Veronica Brush's Blog, page 2

Strange Offer

I just got the weirdest thing in the mail.

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I don’t remember even ordering an accordion, let alone…whatever that is.

Also, I got a credit card offer.  That was unusual, too.

Now, you may not think a credit card offer is unusual.  You may get them all the time.  You, with your fancy job that requires you to actually leave your house (exposing yourself to dangerous things like UV rays and human interaction)to arrive at some office building (often before noon) and stay there for designated amounts of time, all the while achieving things and wearing pants, and in exchange they regularly give you checks with numbers so large, they are written with at least one comma and the bank doesn’t ask if you’re joking when you try to deposit it.

But I’m a professional blogger, so none of those things apply.

That’s not to say I don’t make any money from my blogging.  I just got a check in the mail the other day.  Granted, it was a rebate from some socks I had purchased.  But I would not have filled out the online rebate form had I not been sitting at the computer dedicatedly procrastinating on writing a blog post.  So bloggers can make money.

Just not much.

Depending on how many socks you buy in a year.

Needless to say, I don’t make enough money to be receiving credit card offers.  But I did.

Even more concerning, the outside of the envelope explained that I would be please to know that after a “thorough review” of my credit, I am one of a “very exclusive group” to receive this “offer”.

Contrary to what they believe, I was not pleased to know this.  If all true, there is only one explanation and that is that someone has stolen my identity and is out there using a credit card in my name to purchase big, expensive items.  And then that person is promptly paying those items off, thus improving my credit score to the point that credit card companies are interested in me.   That’s the only reason I would even HAVE a credit score in the first place, given that I’ve never had a credit card.  It turns out you have to have some money before credit cards will loan you money you don’t have to buy things you can’t afford.

I was curious, so I opened the envelope.  Inside was a pamphlet that said, “An offer designed with you in mind.”

I was skeptical of this, given that an offer truly designed for me would come attached to a live puppy and be made of chocolate (the pamphlet, not the puppy)(maybe the puppy).  But I opened up the pamphlet to see what they thought of when they thought of me.

Inside was a huge picture that looked something like this:

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My very first thought was “Why would they design this for me?  I get carsick.”

And it’s true.  My inner ear is, shall we say, high strung.  Nothing pushes my inner ear to the very edge of its sanity more than when it realizes that my body is moving, but my feet are not.  I have gotten carsick on an escalator.  One time I was on a cruise (which involved a moving boat)(I paid extra for that) and I tried to watch a movie on said moving boat that involved a helicopter chase.  My inner ear and I had to go to couples counselling for six months before we started speaking again.

The point is if this credit card company had ACTUALLY designed this card with me in mind, there would be no references to car rides – or escalators – whatsoever.  And there would definitely not be a picture that put me in mind of taking a long car ride, the thought of which is enough to cause my inner ear such turmoil that it has ordered a red alert, raised all the shields, and caused the oxygen masks to drop down from the overhead compartment.

Being a helpful person like I am, I think I will send a reply to this credit card company with some suggestions of what an offer designed with me in mind should look like.

Something like this:

Do you love puppies, like the one this pamphlet came attached to?

Is your favorite color purple?

Do you find the latest season of Dr. Who lacking in the science fiction and overdosing on the preachiness?

Do you have a strange and/or strained relationship with your anthropomorphized inner ear?

Then have we got an offer for you!

With our card, we guarantee:

Homemade, gluten-free waffles every morning
A highly technical chip that keeps people who walk slowly out of your way
And absolutely none of the characters you love will be killed off in any of the TV shows/movies you’re watching or books you’re reading

Instead of offering small percentages of cash back, our rewards program gives you free books with every purchase.  And whenever any of your supposed friends says, “Why do you need more books?  You haven’t read all the ones you already own!”, we throw a book at their face so you don’t have to.

If your card is ever lost or stolen, we replace it for you, free of charge!  The same goes for your cell phone, sunglasses, gloves, hat, house keys, car keys, your car, and other easily misplaced items.

This card has absolutely no annual fee, and we never use the letters APR because you don’t know what that is and you’re pretty sure your happiness will be diminished by knowing!

We could go into more detail, but we understand your priorities, so the next 317 pages of this pamphlet are all nerdy memes with adorable baby animals.

Sign up now…provided it is after noontime, because what kind of sane person gets up that early, let alone does business then?

Chocolate drizzled gluten-free waffle?

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Changes to the Status Quo

I know what you’re thinking: “When you didn’t post anything for months, even about your dog, we assumed you were dead.”

And yet none of you sent flowers to my widow.  Tacky.

Not that I’m married.

Or dead.

Or like flowers.

But it’s the thought of an unliked gift to a non-existant spouse of someone you mistakenly thought was deceased that counts.

In other news, my puppy reproduced asexually.  Like cells reproducing, she grew and then split from a copy of herself.  I got a picture of it happening:

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Turns out, when the dog groomer says you have to bring your dog in to get her hair trimmed every 3 months, they mean it.  Or else this happens.

So now I have two puppies.  The new puppy is great!

Really, really great!

So great!

Really!

REALLY!!

Okay, I don’t like her.

We’ve been having trouble bonding.  This is the strangest thing for me.  To me, puppies equal happiness.  Yet here I am in some bizarre alternate dimension where this little not-even-10-pounds of fluff smiles up at me and wags her tail so hard, she literally knocks herself over and all I can think is, “Couldn’t you go bother someone else with your overflowing, unconditional adoration?”

I don’t know what the problem is.

Oh, wait.  Yes I do: it’s the puppy.  She is definitely the problem.  I know it’s not me.  I’m delightful.  Just ask the puppy.  She thinks I’m amazing.

So it’s definitely her.  And I think I have narrowed down the exact cause.

How I can I say this nicely?

The puppy is very special . . . in her brain.

Incurably special.

Granted, Dog #1 has given me unrealistic expectations about how smart a dog should be.  Dog #1 is incredibly smart.  She actually manages my personal finances for me.  You may not believe that, but if you saw the ratio of doggie toys to human possessions at my house, you would believe.

But my unrealistic expectations are not the problem.

Because even if I had no expectations, this puppy would still fail to reach that bar.  Here are the sorts of less-than-minimum-expectations my puppy fails to meet:

Not running head-first into large, static objects, such as closed doors

This puppy runs into closed doors.  And not like sliding glass doors (okay, including sliding glass doors, too).  I’m talking about solid, wooden, incredibly visible doors.

I think what happens is that the puppy gets very, VERY excited.  Many things seem to trigger this excitement: people, towels, the floor, air, etc.

My theory is that the puppy gets so excited that, while her eyes see the door, her brain is so overwhelmed by processing the overdose of excitement that her brain isn’t able to translate the image into action, such as, “Hey!  We should stop running before plow our fuzzy little face directly into that door.”

She’s not blind.  I know that for certain because when I’m sleeping, she can stick her tongue directly in my ear canal with 100% accuracy.  The first time that happened, I thought it was an accident, like she was trying to lick my cheek but missed.  By the tenth time, I realized she’s hitting exactly where she’s aiming.

Which leads me to the next basic expectation my puppy fails to meet:

Not licking the inside of a person’s ear while they sleep

It’s called common courtesy.

Using the great outdoors properly

To her credit, my puppy understands that there is a difference between inside and outside, and also that only one of those places should be defecated upon.

Unfortunately, she picked the wrong one.

She often will come in from a nice romp in the yard only long enough to do her business before heading straight back outside.

I have a theory about this, too.  Most dogs won’t mess where they eat.  At first, I thought my puppy lacked that vital survival instinct.  Then I realized that my puppy’s main source of food IS the outside.  Sure, I give her name-brand puppy food, but much like a rabid squirrel, she subsists mainly off of pinecones, sticks, leaves, dirt, and those objects that make me exclaim loudly, “WHAT IS THAT?!  IS IT MOVING?!?  OH MY GOSH!!  DROP IT!!!  DROP IT!!!!!”

I guess in her puppy mind, nature is her dinner plate, so it makes sense not to do her business outside on it.

Believing in Gravity

Again, to be fair to the puppy, it is a character trait of this breed of mutt (bichon frise-spaniel-100% cotton-wool blend) to not believe in gravity.  I know because Dog #1 is the same breed and also does not believe in gravity.  She believes she’s too adorable to ever fall to the ground.  And she is correct.

You would think the puppy would catch on, though.  She has fallen off the couch more than once in extreme tail-wagging incidents.  But that only happens when something particularly exciting happens, such as the universe existing.

Given all of these traits, I eventually had to accept that I was out of my depths with trying to train this puppy (if I knew how to do things, I wouldn’t be a blogger).  So I called a professional puppy trainer.

Within two minutes of meeting the puppy, the professional had soaking wet inner ears.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “She usually only does that when you’re asleep.”

The puppy trainer had lots of good advice for us.  Optimistic, perhaps, but we’ll give it a try.

On a positive note, having a 2nd dog does have its advantages.  Somehow, in complicated math that I do not understand, having two puppies has significantly increased my budget for doggie toys.

And I have to admit that, despite my best efforts, I am starting to fall in love with the puppy.

And I’m not just saying that because she’s watching me type this right now.

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Suspicious Activity

Credit Card Rep: Hello.  I’m calling because we noticed some suspicious activity on your card recently.

Me: Oh no! What happened? Did someone steal my identity?

Rep: Someone purchased 72 pens online with your card.

Me: Oh. Uh…is that unusual?

Rep: It’s very strange. What kind of nut-job would buy 72 pens? What would anyone normal do with that many pens?

Me: Well…maybe whoever it was really likes that kind of pen. And maybe the store was having a really great sale on the pens. And maybe if the person bought 72 of the pens, shipping would be free.

Rep: I think we’re really dealing with very disturbed individual.

Me: Hey! Don’t say that about…whoever did this. Personally, I think we’re dealing with a very savvy shopper who, admittedly, may have an unhealthy attachment to office supplies, but who are we to judge? Besides if you think about it not like 72 pens, but as 18 packs of 4 pens each, it doesn’t sound quite so crazy, right? Right?

Rep: . . . Ma’am, did you buy all those pens?

Me: I do a lot of writing. I even get published in magazines sometimes.

Rep: Oh, you make money as a writer?

Me: I didn’t say that. I’m more of a starving artist. Especially when you factor in my pen and notebook expenses.

Rep: Okay, well, I think we can let this go if you’ll just agree to not buy any more pens for a while.

Me: But what if they write in really pretty purple ink…

Rep:

(The next day)

Me: (opening front door) Hi. Can I help you?

Guy: I just wanted to tell you that you’re a real jerk!

Me: Do I know you?

Guy: No. I’m the guy who stole the package off your porch today.

Me: What? Why?

Guy: It’s my career. It’s the best I could do with my degree.

Me: Wait a minute! Were you a liberal arts major?

Guy: Yeah?

Me: Me, too! That’s cool! But you really shouldn’t steal people’s stuff.

Guy: Don’t get all judgy. You’re a worse person than I am!

Me: What?

Guy: There I am, driving thru the neighborhood when I see a nice big box on your porch. I’m thinking it’s electronics or designer handbags. At the very least, maybe some new hardcover books. So I grab it and drive all the way across town to my house. That’s when I open up my treasure box and what do I find? Not electronics! Not fancy tools! Not even fidget spinners! But 18 boxes of freaking pens!

Me: (clapping excitedly) My pens!

Guy: So I’m asking myself, who would buy that many pens? No one! No one in their right mind buys 72 pens!

Me: Have you been talking to my credit card rep? Because you sound just like her.

Guy: That’s when I realized that you must have done this on purpose. You were just messing with me all along. You purposefully bought a crazy amount of pens just so I’d think it was something valuable and waste my day stealing what turned out to be nothing but cheap, stupid pens!

Me:(grabbing my package of pens) Hey! You can say whatever you want about me, but you do not insult my pens! If you’re going to act all unappreciative, then I won’t let you steal any more of my packages!

Guy: If you’re going to buy insane amounts of office supplies, then I don’t want any of your stupid packages!

Me: Good!

Guy: Great!

Me: Fine!!

Guy: Fine!!

Me: (Slamming the door) Don’t listen to him, Pens! We’re not crazy!

Pens: Of course you’re not crazy! We love you, Veronica!

Me: (Laying all my pens out and joyously swimming through them)

Pens: . . . Okay, you may be a little bit crazy.

Australia: The One Not in Europe

I’d like to talk extensively about Australia.

Why?

Because.

Let’s begin!

Australia: All the poisonous things are there.

And that about sums it up.

There’s really not much more you can say about Australia. Sure, there’s the Sydney Opera House, but nobody goes there anymore because it turns out that even the opera singers in Australia are poisonous. Just a single bite from a baritone can kill a human within 80-100 years. Don’t believe me? I defy you to find an account of a single person who’s been bitten by an opera singer and gone on to live more than 100 years after that.

I rest my case.

Even big, tough creatures at the top of the food chain are afraid to go to Australia. Have you ever seen a Godzilla movie that took place in Australia? The answer to that is no. I know because I checked on Google. That is the kind of thorough, fact-checking blogger I am! The only thing I found was a trailer for a Japanese Godzilla movie being released in Australia last October where, I might add, Godzilla was noticeably absent from the premier.

Because even Godzilla is afraid to go to Australia! He knows that he could be trouncing through the streets, causing utter destruction and noticing how the toilets flush the opposite direction down there, when he is without warning stung by a microscopic organism that is so poisonous, you die 10 seconds before you actually get stung.

I rest my case again.

Everything in Australia is deadly poisonous, down to the last adorable Koala bear. That’s why they don’t have petting zoos in Australia (Don’t Google that one. Just trust me.) Even the livestock will kill you.

Maybe back in Pangaea, before the continents had separated, humans cornered all the poisonous things in one area, then set off explosives, pushing that piece of land away from everything else and thinking the problem was solved. Humans would never be crazy enough to try to go and live there.

But what those early humans forgot was that humans are extremely forgetful.

And so people ended up living there. And then they developed a sexy accent to try and trick other humans into coming and living there.  But don’t let yourself be sucked in.  It is a scientific fact that every year more Australians die in Australia than anywhere else in the world. (I didn’t Google that one, but I’m willing to bet big money that it’s accurate!)

I guess there is one other fact about Australia, and that is that it’s the largest island in the world.

An island, for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is a landmass that is completely surrounded by water, much like this:

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And this:

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And all of this:

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But different, apparently. Because none of those are islands.

Because islands are small.

Except for Australia.

If an island is too big, we just call it a continent and not an island.

Except for Australia.

I’m starting to think we make a few too many exceptions for Australia. Obviously the guy who declares things islands is on Australia’s payroll.  Which is why that guy should be impeached and I should be elected the new Chairman of Declaring Things Islands. For one thing, I have a Liberal Arts Degree, which means I already go around declaring things with little-to-no basis to do so. So I am certainly qualified.

For another thing, it is unethical for Australia to pay this guy millions – if not billions – of dollars to maintain their “World’s Biggest Island” status. As a professional blogger, Australia could buy me off for much, much less.  We’re talking $55 and a year’s supply of Dr. Pepper. Or a puppy.

I think people are afraid to call Australia on their obviously fake island status for fear that Australia will send some of their poisonous things to attack.

Well, I’m not afraid.

You know what, Australia? You’re either a big island or a small continent. You can’t be both, apparently, for scientific classification reasons I have never understood!

And for the love of Pete, call an exterminator! How are any of you still alive?!

And if you want to send me poisonous things, my address is:

1234 Absolutely Real Street

French Bread, Quebec, Canada 90210.

But the real reason I wanted to talk about Australia today was so that I would have a seamless segue into promoting my new article recently published on Listverse: “10 Laws, Rules, and Regulations for Extraterrestrial Contact”, in which, I hope you will notice, Australia is not mentioned even once. Enjoy!

You Can’t Spell “Nature” Without Some of the Sounds from Danger

I’ve decided to go walking on all of the nature trails in my general area.

[image error]My general area.

If you’re thinking that doesn’t sound like me given my strained relationship with nature (i.e. it always poops on me and I absolutely refuse to poop on it, which is why the closest I’ve ever been to camping is that time I locked myself out of my car in the grocery store parking lot and was thus forced to sit on the concrete parking strip thing (You don’t know what it’s called either) and eat the entire carton of ice cream I had just bought while I waited for rescue).

(I never finished the original sentence I started there, but after so many asides, I bet you didn’t even notice.)

If you’re thinking that the only reason I would ever suddenly decide to start walking all the nature trails in my general area is because I’ve fallen prey to some sort of government mind control program…you’re kind of stealing my thunder, so cut it out.

On an unrelated note, I think I’ve fallen prey to some sort of government mind control program.  Here’s how it happened:

I was innocently walking my dog as I often do.  Dog and I have an unspoken agreement: If I take her walking, she lets me sleep at night.  If I don’t hold up my end, Dog waits until 2am and then starts practicing Irish Step Dancing across her half of the bed and sometimes my face.  And Dog does not accept excuses.  So I’m highly motivated to take her walking, even though that means going outdoors, which is where nature tends to accumulate.

We usually stick to the sidewalks, avoiding nature as much as possible.  Little did I know, sometimes sidewalks actually go THROUGH nature.

This particular day, I suddenly looked around and found myself in the middle of a grassy field that looked suspiciously like nature, even though I was still very clearly on the man-made anti-nature sidewalk.

That’s when we saw a large wooden sign.  It said something to the effect of:

Steven S. Stevenberg Natural Area

Free Maps Below

Brought to you by your local, possibly Canadian, government

So I helped myself to a free map, playing right into their hands.

The map was a map of all the trails within driving distance.  It looked something like this:

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What you can’t see in that picture of the map is the mind-controlling ink they clearly used on the map.  Because instead of immediately recycling the map, I suddenly found myself saying, “Hey!  I bet I could walk all of those!”

And not only that, but I actually have been walking them.  I NEVER do the things I say I’m going to do (except for becoming a world famous blogger.  That’s the one exception.)

And that’s how I know the government is controlling my mind.

That, and I find myself using the phrase “tort reform” a lot.

But that’s not the worst part.  I’ve also become part of some sort of cruel psychological experiment.  That same government that told me I should go walking on all these trails also posts signs at every single one of the trails with threatening messages:

–Warning: Cars parked at this trailhead are often broken into. Carry all valuables with you, including your car.

–Warning: Frequent animal attacks take place in this natural area.  Guns are not allowed in this area, but are also highly recommended.

–Warning: Nature is cruel.  Just get back in your car and seek shelter indoors.

Often these signs are accompanied by long instructions or pamphlets elaborating on the dangers.  I’ve never taken the time to read any of them (although I was tempted to read the one that was actually entitled “Lightning! Avoid It!”).  But I already know everything I need to know about interacting with nature.  Safe nature interactions can be summed up in 3 rules:

1.) You’re never safe in nature.

2.) If you do happen to find yourself in nature, try not to come in contact with it as it may cause rashes or hay fever, have teeth, quills, or stingers, and/or poop on you.  Absolutely never pick up anything you find in nature.

3.) If you do happen to pick up something you’ve found in nature, try not to lick it.

I came up with those myself and they have served me well.

On the up-side of all this government mind-control psychological experimenting forcing me to experience nature against my will, I did recently get inspiration for my next book.  I’ll call it:

Sticks That Look Like Snakes

A Coffee Table Book and Educational Guide

With a Forward by Samuel L. Jackson

Copyright 2017

I already have a plethora of pictures to use.  I’m very discerning, though, about which ones make the final cut.  When I see a snake-like stick, I tend to react like a surprised cat, jumping straight into the air and landing several feet to the side.  But if I land less than three feet to the side, then the stick doesn’t look enough like a snake to be included in my collection.

Here are some of my favorites:

[image error]Creepy, right?  This was a solid 4 foot jump.
[image error]This one looks like a giant python strangling a tree.
[image error]I’m still not convinced this one isn’t really a snake.

I foresee this book being very popular, much more than the other book idea I had, “Rocks That Look Like Poop and Vice Versa”.

In summation, if you can’t avoid lightning, at least try not to lick it.

Don’t Open Your Pantry

Some time last year I claimed that there was an impending vegetable-induced apocalypse (or “vegapocalypse” as it would have been called if any media outlets had responded to my phone calls).

This obviously did not come to pass.  At least not that I have noticed.

Then again, I don’t get out much.

But I’m sure someone would have texted me.

After further review, I realized that radishes are inanimate objects, and so do not harbor ambition for world domination.

Radishes also lack an adequate number of appendages necessary to enslave humanity (namely >1).

So I see where I made my mistake.  And I am sorry if I caused a panic.

And that is why I feel confident to now declare that you should not panic, but the apocalypse is coming.

Again.

But this time, it’ll actually happen.

I’m almost positive.

I’m not talking about some ginormous, but armless, radishes.  This is a much more believable threat.

I am talking about this:

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Your eyes do not deceive you.  That is an actual onion in my pantry.

And those are very clearly the menacing tentacles of a giant squid bursting forth from said onion.

[image error]I thought you might enjoy a close-up of your impending doom.

I know it’s hard to tell in the picture, but those tentacles were writhing around in a very menacing way while I risked life and limb to bring you this image.  I would have gotten an even closer shot, but it threw that can of pumpkin at me, so I had no choice but to retreat to safety.  I hate pumpkin.

My worst fear has inevitably come to pass: giant squid monsters from another dimension have finally figured out how to build portals to our dimension using our very own onions as doorways.

I don’t like to say “I told you so”, especially when I did not actually tell you this, but I told you so.

Mexican and Thai restaurants will naturally be the first to fall, what with their beautiful abundance of onions.  And then humanity is doomed because what point is there to fight if there’s no Mexican or Thai food anymore?  Greek food?  I don’t think so.  You’re going to try to rally people with the cry “Give me feta or give me death?”  I don’t think so.  Queso, on the other hand, inspires nations.

And I know for a fact that squids have ample appendages for enslaving humanity.  Just like an octopus has 8 tentacles (hence “oct”, meaning “8” and “opus” meaning “a compilation of works and/or feet”), a squid has…well, whatever number “squi” stands for.  And that, I’m almost positive, is a number that is greater than or equal to one.  Unless it’s metric.

Worst of all, these creatures seem to have an affinity for resalable food storage bags.  Obviously, so do I.

Which leads me to the point at which you should start panicking:

I think I may actually be a giant squid monster from another dimension.

All the signs are there:

the overzealous food storage bag collection
my inability to hold down a steady job or boyfriend
my puppy, who is so addicted to belly rubs that she could not survive living with a human that only had a mere 2 hands with which to rub her belly
the fact that I have onions

I think I have to accept my roots: I am a giant squid monster.  I don’t say that just to get attention, even though that makes me the first female giant squid monster from another dimension to release a murder mystery series set on Mars.  So, smaller female squid monster mystery sci-fi authors from another dimension who I am paving the way for, you’re welcome.

And you have to admit: it does explain a LOT about this blog.

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Last Wednesday, I decided to go see Dr. Strange at the cheap movie theater. When unemployed or, worse, employed as a self-published author, it’s important to be thrifty. By waiting until a movie has been out a while, you can get a movie ticket for as little as $2, which makes you feel better about spending $25 on a “small” soda (I say “small” because the smallest size my theater carries is so large, it doesn’t actually fit inside the movie theater. They have to keep the cup outside in the parking lot and pass you a long straw through the window.)

Weird people go to movies on a Wednesday afternoon. I can say that for a fact because I was the only one in the theater.

The movie was good and had a whopping two after-the-credits scenes, where they hint at an Avengers/Dr. Strange cross-over. I didn’t say “spoiler alert” because if you didn’t know that was coming, you clearly live somewhere in the boonies with no internet connection and therefore cannot actually be reading this blog. Unless you have a friend with a printer and some carrier pigeons. In which case I’m relying on the carrier pigeons pooping over that part anyway.

Every movie gets crossed-over with the Avengers. If they were to bring out a remake of “Little Women”, it would end with an after-the-credits scene where Loki brings Beth March back from the dead.

“Wow!” you say. “But how would the actual movie go?

I’m glad you asked!

In “Avengers: Little Woman, Destroyer of Worlds”, Loki would give the reincarnated Beth powers that also turn her evil, and unleash her on the world:

Jo (with a little pause): Wouldn’t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?

Beth (with glowing demon eyes and lightning coming out of her fingers): Join me, Jo, and we will rule the universe from fun castles in the air!

(She shoots a glowing beam into the sky, opening a portal to an evil alternate dimension)

Jo: Didn’t they do the beam-of-light-shooting-into-the-sky-and-opening-a-portal-to-an-evil-alternate-dimension thing in the last movie?

Loki: That’s part of my dastardly plan! Repeat the same plan in every Avengers movie until people surrender to my powers of redundancy!

Jo: Oh. That makes sense, then. I didn’t mean to be impertinent. Mother says I too often speak without thinking first.

Loki: I actually find your honesty quite refreshing.

Jo: Really?

(Able to fight it no longer, they share a passionate kiss)

I’d pay to see that movie, possibly before it even got to the cheap theater.

But we’ve gotten off-topic.

The point is, as I was sitting through the end credits of Dr. Strange, waiting for the inevitable Avengers cross-over teaser, I was pondering if I shouldn’t get a job. Reading the names scrolling by, I kept thinking, “All those people have jobs. How hard can it be?”

But what kind of job to get?

Suddenly the answer came to me, right there on the movie screen:

Benedict Cumberbatch. I could make TONS of money being him.

I of course quickly realized that, while I freely break into an impressively unconvincing British accent, I’m much too short to be him.

But then I got am even better answer from the aforementioned movie screen:

Stand-by painter.

That’s right: there’s someone who’s job it is to stand around doing nothing, absolutely not painting a single thing, all the while cultivating a willingness to possibly paint something if called upon. And for that, they not only paid him (or her, because women can stand around just as well as men, except we do it in heels), but they also put this person’s name in the credits.

For not painting.

But being willing to.

I am SO qualified for that job. It may be one of the few jobs that I, with my Liberal Arts Degree, am OVER-qualified for.

As a matter of fact, I basically already did that job. I haven’t painted anything in at least a year and I certainly haven’t done anything productive in twice that long. But – and this is key – had anyone from the Dr. Strange production called me and asked me to come, I would have gladly gone and slapped some paint on the sets, costumes, actors, my own hair, several cameras, the craft services table, and anything within a 5 foot radius of me because that is how I paint.

Long story short, the producers of Dr. Strange are in store for a strongly worded letter demanding a paycheck for services not rendered, but willing to have been rendered, and that my name be listed as 2nd Stand-By Painter in the corrected credits for the DVD release.

The best part about being 2nd stand-by painter is the opportunity for advancement. All I have to do is hide in the bushes of the 1st stand-by painter’s house, catch him actively painting something and get photographic evidence of it, which gets him fired, and gets me the promotion to 1st stand-by painter.

And once I’m 1st stand-by painter, it won’t be long before they give me my own Avengers cross-over movie :

Loki: You’re too late, Avengers! I’ve already set my evil plan into motion. Behold: Veronica!

Veronica (Holding, but not using, a paint brush): Hi!

Iron Man: Is she going to do something with that paint brush?

Veronica (Maniacally) : No, I’m not. Bua ha ha ha ha ha!

Loki: Really? I thought you were going to use it to shoot some sort of beam into the sky to open a portal to an evil alternate dimension.

Veronica: I’d love to help you out, but I actually need to keep my schedule free, just in case someone needs me to paint something.

Iron Man: Is that all you’ve got?

Veronica: No. I also have…A WHITE, FLUFFY DOG!!!!

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Iron Man: Oh no! I can’t take the cuteness! It burns!

(Dog shoots beam of light into the sky, opening a portal to an adorable alternate dimension)

Loki: That is quite impressive!

(Able to fight it no longer, my dog licks him right in the mouth)

First One’s Free

To quote the semi-immortal Shakespeare (because let’s face it, I’m pretty sure he’s dead): “Oops, I did it again.  I published a second book and you can buy it from Amazon HERE.  Oh, baby, baby.”

Now, to fill the time while you wait for it to arrive, here’s a blog post:

You, unlike me, may have been wondering where I’ve been. I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted. That’s because I’ve been writing a book. While writing a book, you may neglect your loved ones.

That’s right. I said it. I love you. Just don’t get all stalkery now that you know.

The point is, when you’re writing, you may be spending time you normally would have spent with your loved ones instead spending time with fictional characters.

My dog apparently felt she had been replaced by these fictional characters. That’s why the other night, when I went to bed, I found this (which I promise I did not alter at all):

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Your eyes don’t deceive you. That is Santa Claus.

Sleeping on MY pillows.

With MY dog laying on his feet.

My dog did that. She replaced me with a fictional character so I could see how it feels.

In her defense, I have been spending a significant amount of time on Mars lately. People would talk to me and I would blankly stare at them and ask, “What are you doing here? You’re not a character in my book!”

And then they’d say something ridiculous like, “We’re your parents and this is our house. We’re also concerned about you because all you’ve eaten all day is cheese and a whole bottle of Dr. Pepper.”

And I’d say, “Oh my gosh, are you trying to tell me we’re out of Dr. Pepper?!?”

And then they’d say something, but I couldn’t hear it over the sound of my characters doing things on Mars.

And that pretty much sums up how you write a book.

And get scurvy.

But that’s okay because, being a writer, you can turn an experience like scurvy into a 300 page epic. And if the main character is a sexy zombie, you may just have a best-seller on your hands. He eats human brains, but he feels conflicted about it, especially after he falls madly in love with the doctor treating his latest outbreak of scurvy.

And now you know the plot of my latest book: Second Deception on Mars. Sub-title: Because scurvy is always sexier on Mars.

Here’s a true story: titles are hard.

Normally I have my sister come up with all my titles, but I actually came up with 3/4 of this title all by myself.  All my sister added to this title was the word “Mars”.

My idea was to call it “Second Deception on Neptune”. I felt like it was intriguing and added on an extra twist that you don’t discover until the very end, namely that none of it takes place on and/or near Neptune. Neptune plays as big a role in this book as scurvy does.

Oh, sorry! I should have said “spoiler alert”.

Which leads me to a very special message:

For 5 days only (from January 30th to February 3rd), the prequel of the sequel (or “onequel” as I wished it was sometimes referred to)…wait, now I’m lost. Start over.

For 5 days only (or, depending on how long it takes me to finish this sentence, possibly less), the 1st book in my Martian Murders series, First Grave on Mars, will be free to download from Amazon (ebook version only).  If only you had a link to it.

Wait for it…

SURPRISE!

Make sure to get your copy and tell your friends that you won’t be friends with them anymore unless they also get a copy. Share on social media. Your friends will be so grateful for a post that isn’t another political rant.

Or at the very least, put a link to my book in the middle of your political rant. Use the hashtag #IDon’tGetHowHashtagsWorkButPleaseForTheLoveOfPeteBuyMyBook

Save

Driving and Other Risky Behaviors

I had to drive on the highway to hand deliver a Christmas gift to a friend I have this year.

That is a big deal for me.

Who knew I had friends?

Driving on the highway is always a big deal for me, too, because I, unlike most highway drivers, do not want to die.

Highway driving is stupid.  I feel like my odds would be better shooting myself out of a cannon out of a plane that is being flown by a blind person and is also on fire (both the plane and the blind person), then skydiving down with a parachute that, why not, is also on fire, and land in a tank of liquefied gluten (to which I am intolerant), which is full of sharks, all while duct taped to an injured seal.

And that’s just the part where I have to merge onto the highway.

It’s not that I’m not a competent motorist.  I drive fantastically.  It’s the rest of you that are the problem.  You drive like rabid bunnies on crack, randomly veering between lanes at approximately 95 million miles per hour, like you’re trying to make the Kessel run in only 6 parsecs.

[image error]That verbal picture needed a pictorial picture. You’re welcome.

I suppose it’s not really fair to describe all of you that way.  Some of you have the opposite problem.  The moment you hit the highway, you realize you’ve misplaced your gas pedal and must rely entirely on inertia to continue propelling you forward at 65 centimeters per decade.  But you’re not alone, because you are always accompanied by a sympathetic friend in a different car who will, in solidarity, drive right next to you at the same “speed” so no one can get around either of you.

That makes the guy in the middle of his Kessel run incredibly cranky.  I know because, while I have been stuck behind you, the Kessel Run Guy has come up behind me really fast, and drives so close behind me that his mail starts getting delivered to the backseat of my car.  And as I basically chauffeur Kessel Run Guy around in the backseat of my car, we are having a nice conversation about what a bad driver you are.

That is why they need to add a special lane to all the highways.  It’ll be just like the carpool lane, but it will be for people like myself who just want to drive the speed limit.  Call us the “Speed Limit Demons”.  We have a need, a need to follow all traffic regulations as publicly posted on roadway signs.  We do not want to drive like we are running from death nor drive like we were declared legally dead several miles ago.

But it’s not just other drivers that make the highway such a terrible place.  Weather also plays a factor.  Especially the weather where I live, Canada allegedly, where instead of miles per hour, we measure speed in Euros per moose.  We also drive on the opposite side of the road.  I don’t mean the left side of the road.  I mean we drive on the underside of the road.  Which is why you never see Canadian license plates while driving.  All our cars are underground.

The weather here has been harsh lately.  It could really be summed up in 4 words: freezing, snowing, and apocalyptic fire.

In that order.

First it got cold.

Then it snowed.

Then we had wildfires where it had snowed.

That’s right: our snow is flammable.

Imagine what it was like driving through that.  You haven’t known terror until you’re careening down an icy road, caught in front of someone going the speed of light and behind someone who might actually be moving backwards, and it starts to blizzard, and half of the snowflakes are bursting into flame on impact, causing panic in a nearby field of snowman, all now ablaze.

Like formula 1 racing through a winter wonderland in Pompeii.  That’s what my highway drive was like.

But I did it.  I drove on the highway, delivered my gift, and drove back.  I survived the whole trip with only minor psychological trauma.

And isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

Free Article, Just Pay Shipping and Handling

Advertising: it’s vital to the human condition. It’s what distinguishes us from animals.  Have you ever seen an otter try to sell laxatives to a panda bear? I didn’t think so.

But would you like to? Because for just $19.95…well, we can discuss that later.

Without advertising, magazines would only be half of a page long, mute button manufacturers would go out of business, and you would never know who your favorite sports team’s official gastroenterologist was.

Which is why I’d like to teach you all about how to make a good advertisement. For this, I will be using this real, actual ad that Facebook recently presented me with:

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This is a targeted ad that Facebook, using its world-famous algorithm, decided I would find particularly interesting. Clearly they saw that I periodically use the words “blogger” and “self-published” and thought, “This is someone who desperately needs a job but whose skill-set would be best described as ‘adept Googler’.”

But this article is not about me and my Microsoft Paint proficiency. On the other hand, this graph is all about my Microsoft Paint Proficiency:

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Let’s break down this ad and see what makes it so good.

First, let’s look at the opening line: “Thinking of getting into Boudoir Photography…?”. This is a question and one that they feel confident there are only two possible answers to:

No, I was not thinking of that. Why? Should I have been? I don’t know the first thing about it, so it’s hard to think about. If only there was somewhere I could get some information about boudoir photography.

Yes, as a matter of fact I WAS thinking of getting into boudoir photography. How did you know? No, seriously, how could you possibly know that? Can you read my mind? How long have you been listening to my thoughts? Do you know what I was thinking about last Tuesday? Look, I’ll buy whatever you’re selling if you’ll just promise never to tell anyone what I was thinking last Tuesday!

Clearly both these answers lead the advertisee to seek more information from the ad.

Of course this company does not expect any other answers to this question, ignoring the outliers like myself whose answer was “Let me answer that question with a question: would penguins would be able to walk while wearing one of those blankets with built-in sleeves?” (For future reference, the answer is no, unless they could wear it backwards, at which point it is really no longer a blanket with sleeves, but a robe.)

Overall, I give the opening hook two stars. For just one easy payment of $4.99, I’ll tell you how many stars that’s out of.

After the first sentence, I feel the ad starts to lose focus, reassuring you that he’s got you covered and offering a break-in boudoir kit.

This is called the “bait and switch” technique. We start out having an innocent chat about boudoir photography, but now suddenly he’s offering to cover me while I break-in to someone’s boudoir. Call me a prude, but that crosses a line for me. I don’t know what Facebook’s algorithm told him, but I do have SOME standards. Sure, I’ve been a getaway driver, but only socially. Like a social smoker, I only getaway drive when I’m hanging around with other people who are also getaway driving. Of course then the problem becomes that we are all so busy getaway driving that no one is actually committing crimes for us drive away from.

So then it really becomes less getaway driving and more cruising.

Then again cruising is illegal in some states, so it’s kind of a crime.

But it’s a crime that’s hard to drive away from.

My point is that I’m definitely not going to be the one doing the actual breaking and entering into boudoirs.

But then the ad turns that negativity around by telling me the break-in kit is totally free!

So I’m in!

But the enthusiasm quickly wanes when I read that the kit includes an “e-book, resource guide, templates, and more!” This is starting to sound overly complicated. I would think a brick and a pair of pantyhose to wear over my head would be sufficient.

Of course, I haven’t owned a pair of pantyhose since the 90’s. The closest I’ve got is a pair of jeggings, which are hard to both see and breathe in. And that’s when I’m wearing them on my legs. I can’t imagine how bad it would be with them on my face.

And I don’t recall ever owning a brick.

I do own a really heavy biology textbook. That could work. But I had to write my name in it to keep people from stealing it. (Back when I was in school, there was a big black-market for outdated science textbooks, but only ones that didn’t have anyone’s name written in them apparently.) If I throw the biology textbook through someone’s boudoir window, I’ll never be able to find it again with jeggings over my head, which means I’ll have to leave a vital clue with my name in it at the crime scene.

This will lead the police straight to me. They’ll find me at home, surrounded by my ill-gotten gain.

“This is awkward,” the police will say.  Not because of my criminal ineptitude, but because I’m over 30 and live with my parents.

There, in my parents’ home, will be all the things I stole from the boudoir; all the jewels, priceless art, classified documents, exotic birds… The more I think about it, the more I realize that I’m not entirely clear on what a boudoir is, so I’m not sure what I would even be stealing.

Clearly I am not qualified for this line of work.

And so, overall, I have to give this ad a D-. For all it’s flashiness and promises of a bounty of boudoir burglary booty, it failed to convince me that a life of crime is the life for me.

On the other hand, I have just learned that the median salary of gastroenterologists is $342,000 annually. So please do contact me if you happen to have a free kit with everything I need to break into a gastroenterologist’s house.