Never Love a Supernatural Man

I will never love a supernatural man.

Obviously if my husband said to me one day, “Beloved, I’ve been hiding it from you all this time, but I need you to know… I am a vampire,” I wouldn’t dump him. I mean, I’ve survived for almost eight seasons, so I probably won’t die in the final battle. (Don’t tell that to Anya, though.)

But if for some bizarre reason, I found myself on a desert island populated with vampires, werewolves, witches, demons, and demon hunters, I would flat out refuse to date a super-powered man without taking some steps to protect myself. If the sexiest vampire there said to me, “Hey, baby, you wanna mosey on down to the cave with fresh water to watch the stars come out?” I’d make him sign a pre-dating contract that would go something like this:

1. No matter how many nasty-happies it would give me to bite you, I recognize that you, Kristin, are not dinner.

2. I swear that if we get pelvic, I will not lose my soul and kill your friends.

3. If somehow we fall madly and tragically in love, and then some supernatural antagonist starts pursuing you with all the dedication of a depressed teenage girl deprived of Ben & Jerry’s, I swear that I will, without angst or delay, turn you into a vampire so that you can defend yourself.

If he refused to sign my contract, I’d tell him to go sun himself.

And werewolves? Come on. I love dogs, but I’m not going to date one. Kibble breath first thing in the morning? Ew. Plus, they’re always exploding into wolf-form before they attack things, but they seem to get their asses handed to them most of the time. I don’t need a man with a built-in fur coat, especially when he’s just going around getting beat up by the cooler monsters.

The worst of the lot, though, might be the demon-killers. At least a monster is capable of protecting you with tooth and claw, but those hunter-guys have only guns and knives. Plus, they attract danger. When they’re not seeking out the baddies, the baddies are grinding them to a bloody pulp or dragging them into hell. And the mortality rate for love interests on Supernatural is shockingly high: if I ever meet a sexy guy who says he hunts ghosts and ghoulies, I will run far, far away. After I kick him in the shins to debilitate him so he can’t chase me, that is. (Running away is foreplay, you know.)

No, I’ll take a nice, well-adjusted human, thank you very much. I recommend you do the same.

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Zombie Defense: The Squirt Bottle

The trouble with your average Zombie Apocalypse Preparation program is that it neglects the most disturbing and dangerous of all zombies:

THE ZOMBIE CAT.

Sure, we’re sad ’cause it’s dead–TILL IT RISES AGAIN.

The zombie cat is no laughing matter. Behind that soft fur and those long whiskers lurk glowing eyes, sharp (if broken and decaying) claws, and the deadly ability to half-bury you in a litter box after they LAP UP YOUR BRAINS.

I’m telling you. Cats already want to kill us all.

Look at the murder in those eyes.

I’m telling you: we must prepare.

And only the best zombie apocalypse training programs will teach you how to defend yourself. So when ZAP General Emmie Mears asked me to write about the best weapon in the zombie small animal defense arsenal, I agreed.

Because what do all cats fear above ALL ELSE?

This specimen exhibits abnormal bravery in the face of the squirt.

The deadly squirt bottle.

A cat’s fear of the squirt bottle is so powerful, so primal, even the compelling need to consume brains cannot overcome it.

Should you ever find yourself cornered by the furry, rotting, grime-bucket of DOOM, you need to know how best to use your squirt bottle.

1. Know where the nearest water supply is. Your squirt bottle ain’t no use empty.

2. Practice twisting the flow-control nozzle to the right setting. That scattered mist scares no feline: you need the jet setting, and you need to get it fast.

3. Target practice is essential. A truly determined cat will not be phased by a flank hit. No, you need to aim for the face, the ears, the eyes, and the neck. That’s the only way to stop the assault.

Of course, all these methods will only stop a finite number of LOLing-zombies demanding brain-cheezburgers. There’s only one weapon that will stop a pack of zombie-cats, the nuclear bomb of the cat-world, but it merits a blog post of its own:

The jar full of loose change.

Be prepared, folks. You never know when you’re going to need your weapons.

The Epic Kitchen Woes of Kristin McFarland

I am, dear readers, clumsy.

This afternoon I was sauteing onions, green peppers, and carrots to put into a slow-cooker soup. I used my cast iron skillet—I always use cast iron because it was an AMAZING wedding gift and because it’s good for vegetarians like myself. But when I hoisted the skillet to dump the vegetables into the slow cooker, I wasn’t quite prepared for the weight, and I proceeded regardless. I discovered, however, when I turned my wrist to pour out the contents, that the side of my index finger was touching the gap between the handle mitt and the edge of the skillet itself.

Ouch.

That skillet probably weighs 10 pounds, and I knew I couldn’t drop it onto our cheapo ceramic apartment tile or I’d be facing a far worse disaster, one that would require a phone call to our evil property managers. Instead, I tried to get the skillet back to the stove… and I managed to spill a chopped onion, a minced green pepper, and a crapload of chopped baby carrots, all cooked in olive oil, on the tile.

I then sat down and had a teacup full of wine. (The wineglasses were in a cabinet over the mess.)

You see, this isn’t the first kitchen incident I’ve had—and most of my kitchincidents are more catastrophic than inconvenient. In the most famous accident, I dropped a mixing bowl full of half-mixed cookie dough on the floor, throwing flour and moist dough all over the floor, ceiling, cabinets, and appliances. I even had flour in the part of my hair. In the process, I broke the mixing bowl and the hand mixer, and I managed to chip the grout of the tile.

Once, I mistakenly added a tablespoon of powdered cayenne to our pizza sauce instead of a teaspoon. That was some seriously spicy pizza, and my poor husband manfully ate it anyway.

The cats stay clear when I’m in the kitchen.

I’m actually a pretty good cook: really, I am! If you like spicy vegetarian chilli, homemade pizza, or blueberry crumb muffins, come to me and I’ll blow your mind. But it’s hard to get a reputation for culinary excellence when, every few times you cook something, you turn a clean kitchen into a disaster area no one would dare enter without steel-toed boots and a hazmat suit.

Is anyone else this clumsy? Please, make me feel better and tell me a similarly shameful story.

Celebr’tree!

On Friday, this blog reached 10,000 views! Awesome!

Small elephant says, “HURRAY!”

So, as a little celebratory thank-you gift to you, my dear readers, I want to offer… a GIVE-AWAY!

You may not know, but I am a maker of small things. Do you like small things? Do you like trees? Would you like to win a VERY SMALL TREE??

Why yes, I’m about the same size as a quarter.

If you want a tiny wire tree all your own (or something else — I make larger small trees, small fairy dolls, jewelry, and drawings of stick figures — if you win, we’ll talk), all you have to do is link back to this blog via your own blog, Facebook, or Twitter, and show me in the comments that you did so!

So, let’s review:

1. You can win a Kristin-made craft, most likely a teeny, customized tree!

2. To enter the contest, link back to my blog via your blog, Facebook, or Twitter, and leave a link to your share in my comments. If you share in multiple places, you get multiple entries!

3. At the end of the week, I’ll put all the entries in a hat, and my husband will pick a name! Friday will be the last day to get your name in the hat.

4. As a bonus, if you FOLLOW this blog with EMAIL UPDATES this week, I’ll put your name in THREE ADDITIONAL TIMES.

I have the best readers on the internet. Seriously, you guys are awesome. Thank you for helping me stay afloat all this time.

Friday the 13th…

Cue the dramatic music, folks. It’s Friday the 13th.

What’s the big deal about this day, anyway? Even the internet can’t produce a clear origin for the myth, except to say that Friday has been thought of as an ill-omened day and 13 as an unlucky number… add the two together, and you create DOOMSDAY.

Or something.

I’m curious, though: anyone out there stay in on Friday(s) the 13th? Anyone ever have anything bad or creepy happen to them on Friday the 13th? Do you have any tales of terror and woe to share?