Read this post or I'll kill this deer with my bare hands

One of the things I had most been looking forward to when it came to my first spring here at Green Victoria involved the flowers. "You're not going to believe what is going to pop out of the ground!" the previous gays had enthused after they sold us the house. Money? Lawn gnomes? Pool boys? "No, no, no. There are so many beautiful flowers in the yard. You are going to be amazed." Oh, that.

Now that springtime is with us and the snow has finally disappeared, I didn't have long to wait. Last week, we were walking down the path leading to the house and suddenly, right there: a beautiful purple posy! Or tulip, or something like that. I'm not really good at identifying those things. Sprouting up bravely through a clutch of dirt and grass. The first sign of the season. It was glorious! No, really. It made me happy to be alive. 

The following morning, I woke up, determined to take a photo for Facebook, to share that purple posy with the world. I grabbed my smart phone, scurried downstairs, opened the door, looked outside...

And realized that some dumb deer had eaten up all of our fledgling flowers.

Dammit! Well, we knew that they were a problem. A lot of our leaves had been consumed during the winter, and one or two times, when we had woken up at a particularly ungodly hour, we were able to catch a glimpse. And I don't mind an occasional leaf or two, I'm perfectly happy to share those with Bambi, but eating our flowers? Well, that was beyond the pale. SOMETHING HAD TO BE DONE.

Quick as a wink, Corb did some research. "It says here that deer do not like certain smells, like the smell of decaying fish heads," he said.

Oh, great! I just can't wait to drive down to the local fish stand and pick up a bucket of fish heads. That should look really attractive on our front lawn. A bunch of smelly dead fish next to the pansies, with their dead unblinking eyes staring up at you as you walk by. Nice.

"My hairdresser said they don't like human hair, and it can be used as a deterrent. People would collect hair from her shop for that use. You should do that," suggested a friend.

Great idea. Next to our floppy fish heads, I can sprinkle a bunch of human hair. Maybe from the top of someone's head, but who knows? Maybe I will mix it up and throw in some pubic hair, every so often.

"Remember Doc Hollywood? Human urine does the trick," suggested another friend.

Even better! Every morning, as I wake up, instead of heading to the bathroom, I can walk downstairs, open the door, and taking my morning wizz on the porch, making sure to urinate over the dead fish heads and human hair that I've collected from a variety of body parts. Those flowers should be in perfect blook with all that!

And then the one I was waiting for: "A shot through the heart works. And you can fill your fridge with lovely venison for stews and kebobs."

"Should I leave the dead deer rotting in the flower beds for a few days, as a warning to the others?" I asked.

"No," replied my deer friend Jackie. "Hanging the deer upside down and slitting its throat so the blood drains into the flower beds would be better, so plant flowers that need blood meal to grow better."

So, bottom line? This spring, if you want to visit my house, come on over! It's pretty easy to find, too: we're the only Victorian in town with flower beds covered in fish heads and human hair, with an upside down dead deer hanging down from a tree. Come by, say hi! You can always find me, and I'll be sure to wave back, promise! I'll be the one outside peeing over the flower beds.

That is...until the cops take me away...  

Cold Storage

Last week-end, Corb and I cleared out all the stuff we had in our storage unit and drove everything up to Plymouth for safekeeping at my parent's house. It'll save us about eighty bucks a month.

I'm kind of sad about it. Every time I would go visit our creepy unit, I'd feel a delicious chill down my spine.

These places store secrets, after all.

I mean, you really don't know what's actually in the storage unit next to yours. It could be anything: the bones of Amelia Earhart, Al Capone's lost loot...even Cher's original face. Now, I'm sure that the units get checked periodically, but even so...who really knows what lurks in the heart of a storage unit? It could be an actual heart.

I absolutely refused to go to our unit without Corb there by my side. Even though I knew I was perfectly safe, the place seemed so empty. Large. Metal. Concrete. Cold. It felt whispery.

The people that we'd encounter, loading stuff into their units, always made me feel uncomfortable. Like a goose walking on my grave. Their cars looked strange, the looks they'd give me seemed odd. As if they were thinking sinister thoughts. I'm sure they're perfectly fine folk, the same as we are, but even so, going there alone...well, it would have made me uncomfortable. I could have ended up dismembered, or locked inside my unit with no way out.

And to think, people actually live in these places! That fact freaks me out most of all. From what Corb told me, the manager of our facility lives on site, to make sure nothing happens at night.

I can't imagine having a job like that. Our manager has a unit over the office, says Corb, and her living space is quite nice. Still, can you imagine hearing a sound in the middle of the night? Having to go investigate, all alone?

I tell you, I wouldn't last one night.

So, given all that, why does it make me sad to leave our little storage area from hell?

I don't know. I guess there's something fun about locations that give you the creeps. Haunted houses. Liza Minelli's toilet. The inside of John McCain's mouth.

I'm honestly thinking my next book might take place in a storage facility. I've got a few ideas I've been kicking around. Something involving dark magic.

As prep for the book, I had honestly been toying with facing my fear, too. Driving over to the storage unit one day and removing the lock. Rolling up the metal door and pulling out a plastic lawn chair from the pile. Placing it on the cold concrete floor. Sitting down and asking Corb to shut the door and lock it. Handing him my cell phone. Asking him to come back in an hour, just to see whether I could stand it.

There I'd be, trapped like prime rib in a meat locker. Like a sardine in a tin. Like O.J. in a maximum security facility.

What would it feel like? What sounds would I hear? Could I trust Corb enough to hand over my cell phone? What if he decided to forget about me there? Or, got into an accident before he got around to go getting?

What if I had to figure out a way to escape, on my own? What would I do? How long before hunger set in?

What would an hour feel like in there? What if I had to last the night?

How long before hope would fade?

Now I can't do that, and I guess maybe that's for the best. I've got enough hang-ups as it is. Maybe I don't need to add one more to my laundry list. It's long enough.

So I guess I'll wait, at least until I start working on that next book.

When that day comes, anyone have a storage unit I could borrow for an hour or two? I promise not to scream TOO loudly.