I needed a Hero…

Apr16

When we thought we had bats at the fish camp, I insisted that my husband find someone to move the bats away from our dormer. I wanted the stink gone. So, he called. 

And called.

And called again.

Finally he found Trapper John, Wildlife guy.

Trapper and his helper came to investigate whether we had bats. His diagnosis. “Yes. You’ve got lots of bats. There’s guano for days up there.”

I tried not to wretch. The stench of it is bad enough, but the knowledge that there were lots of guano almost brought me to lose my lunch. 

He told us that he could come back and get the bats out by doing this and that. He paused, looked at my husband and I, and made a pronouncement. “You’re young and healthy enough. You can do this. Let me tell you how.”

We listened and realized that we could do it with the purchase of a tall ladder and some foam. With Trapper John’s expert advice, we got to work. Or, I should say, my husband got to work. Being highly sensitive to the odor of the bat guano, I ended up holding the ladder. 

There’s so much more to the story, but I don’t want to ruin a story that formed almost instantly in my head as my husband bathed himself in the yard due to guano exposure. It’s a perfect opening for another erotic romance. I feel like I making lemonade out of lemons. (I tried a bat guano into anything metaphor, but, y’all, that did not work.)

Until I get that story written, get a copy of Behaving Badly, a tale of a church secretary/night club singer and a sexy investigator. These two really heat up the page. 

When a Bat isn’t a Hero

Apr1

I looked forward to a relaxing weekend at our fish camp, fishing, canoeing, getting some crab for picking. Except, I walked into the house and reeled backwards. The smell that we’d worked so fervently to rid the house of had returned.

“I can’t stay in here, ” I cautioned my family. “I’m going outside.”

That’s exactly what I did. I helped install a screen that the dogs could open themselves to go in and out of the house. I watched the kids play with the neighbor’s grandson. We caught small crawfish and used them as bait for fishing. We pulled up the crab traps to discover that we hadn’t caught any for dinner. Under the dappled shade of the poplar tree, we let the world go by without a care.

“Did I show you the bat I found?” My son dragged me from the dock to the side of the house where a deceased flying mammal lay.

“Love,” I called to my husband, “that has to be the smell. We have bats.” I hesitated and stopped myself from saying “in our belfry.” One, we have no belfry, just a cathedral ceiling. Two, I don’t want any of you thinking that I’m crazy. I do live in New Orleans, and by that fact am automatically categorized of not in the right state of mind to so many in our country.

Photo from Wikipedia

I happen to have a great love of bats since I know that they eat tons of insects, including disease carrying mosquitoes. If I had a favorite superhero, it would be the dark knight–Batman. Something about a wounded hero. Oh, right to the heart.

Except, I don’t want bats in my house clogging up my nasal passages. I am allergic to rodents, and while I know that bats aren’t rodents, I am, apparently, allergic to them and the smell that they produce as they slumber in the small attic space above the great room of the fish camp. Instead of a great family weekend, I am back in New Orleans alone. (The fact that I am breathing freely is the only bonus of this day. Well, and writing time. The laundry is a drag, though.)

I’m hoping to find an exterminator that works like Billy the Exterminator (warning, music plays at the link). Those guys don’t kill bats; they seal off the entry points after dusk so that the bats can find a new home–like the bat house attached to a tree in the woods adjacent to our human house.

All I know is that I will be the city girl, like my heroine in Basically Bad, until these bats have vacated my premises.

Flag Throwers

Mar18

Men. They are men in tights. They were manly men, in tights.

Flag throwers at the library where we hold our monthly RWA meeting. I stepped out to watch and stood, mesmerized by their weighted flags and how great their legs looked in tights. I didn’t have a camera, so no photos. I had to search the internet for an example. 

Maybe it isn’t your thing, but the men in tights that I saw were totally rocking it.

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A Not So Typical Day & Happy St. Patrick’s Day

Mar17

This St. Patrick’s Day, I will attend a meeting of SOLA, or the Southern Louisiana Chapter of RWA. We have Julie Smith speaking. I’m always amazed at what each speaker brings to our collective knowledge. Even if you think you’ll learn nothing, you always come away with something. However, if you aren’t a writer or a wanna-be writer, you’re thinking–Dude, I don’t care. (Except you probably don’t speak that way. It’s a thing my sister, Bianca, and I end up doing when we’re together. It’s Dude this or Dude that. Dude. It’s annoying.)

Then, y’all….Mmm, parade time at the Whistler house. The annual Irish Channel St. Patrick’s Day parade. If you want a flower, you have to kiss one of the men walking in green suit coats and kilts. Some of them dwell in that easy on the eyes category. There also exists the men who’ve walked many more miles than me. However, for the luck of the Irish…

After the walking members come the floats. From those, the riders toss beads, shamrock themed items, and cabbages. Keep your eyes open! Be ready to catch your supper. It’s common for carrots, onions, potatoes, and other such food stuffs to be tossed from

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Mr. Lovely Chest

 

 the floats. If I get a chance, I’ll snap a photo of one man who has a delicious, lick-worthy ch

est. He had his shirt off one year, and it’s been in the 80s lately. Y’all, if I do get a photo, I’ll post it. Oh, yum. I should also say that I have not a lick of Irish in me. It’s all to support the history of New Orleans, in which the Irish helped construct a channel and a city. This place, this Crescent City, is rich with history and cultures. All you have to do is delve into it. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!