your skull. And, sometimes you’ll have hot flashes and pimples at the same time. And, sometimes, you’ll forget that Western Day is tomorrow and send your kid to school in full get-up today. Also, if you ever have the misfortune of looking down into a mirror, you will see your entire face slide forward. Don’t even get me started on what your neck does.

You know what, I will get started. What the heck, neck! You’re like a tube sock worn past its prime. One false move and I fear you’ll fall down into a fleshy pile on my collar bones like one of those infinity scarves from Coldwater Creek. Yes, I said Coldwater Creek. And, I regret it. It’s a great store but the demographic of shoppers is, well, let’s just say the last time I walked in there, I was the only one who couldn’t say where she was when Kennedy was shot. I wish I had said something younger and hipper like The Gap. But, I didn’t. So, thanks, neck. Not only have you starting giving up, you’ve pushed me out of the Coldwater Creek closet. 

By the way, don’t even try saying you are still firm, neck. Yeah, you haven’t fallen completely, you’re not horrible when I look at you straight on. But, I see what you’re doing. I see it. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of you in the mirror. Your miserable effort to hang onto the bottom of my chin looks like that flap of skin on the side of a flying squirrel (See attached image but take away cuteness). Well, I’m not a flying squirrel, neck. Ok? I have no plans to glide from the top of my stairs to the bottom. Although, that would be super cool, I’ll admit. If I could do that, I’d do it all the time. But, I would still resent you for it. And, if by chance you are just sitting up there giggling, thinking you are off my radar, jowls, you’re not. Ok? I’m onto you too. I see your subtle slip into hound dog mode. 

But, I digress. (hot flash) Flying rodents and hunting dogs aside, don’t fear the fourth decade. It’s worth every year it took to get you there. Own it. Don’t desperately cling to your youth. It will just keep you from from being able to reach for something else and waste energy you could be using to do, well, anything else. You’ll still be young, younger in a way you haven’t been yet because you’ll have a greater appreciation of youth. Just trust me on that one. And, when the challenging moments hit, the ones when everyone seems younger than you (you’ll probably be trying on jeans at Old Navy when it happens) just remember: when the zombies come, none of those whipper snappers will survive because they’ll all be trying to text while they run. Have you seen this? So help me, anyone born after ’82 is forever on their phone. Even while walking and running. Well, that’s gonna bite them in their pert backsides. Literally. Then, they’ll be zombies. Meanwhile, the rest of us will gracefully glide away, the wind catching us under our flying squirrel chin flaps, and we shall take refuge with all the other survivors and thrive in comfortable clothing…at Coldwater Creek. 

Haikus for 42

Perimenopause                             
Anti-aging creams, acne 
Hot flashes, sneeze-pee                             

Walk into a room,                           
Forget why I ever went.                               
What was I saying?                    

Neck, what has happened?                
Has your elastic worn out?              
How dare you give up!                    

  (Haiku for Jiujitsu at 42)

See me on the floor,                         

Old enough to be your mom                    

I will choke you out.                         

Oh give me a home,
Where Botox fairies do roam,
And all clothes are Spanx.

Embrace the crows feet.

Make peace with your muffin top.

At least you're not dead.

I'm stronger, braver,
Wiser, happier, kinder.
'Cause I eat fiber.

Wish to be younger?

Smoother, perkier, no grays?

Nah, I'm good right here.

Call Me Ick Fish

I was going to include a pic of myself
but the sight of me would leave you
washing your hands the rest of the day.

I’m sick. I’m not exactly sure what I have, but I’d say it’s the human equivalent of Ick. You know that thing that fish get, and that little cloud of affliction that attaches to them? They just swim around and drag it along. Other fish swim toward them slowly as if maybe they are going to talk to them, “oh, hey, Steve, how are you…what the?” Then they dart around them at the last second, their one eye following the pariah as they go. And when the Ick fish is at a safe distance, the healthy fish turn around. They gather up in a little school, stand around the coolest one's locker and watch poor Ick fish swim away, dragging its little filth plume. Poor Ick fish.

I am Ick fish. Except I can’t get my family to avoid me. I wish they would. They continually ask me for stuff and when I say, “I am sorry, I cannot, for I am sick,” they kindly allow me more time to do whatever it was they wanted. Meanwhile, they act like dogs who have escaped their kennel and have free reign of an empty house. The house isn’t empty of course, they see me. They just know I’m too icky to complain. They strow clothes, toys, rocks (yes, rocks) all over. There are crumbs on the kitchen table and a few action figures that were included in the kid’s meal bag. That’s what they eat I don’t cook. My family has a whole Speed mentality toward the stove as if Dennis Hopper has rigged it to explode if it’s turned on. 

Mind you, in the midst of my sickness, my daughter has vomited. It was 4:00AM. I was sleeping upstairs in the guest bedroom, wrapped in my cocoon of Ick and she woke me up. I’m not sure what she said. But, later I got up to go get something to eat and heard her crying. Her tummy wasn’t well. I sat with her for a while and she said she needed to vomit. I ran downstairs to get a bowl. We aren’t toilet pukers. That’s on me. If I’m sick, the last thing I want to do is stare down into the belly of the porcelain beast. I’ve never understood why people do that. Sure, it’s an easy clean up but, come on. Your excrement goes there. That’s disgusting. If I’m already constitutionally compromised and things are about to erupt, I’m not going to add insult to injury by sticking my face into a dung receptacle. I don’t care how many scrubbing bubbles have happily surfed around in there. Anyway, I got a bowl in time. She let fly like a fireman’s hose. Poor thing. Pretty sure it was something she ate. She felt better immediately.

Whenever I am sick, somebody else ALWAYS gets sick. I hate that. And whomever it is gets to hole up in their bed like a squirrel while I continue about. Me and my Ick cloud, whom I shall call Sir Crudmore of Grossenstein. Now, I will say that unlike most sane people, I don’t stay in bed when I am sick. I hate lying in bed. So, part of the onus is on me. But, I shouldn’t have to walk about the house shouting, “unclean, unclean,” to be given a break. AND, if I do go to bed and stay there, things will just fall into greater disrepair. If I stayed there all day, the house would never recover. There’d be no coming back. We’d just have to torch the place and start over.  

At some point, we will shower, Sir Crudmore and I, then haul ourselves to the Minute Clinic. (I wonder how the CVS would react if I came in yelling, “unclean, unclean!”) I will get whatever rx required to abate this vile blight and grab a few packs of EmergenC while I’m at it. On that note, have you tried that stuff? It’s awful. The taste gives you a convulsive response. Of course you feel better after drinking it! You feel completely stricken while trying to choke it down. Finishing the glass is a relief not unlike when you finish throwing up. So, why am I taking it? Well, anything that tastes that bad has to be killing something off. That’s how I see it.

For now however, it’s Sunday morning, 9:30, we aren’t at church and I’m in yesterday’s pajamas. One side of my nose is a fount of viscous slime, the other is filled with adobe and my stomach is making sounds I’ve only ever heard before from a large drain. I would venture to guess I smell like I look. I reckon I’ll eat some soup - that I made for myself yesterday - and go back to bed. I wish I had a baboon to stand sentinel at the door but locking it is the best I can do. Which will only make the little ones knock and my husband call me on my cell phone. (BTW, if you are feeling bad for my little one that threw up, don’t. She’s completely fine and has been laying in bed watching Netflix since 4:15AM. And, since she did throw up, she’ll most likely be spoiled the rest of the day. It doesn’t hurt her case that she’s ridiculously cute walking around in one of her daddy's tshirts that goes past her knees and her bed head. She knows what she's doing. Well played little padawan. The force is strong with you.)

Farewell good land of health. I will now, with Sir Crudmore, my trusty cloud of repulsiveness, bid you adieu, achoo, and ew. I need to get a nap before noon at which point my family will probably stand over me and stare at me until I feed them. Hopefully I will be able to to keep the stove driving at 55 mph so it won't blow up.

What You Are About to See Is Real.

    All of the items you are about to see, are real. You can buy them. And, not just in Colorado or the other states where pot is legal. Some are pics of the actual items. Some are "artist" renderings as a photo of the actual thing is maybe more than the human eye can handle.

    What is this? Seriously!  What. Is. This? And furthermore,

I saw this in the Sunday newspaper and took a pic of it. There
was another devoted to a college team my husband said
I am not allowed to mention because they are having a hard enough
time right now. But rest assured, the baby's face is the same and
the team is from Texas. I'm sorry.

 who is buying it? ‘Cause somebody is! The company got the money to make this ad from somewhere. Who looks at this and thinks, yes, this is a thing I must own. It would unconstipate my feng shui. My earth element and creepy element have really had a disconnect. But, this, this crotch grabbing, obese baby, it will be a bridge between them. My home will then be in harmony. Get the credit card, Ethel...

     There are so, so many things wrong with this, whatever this is. But, first things first. Why is this little pervert grabbing its, whatever it’s got going on down there? I don’t know to what extent the company has gone to make this physically accurate. They sure seemed to have taken great care with the fat rolls. Look at the wrists on this corpulent little fella. Good grief, the whole arm looks like the under side of a croissant. 

    And a crease in the middle of the chest? How much rice cereal does a baby have to eat to get a fat roll there? Even the bottom of its feet are chubby. That’s why it’s sitting up, it sure couldn’t supports its weight on those little fat feet and if it laid down, it would suffocate under its own weight. Like an elephant. 

    (By the way, when does this much fat become unacceptable? Why can’t I, a grown woman, flaunt my leg cheese and have somebody say, “oh, look at those chubby little legs! So cute! Who’s a precious girl? You are! You’re a precious girl.”)

    Also, the message of this whole…display…seems to be that the baby is eager for Sunday so that it may watch not just football, but the Texans. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I would like to submit that its forlorn expression is not anticipatory of watching the Texans play, but in fact because it has actually seen the Texans play. I have seen this same look on my husband. (Ironically, he also watches the game while sitting on a red blanket half naked. Don’t judge.)

      Now, I know what you’re thinking. I would never buy this. But, I would buy something creepier.  Like, oh, I don’t know, a baby orangutan wearing human pajamas. Well, my eccentric friend, this is your lucky day. Behold:

Screen shot. NOT a real ape
baby that I keep in my home.

       Yes, this too is available for purchase for the low, low price of $139. And, if one disturbingly realistic, juvenile ape in a onesie just isn’t enough for you. Don’t fret...

I wonder if the folks who buy these
remember how strong apes are. These
guys could literally pull your arms off
and then beat you to death with them.

      In case you're wondering, the chest comes with it which is invaluable for night time, when you’d need to lock them up. From the looks of these little twin tricksters, they are just waiting for somebody to fall asleep so that can set their face on fire. Then they’d laugh and laugh.

The Duke indeed.

        If that bothers you, I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you are ok with killer baby orangutans. If you aren’t though, might I suggest you place this picture of The Duke over your bed. It is sure to give those pesky killer apes something to think about. And, yes, they will see it at night, ‘cause guess what! It lights up. That sucker glows like a gun slinging seraphim! 

But, let's say you're a tough customer. Let's say that doesn’t give you a real sense of security. In that case, there’s always this:

    Now, lest ye think this is a political commentary in any way, it’s not. I’ve just never loved any president so much that I just had to see his face on the arm pit of an eagle. 

    But, you know, maybe I’m jaded. Perhaps I need to something to breathe fresh life into me, inspire me. Remind me that the world is full of beauty, joy and oh, here it is…

Nothing like a boyfriend who can hand you
a bouquet then gently stroke your
cheek with his toes.

Honorable mention.

I Heart Zombies to Death

Ok, now I realize that this post seems a bit of a contradiction to last week’s wherein I made it very clear I didn’t want to rub elbows with the undead at the grocery store. And, I still stand by that assertion as well as the fact that I don’t like to be frightened. HOWEVER, I do love zombie stories, movies and shows. I can’t help myself. And yes, I know the season premier of The Walking Dead comes on this Sunday. Rest assured I will watch it. On Monday. During the day. Doors locked. Cross bow on the couch next to me on one side and on the other, a friend I can outrun.

I couldn't bring myself to put in an actual
zombie picture. I love 'em. But I don't want
to look at 'em!

The thing about zombie stories though, the thing that keeps me and millions others wandering back to them like, well zombies, isn’t the undead. It’s the living. The people trying to live life on the run while furiously holding onto everything that was anything in their previous life, that’s what we’re tuning in to see. Because, in an apocalyptic event, all that matters in life is all that ever really mattered in life. Well, and big trucks. And shovels. And cross bows. Basically any weapon that doesn’t require you to get less than an arm’s length away. And a can opener. Those seem to matter a lot too. However, the trappings of modern society: money, fame, being up-to-date with your Botox, won’t add up to a hill of beans. (Hills of beans are also useful btw.)

I have to admit though, as well as the stories of those fighting the zombies, there are some things I especially like about the moldy suckers themselves. As emissaries of doom they are far superior to vampires (sparkly and non alike), werewolves, aliens…you name it. Here’s why:

1.  They aren’t conflicted.  You won’t see a zombie questioning the curse of his state or the eternal consequences of it.  They are simple creatures and need no support group to help them flesh out their feelings. Pun intended. 

2.  You don’t have to worry about a zombie putting gel in his hair, sporting a tight t-shirt and dating your daughter.  Won’t happen.  And, you don’t have to worry about your kid wanting to be one either.  There are actual clinical disorders where people believe they are vampires and werewolves. But not zombies.

3.  They are not smarter than you. In fact, they are down right stupid.  They do not consort with a pack or coven to plot against you and don’t have any strategy at all beyond moving faster.

4.  Speaking of moving, you got to respect that kind of cardio out of creatures that basically do nothing but shuffle around all day. 

5. As a former sprint coach (I really was), I find the speed of zombies down right impressive. Even with half a leg, no shoe on their one foot and poor running form, they can really go. However, if you have a bike of any kind, you are good. Simple as that. The same cannot be said about werewolves and vampires. If you got one of them on your tail, your souped up road bike will do nothing but make you a meal that delivers itself.

6.  And on conveyance, if zombies take over, you can officially quit feeling guilty for buying a huge, all terrain, gas guzzler. And, minivans will no longer be tokens of middle class shame. That’s right, raise your fists with me mommas of the world. When the walkers come, we’ll be like Han Solo in the Millennium Falcon and, while escaping the decay of living death, our passengers can watch a BlueRay! Who’ll be laughing then, huh? You will not, I repeat, will not make it through a zombie mob in a smart car. It will end up like the parsley sprig on a fancy dinner. They'll toss it away and eat the meat!

7.  Zombies are really persistent and I admire that in anybody. Vampires and werewolves give in when the sun’s out. Not zombies. Yes, I realize that is a bit of a negative as well but, it’s not like you have to wonder what they will do next.  Zombies will do what they have been doing.  Period. (See #3) 

8.  They aren’t complicated. They don’t shape shift, require special bullets, herbs or the ilk. You don’t have to call in a specialist to get rid of them. Unless you just want to and, if you do, call Daryl. 

9. Daryl. He is something I love about zombies. Not because he’s hot or full of big city learnin’. Darryl, like zombies, is a simple creature. He’s the hammer in the tool box. (I’ll write on that theory soon.)

10.  And finally, in comparison to zombies, I am gorgeous. Seriously. Even zombie Sofia Vergera couldn’t begin to compete. Her curves wouldn’t be attracting men like flies, they would literally be attracting flies. My diminutive, understated, non blow-fly bloated physique would be superior. And if Ryan Gosling and I are the only non-zombies left, I give him a month of seeing decaying supermodels before he feels the same. 

So, if you have spurned zombies in the past, I urge you to give them a chance. (Their feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t though.) Watch the people living in the ever-present  echo of their shuffling gate. Consider the options of survivors, what they deem important (faith, family, weaponry) and look at your life. Consider what’s important to you and how much of it would stand the test of an undead apocalypse. And, the next time you find yourself in a quandary, ask yourself if whatever it is would matter as much when the zombies come. (They will.) You’ll be surprised how often it gives you perspective and helps you make the right decision. And, if not, if it doesn’t help at all, you can at least find comfort in the fact that you aren’t having to make that decision under threat of zombie attack. 

For now…