C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 15
August 23, 2012
I'm Doing a Conference!
Okay folks. If you like writing, reading, or authors, here's the place to be. I'm going to be at the Hampton Roads Writer's Conference on Thursday, September 20th through Sunday, September 23rd in Virginia Beach, Virginia.
Here's the link. Hampton Roads 4th Annual Writer's Conference.
It will be fun, fun, fun. Not only are there lots of writers there but there are lots of agents, and poets, and some other stuff. The beach is nearby. How can you go wrong with that?
I myself, personally am doing: How to E-Publish Your Work and Make Money. I can totally do this one. I have learned so much about this topic in the last couple of years I'm practically a PH.D. in it.
Then I'm doing: Maintaining and Sustaining Authentic and Appropriate Voice, which is a lot about characterization and there will be a writing exercise involved.
I'm also doing: What to Expect When You're Expecting (A Book) with Alma Katsu, author of The Taker, and is an American Library Association-Booklist Top Ten Debut Novel of 2011.
Then I'm on a Women Writer's Panel, which is loads of fun.
Rick Mofina will be about and he's written a ton of wonderful suspense thrillers such as The Burning Edge and the Reed-Sydowski series.
There will also be Patricia Hermes, who is an author who has written over 50 YA novels. She also has awards up the hooha and is the author of You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye and several historical YA novels such as Salem Witch, The Starving Time, and The Wild Year.
So if you can make it, you should.
Here's the link. Hampton Roads 4th Annual Writer's Conference.
It will be fun, fun, fun. Not only are there lots of writers there but there are lots of agents, and poets, and some other stuff. The beach is nearby. How can you go wrong with that?
I myself, personally am doing: How to E-Publish Your Work and Make Money. I can totally do this one. I have learned so much about this topic in the last couple of years I'm practically a PH.D. in it.
Then I'm doing: Maintaining and Sustaining Authentic and Appropriate Voice, which is a lot about characterization and there will be a writing exercise involved.
I'm also doing: What to Expect When You're Expecting (A Book) with Alma Katsu, author of The Taker, and is an American Library Association-Booklist Top Ten Debut Novel of 2011.
Then I'm on a Women Writer's Panel, which is loads of fun.
Rick Mofina will be about and he's written a ton of wonderful suspense thrillers such as The Burning Edge and the Reed-Sydowski series.
There will also be Patricia Hermes, who is an author who has written over 50 YA novels. She also has awards up the hooha and is the author of You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye and several historical YA novels such as Salem Witch, The Starving Time, and The Wild Year.
So if you can make it, you should.
August 20, 2012
Got Dem Sunday Blues OR What to Blog, What to Blog, What to Blog?
The Bevill fam went to see Paranorman, which was pretty good, but also we got to see previews for Frankenwienie and The Hobbit, which kicks butt on the big screen. Peter Jackson, I would bear your children for you, if I weren't nearly fifty, fat, already married, and didn't have a sense of humor. Recently I was conversing with someone about the preview for The Hobbit, which doesn't come out until December. (Peter, I take back what I said, seriously. You released a preview almost a year ahead of time to taunt and tease us. You shameless hussy. December effing 14th, for the love of merciful Pete.) This person hadn't seen the preview yet and I said, "When they start to sing, it gives me goosebumps." Of course, I believe the person thought I was insane because it's an odd thing to say. (Yes saying "When they start to sing, it gives me goosebumps," is a weird thing to say no matter where you're hanging out at or how many Screaming Red Zombies you've consumed.) But all of you Baby Boomers with the four Tolkien books gathering dust in the attic, you've seen the preview and you know what I'm talking about. (You do! Admit it! You know. You're one of us. You've come over to the Baby Boomer side.) So here's the preview for the two of you left who haven't seen it yet:
Cate Blanchett don't look 43, I'll tell you what. I need pointy ears. Wait, I'll do an illustration for effect. (Why? Why the hell not? It's my blog and I'm feeling frisky.)
This train of thought brings up several points. I look more like a Vulcan than an elf. (I can't do the finger splitting thing at all. My fingers don't do that.) Then I need to make sure Galadriel was really an elf or if my memory is all messed up. (That's always possible. In fact, it might even be probable.) (Yep, people put anything on Wikipedia. Seriously. Anything. See here. It's got the character's biography, history, personal likes and dislikes, and whether she likes to dance nekkid in the rain after drinking pina colodas. Well, maybe not that much information.)
(Who has three initials before their last name? Really? J. R. R. Tolkien? Why not J. R. R. R. Tolkien? Uh-oh, I may have offended the die hard Tolkieniens. Sorry. All in Fat Woman fun.)
Our daughter, Cressy, watched The Hobbit preview, with interest. I don't think she was into that much but she giggled when the Gollum started in with "My precious," at the end of the preview. She leaned over to me and said, "He's got a funny voice, Mama." This was followed by a titter. I'm pretty sure Cressy won't won't to sit through a nearly three hour movie no matter how funky the Gollum's voice is.
Which leads me to this realization which I noted when I looked at how to spell Cate Blanchett's name correctly in imdb.com.
It's pro/con news depending on how folks view it. For me, it's con. I do not like it. It's Hollywood trying to gouge us and I feel used. (Kind of like how everyone feels after the November election. I'm sure you can relate. "They made promises. They MADE promises. I feel like I have to go take a shower.") Okay, brace yourselves, middle aged nerds on the edge of your seats in the basement...
The Hobbit will be in...three parts. THREE FRIGGING PARTS!
Oh, Peter. Peter. Peter. I'm sending email to your mama about your behavior. (For those of you who haven't figured this dilemma out, that means we have to wait three years to see all three parts. Three years. Peter Jackson has obviously been talking with George Lucas. Those bastards.)
Three parts? Really? Seriously? Really? Come on! Are they all going to be in 3D? Do we have to take out a mortgage to see them? I must stop blogging to scream nonsensically out of the door and alarm the neighbors. (They need to get used to it.)
Anyway, I'm counting the days down until December 14th. Who's in?
Cate Blanchett don't look 43, I'll tell you what. I need pointy ears. Wait, I'll do an illustration for effect. (Why? Why the hell not? It's my blog and I'm feeling frisky.)
This train of thought brings up several points. I look more like a Vulcan than an elf. (I can't do the finger splitting thing at all. My fingers don't do that.) Then I need to make sure Galadriel was really an elf or if my memory is all messed up. (That's always possible. In fact, it might even be probable.) (Yep, people put anything on Wikipedia. Seriously. Anything. See here. It's got the character's biography, history, personal likes and dislikes, and whether she likes to dance nekkid in the rain after drinking pina colodas. Well, maybe not that much information.)(Who has three initials before their last name? Really? J. R. R. Tolkien? Why not J. R. R. R. Tolkien? Uh-oh, I may have offended the die hard Tolkieniens. Sorry. All in Fat Woman fun.)
Our daughter, Cressy, watched The Hobbit preview, with interest. I don't think she was into that much but she giggled when the Gollum started in with "My precious," at the end of the preview. She leaned over to me and said, "He's got a funny voice, Mama." This was followed by a titter. I'm pretty sure Cressy won't won't to sit through a nearly three hour movie no matter how funky the Gollum's voice is.
Which leads me to this realization which I noted when I looked at how to spell Cate Blanchett's name correctly in imdb.com.
It's pro/con news depending on how folks view it. For me, it's con. I do not like it. It's Hollywood trying to gouge us and I feel used. (Kind of like how everyone feels after the November election. I'm sure you can relate. "They made promises. They MADE promises. I feel like I have to go take a shower.") Okay, brace yourselves, middle aged nerds on the edge of your seats in the basement...
The Hobbit will be in...three parts. THREE FRIGGING PARTS!
Oh, Peter. Peter. Peter. I'm sending email to your mama about your behavior. (For those of you who haven't figured this dilemma out, that means we have to wait three years to see all three parts. Three years. Peter Jackson has obviously been talking with George Lucas. Those bastards.)
Three parts? Really? Seriously? Really? Come on! Are they all going to be in 3D? Do we have to take out a mortgage to see them? I must stop blogging to scream nonsensically out of the door and alarm the neighbors. (They need to get used to it.)Anyway, I'm counting the days down until December 14th. Who's in?
August 16, 2012
Mysteries of the Barking Spider
Ah the elusive Barking Spider, also known as spiderus-farticus-notmeicus. I have done an illustration of the Barking Spider for clarification.
There is also a Barking Spider Tavern in Ohio. See here. If you happen to be in Cleveland and like live entertainment (not Barking Spiders but bands that generally play music of the non-barking variety.) Also they have lots of beer. Some sparkling cider. Lots of character. I have not been to this tavern, but the next time I get to Cleveland I will go. (Of course, I'm not implying that they have Barking Spiders at the Barking Spider Tavern, but perhaps they serve a special broccoli/popcorn/bean dip?)
In Huntsville, Alabama we have Black Water Hattie's which always seems to have an abundance of Harley's in front. See here. Also their website has this picture on it so that gives you an idea of what goes on there and on in their outdoor patio extravaganza.
Think she's checking for money that might have fallen into her
cleavage, but I could be mistaken. Maybe there's food down there.
Possibly a Barking Spider but I wouldn't want to embarrass the young woman.Alas, there are no Barking Spiders there. But they do have live music. This was last Halloween there, so it's pretty kicking.
Who can go wrong with a devil, a pirate, and I believe it's Roy Orbison's
grandson? I think they desperately need a Barking Spider on the trumpet,
but that's just my opinion.I seem to have wandered away from the point. Ah yes, Barking Spiders. I once read a historical romance (seriously) who had the female protagonist fart and say, "I didn't know they had barking spiders in England, too." This line pretty much made peas shoot out of my nose, although I hadn't eaten peas prior to the event. (I wish I could remember the author so I could give proper credit. Up until that point I don't believe I had ever read about a heroine in a historical romance actually having typical body functions.) Then I repeated the line to HIM, who excels at blaming things on Barking Spiders, our daughter, the moron cat, and sometimes me. Sometimes we repeat it according to our vicinity and the circumstances. "I didn't know they had Barking Spiders in the Smithsonian, too." "I didn't know they had Barking Spiders in the White House, too." "I didn't know they had Barking Spiders in the middle of my daughter's dance recital, too." (Right in the middle of the solo while no one was clapping. Biggest damn Barking Spider I ever heard, too.)
In case you're completely lost, I shall explain. My MIL, of which I'm not supposed to blog, came to visit a year or two ago, and whilst enjoying her company, a Barking Spider emerged, and out popped the immortal words. My MIL said she'd never heard it put that way. Well, she was a minister's wife for many decades and an elementary school teacher also for many decades, so I submit to you that she was not in the proper company to hear it put that way. (Whilst in the Army, there were many a Barking Spider lurking around the barracks.) A Barking Spider is the poor, invisible creature upon which the blame of an errant fart is laid when there is no one else about. Silent But Deadlies don't fall into this category unless someone falls over dead from asphyxiation. The best gambit upon that scenario is to quietly fade into the background and run the hell away, yelling over one's shoulder, "BARKING SPIDERS EVERYWHERE!"
Okay back to the point of the blog. It seems as though Barking Spiders seem to be an endangered species around the Bevill household of late. Even my daughter's moron cat, Megaroy, also called Stinkaroy lately, doesn't even blame the invisible critter. He just owns up to and stalks off to another part of the house, because goodness knows he can't smell it up by himself. (That's what humans are for, after all.)
Instead we have a massive influx of Pull-My-Fingers. I'd like to say that a Pull-My-Finger is similar to a Barking Spider, but it's completely the opposite of a Barking Spider. With attributing the flatulence to a Barking Spider, one is saying, "It wasn't me. It was the invisible beasty that doesn't really bark. Hahahaha. You should laugh, too. Also you should cover your nose." With the Pull-My-Finger one is saying, "It totally WAS me! Not only was it me but once you pull my frigging finger I emphasize the fact in a loud and overtly nasty booty manner! Hahahaha. If you're a prepubescent boy you should laugh too and bump fists because I have done this so successfully!"
Coming from HIM I'm all like, "Yeah. Great. Shouldn't eaten that three-bean salad, babe." But then suddenly our daughter starts doing it. With a sly little giggle, too. Then I have to tell her it's not something that we do in polite company.
Her: "What's polite company?"
Me: "Company that's polite."
Her, staring at me, because she knows I haven't answered her.
Me: "We don't do it out in public, not at school, social events, or to people like teachers, politicians, or mailmen. Well, maybe politicians."
Her: "Go ahead, Mommy, pull my finger."
Me, glaring at HIM: "This is all your fault."
HIM, shrugging and going back to his Kindle: "Well, yeah."
There it is. It's official. HIM confessed. It IS his fault.
There is also a Barking Spider Tavern in Ohio. See here. If you happen to be in Cleveland and like live entertainment (not Barking Spiders but bands that generally play music of the non-barking variety.) Also they have lots of beer. Some sparkling cider. Lots of character. I have not been to this tavern, but the next time I get to Cleveland I will go. (Of course, I'm not implying that they have Barking Spiders at the Barking Spider Tavern, but perhaps they serve a special broccoli/popcorn/bean dip?)
In Huntsville, Alabama we have Black Water Hattie's which always seems to have an abundance of Harley's in front. See here. Also their website has this picture on it so that gives you an idea of what goes on there and on in their outdoor patio extravaganza.
Think she's checking for money that might have fallen into hercleavage, but I could be mistaken. Maybe there's food down there.
Possibly a Barking Spider but I wouldn't want to embarrass the young woman.Alas, there are no Barking Spiders there. But they do have live music. This was last Halloween there, so it's pretty kicking.
Who can go wrong with a devil, a pirate, and I believe it's Roy Orbison'sgrandson? I think they desperately need a Barking Spider on the trumpet,
but that's just my opinion.I seem to have wandered away from the point. Ah yes, Barking Spiders. I once read a historical romance (seriously) who had the female protagonist fart and say, "I didn't know they had barking spiders in England, too." This line pretty much made peas shoot out of my nose, although I hadn't eaten peas prior to the event. (I wish I could remember the author so I could give proper credit. Up until that point I don't believe I had ever read about a heroine in a historical romance actually having typical body functions.) Then I repeated the line to HIM, who excels at blaming things on Barking Spiders, our daughter, the moron cat, and sometimes me. Sometimes we repeat it according to our vicinity and the circumstances. "I didn't know they had Barking Spiders in the Smithsonian, too." "I didn't know they had Barking Spiders in the White House, too." "I didn't know they had Barking Spiders in the middle of my daughter's dance recital, too." (Right in the middle of the solo while no one was clapping. Biggest damn Barking Spider I ever heard, too.)
In case you're completely lost, I shall explain. My MIL, of which I'm not supposed to blog, came to visit a year or two ago, and whilst enjoying her company, a Barking Spider emerged, and out popped the immortal words. My MIL said she'd never heard it put that way. Well, she was a minister's wife for many decades and an elementary school teacher also for many decades, so I submit to you that she was not in the proper company to hear it put that way. (Whilst in the Army, there were many a Barking Spider lurking around the barracks.) A Barking Spider is the poor, invisible creature upon which the blame of an errant fart is laid when there is no one else about. Silent But Deadlies don't fall into this category unless someone falls over dead from asphyxiation. The best gambit upon that scenario is to quietly fade into the background and run the hell away, yelling over one's shoulder, "BARKING SPIDERS EVERYWHERE!"
Okay back to the point of the blog. It seems as though Barking Spiders seem to be an endangered species around the Bevill household of late. Even my daughter's moron cat, Megaroy, also called Stinkaroy lately, doesn't even blame the invisible critter. He just owns up to and stalks off to another part of the house, because goodness knows he can't smell it up by himself. (That's what humans are for, after all.)
Instead we have a massive influx of Pull-My-Fingers. I'd like to say that a Pull-My-Finger is similar to a Barking Spider, but it's completely the opposite of a Barking Spider. With attributing the flatulence to a Barking Spider, one is saying, "It wasn't me. It was the invisible beasty that doesn't really bark. Hahahaha. You should laugh, too. Also you should cover your nose." With the Pull-My-Finger one is saying, "It totally WAS me! Not only was it me but once you pull my frigging finger I emphasize the fact in a loud and overtly nasty booty manner! Hahahaha. If you're a prepubescent boy you should laugh too and bump fists because I have done this so successfully!"
Coming from HIM I'm all like, "Yeah. Great. Shouldn't eaten that three-bean salad, babe." But then suddenly our daughter starts doing it. With a sly little giggle, too. Then I have to tell her it's not something that we do in polite company.Her: "What's polite company?"
Me: "Company that's polite."
Her, staring at me, because she knows I haven't answered her.
Me: "We don't do it out in public, not at school, social events, or to people like teachers, politicians, or mailmen. Well, maybe politicians."
Her: "Go ahead, Mommy, pull my finger."
Me, glaring at HIM: "This is all your fault."
HIM, shrugging and going back to his Kindle: "Well, yeah."
There it is. It's official. HIM confessed. It IS his fault.
August 13, 2012
Advice to HIMs Everywhere OR Why One Shouldn't Compare Their Wife to a Mythical (?) Beast
Recently I hurt my back. In the interest of brevity (Hahahahahaha, I actually know what brevity means) I will make the back story short. (Well, as short as I can make it.) We moved. I bitched. Our new house needs work. I started with my office. Then I did my daughter's room. I killed my back lifting a paint can. (True story!)
(See. Completely and utterly brevitious. Did I make up a word? Probably but the dictionary is too heavy to lift so I'm not going to check.) (Googling it did not require heavy lifting so I did that instead. Apparently other people have used the word first, but I don't care.) (BREVITIOUS! The act of using brevity. In other words, limiting the use of words. Being able to shut up in a timely fashion. Not talking too much. Keeping it to a minimum. NOT FAT WOMAN!)
Ah, yes. Getting off the subject. I'd imagine that most of you are wondering when I'm getting to the subject of the title. Wonky back does not equal title. It does. I'm getting to it.
I have consumed my morning allotment of ibuprofen and tea so I'm feeling well enough to blog. Sitting in the office chair doesn't seem to bother me unless I lean drastically one way or the other. (I have a long stick to whack anyone who comes to mess with me so I don't need to lean. What? It needed to be said.)
HIM, the man to whom I've been married for nearly three decades, has been supportive. Mostly. "Don't lift that, honey. I'll do it." "I'll carry the laundry in for you." "I don't want to do the dishes. Wait, yes I do." However, (Did you suspect that there would be a "however" in there somewhere? Bet you did.) several years ago I hurt my back in a similar manner and one day HIM made the mistake of saying that I looked like Bigfoot.
You might be saying at this moment, "And HIM is still breathing? How very extraordinary." It is, after all, truly miraculous that a significant other would make such an appalling statement to their somewhat volitile wife and live to rue the day, but not only to rue the day but possibly to repeat the mistake. Truly, truly, truly a miracle. Men reading this blog at this moment should learn from the lesson. Never compare your wife to Bigfoot. It's a golden rule. I think it's implicit. She doesn't say anything about your stinky feet and you don't call her a Bigfoot. I think I should put it by itself, in caps, italics, in red, and larger because it's such an important rule:
NEVER COMPARE YOUR WIFE TO BIGFOOT!
But there is a back story to the comment. I hurt my back. One day I was walking away from HIM and he said something. I turned back to look at him and since my back was hurting, it was a very awkward movement. HIM said it looked just like this:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patterson-Gimlin_filmCome on, everyone's seen this film. Taken by this guy, Roger Patterson, in 1967. He said that he and this other guy were off in the woods, doing stuff best not mentioned by polite company, when suddenly female Bigfoot wanders out in front of them. (Please try to remember this is the era where Droids and cell phones did not exist.) So Roger whipped out his camera (which probably weighed thirty pounds) whilst his horse was bucking and he took this minute or two's worth of film of...the creature. (I think they're lucky she wasn't having PMS or she would have stomped over and put the camera where the sun doesn't shine. How do I know that she wasn't having PMS? Well, because she didn't stomp over to them and put the camera where the sun doesn't shine.) Wait, I'll link you to the footage on YouTube. (Why? Because I'm making a point and foreshadowing HIM's verbal misadventure in a way that amuses me.)
There ya go. 1967 footage of Big freaking foot. Except Bigfoot's got boobies and her feet don't look that big to me. The Wikipedia article about this film makes a big deal out of hairy boobies. Apparently most hominids don't have hairy boobies. (I'm easily distracted and who doesn't want to know about hairy boobies?) I like this clip because they make the Shefoot walk backwards. Any second and I'm expecting her to moonwalk. (That's where Michael Jackson really got the idea from. My right hand to God.)
Yes, that is a sequined glove on Shefoot's hand. She's bad.Now that you've watched the footage you can probably intuit where HIM got the idea that I looked like Bigfoot when I turned the upper half of my body to look at him. Unfortunately for HIM, this was one of those times where he should have kept the clever witticism to himself. HIM did not.
Also unfortunately for HIM, there was a Bigfoot show on one of the Discovery/Science channels last night where the Patterson-Gimlin film was shown, for the one thousandth time this year alone. (I hope the widow Patterson is getting a few dimes every time they show the damn film, but she probably isn't.) So what did HIM do?
Yes. HIM did it. Again.
Husbands/boyfriends, I don't care if you know for a fact that your spouse/significant other has a wondrous sense of humor equal to Don Rickles/Bob Hope/Eddie Murphy (in his twenties), don't do it. She'll hold it against you.
There. Now you know.
(See. Completely and utterly brevitious. Did I make up a word? Probably but the dictionary is too heavy to lift so I'm not going to check.) (Googling it did not require heavy lifting so I did that instead. Apparently other people have used the word first, but I don't care.) (BREVITIOUS! The act of using brevity. In other words, limiting the use of words. Being able to shut up in a timely fashion. Not talking too much. Keeping it to a minimum. NOT FAT WOMAN!)
Ah, yes. Getting off the subject. I'd imagine that most of you are wondering when I'm getting to the subject of the title. Wonky back does not equal title. It does. I'm getting to it.
I have consumed my morning allotment of ibuprofen and tea so I'm feeling well enough to blog. Sitting in the office chair doesn't seem to bother me unless I lean drastically one way or the other. (I have a long stick to whack anyone who comes to mess with me so I don't need to lean. What? It needed to be said.)
HIM, the man to whom I've been married for nearly three decades, has been supportive. Mostly. "Don't lift that, honey. I'll do it." "I'll carry the laundry in for you." "I don't want to do the dishes. Wait, yes I do." However, (Did you suspect that there would be a "however" in there somewhere? Bet you did.) several years ago I hurt my back in a similar manner and one day HIM made the mistake of saying that I looked like Bigfoot.
You might be saying at this moment, "And HIM is still breathing? How very extraordinary." It is, after all, truly miraculous that a significant other would make such an appalling statement to their somewhat volitile wife and live to rue the day, but not only to rue the day but possibly to repeat the mistake. Truly, truly, truly a miracle. Men reading this blog at this moment should learn from the lesson. Never compare your wife to Bigfoot. It's a golden rule. I think it's implicit. She doesn't say anything about your stinky feet and you don't call her a Bigfoot. I think I should put it by itself, in caps, italics, in red, and larger because it's such an important rule:
NEVER COMPARE YOUR WIFE TO BIGFOOT!
But there is a back story to the comment. I hurt my back. One day I was walking away from HIM and he said something. I turned back to look at him and since my back was hurting, it was a very awkward movement. HIM said it looked just like this:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patterson-Gimlin_filmCome on, everyone's seen this film. Taken by this guy, Roger Patterson, in 1967. He said that he and this other guy were off in the woods, doing stuff best not mentioned by polite company, when suddenly female Bigfoot wanders out in front of them. (Please try to remember this is the era where Droids and cell phones did not exist.) So Roger whipped out his camera (which probably weighed thirty pounds) whilst his horse was bucking and he took this minute or two's worth of film of...the creature. (I think they're lucky she wasn't having PMS or she would have stomped over and put the camera where the sun doesn't shine. How do I know that she wasn't having PMS? Well, because she didn't stomp over to them and put the camera where the sun doesn't shine.) Wait, I'll link you to the footage on YouTube. (Why? Because I'm making a point and foreshadowing HIM's verbal misadventure in a way that amuses me.)There ya go. 1967 footage of Big freaking foot. Except Bigfoot's got boobies and her feet don't look that big to me. The Wikipedia article about this film makes a big deal out of hairy boobies. Apparently most hominids don't have hairy boobies. (I'm easily distracted and who doesn't want to know about hairy boobies?) I like this clip because they make the Shefoot walk backwards. Any second and I'm expecting her to moonwalk. (That's where Michael Jackson really got the idea from. My right hand to God.)
Yes, that is a sequined glove on Shefoot's hand. She's bad.Now that you've watched the footage you can probably intuit where HIM got the idea that I looked like Bigfoot when I turned the upper half of my body to look at him. Unfortunately for HIM, this was one of those times where he should have kept the clever witticism to himself. HIM did not.Also unfortunately for HIM, there was a Bigfoot show on one of the Discovery/Science channels last night where the Patterson-Gimlin film was shown, for the one thousandth time this year alone. (I hope the widow Patterson is getting a few dimes every time they show the damn film, but she probably isn't.) So what did HIM do?
Yes. HIM did it. Again.
Husbands/boyfriends, I don't care if you know for a fact that your spouse/significant other has a wondrous sense of humor equal to Don Rickles/Bob Hope/Eddie Murphy (in his twenties), don't do it. She'll hold it against you.
There. Now you know.
August 11, 2012
What the Bleep Happened?
Yes. I fooled around with the template again. I was bored with the other one and felt that it needed some pick-up. Also I'm ticked because I can't change the template on my webpage so I got some meager amount of satisfaction by doing this one instead.
Also I've been to Home Depot three times this week so this seemed simple in comparison. I hate home improvement crap.
Also I've been to Home Depot three times this week so this seemed simple in comparison. I hate home improvement crap.
August 9, 2012
Stuff on Writing OR Uh-Oh
Although I have degrees in psychology and counseling, I can honestly say that I do not understand people. But that's cool. I don't think anyone really wants to understand everyone. That would be overwhelming, plus their brain would probably combust in a spectacularly nuclear event of cosmic proportion. (Think of when Bruce Willis's character found out he was really dead in The Sixth Sense or maybe when Obama actually beat McCain.) (Did I slam Dems or Repubs there? Haha. I don't even know myself.) So I don't understand people.
I love this cover which is why
I jump at the chance to
insert it into a blog every time
I get a chance.What makes me say these words? I've recently gotten another comment about Brownie and the Dame. Brownie and the Dame is a novella that I published lately. Brownie is a character in my Bubbaverse. (I like that. Bubbaverse. I'm actually so arrogant that I'm calling my inner world by a specific name. Incidentally that was HIM who came up with it. HIM, for all of you not familiar with my blog, is the man to whom I'm married, and of whom I tease mercilessly. Well, mostly mercilessly. Sometimes I let him off the hook. Sometimes.) Brownie is a ten-year-old who causes wreck and havoc wherever he roams, which is a pretty ideal character for me. So he had a mystery to solve and got Willodean's eight-year-old niece involved. Rousing mystery ensued.
Here is the comment: "Brownie is not exciting. Bubba is exciting. You need to write more about Bubba." Also there was another comment: "There is not enough Bubba in this novella. I want more Bubba." I feel compelled to add another comment from a reader: "This was written for kids. You use too big of words for kids."
I need a step stool for my desk.I have to take a brief respite to gather my thoughts and to discourage my daughter's moron cat from digging his claws into my ass. (The cat seems to think this is a great way to get my attention and stupidly I fell for the ploy so Skinner was right about another animal. Behavioral theory, ya'll. It works on bipeds, too. Case in point, HIM no longer leaves his socks on the floor.) (Anyone hear a hiss?)
Here's my break. (Did anyone hear an audible snap?)
Okay I'm back. I often tell writers who ask me for advice to get used to criticism. Good criticism. Bad criticism. There's a lot of it out there and a writer needs to develop a thick skin. The thicker the better. I tell them that somewhere, somehow, someday someone will be heavily critical of their work and probably poopoo it up the hooha in a way that will make the writer's toes curl upwards and backwards. (Try to imagine a little dark room with someone sitting in front of a computer monitor screaming, "NOOOOO! Not that! It is better than the liner of a bird's cage! IT IS!") Sometimes a writer even needs to dig out the good bits from a bunch of bad stuff. Or...or...OR...don't read reviews. Don't read comments. Don't read Facebook, email, and signatures on their websites. Honestly, it's a little hard to do.
I luv using this drawing over and over and over again.Mostly I get positive stuff. (The negative stuff is why I don't generally write bad reviews about books I loathed. I just hate the idea of an author reading my snark about their blood, sweat, and tears. I will make a comment about formatting or horrendous typos, which can put people off.) (There was a whole time period on B&N where people were complaining about one of my novels changing fonts and I tore my hair out trying to fix it, because that would drive me nuts. I can assure you that I did not change fonts on purpose. It was the formatting program from Smashwords that messed me up. I ended up hiring a professional formatter because I could not solve the problem myself. Serious headache. But I wouldn't have known about the problem if readers hadn't commented on it, so for that I'm grateful.) (I love Smashwords but I want to fly to California and slap around their IT people with a wet noodle.)
Therefore I'm somewhat confused. The book was supposed to be about Brownie. It was about Brownie. Did I promise somewhere that it was a novella about Bubba but with Brownie in the title? The description of the novella was explicit. (Not that kind of explicit for those of you with explicit thoughts.) Brownie was the protagonist. It was implicit. Yes, I know that there are some people who just love Bubba. After all, Bubba's a great character (and just wait until Book 4, because it's getting good) and he's fun. But Brownie's fun, too. He's got a stun gun and Sharpies. How can you go wrong with that? (I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to insert dynamite and a potato launcher into the novella but hey I can write another one. I have a great idea for another Brownie novella or even a Brownie novel.)
I just don't understand people.
Therefore the moral of the story is no matter where you go, there you are. No. No. No. That's not the moral of the story. The moral of the story is you can't make everyone happy. I have displeased the die hard Bubbaphiles. (I just made that up. It could have been Bubbites or Bubbettes, but I liked Bubbaphiles better. Literary Bubbas. How can I go wrong with that? I do not know but undoubtedly someone will be pointing out something to me very soon.)
Off to redeem myself by writing the fourth Bubba novel.
I love this cover which is whyI jump at the chance to
insert it into a blog every time
I get a chance.What makes me say these words? I've recently gotten another comment about Brownie and the Dame. Brownie and the Dame is a novella that I published lately. Brownie is a character in my Bubbaverse. (I like that. Bubbaverse. I'm actually so arrogant that I'm calling my inner world by a specific name. Incidentally that was HIM who came up with it. HIM, for all of you not familiar with my blog, is the man to whom I'm married, and of whom I tease mercilessly. Well, mostly mercilessly. Sometimes I let him off the hook. Sometimes.) Brownie is a ten-year-old who causes wreck and havoc wherever he roams, which is a pretty ideal character for me. So he had a mystery to solve and got Willodean's eight-year-old niece involved. Rousing mystery ensued.
Here is the comment: "Brownie is not exciting. Bubba is exciting. You need to write more about Bubba." Also there was another comment: "There is not enough Bubba in this novella. I want more Bubba." I feel compelled to add another comment from a reader: "This was written for kids. You use too big of words for kids."
I need a step stool for my desk.I have to take a brief respite to gather my thoughts and to discourage my daughter's moron cat from digging his claws into my ass. (The cat seems to think this is a great way to get my attention and stupidly I fell for the ploy so Skinner was right about another animal. Behavioral theory, ya'll. It works on bipeds, too. Case in point, HIM no longer leaves his socks on the floor.) (Anyone hear a hiss?)Here's my break. (Did anyone hear an audible snap?)
Okay I'm back. I often tell writers who ask me for advice to get used to criticism. Good criticism. Bad criticism. There's a lot of it out there and a writer needs to develop a thick skin. The thicker the better. I tell them that somewhere, somehow, someday someone will be heavily critical of their work and probably poopoo it up the hooha in a way that will make the writer's toes curl upwards and backwards. (Try to imagine a little dark room with someone sitting in front of a computer monitor screaming, "NOOOOO! Not that! It is better than the liner of a bird's cage! IT IS!") Sometimes a writer even needs to dig out the good bits from a bunch of bad stuff. Or...or...OR...don't read reviews. Don't read comments. Don't read Facebook, email, and signatures on their websites. Honestly, it's a little hard to do.
I luv using this drawing over and over and over again.Mostly I get positive stuff. (The negative stuff is why I don't generally write bad reviews about books I loathed. I just hate the idea of an author reading my snark about their blood, sweat, and tears. I will make a comment about formatting or horrendous typos, which can put people off.) (There was a whole time period on B&N where people were complaining about one of my novels changing fonts and I tore my hair out trying to fix it, because that would drive me nuts. I can assure you that I did not change fonts on purpose. It was the formatting program from Smashwords that messed me up. I ended up hiring a professional formatter because I could not solve the problem myself. Serious headache. But I wouldn't have known about the problem if readers hadn't commented on it, so for that I'm grateful.) (I love Smashwords but I want to fly to California and slap around their IT people with a wet noodle.)Therefore I'm somewhat confused. The book was supposed to be about Brownie. It was about Brownie. Did I promise somewhere that it was a novella about Bubba but with Brownie in the title? The description of the novella was explicit. (Not that kind of explicit for those of you with explicit thoughts.) Brownie was the protagonist. It was implicit. Yes, I know that there are some people who just love Bubba. After all, Bubba's a great character (and just wait until Book 4, because it's getting good) and he's fun. But Brownie's fun, too. He's got a stun gun and Sharpies. How can you go wrong with that? (I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to insert dynamite and a potato launcher into the novella but hey I can write another one. I have a great idea for another Brownie novella or even a Brownie novel.)
I just don't understand people.
Therefore the moral of the story is no matter where you go, there you are. No. No. No. That's not the moral of the story. The moral of the story is you can't make everyone happy. I have displeased the die hard Bubbaphiles. (I just made that up. It could have been Bubbites or Bubbettes, but I liked Bubbaphiles better. Literary Bubbas. How can I go wrong with that? I do not know but undoubtedly someone will be pointing out something to me very soon.)
Off to redeem myself by writing the fourth Bubba novel.
August 6, 2012
Enter the Pre-Apocolyptic Ramblings of a Fat Woman on the Edge OR Some Title I Came Up With Because it Sounded Funky
Avowal the first: I shall not blog about HI (or Home Improvement to you Fat Woman neophytes). (Sorry Hawaii and/or the USPS. No offense intended.)
Avowal the second: I shall not blog about politics or the Olympics or the fact that it's all HIM's fault. (Although I enjoy a rousing moment of what-else-can-I-blame-on-my-dearest-scapegoat-er-husband, it is NOT his fault it's an election year or a leap year or the Summer Olympics is occurring and the Chinese seem to be whupping our collective tushes.) (But not me personally, the only Olympic sport that I would be good at would be the 100 yard Snark, in which individuals use their sarcastic tongue to berate anything or anyone in their general vicinity. Extra points go to creativity, inventiveness, and making contractors cry over the telephone. Wait, the last part was just me and I didn't really make a contractor cry over the phone. Also I seem to be breaking my second vow in record time. It could be another possible Olympic sport.)
Avowal the third: I shall not blog about my daughter's moron cat. (The moron cat got stepped on last night because he was too stupid to get out of the way in a dark hallway and he particularly enjoys a sprawling stance on the hard wood floor.) (I've never had a cat who seems to lay down on the floor 90% of the time. I'm certain that he would lay down in the litter box if he thought he could accomplish it without losing his dignity.)
Where was I? Blogging. Ah yes, the house is empty at the moment and I'm watching the Home and Garden channel where there is a woman bitching about getting a free bathroom redone. She doesn't like the tile. She doesn't like the fixtures. The lavatory is wrong. I think this woman is a twit. I want a free bathroom redo. (Wait, am I talking about HI? No, I'm talking about some stupid woman on HGTV.)
Anyway, I'm making gumbo today. Chop. Chop. Chop. Celery. Onions. Bell peppers. Garlic. Some hot peppers to make sure our stomachs don't disrespect us no more. Once I was done chopping I started in on deboning the chicken I had just finished crock-potting. Then I reached up and rubbed my eye. Big mistake. Apparently I should have worn nuclear-plant approved gloves to chop the hot peppers. There should be a warning on the peppers. (Don't touch your eyes, dumba**. Just sayin' if you like the flaming, holy-carp-my-eyes-are-burning-please-dig-them-out-with-a-teaspoon feeling, then go ahead, touch your eyes. But if you don't like that feeling, see above for good description, don't touch your eyes...stupid.) So I went and washed my hands, but apparently the peppers of doom have a long lasting effect.
(There was this one Simpsons episode where Homer was attending a chili contest and the peppers used by Chief Wiggum. "The Merciless Peppers of Quetzalacatenango....grown deep in the jungle primeval by the inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum." Consuming the peppers made Homer have LSD like visions and then things went down hill from there. Well I didn't use Quetzalacatenango peppers, but the peppers I did use were like their cousins. Their very close cousins. Their even-in-rural-areas-that's-too-close-a-family-connection cousins.) (The Don't-Touch-Your-Eyes-After-Chopping-Us Peppers for further clarification.)
After my eyes stopped flaming out, I finished with the gumbo and went to take a shower. (Because cooking always makes me sweaty.) Then I discovered that washing my hands apparently didn't wash off all the pepper juice and made my eyes burn all over again. (Yes, Virginia I washed my hands with soap and I even sang the Happy Birthday song whilst I washed. No, I didn't sing the Happy Birthday song, but I did wash my hands for a long time.)
So HIM came to see what all the screaming was about and decided to take the kid to see a movie. (They went to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days because that's what we've been reading for the last week or so. I was not permitted to take the kid to Batman Kicks Butt Again in a Moody Fashion so I stayed home to bath my eyes in Visine and morbidly watch HGTV.)
But the gumbo smells great. (And hey wouldn't a pepper eating contest be a great Olympic sport addition?)
Avowal the second: I shall not blog about politics or the Olympics or the fact that it's all HIM's fault. (Although I enjoy a rousing moment of what-else-can-I-blame-on-my-dearest-scapegoat-er-husband, it is NOT his fault it's an election year or a leap year or the Summer Olympics is occurring and the Chinese seem to be whupping our collective tushes.) (But not me personally, the only Olympic sport that I would be good at would be the 100 yard Snark, in which individuals use their sarcastic tongue to berate anything or anyone in their general vicinity. Extra points go to creativity, inventiveness, and making contractors cry over the telephone. Wait, the last part was just me and I didn't really make a contractor cry over the phone. Also I seem to be breaking my second vow in record time. It could be another possible Olympic sport.)
Avowal the third: I shall not blog about my daughter's moron cat. (The moron cat got stepped on last night because he was too stupid to get out of the way in a dark hallway and he particularly enjoys a sprawling stance on the hard wood floor.) (I've never had a cat who seems to lay down on the floor 90% of the time. I'm certain that he would lay down in the litter box if he thought he could accomplish it without losing his dignity.)
Where was I? Blogging. Ah yes, the house is empty at the moment and I'm watching the Home and Garden channel where there is a woman bitching about getting a free bathroom redone. She doesn't like the tile. She doesn't like the fixtures. The lavatory is wrong. I think this woman is a twit. I want a free bathroom redo. (Wait, am I talking about HI? No, I'm talking about some stupid woman on HGTV.)
Anyway, I'm making gumbo today. Chop. Chop. Chop. Celery. Onions. Bell peppers. Garlic. Some hot peppers to make sure our stomachs don't disrespect us no more. Once I was done chopping I started in on deboning the chicken I had just finished crock-potting. Then I reached up and rubbed my eye. Big mistake. Apparently I should have worn nuclear-plant approved gloves to chop the hot peppers. There should be a warning on the peppers. (Don't touch your eyes, dumba**. Just sayin' if you like the flaming, holy-carp-my-eyes-are-burning-please-dig-them-out-with-a-teaspoon feeling, then go ahead, touch your eyes. But if you don't like that feeling, see above for good description, don't touch your eyes...stupid.) So I went and washed my hands, but apparently the peppers of doom have a long lasting effect.
(There was this one Simpsons episode where Homer was attending a chili contest and the peppers used by Chief Wiggum. "The Merciless Peppers of Quetzalacatenango....grown deep in the jungle primeval by the inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum." Consuming the peppers made Homer have LSD like visions and then things went down hill from there. Well I didn't use Quetzalacatenango peppers, but the peppers I did use were like their cousins. Their very close cousins. Their even-in-rural-areas-that's-too-close-a-family-connection cousins.) (The Don't-Touch-Your-Eyes-After-Chopping-Us Peppers for further clarification.)
After my eyes stopped flaming out, I finished with the gumbo and went to take a shower. (Because cooking always makes me sweaty.) Then I discovered that washing my hands apparently didn't wash off all the pepper juice and made my eyes burn all over again. (Yes, Virginia I washed my hands with soap and I even sang the Happy Birthday song whilst I washed. No, I didn't sing the Happy Birthday song, but I did wash my hands for a long time.)
So HIM came to see what all the screaming was about and decided to take the kid to see a movie. (They went to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days because that's what we've been reading for the last week or so. I was not permitted to take the kid to Batman Kicks Butt Again in a Moody Fashion so I stayed home to bath my eyes in Visine and morbidly watch HGTV.)
But the gumbo smells great. (And hey wouldn't a pepper eating contest be a great Olympic sport addition?)
August 2, 2012
Primal Scream Therapy OR My Daily Life
Recently I had to deal with contractors. Inevitably one of them effed up and I get to blog about it. It's great fun. Snarky but fun. It wasn't fun at the time it happened. Our a/c unit at our house has a pan under it to catch condensation. When this pan is full it means the primary pan is overflowing. This is bad because this unit is in our attic and we don't want water falls coming into our second floor, down the stairs or through the floor to our first floor and creating a pool in the crawl space. (Unlike the toilet leaking through the flange, HIM decided we should get on top of this.) So I contacted the warranty people. Yea, warranty!
(A note about the YouTube vid above. This is Sam Kinison screaming. Sam Kinison was a comedian who liked to scream. Sam probably also had an ulcer. Whenever I get irate with customer service issues, which seems to happen a lot, a really, really lot, I think of Sam Kinison. Sadly, I don't think screaming at customer service reps really works well. But I enjoy thinking about it.)
(This also makes me think of a scene from a Rodney Dangerfield movie in which Sam Kinison plays a history prof, which I'm forced to share because it's probably not pertinent. But it is funny and it's my blog, so there be it.) (I never cried in college. Sometimes I wanted to throw something at a professor like Sam Kinison's character does with the desk top, but I never got to do that, either.)
(Let me just say that TBS ruins this bit because they substitute another word for "pussy." The naughty word substitute people at TBS are pussies. They should just bleep it out because everyone really knows what the word was supposed to be anyway.)
But wait. The warranty people contacted a local contractor, who shall remain nameless because I intend on speaking vilely about them at great length. Let's call them Contractor Smith. Smith sent a guy over who wrote down the model and number of the unit, spent a few minutes in the attic taking pictures, and said, "We need to see if this is covered. The office, Doris Mae Sue Bob or Sally Jo Martha, will call you back." (I know I covered this in a previous blog. But this is important because this is a continuing saga. I know people out there really want to know. I know they do. And if they don't they should.) So Smith didn't call me back. I called them back. Alice Lee Ruby said she would call the warranty people. The warranty people called me back and said, "No can do. Not covered. It's the secondary pan that's broken and that's specifically not covered in the warranty." This is true. It says that. I had the warranty in my hand and I was looking at it.
However, I called another contractor who had a good set of references and he came over and said, "It's the primary drain pan. It's clogged up. I'll unclog it for you." He did this. Then he discussed why there should never be water in the secondary drain pan. I'm getting to be a drain pan expert of mysterical proportion here. (Before last week I didn't even know what a primary drain pan was and if asked I would have thought it had something to do with my brain. Seriously.) (Call me the Drain Pan Whisperer. Haha.)
Once I paid the second contractor his $90 fee and called HIM to gloat, Contractor Smith called back to say they could fix the problem for only $300 to $500. Then she said, "But wait, it's more complicated. Say $750." Then in the conversation the number slipped up to $1000. Oh, my, telephone conversations are costly, aren't they? Then she tried to tell me what I really needed was a whole new system which would cost only $4300. I love contractors. (Can you sense the sarcasm in the writing there? I assure you it's very, very thick.)
(I'm all over clips today. I think we should all scream out the window. My new neighbors should be thrilled with me.)
So you'd think I'd be happy but the primary drain pan obviously plugged up again the next day and the secondary drain pan is draining again out the side of the house onto the kitchen's roof. Drip. Drip. Drip. HIM spent a half hour on the computer trying to see if he could fix it himself. He broke out the wet/dry vac and vacu-sucked the holy living crap out of the drain line of the primary drain pan. It worked for a while. Then he did it again. It worked for a while. Then HIM went back to the computer to do some more valuable research. HIM started to get crabby. You can tell because his eyebrows descend into his eyes and you can't tell them apart.
The next morning I woke up frisky and called the warranty people again. You see, the primary freaking drain pan is COVERED. There wouldn't be water in the secondary pan if the primary drain pan wasn't clogged. I talked to a nice young man named Shawn, who is obviously reconsidering his choice of work environment once he got off the phone with me. Perhaps he would do well in the a/c unit field since he now has a better understanding of it.
(I don't know why I added the dog, but it sounded kind of like the noise I've been making lately whenever I look at my MasterCard bill, so why not? I'm not sure what would happen if I owned this dog. I would own a lot of ear plugs or possibly listen to my iPod a bunch.)
So today I went to look at the drain pan, after spending a restless night concocting arguments to use upon another unsuspecting dupe at the warranty people's place o' deception. (I bet their people have a very high turnover.) I had all kinds of arguments about pre-existing conditions and primary drain pans and secondary drain pans. HIM even took pictures of the primary drain pan where he pointed a laser pointer at the problem area.
I had to include HIM's photo for posterity and some other legal reasons that HIM spouted at me. Now you know the whole picture.Anyway, after all that drama the damn thing's working right now. I might need to swear off writing about HI for a few blogs. (That's Home Improvement for all of you people who still live in apartments.)
Who wants to help me paint my daughter's room?
July 30, 2012
Oh Sunday, Sunday, Sunday OR Things I Don't Wanna do
Warning: Here is more meandering, randomness, wandering, subject switching, and other annoying writing habits that might cause people's brains to implode. Don't say I didn't warn you. Also did you know that you can make sausage from scratch? Where was I?
Okay, I have been dealing with contractors galore. Some are good. Some are bad. Some are stupider than my daughter's moron cat. (The cat just meowed at me piteously.) Also I was forced to give the cat a special hair cut to help cut down on what I call poopy dreadlocks. Pet stylists probably have a highly professional and technical term for it, which I don't know. Didn't I just finish telling you I was going to switch subjects in an annoying fashion? (I just Googled it and found that people get their long-haired cats something called a lion cut. Then I looked at pictures of a lion cut and I had to pause for a bit to wipe the tears from my eyes.) (Poor damn cat.)
I'm pretty sure the cat would die of shame if we did this to him. But hey he wouldn't get dingleberries. (And well, he isn't happy with me anyway since I had to give him the "special" booty trim, if you know what I mean. For those of you without cats, talk to those with cats. They'll explain it to you.)
Back to the contractors. We have a warranty on the house. The air conditioner in the attic has a problem. I called for assistance. They sent someone over to look at the problem. (I told them what the problem was because anyone with half a brain can see that the PVC pipe that drains the a/c unit is either clogged or tilted down in the wrong direction but I could sense that they weren't inclined to listen to my opinion over the phone.) The guy went up there and said, "The PVC pipe is clogged or tilted wrong in the horizontal direction." I said, "Duh, Herman," on the inside.
Then the contractor said, "I'll have to go back to the office and they'll see if this is covered by the warranty." What I wanted to say was, "I already know it's covered in the warranty because I just read the warranty before I called this in and it SPECIFICALLY MENTIONS DRAINAGE OF THE A/C UNITS IN THE FRICKING WARRANTY!" (Sam Kinison style, in fact.) In fact I circled the segment with a pen because I know exactly what the frick the problem is. But I didn't say that. The guy looked at my face and repeated what he said about making sure that the warranty covers the problem. Then he said something lame about Betty Grace or Elizabeth Sue from the office calling us back when they figured it all out and could we please fork over the fee for him so graciously showing up at our house to ascertain what I already knew was broken. It's a $100 service call fee. (They gave us a break and only charged us $60. Oh, I should be so grateful, but I'm not for some reason.)
So once the contractors graciously conclude that I might be right they be back over to charge us $100 and can we please be polite about their hosing of us? (They have a preference for flowers, but definitely no carnations, and Astroglide.) All of this happened because we have a house warranty that came with the house. I HATE CONTRACTORS! I HATE WARRANTY SERVICES! I'm not happy with HIM right now because he had to move here and I have to get all neurological (Pathological? Psychotic?) about a new house. I'm pretty sure there's a new category in the Diagnostical Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders that features ME! FWD: Fat Woman Disorder. Kind of like PMS, except with bazookas and snarky blogs.
Of course Mary Jo Ann Doris from the office didn't call us back on Friday to say anything about the stupid drainage issue or the warranty or the fact that I resemble a Gorgon when I'm really pissed off. And I would know if they called because we have CALLER ID. (This is a reference to another contractor who swore he called us but I happen to know he did not, even after he did call the right number for something else, so he lied his a** off about the first call because he didn't want to sound like a moron, but he failed miserably. Oh carp, meandering again. Very sad.)
Therefore I will be calling the A/C people back tomorrow, which does not make me happy because I will be wasting time that I could be outlining Bubba 4 or doing other things in a writing fashion. Also I will be dealing with an insulation contractor who will be coming to foam us up, and not in a good way. Then I have to do some calling to a gutter repair service because one of our gutters acts like a huge waterfall, also not in a good way. Tomorrow I expect the house to fall into a great big hole like at the end of Poltergeist, except without the old cemetery underneath it. But ya never know. Could be a meteor hitting us tomorrow, too.
Okay, I have been dealing with contractors galore. Some are good. Some are bad. Some are stupider than my daughter's moron cat. (The cat just meowed at me piteously.) Also I was forced to give the cat a special hair cut to help cut down on what I call poopy dreadlocks. Pet stylists probably have a highly professional and technical term for it, which I don't know. Didn't I just finish telling you I was going to switch subjects in an annoying fashion? (I just Googled it and found that people get their long-haired cats something called a lion cut. Then I looked at pictures of a lion cut and I had to pause for a bit to wipe the tears from my eyes.) (Poor damn cat.)
I'm pretty sure the cat would die of shame if we did this to him. But hey he wouldn't get dingleberries. (And well, he isn't happy with me anyway since I had to give him the "special" booty trim, if you know what I mean. For those of you without cats, talk to those with cats. They'll explain it to you.)
Back to the contractors. We have a warranty on the house. The air conditioner in the attic has a problem. I called for assistance. They sent someone over to look at the problem. (I told them what the problem was because anyone with half a brain can see that the PVC pipe that drains the a/c unit is either clogged or tilted down in the wrong direction but I could sense that they weren't inclined to listen to my opinion over the phone.) The guy went up there and said, "The PVC pipe is clogged or tilted wrong in the horizontal direction." I said, "Duh, Herman," on the inside.
Then the contractor said, "I'll have to go back to the office and they'll see if this is covered by the warranty." What I wanted to say was, "I already know it's covered in the warranty because I just read the warranty before I called this in and it SPECIFICALLY MENTIONS DRAINAGE OF THE A/C UNITS IN THE FRICKING WARRANTY!" (Sam Kinison style, in fact.) In fact I circled the segment with a pen because I know exactly what the frick the problem is. But I didn't say that. The guy looked at my face and repeated what he said about making sure that the warranty covers the problem. Then he said something lame about Betty Grace or Elizabeth Sue from the office calling us back when they figured it all out and could we please fork over the fee for him so graciously showing up at our house to ascertain what I already knew was broken. It's a $100 service call fee. (They gave us a break and only charged us $60. Oh, I should be so grateful, but I'm not for some reason.)
So once the contractors graciously conclude that I might be right they be back over to charge us $100 and can we please be polite about their hosing of us? (They have a preference for flowers, but definitely no carnations, and Astroglide.) All of this happened because we have a house warranty that came with the house. I HATE CONTRACTORS! I HATE WARRANTY SERVICES! I'm not happy with HIM right now because he had to move here and I have to get all neurological (Pathological? Psychotic?) about a new house. I'm pretty sure there's a new category in the Diagnostical Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders that features ME! FWD: Fat Woman Disorder. Kind of like PMS, except with bazookas and snarky blogs.
Of course Mary Jo Ann Doris from the office didn't call us back on Friday to say anything about the stupid drainage issue or the warranty or the fact that I resemble a Gorgon when I'm really pissed off. And I would know if they called because we have CALLER ID. (This is a reference to another contractor who swore he called us but I happen to know he did not, even after he did call the right number for something else, so he lied his a** off about the first call because he didn't want to sound like a moron, but he failed miserably. Oh carp, meandering again. Very sad.)
Therefore I will be calling the A/C people back tomorrow, which does not make me happy because I will be wasting time that I could be outlining Bubba 4 or doing other things in a writing fashion. Also I will be dealing with an insulation contractor who will be coming to foam us up, and not in a good way. Then I have to do some calling to a gutter repair service because one of our gutters acts like a huge waterfall, also not in a good way. Tomorrow I expect the house to fall into a great big hole like at the end of Poltergeist, except without the old cemetery underneath it. But ya never know. Could be a meteor hitting us tomorrow, too.
July 26, 2012
Exploring the Inner Workings of an Eccentric Meanderer OR Stuff I've Been Thinking About Lately
On my mind: Writing, my daughter's hair, my daughter's moron cat's intestinal system, and the local humidity. Not necessarily in that order. In fact, definitely not in that order.
On writing: I'm trying to get back in the groove, but sometimes it's hard not to think about what else needs to be done around the house. (Insulation in the attic, the stopped up drain pipe from the upstairs air conditioner, insulation in my daughter's room.) I feel like a great big goofy goony bird trying to fix up her nest. I'm not going to be happy until it's right and I'm not tripping over cardboard boxes every five minutes. (A personal note to the three women who packed up all of our shizz in boxes and then used extra packing tape like the boxes were Egyptian mummies: please tell me where you hid the wires to my printer, for the love of missing melancholy micromanaging misogynists. I know that doesn't make sense but it had all the 'm's so I went with it.) Anyway, just finished one outline and now about to start on another one, so I can start writing next month. (Yea! Writing good = crack to my brain.) (Not that I've done anything remotely illegal like that and I don't mean writing, except it could be illegal in some states. Probably illegal in the District of Columbia, too.)
On my daughter's hair: Cressy, our angel, got her hair cut short. She looks adorable. Doesn't she look adorable?
This kid is totally cute.But...but...but...but I hate buts. Of course there's got to be some little walking, talking buttholes who have to ruin it. The conversation to me went like this:
Her: "Mommy, two boys were mean to me at science camp."
Me: "What did they do?"
Her: "They asked if I was a boy or a girl and then they said I was a boy who was lying."
Me: "Did you tell the teacher?"
Her: "I tried but she wasn't paying attention."
Okay, my problem isn't so much with the walking, talking butthead little boys, although they're bad enough, but with the teacher who isn't paying attention. (Science camp has a bunch of teenagers who are in charge, which is good and bad.)
Me: "Tomorrow you can tell those boys they're being rude and lots of girls have short hair cuts. I'll talk to the boss."
Her: "You mean you'll talk to the boys' parents?"
Me: "Oh, I don't mess with the small fish. I'll just go to the top."
Her: "Okay, Mommy."
The next day the two little boys were in a different class. It turns out they had other complaints about them. Cressy was very happy but I have to keep telling her that things like that will happen and it's better just to ignore the people or blow them off.
On humidity: Today the weatherguy said it was 100% humidity. I'm going "How can it be 100% humidity without it actually be raining or some sort of liquid pouring in from the heavens?" I do not know. All I know is that when I went out my hair did something like this, except it didn't look that good. (HIM's pants are still on fire concerning his tall tale telling on the comparison of the weather in Alabama versus the weather in Virginia. The local fire chief called yesterday to discuss our ongoing clothing issue and it wasn't a pretty conversation.)
On my daughter's moron cat's intestinal system: I would ask what the stupid cat is eating but I know what he's eating. I don't think he's eating the various fauna around the house, although last night he was torturing a grasshopper in a very inhumane matter. I would have called PETA but I don't think they would have appreciated my sense of humor. (The grasshopper was saying "HELP ME! The cat's ripped off two my legs and they're the good legs!") In any case, Megaroy did not EAT the grasshopper, although I'm not sure what he did do with the carcass. (Eww.) Yesterday the moron cat took a humongous dump-o-rama in his litter box, which is exactly what he's supposed to do. Unfortunately the area around the litter box was deemed hazardous and no one could go near it for some time. HIM made some unruly comment and slipped out the door to go to work. Haha. Very smooth. I went closer, thinking I'd scoop the poop and solve the smelly problem.
But I discovered another problem. I shall draw a diagram, because it's funny.
The blue box is, in fact, a litter box, in case anyone is confused.That, however, wasn't what happened. This is what happened.
For anyone to whom this isn't obvious, the cat has deposited his
smelly load outside of the litter box area because
he's too stupid to put his big gray ass inside the litter box.
I'm pretty sure that his excuse, if he were able to speak,
would be, "I was standing in the litter box, so it's all gravy."
(Also I drew the arrow and bull's eye instead of
drawing kaka because I had to draw a line somewhere. Get it?)HIM obviously noticed and hightailed it out of the house before called upon to do his duty (as official scapegoat) to pick up freshly deposited cat doody.
So I got some wetwipes (they were good enough for my daughter's tushie when she was a baby) and I got most of the cat nuggets up with the first try. I also got a very good whiff while actually holding his dirty sinful business. (Well, technically I was holding the wetwipes that was holding the doodoo bomblets but I could still tell they were the consistency of microwaved tootsie rolls.) Then I threw up in the sink. I literally barfed in the kitchen sink. Which led me to the observation that my vomit was blue. Really, I mean bright blue, the color of the sky and I was all "What the hell is that?" Then I remembered we ate some of Cressy's summer themed Oreos the night before. (They've got a bright blue middle. Apparently the dye was long-lasting. Good thing I'm not going for an X-ray anytime soon.)
The moral of the story is to never eat blue Oreos before cleaning up stinky cat poopoo.
On writing: I'm trying to get back in the groove, but sometimes it's hard not to think about what else needs to be done around the house. (Insulation in the attic, the stopped up drain pipe from the upstairs air conditioner, insulation in my daughter's room.) I feel like a great big goofy goony bird trying to fix up her nest. I'm not going to be happy until it's right and I'm not tripping over cardboard boxes every five minutes. (A personal note to the three women who packed up all of our shizz in boxes and then used extra packing tape like the boxes were Egyptian mummies: please tell me where you hid the wires to my printer, for the love of missing melancholy micromanaging misogynists. I know that doesn't make sense but it had all the 'm's so I went with it.) Anyway, just finished one outline and now about to start on another one, so I can start writing next month. (Yea! Writing good = crack to my brain.) (Not that I've done anything remotely illegal like that and I don't mean writing, except it could be illegal in some states. Probably illegal in the District of Columbia, too.)
On my daughter's hair: Cressy, our angel, got her hair cut short. She looks adorable. Doesn't she look adorable?
This kid is totally cute.But...but...but...but I hate buts. Of course there's got to be some little walking, talking buttholes who have to ruin it. The conversation to me went like this:Her: "Mommy, two boys were mean to me at science camp."
Me: "What did they do?"
Her: "They asked if I was a boy or a girl and then they said I was a boy who was lying."
Me: "Did you tell the teacher?"
Her: "I tried but she wasn't paying attention."
Okay, my problem isn't so much with the walking, talking butthead little boys, although they're bad enough, but with the teacher who isn't paying attention. (Science camp has a bunch of teenagers who are in charge, which is good and bad.)
Me: "Tomorrow you can tell those boys they're being rude and lots of girls have short hair cuts. I'll talk to the boss."
Her: "You mean you'll talk to the boys' parents?"
Me: "Oh, I don't mess with the small fish. I'll just go to the top."
Her: "Okay, Mommy."
The next day the two little boys were in a different class. It turns out they had other complaints about them. Cressy was very happy but I have to keep telling her that things like that will happen and it's better just to ignore the people or blow them off.
On humidity: Today the weatherguy said it was 100% humidity. I'm going "How can it be 100% humidity without it actually be raining or some sort of liquid pouring in from the heavens?" I do not know. All I know is that when I went out my hair did something like this, except it didn't look that good. (HIM's pants are still on fire concerning his tall tale telling on the comparison of the weather in Alabama versus the weather in Virginia. The local fire chief called yesterday to discuss our ongoing clothing issue and it wasn't a pretty conversation.)
On my daughter's moron cat's intestinal system: I would ask what the stupid cat is eating but I know what he's eating. I don't think he's eating the various fauna around the house, although last night he was torturing a grasshopper in a very inhumane matter. I would have called PETA but I don't think they would have appreciated my sense of humor. (The grasshopper was saying "HELP ME! The cat's ripped off two my legs and they're the good legs!") In any case, Megaroy did not EAT the grasshopper, although I'm not sure what he did do with the carcass. (Eww.) Yesterday the moron cat took a humongous dump-o-rama in his litter box, which is exactly what he's supposed to do. Unfortunately the area around the litter box was deemed hazardous and no one could go near it for some time. HIM made some unruly comment and slipped out the door to go to work. Haha. Very smooth. I went closer, thinking I'd scoop the poop and solve the smelly problem.But I discovered another problem. I shall draw a diagram, because it's funny.
The blue box is, in fact, a litter box, in case anyone is confused.That, however, wasn't what happened. This is what happened.
For anyone to whom this isn't obvious, the cat has deposited hissmelly load outside of the litter box area because
he's too stupid to put his big gray ass inside the litter box.
I'm pretty sure that his excuse, if he were able to speak,
would be, "I was standing in the litter box, so it's all gravy."
(Also I drew the arrow and bull's eye instead of
drawing kaka because I had to draw a line somewhere. Get it?)HIM obviously noticed and hightailed it out of the house before called upon to do his duty (as official scapegoat) to pick up freshly deposited cat doody.
So I got some wetwipes (they were good enough for my daughter's tushie when she was a baby) and I got most of the cat nuggets up with the first try. I also got a very good whiff while actually holding his dirty sinful business. (Well, technically I was holding the wetwipes that was holding the doodoo bomblets but I could still tell they were the consistency of microwaved tootsie rolls.) Then I threw up in the sink. I literally barfed in the kitchen sink. Which led me to the observation that my vomit was blue. Really, I mean bright blue, the color of the sky and I was all "What the hell is that?" Then I remembered we ate some of Cressy's summer themed Oreos the night before. (They've got a bright blue middle. Apparently the dye was long-lasting. Good thing I'm not going for an X-ray anytime soon.)
The moral of the story is to never eat blue Oreos before cleaning up stinky cat poopoo.
