C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 18
May 14, 2012
My Daughter's Moron Cat
Recently I taunted my daughter's moron cat, Megaroy. Please understand that I mean no disrespect to morons, but my daughter's moron cat is quite possibly the stupidest cat I've ever encountered. A few people mentioned that I was being mean to the cat. (I don't think he understands how to read, but okay.) (Also I don't think he understands what we're saying besides, "Here kittee, kittee, kittee," which in a Skinnerian fashion he associates with FOOD!)
Megaroy with a viking helmet, showing his GRR face. Being close to the mid-century mark, I have had pets over the years, cats, dogs, fish, parakeets, and possibly some invisible ones. Also some things I would call pets. (Boyfriends, odd friends, and people who you don't know how to characterize any other way. This is a joke for those of you who still think I'm being mean to the moron cat.) My point is that I've had many pets and comparitively speaking, Megaroy is the dumbest one to date.
Basically, I know cats, I've served with cats, and cats have been my friends, and you sir, are no cat. (Was that scoring off Lloyd Bentsen or Dan Quayle? Who cares?) (I once saw Dan Quayle at Fort Bliss, Texas during the first Gulf War. He was running with a battalion of tankers, which would have been okee-dokee, except the tankers had all been forced to wear "Scudbusters" t-shirts. I'll explain. Scud busting was done by Air Defense Artillery and was infamous at the time. HIM was a Scudbuster. But these poor bastards had to run with the idiot vice-president, although he didn't accidentally shoot anyone with a shotgun, wearing a t-shirt that didn't even promote their core job skill. Embarrassing! Hey, idiot vice-president, moron cat, they should get together. I wonder if Dan Quayle would like the moron cat as his close personal pet buddy?)
I Binged how to give a cat an IQ test and found this site: How Smart is Your Cat? The clever part about this site is that the human gets to fill in the answers. No cat interface at all. And human pet owners are SOOOOO objective. Oh, what the hey, I'll do it. Be right back. And Megaroy scored a resounding 34. Sounds good right until you read the key. For 40 and below it says: We do hope you're keeping this cat somewhere safe because he really isn't smart enough to be fending for himself. Hope he's good-looking or purrs a lot because he isn't the smartest tuna in the sea. (Poor Megaroy. If we let him outside he's probably coyote bait.)
BURN! But then I thought well, maybe I wasn't being objective and picked answers that would predetermine the outcome. I will look at another cat IQ test. They have several on the Internet that involves the owner of the cat answering questions and tallying a score like the one above. Megaroy the Moron does not perform well in those type of tests.
"I'm supposed to do what with what? You suck."Therefore there was another suggestion. This site has an actual test to be performed on a cat and we have all the equipment. A cat, a hoop, and cat treats. Cat-Eye Q test here. Basically, we need to count the number of times it takes the cat to learn how to jump through a hoop. The higher the number, the dumber the cat. Using a treat and a cat and a hoop, I begin.
The first time Megaroy sniffs the hoop. He looks at me. I define his expression as "Yes, it is a hoop but what is my treat doing in there, weird human with the warm feet?" Attempt no. 2: He walked through the hoop and got the treat and then lay on the floor and looked at us. "Why are you not raining treats upon my furry head, human slave?" was his expression. Attempt no. 3: He went under the hoop and that wasn't exactly easy for him to do because the hoop was about six inches off the floor and he's a 12 inch tall cat. Attempt no. 4: Megaroy walked off and got into the cardboard box because it was much more interesting. ( I couldn't get him to come back which means something but I don't know what.)
Here's the scores on the test. Oddly it does not include Megaroy's score.
Here are the "Eye-Q" scores:
60 or more commands = Sorry, your cat is below average 50 - 59 commands = Your cat is slightly below average 40 - 49 commands = Just your average cat 30 - 39 commands = Your cat is above average 29 or fewer commands = PURRFECTLY WONDERFUL!
YOUR CAT IS EXTREMELY INTELLIGENT!
Either Megaroy is a secret genius or he's the stupidest cat on the planet.
There was one more test. The towel test. Put a towel over your cat. The faster he gets out from under the towel, the smarter the cat. (When I told my MIL about this test years ago, she asked, "Does the cat have to be awake?" I said, "Yes, the cat needs to be awake." Part of the whole intelligence thing and all. Well, I said other things, too, mostly about my MIL, but I won't repeat them because it's mother's day.) (Whoops. I broke the Thou-Shall-Not-Blog-About-the-MIL commandment. I'm a bad, bad girl.)
I placed the towel over the cat's head. The cat said, "Mmmrr?" The cat sat there for a minute. He moved around a little. He said, "Mmmrrr?" again. He laid down. Then he got up. About a minute later, he finally found his way out. Ideally, the cat should get out from under the towel in under five seconds. It took Megaroy about two minutes.
I can now officially and without guilt call Megaroy a moron.
Cressy wanted to be in on all the kitty action,
but she wouldn't let me do the kitty IQ test
on her.
Megaroy with a viking helmet, showing his GRR face. Being close to the mid-century mark, I have had pets over the years, cats, dogs, fish, parakeets, and possibly some invisible ones. Also some things I would call pets. (Boyfriends, odd friends, and people who you don't know how to characterize any other way. This is a joke for those of you who still think I'm being mean to the moron cat.) My point is that I've had many pets and comparitively speaking, Megaroy is the dumbest one to date.Basically, I know cats, I've served with cats, and cats have been my friends, and you sir, are no cat. (Was that scoring off Lloyd Bentsen or Dan Quayle? Who cares?) (I once saw Dan Quayle at Fort Bliss, Texas during the first Gulf War. He was running with a battalion of tankers, which would have been okee-dokee, except the tankers had all been forced to wear "Scudbusters" t-shirts. I'll explain. Scud busting was done by Air Defense Artillery and was infamous at the time. HIM was a Scudbuster. But these poor bastards had to run with the idiot vice-president, although he didn't accidentally shoot anyone with a shotgun, wearing a t-shirt that didn't even promote their core job skill. Embarrassing! Hey, idiot vice-president, moron cat, they should get together. I wonder if Dan Quayle would like the moron cat as his close personal pet buddy?)
I Binged how to give a cat an IQ test and found this site: How Smart is Your Cat? The clever part about this site is that the human gets to fill in the answers. No cat interface at all. And human pet owners are SOOOOO objective. Oh, what the hey, I'll do it. Be right back. And Megaroy scored a resounding 34. Sounds good right until you read the key. For 40 and below it says: We do hope you're keeping this cat somewhere safe because he really isn't smart enough to be fending for himself. Hope he's good-looking or purrs a lot because he isn't the smartest tuna in the sea. (Poor Megaroy. If we let him outside he's probably coyote bait.)
BURN! But then I thought well, maybe I wasn't being objective and picked answers that would predetermine the outcome. I will look at another cat IQ test. They have several on the Internet that involves the owner of the cat answering questions and tallying a score like the one above. Megaroy the Moron does not perform well in those type of tests.
"I'm supposed to do what with what? You suck."Therefore there was another suggestion. This site has an actual test to be performed on a cat and we have all the equipment. A cat, a hoop, and cat treats. Cat-Eye Q test here. Basically, we need to count the number of times it takes the cat to learn how to jump through a hoop. The higher the number, the dumber the cat. Using a treat and a cat and a hoop, I begin.The first time Megaroy sniffs the hoop. He looks at me. I define his expression as "Yes, it is a hoop but what is my treat doing in there, weird human with the warm feet?" Attempt no. 2: He walked through the hoop and got the treat and then lay on the floor and looked at us. "Why are you not raining treats upon my furry head, human slave?" was his expression. Attempt no. 3: He went under the hoop and that wasn't exactly easy for him to do because the hoop was about six inches off the floor and he's a 12 inch tall cat. Attempt no. 4: Megaroy walked off and got into the cardboard box because it was much more interesting. ( I couldn't get him to come back which means something but I don't know what.)
Here's the scores on the test. Oddly it does not include Megaroy's score.
Here are the "Eye-Q" scores:
60 or more commands = Sorry, your cat is below average 50 - 59 commands = Your cat is slightly below average 40 - 49 commands = Just your average cat 30 - 39 commands = Your cat is above average 29 or fewer commands = PURRFECTLY WONDERFUL!
YOUR CAT IS EXTREMELY INTELLIGENT!
Either Megaroy is a secret genius or he's the stupidest cat on the planet.
There was one more test. The towel test. Put a towel over your cat. The faster he gets out from under the towel, the smarter the cat. (When I told my MIL about this test years ago, she asked, "Does the cat have to be awake?" I said, "Yes, the cat needs to be awake." Part of the whole intelligence thing and all. Well, I said other things, too, mostly about my MIL, but I won't repeat them because it's mother's day.) (Whoops. I broke the Thou-Shall-Not-Blog-About-the-MIL commandment. I'm a bad, bad girl.)
I placed the towel over the cat's head. The cat said, "Mmmrr?" The cat sat there for a minute. He moved around a little. He said, "Mmmrrr?" again. He laid down. Then he got up. About a minute later, he finally found his way out. Ideally, the cat should get out from under the towel in under five seconds. It took Megaroy about two minutes.
I can now officially and without guilt call Megaroy a moron.
Cressy wanted to be in on all the kitty action,but she wouldn't let me do the kitty IQ test
on her.
May 10, 2012
Stuff Besides Moving OR Back to Other Stuff
Okay, I won't blog about 1) doctors (evil sadistic bastards who harp on and on and on and on about weight) 2) my sister's cat, Mellow (evil sadistic cat who hissed on me once for thirty minutes straight), 3) dentists (evil sadistic bastards who like to play with tools too much, although that might also apply to car repairmen) 4) contractors (evil sadistic bastards who invade my house with calculators in one hand with an avaricious eye for gauging) 5) moving (evil sadistic practice of leaving one domicile for another), OR 6) HIM, the man to whom I'm married (evil sadistic husband who's making me move in the middle of writing a novella).
Instead I will talk about my beautiful daughter, Cressy, and our recent trip to Chuck E. Cheese. (Sometimes Chuck E. Cheese is referred to That-Place-With-the-Giant-Rat or Chuck E. Effing Cheese.) I have discussed the Chuck E. locale before. While the food is not bad and the prices for the food economical, it is a haven for screaming, rampaging rug rats and the parents who do not care to watch over their hell spawn. (It's like clubbing on December 31st at 11:30 PM and all they have left is Red Bull and vodka, except I never did that.)
Anyway, the school had a fund raiser. Go to Chuck E.'s, spend your cash, and Chuck E. will give some percentage back to the school. (Generosity abounds, I wrote sarcastically. I think I'd rather just write the check to the school, but NO-OOOO, the school makes sure that our offspring knows all about the Chuck E. Cheese event ahead of time and even provides stickers to slap on their shirts to help them remember to prompt us. I was at the school one afternoon when they riled up the children five minutes before dismissal about their academic carnival and it was an ugly event. "Don't forget to tell your parents! Oh, yes, don't forget to tell your parents! And also, don't forget to tell your parents! You're a poo-poo head if you don't tell your parents! Your parents are poo-poo heads if they don't bring you!" I'm telling you, fund raising in schools has descended into the ninth level of hell.)
You can't tell me that doesn't look
like a giant frickin' rat.So we went. I cleverly invited a mommy friend with whom to share the agony. We brought coupons and split up all the coin booty. The three children pretty much lost their little freaking minds. Cressy kills herself trying to do every machine in the place. Sometimes she misses one, and she talks to it. "I'll get you next time, my pretty," she says and she sounds just like the Wicked Witch of the West. "And your little dog, too."
Sharing the arcade like madness with other children is like crack to Cressy. Her pupils dilated. Her adrenal gland activated. She sent off invisible signals to the other children. (These signals say, "PLAY NOW OR DIE!" or something equally sinister.) She did stop to eat one piece of pizza but otherwise she spent the next two hours in computer animated/arcade bliss. When I finally gave her the five minute warning, she was like, "Sure, Ma," because she was crashing fast. She had come. She had conquered. She was going home to write her memoirs.
(My favorite moment: My mommy friend's three year old son ran back to us. He sort of charges everywhere at breakneck speed. His head is down, his little arms are pumping, he's going for the gusto. Then he bellows, "I MET CHUCK E.!" because it was the best thing that had ever happened to him as of that very moment. It wasn't a, "Oh, by the by, Mother dearest, whilst I was playing of the arcade games at the club, I ran into Charles E. Cheese and was most enamored." No, it was, "I MET CHUCK E. CHEESE!" Like "OMFG, Chuck E. Cheese is like God, except I met him!" It was totally awesome to the kid. Oh, for simpler times. I think the only time I would charge back to my parents and scream I met someone was if I met Stephen King or James Lee Burke. I'd probably embarrass myself by drooling on them, but hey, they're probably used to it.)
But wait, Chuck E. Cheese has the insidious additional feature. Playing all the arcade games provides tickets. (OMG, TICKETS!) The kids raced back to give us the tickets. Then at the end we feed the tickets into a machine that makes munching noises as it counts them. (I'm not making that up. Ask any mother in your vicinity. They know. Really, they know.) They get to print out a final ticket that says how many tickets they got and then they can go to the reward counter and get a prize. Most of these prizes are cheap things made in third world countries by starving children but does Cressy care about that? Hell, no. She wants that prize. This time she got two little prizes. One was an eraser in the shape of a heart. (Does this say something about her school work?) The other was a pair of glow-in-the-dark fangs.
Yes, this looks exactly like my Ford.On the drive home, my daughter became the vampire of the Ford Explorer. Several times she leaned out the window to menace other drivers with her glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth. Although it was daytime, she was not deterred by the lack of glow-in-the-dark-edness. She was having a whole vampire moment. And it didn't stop when we got home.
No, Cressy the Vampire had a new victim. Megaroy, her moron cat, was sleeping on top of his kitty condo, resting from the aftereffects of too much catnip, when suddenly, Cressy the Vampire crept toward him. I mean, I think he noticed her but he's used to her creeping toward him. Neither was he impressed by the glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth. (Cressy the Vampire had to pause mid-creep because the glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth were making her drool down the side of her face. So she wiped with her sleeve. Do we do manners in this house? Oh, yes, she could have just spit, like most vampires do.)
Slowly, Cressy the Vampire approached her prey. She got up next to him and took his large, gray fuzzy tail in both hands and prepared to bite him in order to suck all his moron blood out. (Not sure if the cat would actually act any different without moron blood in him. Possibly he would become smarter.)
Standing nearby I thought, She won't really bite him,right?
But Cressy the Vampire actually bit the moron cat's big, fat furry tail. Megaroy made a kind of "Mrrrp?" noise that I took to mean, "What the frak are you doing, you little yellow haired monster child?" Then he pulled his tail away and sat on it, with an indignant glare at Cressy the Vampire.
I can't decide if this photo was taken before or after his
moron blood was sucked out. I think before.Meanwhile Cressy the Vampire had learned that biting Megaroy the Moron's massively puffball tail meant that she got a mouthful of fur and spent the next five minutes wiping her mouth out with a napkin. Hairy cat tail leaves its mark on the vampire's mouth, doncha know?
I suppose I shouldn't have let her do it, but I couldn't help myself. Cressy the Vampire, zip. Megaroy the Moronator Cat, one.
Instead I will talk about my beautiful daughter, Cressy, and our recent trip to Chuck E. Cheese. (Sometimes Chuck E. Cheese is referred to That-Place-With-the-Giant-Rat or Chuck E. Effing Cheese.) I have discussed the Chuck E. locale before. While the food is not bad and the prices for the food economical, it is a haven for screaming, rampaging rug rats and the parents who do not care to watch over their hell spawn. (It's like clubbing on December 31st at 11:30 PM and all they have left is Red Bull and vodka, except I never did that.)
Anyway, the school had a fund raiser. Go to Chuck E.'s, spend your cash, and Chuck E. will give some percentage back to the school. (Generosity abounds, I wrote sarcastically. I think I'd rather just write the check to the school, but NO-OOOO, the school makes sure that our offspring knows all about the Chuck E. Cheese event ahead of time and even provides stickers to slap on their shirts to help them remember to prompt us. I was at the school one afternoon when they riled up the children five minutes before dismissal about their academic carnival and it was an ugly event. "Don't forget to tell your parents! Oh, yes, don't forget to tell your parents! And also, don't forget to tell your parents! You're a poo-poo head if you don't tell your parents! Your parents are poo-poo heads if they don't bring you!" I'm telling you, fund raising in schools has descended into the ninth level of hell.)
You can't tell me that doesn't looklike a giant frickin' rat.So we went. I cleverly invited a mommy friend with whom to share the agony. We brought coupons and split up all the coin booty. The three children pretty much lost their little freaking minds. Cressy kills herself trying to do every machine in the place. Sometimes she misses one, and she talks to it. "I'll get you next time, my pretty," she says and she sounds just like the Wicked Witch of the West. "And your little dog, too."
Sharing the arcade like madness with other children is like crack to Cressy. Her pupils dilated. Her adrenal gland activated. She sent off invisible signals to the other children. (These signals say, "PLAY NOW OR DIE!" or something equally sinister.) She did stop to eat one piece of pizza but otherwise she spent the next two hours in computer animated/arcade bliss. When I finally gave her the five minute warning, she was like, "Sure, Ma," because she was crashing fast. She had come. She had conquered. She was going home to write her memoirs.
(My favorite moment: My mommy friend's three year old son ran back to us. He sort of charges everywhere at breakneck speed. His head is down, his little arms are pumping, he's going for the gusto. Then he bellows, "I MET CHUCK E.!" because it was the best thing that had ever happened to him as of that very moment. It wasn't a, "Oh, by the by, Mother dearest, whilst I was playing of the arcade games at the club, I ran into Charles E. Cheese and was most enamored." No, it was, "I MET CHUCK E. CHEESE!" Like "OMFG, Chuck E. Cheese is like God, except I met him!" It was totally awesome to the kid. Oh, for simpler times. I think the only time I would charge back to my parents and scream I met someone was if I met Stephen King or James Lee Burke. I'd probably embarrass myself by drooling on them, but hey, they're probably used to it.)
But wait, Chuck E. Cheese has the insidious additional feature. Playing all the arcade games provides tickets. (OMG, TICKETS!) The kids raced back to give us the tickets. Then at the end we feed the tickets into a machine that makes munching noises as it counts them. (I'm not making that up. Ask any mother in your vicinity. They know. Really, they know.) They get to print out a final ticket that says how many tickets they got and then they can go to the reward counter and get a prize. Most of these prizes are cheap things made in third world countries by starving children but does Cressy care about that? Hell, no. She wants that prize. This time she got two little prizes. One was an eraser in the shape of a heart. (Does this say something about her school work?) The other was a pair of glow-in-the-dark fangs.
Yes, this looks exactly like my Ford.On the drive home, my daughter became the vampire of the Ford Explorer. Several times she leaned out the window to menace other drivers with her glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth. Although it was daytime, she was not deterred by the lack of glow-in-the-dark-edness. She was having a whole vampire moment. And it didn't stop when we got home.No, Cressy the Vampire had a new victim. Megaroy, her moron cat, was sleeping on top of his kitty condo, resting from the aftereffects of too much catnip, when suddenly, Cressy the Vampire crept toward him. I mean, I think he noticed her but he's used to her creeping toward him. Neither was he impressed by the glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth. (Cressy the Vampire had to pause mid-creep because the glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth were making her drool down the side of her face. So she wiped with her sleeve. Do we do manners in this house? Oh, yes, she could have just spit, like most vampires do.)
Slowly, Cressy the Vampire approached her prey. She got up next to him and took his large, gray fuzzy tail in both hands and prepared to bite him in order to suck all his moron blood out. (Not sure if the cat would actually act any different without moron blood in him. Possibly he would become smarter.)
Standing nearby I thought, She won't really bite him,right?
But Cressy the Vampire actually bit the moron cat's big, fat furry tail. Megaroy made a kind of "Mrrrp?" noise that I took to mean, "What the frak are you doing, you little yellow haired monster child?" Then he pulled his tail away and sat on it, with an indignant glare at Cressy the Vampire.
I can't decide if this photo was taken before or after hismoron blood was sucked out. I think before.Meanwhile Cressy the Vampire had learned that biting Megaroy the Moron's massively puffball tail meant that she got a mouthful of fur and spent the next five minutes wiping her mouth out with a napkin. Hairy cat tail leaves its mark on the vampire's mouth, doncha know?
I suppose I shouldn't have let her do it, but I couldn't help myself. Cressy the Vampire, zip. Megaroy the Moronator Cat, one.
May 7, 2012
I Shall Blog OR The Blog Has Cometh OR Watch Out, More Stuff OR I'm Going to be Mean to Someone Else Besides HIM
Recently I was chastised about teasing HIM, the man to whom I'm married for decades. HIM has done something to make me irate and well, it comes out in the blog, many, many times. What has HIM done? If you don't know, you haven't been reading my blogs. (Bad reader. Go back and read some. I'll wait.)
I'm singing the blues. I couldn't imagine anyone but a flapper singing the
blues. Oh, wait, B.B. King playing Lucille popped into my head. Too late.Here's what HIM done. HIM done me wrong. (Hahaha. It's a blues song title. Sing it with me!) HIM decided to take a new job and the rest of the family should just shut it and move happily with him. Meanwhile, I'm in the middle of a schedule of writing and moving means I can't write, which means people write me things like, "I'm having a Bubba withdrawal," and "Why aren't you writing faster?" and "Why haven't Bubba books magically shot out of your aft area?" (Well, no one wrote the last one, but I imagine people are thinking it.)
Yes, I sound like an eccentric writer now. ("I cannot move, darling, I'm writing. Nuff said.") The last time we moved, I had to go on psychotropic drugs for two years. The book I was working on at the time has never been finished and it was almost half through. (Good idea too. I might go back to it. It had a guy who had lost his daughter and was determined to find her ghost because he was certain she was dead. It had a whole ghost hunter thing going on, way, way before all the stuff came out on the Syfy channel. Damn, it was a good story and I couldn't finish it because my mind had gone down the rabbit hole and not in a good way.)
Bubba fans, please pay attention to the fact that these
are business casual shoes and slacks upended in
the grass. You know, the kind business casual
professionals use, like oh, um, HIM?Anyway, so HIM decided to move and although HIM conferred with me, ultimately it came down to the fact that HIM really, really, really wanted this particular job. Also HIM said, in a particularly dense moment, "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything." However, HIM is NOT taking care of everything, because HIM is already in Alabama and I'm here, winding things up with the daughter in school and other random crap. (Painting, paperwork, contracts, contractors, packing, dealing with other stuff, etc.)
Did HIM commit a crime? No. Is HIM guilty of horrible, wretched things? No. But I'm irritated and this is the way I work it out. Besides HIM reads all these blogs before I post. If HIM had a problem with it, he would say so. Here is HIM's comment:
I refuse to comment on the grounds that it will incriminate myself. (And he's a rocket scientist so it's not like he doesn't know what I'm talking about.)
Ways to torture HIM:
1. Burial in an ant hill. (The red kind.)
2. Smear his entire body with poison ivy. (He's truly allergic to it. The kind where he has to go to the doctor and get special meds for it. And by the way, Alabama has LOTS of poison ivy.)
3. Smear peanut butter on the toilet seat in the middle of the night. (If you don't know this one, go talk to an adolescent.)
4. Call his cell phone and ask if his refrigerator is running. (All right, this is lame.)
5. Blog about HIM until I'm tired of it.
There ya go. HIM is not a crook. But HIM is a pain in the a**. HIM is MY pain in the a**. I suppose I'll keep him.
But wait. I DO want to be mean to the driver of this car:
Yes, this is a tan Avalon with the VA plate of XKD-8764,
in case anyone has trouble seeing it.Why? Because she went through an entire school zone doing at least 45 MPH! Then she got to this stop light and had to wait two minutes anyway like the stupid, unthinking person she is. And look at the back of her car because there is an interesting dichotomy there. She supports finding a cure for breast cancer (yea boobies!), but screw all the little kids walking home from the elementary school because she has to go fast through the school zone (boo, little children!). Shame on you, unknown woman driver from Manassas, VA. I hope someone you know sees this blog and points it out to you. Your driving sucks and you're going to hurt someone. (Probably not pink clad boobies, but possibly small children trying to cross the road because it's the only way home and you're driving down it, without thinking.)
There. I was mean to someone else besides HIM.
I'm singing the blues. I couldn't imagine anyone but a flapper singing theblues. Oh, wait, B.B. King playing Lucille popped into my head. Too late.Here's what HIM done. HIM done me wrong. (Hahaha. It's a blues song title. Sing it with me!) HIM decided to take a new job and the rest of the family should just shut it and move happily with him. Meanwhile, I'm in the middle of a schedule of writing and moving means I can't write, which means people write me things like, "I'm having a Bubba withdrawal," and "Why aren't you writing faster?" and "Why haven't Bubba books magically shot out of your aft area?" (Well, no one wrote the last one, but I imagine people are thinking it.)
Yes, I sound like an eccentric writer now. ("I cannot move, darling, I'm writing. Nuff said.") The last time we moved, I had to go on psychotropic drugs for two years. The book I was working on at the time has never been finished and it was almost half through. (Good idea too. I might go back to it. It had a guy who had lost his daughter and was determined to find her ghost because he was certain she was dead. It had a whole ghost hunter thing going on, way, way before all the stuff came out on the Syfy channel. Damn, it was a good story and I couldn't finish it because my mind had gone down the rabbit hole and not in a good way.)
Bubba fans, please pay attention to the fact that theseare business casual shoes and slacks upended in
the grass. You know, the kind business casual
professionals use, like oh, um, HIM?Anyway, so HIM decided to move and although HIM conferred with me, ultimately it came down to the fact that HIM really, really, really wanted this particular job. Also HIM said, in a particularly dense moment, "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything." However, HIM is NOT taking care of everything, because HIM is already in Alabama and I'm here, winding things up with the daughter in school and other random crap. (Painting, paperwork, contracts, contractors, packing, dealing with other stuff, etc.)
Did HIM commit a crime? No. Is HIM guilty of horrible, wretched things? No. But I'm irritated and this is the way I work it out. Besides HIM reads all these blogs before I post. If HIM had a problem with it, he would say so. Here is HIM's comment:I refuse to comment on the grounds that it will incriminate myself. (And he's a rocket scientist so it's not like he doesn't know what I'm talking about.)
Ways to torture HIM:
1. Burial in an ant hill. (The red kind.)
2. Smear his entire body with poison ivy. (He's truly allergic to it. The kind where he has to go to the doctor and get special meds for it. And by the way, Alabama has LOTS of poison ivy.)
3. Smear peanut butter on the toilet seat in the middle of the night. (If you don't know this one, go talk to an adolescent.)
4. Call his cell phone and ask if his refrigerator is running. (All right, this is lame.)
5. Blog about HIM until I'm tired of it.
There ya go. HIM is not a crook. But HIM is a pain in the a**. HIM is MY pain in the a**. I suppose I'll keep him.
But wait. I DO want to be mean to the driver of this car:
Yes, this is a tan Avalon with the VA plate of XKD-8764,in case anyone has trouble seeing it.Why? Because she went through an entire school zone doing at least 45 MPH! Then she got to this stop light and had to wait two minutes anyway like the stupid, unthinking person she is. And look at the back of her car because there is an interesting dichotomy there. She supports finding a cure for breast cancer (yea boobies!), but screw all the little kids walking home from the elementary school because she has to go fast through the school zone (boo, little children!). Shame on you, unknown woman driver from Manassas, VA. I hope someone you know sees this blog and points it out to you. Your driving sucks and you're going to hurt someone. (Probably not pink clad boobies, but possibly small children trying to cross the road because it's the only way home and you're driving down it, without thinking.)
There. I was mean to someone else besides HIM.
May 3, 2012
Reviews Oh, Those Wacky Reviews! Or Other Stuff, Too!
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! I am not your father, Luke. You are going to need a bigger boat. Read my lips, no new taxes! Also, I will randomly jump from topic to topic because I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown because of the moving extravaganza I'm currently embroiled within. Just sayin'.
Yes. My golden rule #35: Thou shall not read of the reviews. Okay, I break it all the time. Mostly I'm okay with the reviews. They tend to be positive with the occasional one that says something sucks or they just couldn't get into the novel. Mostly, people seem to gravitate toward one series or the other and don't like going to another genre. (BAD writer! Mixing up genres! You're just like Tarantino, except not as violent! Hmm. I wonder if that guy would like Bayou Billy. This reminds me of something I thought about when I saw his last movie, Inglorious Basterds.
I know all of you people didn't see the movie but basically it's WWII and Quentin decided to play revisionist director/writer. This is cool. The very best part of the movie is where Brad Pitt pretends to be Italian while doing an Alabaman accent. Funny as hell. What does this have to do with reviews? Well, nothing, but it's my blog and I'm meandering. After seeing Inglorious Basterds I said to HIM, the man to whom I'm married and who is presently in the most massive doghouse ever constructed outside of the type where one committed adultery with his wife's sister. No, HIM didn't do that. I'm just making a comparison so one can appreciate the size of HIM's doghouse and how long I might be able to rant about it.
Wow, am I really getting off the subject. I said to HIM concerning Inglorious Basterds, "About a year before the movie, Quentin Tarantino is sitting around with Cheech Marin and Robert Rodriguez and eating cheese doodles while drinking vodka shots, saying, "I really want to make a movie. Violent. Sadistic. Tongue-in-cheek. Kick-ass. But I want everyone in the theater on my side. I want them to leap up and cheer their asses off. You know, for when someone really evil gets killed in an icky fashion. Yeah, that's it." Cheech does a shot and eats more doodles while Robert talks about Spy Kids 6.
Cheese doodles look funny.So then Quentin muses, "Now who can I kill in a highly disgusting, bloody, gorefest, hot-mess fashion and get away with it? Hmm. Republicans? Democrats? Boy Scouts? Richard Nixon?" Cheech sticks two cheese doodles up his nose while doing a shot and pretends to be a Russian elephant. Robert discusses El Mariachi for the twentieth time, then he throws a doodle at Quentin's head. "No," Quentin says, "none of those guys. And it can't be Hilary Clinton. Jesus! No, not Jesus." He pauses. "OH MY GOD, I know. Who can I behead, gut, disembowel, stick fishhooks into, draw and quarter, shoot into a million pieces, spit on, and make their name MUD?" "Who?" says Cheech, having preformed a Heimlich maneuver upon himself. Robert shoves ten doodles in his mouth at the same time. "Oliver Stone!" Quentin yells. Then his shoulders slump. "No, not him." Then he decides it's got to be Adolf Hitler. And that's the way it really happened. In my head. Man, did I get off the beaten track or what?)
Oh, I know, this has nothing to do with Quentin Tarantino or reviews but I couldn't help it.Reviews. Back to reviews. So I'm looking at reviews and I see that on one of my paranormal romance novels, Blood Moon, there's like a gazillion. (I had to stop to look if gazillion is in my dictionary.) But they're not regular reviews. No, it's like this:
***** Cat
Blossomstar is locked out and said that she wants to move camp to garvey (not typo!) first result!
Then:
***** Bramblebit
*she trys to talk still barley breathing*
Then:
***** Patchclaw to blossmstar
R u still rping Lest we forget:
***** FlamepawI need a mentor. Also:
***** SunburstCan i joun i am a tawny spotted golden she cat with green eyes.
Just a final example: ***** CleverheartPlease join revenge clan. We have changed and we are in need of more cats. Our leader, shearstar, will help you. Please join at night first result. We need warriors, kits an apprentices. Please join.
Oh-kay. I assume that these folks are playing a game using my reviews as a backdrop. The good news is they like to give me five stars each time so I'm getting high results. It would seem somewhat skewed, however. I suppose it's better than if they gave me a one star each time they leave a review/game thing message.
Again, nothing to do with the blog except in a passing reference to HIM and doghouses,
but this is where HIM would be sleeping if he wasn't hiding out in Alabama.So what the hell, folks? What's this and can I play? I have cheese doodles and vodka. Also I want to watch Kill Bill parts 1 & 2 in a massive Uma Thurman-butt-kicking marathon.
Yes. My golden rule #35: Thou shall not read of the reviews. Okay, I break it all the time. Mostly I'm okay with the reviews. They tend to be positive with the occasional one that says something sucks or they just couldn't get into the novel. Mostly, people seem to gravitate toward one series or the other and don't like going to another genre. (BAD writer! Mixing up genres! You're just like Tarantino, except not as violent! Hmm. I wonder if that guy would like Bayou Billy. This reminds me of something I thought about when I saw his last movie, Inglorious Basterds.
I know all of you people didn't see the movie but basically it's WWII and Quentin decided to play revisionist director/writer. This is cool. The very best part of the movie is where Brad Pitt pretends to be Italian while doing an Alabaman accent. Funny as hell. What does this have to do with reviews? Well, nothing, but it's my blog and I'm meandering. After seeing Inglorious Basterds I said to HIM, the man to whom I'm married and who is presently in the most massive doghouse ever constructed outside of the type where one committed adultery with his wife's sister. No, HIM didn't do that. I'm just making a comparison so one can appreciate the size of HIM's doghouse and how long I might be able to rant about it.
Wow, am I really getting off the subject. I said to HIM concerning Inglorious Basterds, "About a year before the movie, Quentin Tarantino is sitting around with Cheech Marin and Robert Rodriguez and eating cheese doodles while drinking vodka shots, saying, "I really want to make a movie. Violent. Sadistic. Tongue-in-cheek. Kick-ass. But I want everyone in the theater on my side. I want them to leap up and cheer their asses off. You know, for when someone really evil gets killed in an icky fashion. Yeah, that's it." Cheech does a shot and eats more doodles while Robert talks about Spy Kids 6.
Cheese doodles look funny.So then Quentin muses, "Now who can I kill in a highly disgusting, bloody, gorefest, hot-mess fashion and get away with it? Hmm. Republicans? Democrats? Boy Scouts? Richard Nixon?" Cheech sticks two cheese doodles up his nose while doing a shot and pretends to be a Russian elephant. Robert discusses El Mariachi for the twentieth time, then he throws a doodle at Quentin's head. "No," Quentin says, "none of those guys. And it can't be Hilary Clinton. Jesus! No, not Jesus." He pauses. "OH MY GOD, I know. Who can I behead, gut, disembowel, stick fishhooks into, draw and quarter, shoot into a million pieces, spit on, and make their name MUD?" "Who?" says Cheech, having preformed a Heimlich maneuver upon himself. Robert shoves ten doodles in his mouth at the same time. "Oliver Stone!" Quentin yells. Then his shoulders slump. "No, not him." Then he decides it's got to be Adolf Hitler. And that's the way it really happened. In my head. Man, did I get off the beaten track or what?)
Oh, I know, this has nothing to do with Quentin Tarantino or reviews but I couldn't help it.Reviews. Back to reviews. So I'm looking at reviews and I see that on one of my paranormal romance novels, Blood Moon, there's like a gazillion. (I had to stop to look if gazillion is in my dictionary.) But they're not regular reviews. No, it's like this:***** Cat
Blossomstar is locked out and said that she wants to move camp to garvey (not typo!) first result!
Then:
***** Bramblebit
*she trys to talk still barley breathing*
Then:
***** Patchclaw to blossmstar
R u still rping Lest we forget:
***** FlamepawI need a mentor. Also:
***** SunburstCan i joun i am a tawny spotted golden she cat with green eyes.
Just a final example: ***** CleverheartPlease join revenge clan. We have changed and we are in need of more cats. Our leader, shearstar, will help you. Please join at night first result. We need warriors, kits an apprentices. Please join.
Oh-kay. I assume that these folks are playing a game using my reviews as a backdrop. The good news is they like to give me five stars each time so I'm getting high results. It would seem somewhat skewed, however. I suppose it's better than if they gave me a one star each time they leave a review/game thing message.
Again, nothing to do with the blog except in a passing reference to HIM and doghouses,but this is where HIM would be sleeping if he wasn't hiding out in Alabama.So what the hell, folks? What's this and can I play? I have cheese doodles and vodka. Also I want to watch Kill Bill parts 1 & 2 in a massive Uma Thurman-butt-kicking marathon.
April 30, 2012
WHY I Hate to Move OR Things I Hate About Moving OR I Feel Like Ranting...AGAIN.
1. Cleaning stuff up. I haven't pulled out the fridge since I painted the kitchen and surprise! It's where all the dust goes to die and some other stuff I cannot identify. There's some cereal under there and shell shaped pasta that got spilled on the floor from 2009 or so. (The shell shaped pasta was very surprised to see me, too. It had started a little civilization under there. Next week, they're reviewing Crimes and Misdemeanors because they luuuv Woody Allen. The shell pasta seemed pretty nice, except for the Woody Allen thing, so I swept around them.)
2. Fixing stuff. (Stick with me on this one, it goes on for quite a long time.) It turns out when you hang painting and pictures up on walls, it tends to make holes. Holes in walls of houses you are leaving isn't good. I have to go around spackling the holes with this stuff that resembles very light and fluffy cake frosting. (Don't taste it, it does not taste like cake frosting. As a matter of fact, it tastes like...I didn't taste it.) Then you gotta wait for it to dry. Then you sand it, which requires you to find sanding paper or the blocks in the garage which has been taken over by boxes from the attic, which means I CAN'T FIND ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND IT'S REALLY PISSING ME OFF.
So I go to Home Depot and buy some sanding blocks. Then I come home and sand the little dried spackle, which does not taste like cake frosting. Then I realize that I have to spot paint the little white area because the paint is not white. So I go to the garage and discover that the can of paint that IS that color has dried to the consistency of tar and is not usable. Thus I return to Home Depot where the guy attempts to sign me up for a program that will ensure that I will never have to bring antique paint can lids in again in order to match up the paint because it will be on a record at Home Depot for the rest of my existence. (The CIA, FBI, NSA, PTO, and the Girl Scouts will all know about my paint/home improvement preferences. "So, Mrs. Bevill, I see that in 2006 you painted your kitchen/dining room 'Raging Purple Wurple.' Hmm.")
Yes, this is the purple in my daughter's room. I admit it.
It's not just purple. It's **PURPLE**!!Then I tell the Home Depot guy that my patience is running out quickly and tohurryupandgivememygoddamncanofmatchingpaintbeforeIyankoffhisears or something that means exactly that, except without swearwords, because my daughter was listening. (Actually my daughter was picking paint chips for her new room in the new house. She had thirty-two paint chips in her hand and was discussing the merits of multicolors on each wall of her room. Apparently, she has sixty-four walls in her new room. Who knew?) Finally, I returned home and had a difficult time opening the new can of paint because the man who wanted to sign me up for the special program used a machine to press the lid down and the consequences mean that it was less than agreeable about disengaging. (The Incredible Frickin' Hulk couldn't have opened that can of paint.) Back to the garage to get a screwdriver. (I needed a screwdriver because I broke a butter knife trying to pry the lid up.)
HOWEVER, the tool chest is blocked by the lawnmower, the 1954 Chevy Rust-O-Shit/combination-storage-device Truck, boxes of crap that have been moldering in the attic since the last time we moved, and piles of "outdoor" toys for my daughter. Let's just say that if my back hadn't been hurting already the lawnmower would have been thrown a block away. In fact, once I had negotiated the maze-o-doom, I did not go back to the garage to find one of those paint-stirring sticks because I said several four-lettered words instead. I used one of HIM's Craftsmen screwdrivers as a stirrer, as well as a can-opener. I wiped it off because I didn't want HIM to know. (Toilet paper doesn't wipe paint off very well and I don't recommend that you flush toilet paper inundated with wall paint in your potty. DON'T DO IT!) Anyway, I finally finished that part and painted over the holes in the walls. (Told ya number 2 was long.)
3. Finding boxes without buying them. I think stores have gotten suspicious of people who ask for boxes. They ask questions of you. "Why do you want the boxes?" "What will you do with the boxes?" "Suppose I give you a box and some poor homeless person comes in and needs a box?" "Will you recycle the box?" "Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?"
4. Having lots of assistance. This area of moving is always a blast. Now that HIM has absconded to Alabama, leaving me in charge of THE FREAKING MOVE, I have our eight year old daughter, Cressy, and I have her moron cat, Megaroy as my primary assistants. Let's just say that their ideas of assistance differ wildly from my idea of assistance. Cressy likes to make forts out of boxes. That doesn't sound so bad does it? Except she cuts holes in the boxes for doors and windows and then, well, you can't pack things into that box again. EVER. (It's bad when the stuff falls out of the hole she's made.) You can try telling her that the box is not a fort, but who wants her to flash those big blue eyes at you? (It's kind like when you spank a Cocker Spaniel puppy, except I never did that.)
"What box? I don't see a box. I'm too stupid to see a box."As for the moron cat, Megaroy, or as I call him when no one else is home, Dumbass, he's in the box. I take him out of the box. He gets back in the box. I lock him in the bedroom. He makes enough noise to alert the neighbors. I let him out of the bedroom. He gets back in the box. I stop packing and make myself an alcoholic beverage.
"Hey, this box looks exactly like the litter box."In conclusion, I got tired of listing stuff that I hate about moving.
Next blog, same Bat time, same Bat channel.
2. Fixing stuff. (Stick with me on this one, it goes on for quite a long time.) It turns out when you hang painting and pictures up on walls, it tends to make holes. Holes in walls of houses you are leaving isn't good. I have to go around spackling the holes with this stuff that resembles very light and fluffy cake frosting. (Don't taste it, it does not taste like cake frosting. As a matter of fact, it tastes like...I didn't taste it.) Then you gotta wait for it to dry. Then you sand it, which requires you to find sanding paper or the blocks in the garage which has been taken over by boxes from the attic, which means I CAN'T FIND ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND IT'S REALLY PISSING ME OFF.
So I go to Home Depot and buy some sanding blocks. Then I come home and sand the little dried spackle, which does not taste like cake frosting. Then I realize that I have to spot paint the little white area because the paint is not white. So I go to the garage and discover that the can of paint that IS that color has dried to the consistency of tar and is not usable. Thus I return to Home Depot where the guy attempts to sign me up for a program that will ensure that I will never have to bring antique paint can lids in again in order to match up the paint because it will be on a record at Home Depot for the rest of my existence. (The CIA, FBI, NSA, PTO, and the Girl Scouts will all know about my paint/home improvement preferences. "So, Mrs. Bevill, I see that in 2006 you painted your kitchen/dining room 'Raging Purple Wurple.' Hmm.")
Yes, this is the purple in my daughter's room. I admit it.It's not just purple. It's **PURPLE**!!Then I tell the Home Depot guy that my patience is running out quickly and tohurryupandgivememygoddamncanofmatchingpaintbeforeIyankoffhisears or something that means exactly that, except without swearwords, because my daughter was listening. (Actually my daughter was picking paint chips for her new room in the new house. She had thirty-two paint chips in her hand and was discussing the merits of multicolors on each wall of her room. Apparently, she has sixty-four walls in her new room. Who knew?) Finally, I returned home and had a difficult time opening the new can of paint because the man who wanted to sign me up for the special program used a machine to press the lid down and the consequences mean that it was less than agreeable about disengaging. (The Incredible Frickin' Hulk couldn't have opened that can of paint.) Back to the garage to get a screwdriver. (I needed a screwdriver because I broke a butter knife trying to pry the lid up.)
HOWEVER, the tool chest is blocked by the lawnmower, the 1954 Chevy Rust-O-Shit/combination-storage-device Truck, boxes of crap that have been moldering in the attic since the last time we moved, and piles of "outdoor" toys for my daughter. Let's just say that if my back hadn't been hurting already the lawnmower would have been thrown a block away. In fact, once I had negotiated the maze-o-doom, I did not go back to the garage to find one of those paint-stirring sticks because I said several four-lettered words instead. I used one of HIM's Craftsmen screwdrivers as a stirrer, as well as a can-opener. I wiped it off because I didn't want HIM to know. (Toilet paper doesn't wipe paint off very well and I don't recommend that you flush toilet paper inundated with wall paint in your potty. DON'T DO IT!) Anyway, I finally finished that part and painted over the holes in the walls. (Told ya number 2 was long.)
3. Finding boxes without buying them. I think stores have gotten suspicious of people who ask for boxes. They ask questions of you. "Why do you want the boxes?" "What will you do with the boxes?" "Suppose I give you a box and some poor homeless person comes in and needs a box?" "Will you recycle the box?" "Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?"
4. Having lots of assistance. This area of moving is always a blast. Now that HIM has absconded to Alabama, leaving me in charge of THE FREAKING MOVE, I have our eight year old daughter, Cressy, and I have her moron cat, Megaroy as my primary assistants. Let's just say that their ideas of assistance differ wildly from my idea of assistance. Cressy likes to make forts out of boxes. That doesn't sound so bad does it? Except she cuts holes in the boxes for doors and windows and then, well, you can't pack things into that box again. EVER. (It's bad when the stuff falls out of the hole she's made.) You can try telling her that the box is not a fort, but who wants her to flash those big blue eyes at you? (It's kind like when you spank a Cocker Spaniel puppy, except I never did that.)
"What box? I don't see a box. I'm too stupid to see a box."As for the moron cat, Megaroy, or as I call him when no one else is home, Dumbass, he's in the box. I take him out of the box. He gets back in the box. I lock him in the bedroom. He makes enough noise to alert the neighbors. I let him out of the bedroom. He gets back in the box. I stop packing and make myself an alcoholic beverage.
"Hey, this box looks exactly like the litter box."In conclusion, I got tired of listing stuff that I hate about moving.Next blog, same Bat time, same Bat channel.
April 26, 2012
Thursday Morning Nuttiness!
Oh NO! No OR in the title! What does it mean? Is the world coming to an end? Were the Mayans right or were they really mathematical whackjobs who happened to leave a stone carved tablet lying around that some nerdy archaeologist misinterpreted. Or was it more sinister?
I can totally see some Mayan guy making a honest error that gets
blown WAAAAY out of proportion.It has come to my attention that on garbage day there are gremlins about who will take anything that looks good to them.
Before the event.
Actual garbage left out by moi. Except the bazooka. That was made-up.After the event. See the items have VANISHED! It's a mystery. I did not see anyone take them. I did not hear anyone take them. Although I did hear the neighbor yelling at her daughter about 11 PM about how everyone could hear everything they did anyway. (I swear I wasn't listening to them on purpose. They were yelling loud enough for the next town over to hear.)
In other news, I managed to break a heavy duty, plastic cutting board in half. I did not take a photo but trust me, it was in half. It turns out that if you hit it, while in the process of breaking a head of garlic up with a ceramic coffee cup (this is a legitimate method of garlic head dispersal) and you miss the garlic head, the cutting board will, in fact, break in half. I have a witness. Here's my daughter with the eyewitness report:"Mommy was attacking the counter with a red cup and the board thing snapped in half. I heard it and then Mommy gasped really loud and said a very bad potty mouth word." My daughter's stupid cat saw it too, but he decided I was too violent and fled the scene. (I'm pretty sure this was all HIM's fault since we're moving and the move is disrupting all my creative juices and some other stuff, too.)
What does this picture have to do with the blog? Not much but it
definitely shows the cat all up in my grille.
I'll just blame HIM for everything. Did your crops fail? HIM. Get a run in your panty hose? HIM. Global warming? HIM. Can't get the lid off the peanut butter jar? Well, the peanut butter company mostly but some of it was probably HIM, too. He thought bad things about your ability to loosen lids.
Just look at those eyes.
Look closer. No, don't look up his nose. IN HIS EYES!
HIM will be the first one to tell you that it takes me a while to get past things. Surprisingly enough writing about them usually allows me to let them go faster, although if it's funny it may actually linger.
So there I feel better. Off to paint some stuff so that it looks better.
I can totally see some Mayan guy making a honest error that getsblown WAAAAY out of proportion.It has come to my attention that on garbage day there are gremlins about who will take anything that looks good to them.
Before the event.
Actual garbage left out by moi. Except the bazooka. That was made-up.After the event. See the items have VANISHED! It's a mystery. I did not see anyone take them. I did not hear anyone take them. Although I did hear the neighbor yelling at her daughter about 11 PM about how everyone could hear everything they did anyway. (I swear I wasn't listening to them on purpose. They were yelling loud enough for the next town over to hear.)
In other news, I managed to break a heavy duty, plastic cutting board in half. I did not take a photo but trust me, it was in half. It turns out that if you hit it, while in the process of breaking a head of garlic up with a ceramic coffee cup (this is a legitimate method of garlic head dispersal) and you miss the garlic head, the cutting board will, in fact, break in half. I have a witness. Here's my daughter with the eyewitness report:"Mommy was attacking the counter with a red cup and the board thing snapped in half. I heard it and then Mommy gasped really loud and said a very bad potty mouth word." My daughter's stupid cat saw it too, but he decided I was too violent and fled the scene. (I'm pretty sure this was all HIM's fault since we're moving and the move is disrupting all my creative juices and some other stuff, too.)
What does this picture have to do with the blog? Not much but itdefinitely shows the cat all up in my grille.
I'll just blame HIM for everything. Did your crops fail? HIM. Get a run in your panty hose? HIM. Global warming? HIM. Can't get the lid off the peanut butter jar? Well, the peanut butter company mostly but some of it was probably HIM, too. He thought bad things about your ability to loosen lids.
Just look at those eyes.
Look closer. No, don't look up his nose. IN HIS EYES!
HIM will be the first one to tell you that it takes me a while to get past things. Surprisingly enough writing about them usually allows me to let them go faster, although if it's funny it may actually linger.
So there I feel better. Off to paint some stuff so that it looks better.
April 23, 2012
I'm Talking to HIM OR I'm TALKING to HIM NOW!
Moving sucks.
Writing the end of a novel should not suck. But some of the suckiness from moving has transmigrated into the novel writing making me unhappy. The writing itself is not making me unhappy but I cannot write while I'm thinking about calling Mr. Happy Contractor about fixing this part of the house or about whether or not the purple walls in my daughter's room will need two coats of a neutral paint or FIFTEEN because it's the most vivid color of purple imaginable. Therefore, I shall demonstrate accordingly with an illustration of my unhappiness:
Ideally, this is what HIM should shoot for:
Just so we're clear here.
Allrighty then. Just so that's clear.
I'm not typically the you-have-aggrieved-me-give-me-some-pretty type of wife. But lately I've been extra aggrieved. I'm feeling somewhat wronged.
Therefore, options are available for HIM. ("Yea!" HIM yells. "I love OPTIONS! Anything to make her stop griping!") (No, HIM didn't really yell that, but I'm pretty sure HIM is thinking it.)
Pretty flowers. Large arrangements are acceptable. Silk flowers might be better. They won't wilt. A single flower in a cruddy vase = badness and divorce threat no. 44. I prefer the color red but all types are acceptable except the type extracted from a local cemetery.
Pretty jewelry. Again, not normally me, but I'm feeling somewhat resentful lately and don't mind being petty. Here's a link to Pretty Bracelet to Supplicate My Wife Who is a Goddess for Putting Up With Me. And hey, this is free with free super saver shipping!
No chocolates, please. I have had enough lectures from the doctor and the nurse he used to deliver the bad news about my blood sugar levels. (The nurse is the doctor's enforcer.) (I think the doctor read some of my previous blogs about doctors and is afraid to say anything directly to me about the 'W' word. So he throws his nurse under the bus.)
More sparkling jewelry ideas. Here is Something Else to Make My Wife Stop Bitching About the Move. And hey again, more free super saver shipping! I may be pissed the eff off but I care about free super saver shipping!
But hey, I thought of something else that HIM could buy me in utter supplication of his poo-poo headedness. (That should be a word: poopooheadedness. It's self-explanatory.)
I like these. They're funky, pink, AND send a message. Find them at More Stuff to Placate a Ticked Off Wife. This isn't the name of the shoe store, mind you, just the name of the link because I get to make it up. Oh and I want the closed back shoes, size 38 (US 7.5 - 8).
Again, I must emphasize that I'm not really the give-me-stuff kind of spouse. Never have been. Ask HIM. It's true. However, I must liken finishing this book to pulling an elephant out of my butt. It hurts, the elephants gets all nasty, and the elephant doesn't like it much. How's that for a crappy metaphor?
A final illustrative hint to HIM:
This is BAD!As compared to:
This is GOOD, unless you live in Stepford, Connecticut.
Writing the end of a novel should not suck. But some of the suckiness from moving has transmigrated into the novel writing making me unhappy. The writing itself is not making me unhappy but I cannot write while I'm thinking about calling Mr. Happy Contractor about fixing this part of the house or about whether or not the purple walls in my daughter's room will need two coats of a neutral paint or FIFTEEN because it's the most vivid color of purple imaginable. Therefore, I shall demonstrate accordingly with an illustration of my unhappiness:
Ideally, this is what HIM should shoot for:
Just so we're clear here.
Allrighty then. Just so that's clear.
I'm not typically the you-have-aggrieved-me-give-me-some-pretty type of wife. But lately I've been extra aggrieved. I'm feeling somewhat wronged.
Therefore, options are available for HIM. ("Yea!" HIM yells. "I love OPTIONS! Anything to make her stop griping!") (No, HIM didn't really yell that, but I'm pretty sure HIM is thinking it.)
Pretty flowers. Large arrangements are acceptable. Silk flowers might be better. They won't wilt. A single flower in a cruddy vase = badness and divorce threat no. 44. I prefer the color red but all types are acceptable except the type extracted from a local cemetery.
Pretty jewelry. Again, not normally me, but I'm feeling somewhat resentful lately and don't mind being petty. Here's a link to Pretty Bracelet to Supplicate My Wife Who is a Goddess for Putting Up With Me. And hey, this is free with free super saver shipping!
No chocolates, please. I have had enough lectures from the doctor and the nurse he used to deliver the bad news about my blood sugar levels. (The nurse is the doctor's enforcer.) (I think the doctor read some of my previous blogs about doctors and is afraid to say anything directly to me about the 'W' word. So he throws his nurse under the bus.)
More sparkling jewelry ideas. Here is Something Else to Make My Wife Stop Bitching About the Move. And hey again, more free super saver shipping! I may be pissed the eff off but I care about free super saver shipping!
But hey, I thought of something else that HIM could buy me in utter supplication of his poo-poo headedness. (That should be a word: poopooheadedness. It's self-explanatory.)
I like these. They're funky, pink, AND send a message. Find them at More Stuff to Placate a Ticked Off Wife. This isn't the name of the shoe store, mind you, just the name of the link because I get to make it up. Oh and I want the closed back shoes, size 38 (US 7.5 - 8).
Again, I must emphasize that I'm not really the give-me-stuff kind of spouse. Never have been. Ask HIM. It's true. However, I must liken finishing this book to pulling an elephant out of my butt. It hurts, the elephants gets all nasty, and the elephant doesn't like it much. How's that for a crappy metaphor?
A final illustrative hint to HIM:
This is BAD!As compared to:
This is GOOD, unless you live in Stepford, Connecticut.
April 19, 2012
I'm Writing the End of a Book OR Blogs, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Blogs!
Yes. I'm finishing up Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel, which for some of the Bubba fans, will probably make them go, "When is she going to write more Bubba?" But for my paranormal fans, it will make them squeal with joy. (I hope so, anyway. Also it's fun to think of my fans squealing with joy.) Also, I'm calling up twenty contractors today to do various crap that needs doing around this house so we can move to the new house. (Remember that's HIM's fault. I should put his email address in here but I don't want him to get mad at me.)
What the hell is my point? I'm thinking that blog material is escaping me. All I can think of is witches, zombies, and mysterious paranormal stuff. (Hint. Hint. Hint.) (This reminds me of the episode of Scooby Doo where they're chasing a witch and a zombie around the bayou. It turns out that the witch and zombie are really regular guys looking for loot from a bank job and they want to scare off everyone else, so they can look without being bugged by non-criminal folks. I LUV Scooby Doo. I even like the movies they made. Come on, how can you go wrong when they made Scrappy Doo the bad guy? Sorry if that spoiled it for anyone.)
Comic relief. Here's a photo to amuse you. One of my mommy friends sent it to me because she knew I would laugh about it. It's called the Peter Pepper. Yes, it made me laugh. (I think this pepper is not circumcised, but that's a non medical opinion.)
And yes, if you want to grow them, you can find them here: Peter Pepper.
I luv friends who send me pictures like this. (Not that I'm hinting.) And hey, I still have peppers from last years pepper-o-ganza. Jalapenos, hot peppers, Jamaican peppers, some banana peppers, peppers I don't know the name of, and Dr. Pepper. (Well, not Dr. Pepper, maybe Diet Dr. Pepper, which DID NOT grow in the garden and mixes nicely with Whaler's Vanille Rum.)
I'm going to throw in a pirate joke for the hell of it. Why don't pirates need lawyers? They settle through ARRRRbitration. Okay, some of you are moving the mouse toward the big red X now. So stop. No more pirate jokes until Johnny Depp comes out in Pirates of the Caribbean: Wheelchairs of the Briny Deep. (Was that another joke? Maybe. I think Johnny is older than I am.)
In an abrupt change of subject, I went to the dentist yesterday and you'd think that would be blogworthy, but it was pretty mundane. The hygienist kind of told me to watch out for licensed hygienists in Alabama. I thought she was making a joke because she said she'd run into people from states I won't say the name of because I don't want to get nasty emails in response who have "Summer teeth." I looked at her confused and she explained with a giggle, "Sum r over here. Sum r over there," in her best redneck accent. (She later admitted she has never been to the south, so we'll have to forgive her for making big, fat, redneck assumptions. Obviously she doesn't read Bubba.)
Now I'm throwing the Bubba fans a bone. I swear upon my laptop, my Droid, and my Kindle. The minute I'm finished with Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel, I'm starting Brownie and the Dame. Bubba will be in the novella, too, although it's mostly about Brownie and Janie. Yea! Happiness to all the Bubba fans! Cheerfulness Abounding! Here's the cover so you can smile.
Peace, out. I must go stick my brain in a bowl of ice or something equally numbing.
What the hell is my point? I'm thinking that blog material is escaping me. All I can think of is witches, zombies, and mysterious paranormal stuff. (Hint. Hint. Hint.) (This reminds me of the episode of Scooby Doo where they're chasing a witch and a zombie around the bayou. It turns out that the witch and zombie are really regular guys looking for loot from a bank job and they want to scare off everyone else, so they can look without being bugged by non-criminal folks. I LUV Scooby Doo. I even like the movies they made. Come on, how can you go wrong when they made Scrappy Doo the bad guy? Sorry if that spoiled it for anyone.)
Comic relief. Here's a photo to amuse you. One of my mommy friends sent it to me because she knew I would laugh about it. It's called the Peter Pepper. Yes, it made me laugh. (I think this pepper is not circumcised, but that's a non medical opinion.)
And yes, if you want to grow them, you can find them here: Peter Pepper.I luv friends who send me pictures like this. (Not that I'm hinting.) And hey, I still have peppers from last years pepper-o-ganza. Jalapenos, hot peppers, Jamaican peppers, some banana peppers, peppers I don't know the name of, and Dr. Pepper. (Well, not Dr. Pepper, maybe Diet Dr. Pepper, which DID NOT grow in the garden and mixes nicely with Whaler's Vanille Rum.)
I'm going to throw in a pirate joke for the hell of it. Why don't pirates need lawyers? They settle through ARRRRbitration. Okay, some of you are moving the mouse toward the big red X now. So stop. No more pirate jokes until Johnny Depp comes out in Pirates of the Caribbean: Wheelchairs of the Briny Deep. (Was that another joke? Maybe. I think Johnny is older than I am.)
In an abrupt change of subject, I went to the dentist yesterday and you'd think that would be blogworthy, but it was pretty mundane. The hygienist kind of told me to watch out for licensed hygienists in Alabama. I thought she was making a joke because she said she'd run into people from states I won't say the name of because I don't want to get nasty emails in response who have "Summer teeth." I looked at her confused and she explained with a giggle, "Sum r over here. Sum r over there," in her best redneck accent. (She later admitted she has never been to the south, so we'll have to forgive her for making big, fat, redneck assumptions. Obviously she doesn't read Bubba.)
Now I'm throwing the Bubba fans a bone. I swear upon my laptop, my Droid, and my Kindle. The minute I'm finished with Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel, I'm starting Brownie and the Dame. Bubba will be in the novella, too, although it's mostly about Brownie and Janie. Yea! Happiness to all the Bubba fans! Cheerfulness Abounding! Here's the cover so you can smile.
Peace, out. I must go stick my brain in a bowl of ice or something equally numbing.
April 16, 2012
Trapped in the Toy Section at Target OR My Daughter Made Me Go There!
So yesterday, shopping at Target. I made the fatal error of asking my daughter, Cressy, if she wanted to look at anything. She did. We went. I was trapped there. There were other parents trapped there, too. We looked at each for help but no help was forthcoming.
Why do I continue to torture myself, you ask. Well, we only have the one kid and she's got us wrapped around her little pinky finger, so basically we're hosed. I tried telling her, "You've got a million toys already." She says, "I'm just shopping." I don't know where she got the shopping gene from. It's not from my side of the family. I hate shopping. I think I know what happened. I have a friend, Violet, who luvs to shop. She LUVS to shop. She could shop for a job. Her job should be shopping. If there was a job just for a person who luvs to shop, it would be Violet's. Eight hours straight and she would be hap-hap-happy! One time she convinced me to go with her and OMG, the woman shopped for hours and hours. I thought she would have to call an ambulance for me. (She promised food at the end of the shopping experience.) So what's my point. I'm getting to it. Here's what happened. Violet's shopping rubbed off on me. I don't have it, but I became a carrier, like Typhoid Mary. I give it to people. Like my daughter. Poor little girl.
I tried to tell Cressy that there are little kids in Africa who have to make their own toys from rusting wire and stones, but she looked at me as if I had lost my mind. (This reminds me of my mother telling me to clean my plate because of starving children in China. That really worked, too. Not.) I found a picture of a child who made a car out of a milk carton to show her. She was not impressed.
See, he's happy but Cressy was all like, "So? What does
this have to do with me?" Subtlety is lost on her.Anyway, trapped in the toy zone at Target. You'd think I would have previously gotten all the blogging material out of this specific subject that I could possible squeeze. It turns out that the toy companies are INTENT on providing more material for me. (They sit around saying, "Shall we give Fat Woman more material for her caustic yet inventively amusing blog?" "Yes, we shall!" yells another CEO.) I shall demonstrate in the form of photographs.
First up, this isn't really a Barbie. It's Tinker Bell revisited in pink emo-gothic, something-or-other, because Tinker Bell wouldn't be Tinker Bell if she didn't get to change her outfit and your daughter didn't want to buy Tinker Bell in her new outfit. (Fortunately for me, Tinker Bell seems to be on the way out. Sorry Disney, don't send your goons to the house.)
Then there was, what the hell is it? Creepy little Baby Alive, as compared to what? Baby Dead? (The brand name is Baby Alive. I did not make this up.) The expression on this doll freaked me out. I thought she was going crawl out of the package and start chewing on some part of my anatomy, and not in a good way. Furthermore, they want passerbys to reach in and touch that mouth. (See it says so on the box, "TRY ME!" just in case you missed the creepy little open mouth and the creepy little buck teeth that are ready to chomp down on you, dumbass.) Like ewwy:
You know, I have to amuse myself somehow while Cressy is shopping. Otherwise my brain will explode. So, I saw this next. Cressy called it a "Feather-butted Barbie," which I thought was apt and pretty clever coming from an eight-year-old. It's hard to tell from my bad photograph but those ARE feathers around the doll's posterior area:
Next up, there's Barbie as a teacher. Typically I wouldn't say anything. (I wouldn't!) But this one ticked me off because of the glasses. You know only people with glasses are smart enough to educate our children. Really? REALLY, Mattel, you should slap your own hand.
Then there was this one in the special Barbie section. (It's very, very special!) At first I thought they were going for lederhosen Barbie or Lost in the Alps Barbie. All she needs is cheese and sheep. Also one of those big horns so she can call, "RIIIIICOOOOLAAAA!" But I looked closer and saw that it was really Irish Barbie. (Did they go to Ireland? Did they check with the Irish? I don't think so.) I think Mattel missed the mark:
In the same, special section for Barbies, I saw this one and well, I'm thinking maybe Mattel's trying to tap that 70s blackplotation market or something, but wouldn't they have a guy dressed like Superfly or Blackula instead? Mattel, seriously? Dolls from the fashion hood? (Whoops, did I cross the line? Well, it wouldn't be the first time and I'm pretty sure it won't be the last.):
Okay, finally, before Mattel sues me for something obscure, there was this one. Computer Engineer Barbie. While I applaud Mattel's pursuit of the "intelligent" Barbie, I have to say, "Glasses again?" If Barbie is smart enough to be a computer engineer and trendy enough to have the pink computer and the cool fashiony clothes that only Computer Engineer Barbies can have, then SHE'S GOING TO GET CONTACT LENSES! I'm pretty sure. (But maybe Mattel figures that since no one really knows what a Computer Engineer does, then they can get away with it.)
Hours later, we escaped from...the toy zone. Acquisitions included a Lego set featuring Mario and an Angry Bird plush. No Barbies this time, thank God.
Why do I continue to torture myself, you ask. Well, we only have the one kid and she's got us wrapped around her little pinky finger, so basically we're hosed. I tried telling her, "You've got a million toys already." She says, "I'm just shopping." I don't know where she got the shopping gene from. It's not from my side of the family. I hate shopping. I think I know what happened. I have a friend, Violet, who luvs to shop. She LUVS to shop. She could shop for a job. Her job should be shopping. If there was a job just for a person who luvs to shop, it would be Violet's. Eight hours straight and she would be hap-hap-happy! One time she convinced me to go with her and OMG, the woman shopped for hours and hours. I thought she would have to call an ambulance for me. (She promised food at the end of the shopping experience.) So what's my point. I'm getting to it. Here's what happened. Violet's shopping rubbed off on me. I don't have it, but I became a carrier, like Typhoid Mary. I give it to people. Like my daughter. Poor little girl.I tried to tell Cressy that there are little kids in Africa who have to make their own toys from rusting wire and stones, but she looked at me as if I had lost my mind. (This reminds me of my mother telling me to clean my plate because of starving children in China. That really worked, too. Not.) I found a picture of a child who made a car out of a milk carton to show her. She was not impressed.
See, he's happy but Cressy was all like, "So? What doesthis have to do with me?" Subtlety is lost on her.Anyway, trapped in the toy zone at Target. You'd think I would have previously gotten all the blogging material out of this specific subject that I could possible squeeze. It turns out that the toy companies are INTENT on providing more material for me. (They sit around saying, "Shall we give Fat Woman more material for her caustic yet inventively amusing blog?" "Yes, we shall!" yells another CEO.) I shall demonstrate in the form of photographs.
First up, this isn't really a Barbie. It's Tinker Bell revisited in pink emo-gothic, something-or-other, because Tinker Bell wouldn't be Tinker Bell if she didn't get to change her outfit and your daughter didn't want to buy Tinker Bell in her new outfit. (Fortunately for me, Tinker Bell seems to be on the way out. Sorry Disney, don't send your goons to the house.)
Then there was, what the hell is it? Creepy little Baby Alive, as compared to what? Baby Dead? (The brand name is Baby Alive. I did not make this up.) The expression on this doll freaked me out. I thought she was going crawl out of the package and start chewing on some part of my anatomy, and not in a good way. Furthermore, they want passerbys to reach in and touch that mouth. (See it says so on the box, "TRY ME!" just in case you missed the creepy little open mouth and the creepy little buck teeth that are ready to chomp down on you, dumbass.) Like ewwy:
You know, I have to amuse myself somehow while Cressy is shopping. Otherwise my brain will explode. So, I saw this next. Cressy called it a "Feather-butted Barbie," which I thought was apt and pretty clever coming from an eight-year-old. It's hard to tell from my bad photograph but those ARE feathers around the doll's posterior area:
Next up, there's Barbie as a teacher. Typically I wouldn't say anything. (I wouldn't!) But this one ticked me off because of the glasses. You know only people with glasses are smart enough to educate our children. Really? REALLY, Mattel, you should slap your own hand.
Then there was this one in the special Barbie section. (It's very, very special!) At first I thought they were going for lederhosen Barbie or Lost in the Alps Barbie. All she needs is cheese and sheep. Also one of those big horns so she can call, "RIIIIICOOOOLAAAA!" But I looked closer and saw that it was really Irish Barbie. (Did they go to Ireland? Did they check with the Irish? I don't think so.) I think Mattel missed the mark:
In the same, special section for Barbies, I saw this one and well, I'm thinking maybe Mattel's trying to tap that 70s blackplotation market or something, but wouldn't they have a guy dressed like Superfly or Blackula instead? Mattel, seriously? Dolls from the fashion hood? (Whoops, did I cross the line? Well, it wouldn't be the first time and I'm pretty sure it won't be the last.):
Okay, finally, before Mattel sues me for something obscure, there was this one. Computer Engineer Barbie. While I applaud Mattel's pursuit of the "intelligent" Barbie, I have to say, "Glasses again?" If Barbie is smart enough to be a computer engineer and trendy enough to have the pink computer and the cool fashiony clothes that only Computer Engineer Barbies can have, then SHE'S GOING TO GET CONTACT LENSES! I'm pretty sure. (But maybe Mattel figures that since no one really knows what a Computer Engineer does, then they can get away with it.)
Hours later, we escaped from...the toy zone. Acquisitions included a Lego set featuring Mario and an Angry Bird plush. No Barbies this time, thank God.
April 12, 2012
Random Stuff OR Random Stuff OR Random Stuff
Random stuff is what I do when I can't think of a specific blog to do.
Mark this date in your calendar. On April 2nd, 2012, Megaroy, my daughter's stupid cat, threw up for the very first time. He choose a splendid locale. (Center of mass in the middle of the hallway, equidistant from both lights, so to maximize its shadow potential and ensure that the unwary human's foot would make contact with it.) He had just eaten so food was not digested. (The crunchy with wet vomitus mix is ideal for squishing in-between the toes.) He was so proud of himself. He pranced. Or maybe he was relieved. It's hard to tell. Anyhoo, guess who had to clean it up?
Moving onto writing. I'm on the last leg of Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel. I put the cover up on my website to simultaneously taunt and tantalize fans. I even got a letter from someone begging me to narrow down the date. (Sorry, not omniscient. My books have a very odd habit of magically elongating at the end of the writing process. For example. I have four more chapters to write and an outline to follow. But magically these four chapters will likely become six or seven chapters. It's like multiplying bunny rabbits, except with writing. Stephen King called it Literary Elphantitus. So glad I'm not as bad as he is.) I've thought about changing the name. I mean arcanorum is an actual word out of an actual dictionary. It means: mystery of mysteries or the one ultimate secret supposed to lie behind all astrology, alchemy, and magic. (That sounds pretty cool and I checked. There is no other book called Acranorum, much less one called Acranorum: A Lake People Novel. See, I'm breaking out the big guns for the paranormal suspense fans by adding the colon to the title.) I want to take a moment and thank Wendy D'ottavio for the following comment on Facebook: "You could name it Goujon's stinky fish poo and I would still anxiously await the release!" (So you see I could have come up with a MUCH worse title. HIM commented that I was insulting Wendy, but I absolutely love that comment!)
More about writing. I recently got a letter from a fan who likes my writing. I shall copy/paste my favorite part: "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great read." This wonderful person was, of course, referring to the Bubba series. In particular, I think she enjoyed the scene where Brownie shows everyone across America that morning shows are NOT immune to practical applications of electrical physiology. I discussed this with HIM and we decided that I could not use "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great book," as an editorial review on Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Pity. Holy shit, that was a great comment.
Where was I? Oh, yes, randomly attacking subjects in my life.
Now I will malign HIM. HIM is the man to whom I've been married for nearly 3 decades. HIM knows who him is. HIM is also the rat bastard who decided he wanted a new job. Consequently, in the middle of writing a book, HIM decided that he will take a new job. Not in Washington, D.C., mind you, or in Northern Virginia, where we presently reside. No, of course not. No, we're moving back south. (I make it sound like HIM decided everything by himself, but that isn't really true.)
Yes, we will be moving back to the deep south where I will be further inspired to write more of the Bubbaness, because I will acquire loads of ammunition with which to prompt me. But here is the discussion that nearly brought on my 43rd divorce threat. (I average 1.5 threats per year.):
Me: "I'm in the middle of writing a book."
HIM: "I'll do everything."
Me: "Hah. You'll be in Alabama next month while we're finishing the school year here." (Actually, Cressy will be finishing the school year. I will be supervising.)
HIM: "But baby, you'll love it down there."
Me: "It's not the place, it's the $#@@#@% move. @##$%$%@!!!! $%%&##@$%~!!! @#$%^&*@!!!!" (Cressy said, "Ooooooo, Moooooommmmmmy. Potty mouth.")
HIM: "It'll be okay."
Me: "Let me explain my working dilemma. When I'm finished writing this book, I have to self-proof it immediately. Then I fix my mistakes. I ritually sacrifice some Mayan virgins. (No, I don't really do that.) Then it goes to my editor/proofreader. When she's done with it, she returns it to me. I fix it again. Then I send it to the formator, who formats it, whereupon when he returns it in 7-10 working days, I get to publish it and hope Kindle and Smashwords don't have any issues with it."
HIM: "But it'll be-"
Me: "I'm not done yet. As soon as this book goes to the proofreader, I get to start on Brownie and the Dame, a novella. As soon as I'm finished with Brownie and the Dame, the whole process repeats and I don't get to take a break in-between because I...won't...have...time...because...we'll...be...moving. Then when my mind recovers from all the psychological damage inflicted by moving, I'll start the whole process over with Bubba 4, because I'm on a schedule and I want it out by Christmas 2012." More profanity followed. There was a brief respite while I looked up some profanity on the Internet so as not to be boring or repetitive.
Upon the completion of the "conversation," (conversation being a loose euphemism for war of words in-between the moving dissension issue) I maximized my glaring abilities by staring at the back of HIM's head. I'm quite certain some part of HIM's anatomy was burning because of the thoughts in my head. (Probably not the part you think.)
To sum, the cat threw up in the hallway, I like funky comments from fans, and we're moving and somehow I'm going to finish all the stuff I promised if it's the last thing I do.
Mark this date in your calendar. On April 2nd, 2012, Megaroy, my daughter's stupid cat, threw up for the very first time. He choose a splendid locale. (Center of mass in the middle of the hallway, equidistant from both lights, so to maximize its shadow potential and ensure that the unwary human's foot would make contact with it.) He had just eaten so food was not digested. (The crunchy with wet vomitus mix is ideal for squishing in-between the toes.) He was so proud of himself. He pranced. Or maybe he was relieved. It's hard to tell. Anyhoo, guess who had to clean it up?
Moving onto writing. I'm on the last leg of Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel. I put the cover up on my website to simultaneously taunt and tantalize fans. I even got a letter from someone begging me to narrow down the date. (Sorry, not omniscient. My books have a very odd habit of magically elongating at the end of the writing process. For example. I have four more chapters to write and an outline to follow. But magically these four chapters will likely become six or seven chapters. It's like multiplying bunny rabbits, except with writing. Stephen King called it Literary Elphantitus. So glad I'm not as bad as he is.) I've thought about changing the name. I mean arcanorum is an actual word out of an actual dictionary. It means: mystery of mysteries or the one ultimate secret supposed to lie behind all astrology, alchemy, and magic. (That sounds pretty cool and I checked. There is no other book called Acranorum, much less one called Acranorum: A Lake People Novel. See, I'm breaking out the big guns for the paranormal suspense fans by adding the colon to the title.) I want to take a moment and thank Wendy D'ottavio for the following comment on Facebook: "You could name it Goujon's stinky fish poo and I would still anxiously await the release!" (So you see I could have come up with a MUCH worse title. HIM commented that I was insulting Wendy, but I absolutely love that comment!)
More about writing. I recently got a letter from a fan who likes my writing. I shall copy/paste my favorite part: "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great read." This wonderful person was, of course, referring to the Bubba series. In particular, I think she enjoyed the scene where Brownie shows everyone across America that morning shows are NOT immune to practical applications of electrical physiology. I discussed this with HIM and we decided that I could not use "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great book," as an editorial review on Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Pity. Holy shit, that was a great comment.
Where was I? Oh, yes, randomly attacking subjects in my life.
Now I will malign HIM. HIM is the man to whom I've been married for nearly 3 decades. HIM knows who him is. HIM is also the rat bastard who decided he wanted a new job. Consequently, in the middle of writing a book, HIM decided that he will take a new job. Not in Washington, D.C., mind you, or in Northern Virginia, where we presently reside. No, of course not. No, we're moving back south. (I make it sound like HIM decided everything by himself, but that isn't really true.)
Yes, we will be moving back to the deep south where I will be further inspired to write more of the Bubbaness, because I will acquire loads of ammunition with which to prompt me. But here is the discussion that nearly brought on my 43rd divorce threat. (I average 1.5 threats per year.):Me: "I'm in the middle of writing a book."
HIM: "I'll do everything."
Me: "Hah. You'll be in Alabama next month while we're finishing the school year here." (Actually, Cressy will be finishing the school year. I will be supervising.)
HIM: "But baby, you'll love it down there."
Me: "It's not the place, it's the $#@@#@% move. @##$%$%@!!!! $%%&##@$%~!!! @#$%^&*@!!!!" (Cressy said, "Ooooooo, Moooooommmmmmy. Potty mouth.")
HIM: "It'll be okay."
Me: "Let me explain my working dilemma. When I'm finished writing this book, I have to self-proof it immediately. Then I fix my mistakes. I ritually sacrifice some Mayan virgins. (No, I don't really do that.) Then it goes to my editor/proofreader. When she's done with it, she returns it to me. I fix it again. Then I send it to the formator, who formats it, whereupon when he returns it in 7-10 working days, I get to publish it and hope Kindle and Smashwords don't have any issues with it."
HIM: "But it'll be-"
Me: "I'm not done yet. As soon as this book goes to the proofreader, I get to start on Brownie and the Dame, a novella. As soon as I'm finished with Brownie and the Dame, the whole process repeats and I don't get to take a break in-between because I...won't...have...time...because...we'll...be...moving. Then when my mind recovers from all the psychological damage inflicted by moving, I'll start the whole process over with Bubba 4, because I'm on a schedule and I want it out by Christmas 2012." More profanity followed. There was a brief respite while I looked up some profanity on the Internet so as not to be boring or repetitive.
Upon the completion of the "conversation," (conversation being a loose euphemism for war of words in-between the moving dissension issue) I maximized my glaring abilities by staring at the back of HIM's head. I'm quite certain some part of HIM's anatomy was burning because of the thoughts in my head. (Probably not the part you think.)
To sum, the cat threw up in the hallway, I like funky comments from fans, and we're moving and somehow I'm going to finish all the stuff I promised if it's the last thing I do.
