Libby’s Post – I chose the zoo over the mall, I must be bored

Courtesy of FotoSleuth via Flickr

Courtesy of FotoSleuth via Flickr

On Wednesday we went out again. Brian picked me up this time, arriving in a shiny BMW sedan–a car far cooler than he ever was. The car was freezing when I got in and the cold leather shocked my bare thighs. I pulled my shorts down to protect what skin I could.

“Why is like Antarctica in here?” I asked trying to smooth the goose bumps on my arms.

“Oh, sorry,” he replied turning the AC setting from ‘wicked ice age’ to ‘a polar bear would probably still be comfortable’. “I guess I just run hot.”

We were on our way to the zoo. A place I hadn’t been since I was 12. It was Brian’s idea. He called me up yesterday and asked if I wanted to go.

My new vampire life oddly seeming more boring than my human one, I figured it was the zoo with Brian or another shopping trip to Nordys, alone.

I’ll be honest; things have been kind of sucky since I turned. I can’t tell anyone my secret, not my husband, my best friend Emme or even Zed at the Yoga Spot, who by the way, has been super psyched by my recent performance in class.

I also have to regularly suck on strangers’ necks and you all know how I feel about that. And I’ve been forced into this whole Lost Colony drama with Emme. And what do I think about history? BORING.

So that is how my days have been spent: a little yoga, some blood sucking, a trip to the mall, more blood sucking and then a visit to Emme’s house to hear her blabber on about that stupid colony. And I have to pretend to be interested. God, I am such a good friend.

Courtesy Chris Christner via Flickr

Courtesy Chris Christner via Flickr

Brian led me through the turnstile and stopped in front of the snack shop.

“Not more pizza,” I said, pretending to gag.

He grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. “No, even better. They have nachos, with that liquid cheese.”

Courtesy Gabriel Flores Romero via Flickr

Courtesy Gabriel Flores Romero via Flickr

A few minutes later we walked past the camels and into a section with all sorts of antelopey like things. Brian ate his nachos and I drank my cherry slushie.

“So, how have you been holding up?” he asked.


“Are you sure? Because last week I told you that you were marked for death.”

Courtesy Rob Bulmahn via Flickr

Courtesy Rob Bulmahn via Flickr

I stopped to read about one of the striped antelopey things. It was a Lesser Kudo. “Yep, I’m sure. Thanks for the warning though.”

“Libby,” he stood squarely in front of me, his eyes boring into mine, “I told you someone is trying to kill you and you aren’t the slightest bit concerned?”

“Uh, I am concerned,” my eyes focused on the tray of soggy tortilla chips, “but it’s not something I want you to worry about.”

“How, can I not worry? You’re my friend.” He kept talking but my mind wandered.

I wanted to tell him. Tell him everything I knew. Tell him this was all much bigger than he could imagine. But I didn’t want to put him danger. Erasmus was dead set on getting his way. It didn’t matter who died along the way.

“Libby, are you even listening?” Brian waved his nacho tray in the air and leaned his face close to mine.

“Um, sort of.”

“It’s all a joke, Libby. I made it up.”

My brow furrowed. “What do you mean a joke?”

“After I became a vampire I sort of found everyone who was involved that night and got back at them. Nothing terrible. Just some practical jokes.”

Courtesy Martin Pettitt via Flickr

Courtesy Martin Pettitt via Flickr

“And my practical joke was to tell me I’m going to be killed.”

He started toward the giraffes, talking under his breath. But I could still hear him. “It probably wasn’t the best idea. It’s just hard to freak out a vampire. You have to go a little bigger. I was going to tell you right then and there, as soon as you freaked out, but you never did. Then I waited for you to call and you never did. So, here we are.” His eyes got all puppy dog like.  “I’m sorry, Libby.”

“So you added my initials to that tree?”

“All of the trees.”

“All of the initials, on all the trees?”

He stopped and looked to the ground. “There is no burial ground back there. I made it all up.”

“Wow,” I tried not to laugh. “You must be even more bored than I am.”

“I do have a lot of time on my hands.”

He chucked the plastic nacho container in the trash. “So, you’re not mad at me?”

I handed him my empty slushie cup. “I don’t know about mad, but you’d better watch your back. I can be vindictive.” I stood back and tried to look sinister.

We went from one exhibit to the next, talking (quietly of course) about what he’d learned so far about being a vampire. I tried to stay focused on his stories, but one thought kept creeping back into my mind–Brian’s confession only changed one thing: my burial site.

**Why not start the series from the beginning? Click here to read about Libby’s first day as a vampire**


Airing my clean, but wrinkly and unfolded laundry


Courtesy Boston Public Library via Flickr

Washing machine – check. Clothes dryer – check. Detergent and fabric softener – check. Piles of dirty clothes – check and double check.

I have all the modern day supplies and equipment to do a load of laundry. Yet, I struggle. I just can’t bring myself to sort, carry, load, unload and fold my clothes. At least not on regular basis.

Honestly, I haven’t done a load of laundry in at least two months. And I don’t even really have to wash the clothes; the machine does it for me.

Now, I’ll clarify and say that I am not walking around in ketchup stained, smelly T-shirts. My husband has picked up the slack and lovingly tosses our clothes in the washing machine each weekend. He usually remembers to transfer them to the dryer. But this is where he begins to slack off. Once they’re dry, they sit atop the dryer or on the ironing board or even just live in the dryer for a while.

This where we currently stand with our laundry (both Martha Stewart and my mother will surely be disappointed):


One load in the dryer, where it would probably stay for the rest of the week, except there’s a load waiting in the washer right now.

clothes on dryer

Another load on top of the dryer.

clothes on ironing board

And one in the laundry basket on the ironing board, just begging for a cat to come sit in it.

Like this

Like this…

Or this - double trouble.

Or this – double trouble.

Of course, I’m not picking on my husband. This is far better than I do each weekend.

It’s even become a running joke in our house. Whenever I’m looking for something that happens to be in the basement he always says, “It’s in the basement, by the washing machine … Oh, I’m sorry. You aren’t going to know where that is. So there’s this big white box and you put clothes in it…”

He thinks he’s really funny.

But what is it about laundry? Why is it I can unload the dishwasher? Or vacuum the rug? They’re not my favorite things to do, but I still do them.

I don’t even have to use one of these when I do laundry:


Courtesy Jennifer C. via Flickr

Is it because laundry becomes an all day ordeal, even if I’m not actually doing the washing? Is it because it reminds me of all those Sundays getting ready for the dreaded work-week ahead? Do I just hate going in the basement? (I really do hate the basement). Am I just waiting for the day that there’s an App for that?

What are your thoughts? Is there something you dread and put off until someone else does it? Do your cats go straight for the basket of clean laundry, making it all furry and wrinkly? Are you one of those crazy people that enjoys doing laundry?

Libby’s Post: What’s with all the cheese?

I am so over him right now. My heels are caked in mud, I have two broken nails and I missed Dr. Oz., all because my old tutor has a hunch. A ridiculous hunch that I am going to be killed.

To that I say, whatever, I’m not worried. I’ve taken Tae Bo. I know how to defend myself.

Courtesy Rob Boudon via Flickr

Courtesy Rob Boudon via Flickr

We met last week at the arcade–I thought because it was the last place someone would suspect to find a vampire. Well, let’s just say the guy still enjoys a good game of laser tag.

I recognized him right away, standing in front of the old-school Pac Man game. He got me to play a couple of rounds and I’m pretty sure he let me win, twice. He never used to let me win.

After another win for me, this time at air hockey, we got a pizza and sat at a table in the middle of the snack area. He insisted on getting extra cheese.

“You know I love cheese,” he said grinning. “And being a vampire I can eat as much as I want.”

“Shh.” My gaze shifted to the pre-teens around us. No need to worry, they were all on their phones.

He folded his slice in half and took a huge bite.

“So, Brian,” I straightened the napkin on my lap, “I’m so sorry for what happened. You know, in school.”

He pulled the ends of his pizza slice apart and poured more Parmesan on top. “Needs more cheese.”

Courtesy British Mum via Flickr

Courtesy British Mum via Flickr

“Uh, yeah.” My hands smoothed the edges of the thin paper napkin. “Like I said, I’m really sorry. I was a terrible friend.”

I watched him chew a disgustingly gooey bite, his throat struggling to choke down greasy blob.

“No worries, Libby. We were kids then. I don’t hold any grudges.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “I’ve moved on.”

He was just as sweet as I’d remembered. But now his geeky T-shirt and dark-framed glasses made him look cool. And he was young. The jerk hadn’t aged at all. I was suddenly annoyed. How dare he age better than me? Or I guess not age.

“So what happened to you?” I asked, pushing gobs of cheese to the side of my plate.

He took a long sip off his straw, his eyes fixed on mine. “I came to the party to say goodbye. We were leaving that night and I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“Oh, I didn’t know… I mean, where were you going?”

“I never told you about him, my vampire friend. We met soon after you and I started our tutoring sessions. He was impressed with my computer skills and asked if I wanted a job. He offered me the chance of a lifetime.”

My brain latched on to the most confusing piece of his story. “Computers? I didn’t know you were good with computers. You were a philosophy tutor.”

He shook his head and leaned forward. “I sucked at philosophy. I hated it. I was just better at it than you.” His hand grabbed mine and squeezed it again. “I was there when you signed up. I volunteered so I could be with you.”

I didn’t pull my hand away.

“So you left with this vampire? Just walked away from your life?”

“I was young, Libby. All I wanted was to be with you and I knew that wouldn’t happen. So, I ran away.” He cleared his throat. “When I came to say goodbye, I was hoping you would ask me to stay, tell me you cared for me, but instead those meatheads beat the crap out of me. A few hours later, my friend found me, scraped me off the ground and I never looked back.”

“So you’ve been working for him ever since?”

He slid a fourth slice of pizza to his plate. “Yeah, it’s been great. I’ve never regretted it once. And it’s been great to see you, Libby. How’s vampire life treating you?”

I struggled to answer his question honestly. My vampire life was pathetic compared to his. He was confident and composed and I was still trying to figure out why coffee still burned my tongue.

And then today he dragged me through the cemetery, over the back gate and then another half a mile through the woods. Some warning about proper attire would have been nice. My Jimmy Choos can only take so much.

Courtesy Stephen Boisvert via Flickr

Courtesy Stephen Boisvert via Flickr

He stopped suddenly and pointed at a tree. “There.”

There were two letters carved into it. “So?”

“Libby, I think you’ve been marked. This,” he circled around pointing to the forest around him, “this is where Erasmus buries his kills. Each tree is marked with the initials of the vampire buried below it.”

My initials were carved into the tree, but so? There could be tons of vampires with the same initials. Then I saw the date below it.

Courtesy Stuart Heath via Flickr

Courtesy Stuart Heath via Flickr

“Libby, that’s your birthday.” He rubbed his fingers across the wood. “Erasmus takes pride in tracking the birthdates of his victims. He kills without regard, the young and the old. His goal is to have a kill born from each decade.” His gaze moved to the woods behind me. “Back there he has some of his oldest victims. Vampires from the 1300s.”

I drove home muddy and tired, pondering the possibility that the next door to door salesman could be a killer, ready to stake me dead. Like I said, I’m not worried. I’m just annoyed Brian went through all that just to tell me something I already know.

I mean, my friend Emme’s dog already told me.

**Why not start the series from the beginning? Click here to read about Libby’s first day as a vampire**