C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 21

In a Non-Cat Related Blog OR Look, I Did the New Cover of the Latest in Bubba's World

Coming out in summer - Brownie is visiting the Snoddy's and liking Sam Spade, a little too much.  Then the dame comes into his life and nothing is the same...

Other Stuff I Will Speak Of OR How I Had to Write Some D**n Thing

Warning: the author may meander, bluster, curse, and change course without warning.  Except this warning, of course.  See, I warned ya that there would be no warning.  (I think that doesn't really make sense but I suspect most of you know what I'm talking about, don't you?)


Let us begin.  First, there is the mystery of the wet prints on the wood floor.  (I bet somewhere there is a ghost story that starts like that.  Someone who drowned in the bathtub who leaves wet prints in the hallway, right?  I'm Googling it right now.)  (See?  I didn't warn you and I definitely meandered.  The meandering happened.  I mindlessly meanderathoned.  Then I made up a word.  Okay, enough.)

One day recently I walked down the hallway and discovered the floor was wet.  It wasn't sopping wet, like OMG the toilet has overflowed and we are doomed, doomed, doomed.  But as I was not wearing sockies or slippers first thing in the morning it was, in fact, noticeably wet.  And my toes said, "Eww!  Gross-buckets!  What is that?"

I looked down and saw this.



Truthfully, having had cats before I was both A) glad it was not a pool of urine, and B) it was not a pool of vomit.  (Actually this happens with dogs, too.)  Yes, there were little wet paw prints leading down the hall.  (As some of you know, my daughter got a cat for Christmas, well, just after Christmas, and this is ALL grist for my mill.  I am milking that baby for all its worth.  And can I come up with another skeezy metaphor?  No, I've fried all my bacon.  Hahahaha.)

I scratched my chin and pondered on the situation.  Hmm.  Do I have a big problem?  Do I have a small problem?  Do I have a problem?  (Well, yes, several but that's beside the point.)  Here was my actual problem.  A smallish feline was wandering the vicinity with little wet paws, leaving obvious tracks down my wooden floor.



But that wasn't really the problem.  The real problem was not that the cat's feet were wet, or that the cat's feet were wet enough to leave paw prints on the floor in a trail I could easily follow.  (I am not a big game hunter and my idea of hunting involves driving to the grocery store with my debit card.)  The problem was that something, as yet unidentified was super soaking wet enough for the cat to wade through and bring it into the hallway.  Causes that flashed into my mind included exploding toilets, broken water pipes, my daughter deciding that the bath tub should be a waterfall, and other sundry bedeviltries.  (Look, I think I made up another word.  Let's all make up words!) (Combine one of these words: miserable, moody, nerdy, or capricious with one of these words: turtle, ho, nerfherder, or cowbag.  Then use it at least three times today.  Not on a policeman, however.)

"I shall follow the prints!" I exclaimed, wondering if it was too late to get out my magnifying glass and deerstalker hat.  (Sherlock Holmes for some of you, and not the ones who saw the Robert Downey Jr. movie.  Not that the first one was bad.  I haven't seen the second one yet.  Anyhoo.  Look, I blatantly meandered again.  I blame the chemical ingredients in all the Twinkies I ate as a child.  Quick, call Erin Brockovick!)


So I followed the prints.  Mysteriously they stopped at the bedroom entrance.  (I suspect it was because the floor in the bedroom is carpeted but it could also be an alien conspiracy.  Meandering again.  Maybe it was the Chinese food at the only crappy Chinese food place in the little town where I grew up.  Everyone wondered where all the stray cats went.  It doesn't all really taste like chicken.)  (Someone laughed at that last one, I know.)

Busy with other stuff, I let the wet foot prints go.  After all, water was not gushing down the hallway or out of any place water shouldn't be gushing.  No one was screaming, shrieking, or making gakking noises.  (Or least any that shouldn't have been going on.)  (Meandering again, but my house is the fun house to live in.)

So later, after I'd gotten the kid off to school, gotten ready to do some serious writing, answered email, etc, I paused for a bathroom break.  I went to my bathroom, and did my thing, only to leap right back up with a shriek.



The entire seat was dripping with water.  And thus the mystery was solved.  The stupid cat had attempted to gain access to the bathroom counter via the toilet seat, as he has done before.  Alas, his little puny brain had not perceived that the seat was up and not down.  He'd done a full gainer into the toilet water.  Then he'd scrambled for the safety of the toilet seat, made his exit, ran through the bedroom, and down the hall, leaving wet little paw prints as evidence to his anarchy.  (And women complain about men leaving the seats up.)

Where's my deerstalker hat, beeyotch?

Things I Got Tired of Telling My Daughter in the First Week of Her New Pet

I don't even need to explain further.  I'll just launch into the things.


Don't carry the cat like a potato sack.The cat doesn't need a string around his neck, for multiple reasons.Don't shine the laser pointer light into the cat's eyes.When the cat makes that noise, yes that noise, he isn't happy.Yes, the cat's teeth and claws are sharp, aren't they?The cat doesn't need to eat chocolate.The cat doesn't need to eat french fries.The cat doesn't need to eat cheese.The cat doesn't need to eat Captain Crunch cereal.The cat doesn't need to eat (insert various child's food item here, you pick).The cat doesn't need to eat yarn.The cat is running away from you because he doesn't want you to pick him up by his butt.Please feed the cat.Please feed the cat.Please feed the cat.Feed the cat.If you don't feed the #$%^!!! cat I'm going to do something awful.No, I won't tell you what awful thing I'm going to do.  I'm just going to do it.  And it will be awful.  (Taking away the allowance and/or favorite toys for those of you who think I might abuse my child.  Believe this is AWFUL to her.)Please scoop the litter box.Please scoop the litter box.Please scoop the litter box.Please for the love of St. Peter, scoop the litter box.I'm going to put the litter box in front of your bedroom door so you have to step around it every time you come and go, so you'll remember to scoop it.(To HIM, the man to whom I'm married and who recently revealed to me that he's been secretly coaching our daughter to ask for a frickin' cat for the last six months.  "Tell Mommy you want a cat."  "Tell Mommy about the cat again."  "Yeah, Mommy's had a rum and coke, get her now.")  No, I didn't remind our daughter to scoop the poop for the fiftieth time.  You do it.  (This was dripping with sarcasm, in case anyone missed the implications.)(To HIM, who laughed about his furtive need to also get an effing cat.)  I wonder if the litter box scoop would fit into a certain hole in your body.(To HIM) The cat's farts smell like decomposing corpses.(To HIM, who gets up at 5:15 am and the cat has decided he shall get up with HIM and therefore, EVERYONE in the house should get up, as well.)  I hope something integral rots and falls off, you rat bastard.  (Not really, but it sounds good when I'm cranky because I've gotten less than my normal amount of sleep due to a three pound lump of fur sucking up the majority of my side of the bed and caffeine hasn't magically been introduced into my blood system upon arising at 5:20 am.)(To HIM in a whiny voice) Why can't the cat sleep on your side of the bed?Anyway, the cat's going to want revenge one day.  Just sayin'.

Picture by Doheth.  See here.

More on Writing OR OH, NO, FAT WOMAN Said She Wouldn't Do This Again, But She's Doing It AGAIN!

Let's see, how to start. How to start. How to start. (Let me drum my fingers across the desk while I'm deep thought.) I'll start at the point where my neurons and dendrites began to spark and fizzle. That would be best, I'm sure.
Recently I got a letter about my spelling in Bubba and the Dead Woman. This is probably my most popular book, partly because I offer it as a freebie and because it's funny. (I think it's funny. But I'm biased.) (I've slightly changed the content of this letter for hilarity's sake but the gist of it is correct.) (Hey, why am I making everything in parentheses smaller fonts? Because it amuses me. Possibly it will amuse you as well. But if it doesn't you can write me a letter about it.)  

Dear Ms. Bevill (I'm really glad it wasn't Dear Dumbass Writer or possibly Dear Stupid Writer or even the horrendous Dear Would-be Writer),
I read your novel, Bubba and the Dead Woman. I downloaded it because it was free. (This last sentence does not endear you to me but that is the precise reason I give it away so I'm just hosed on that one.) I'm writing to let you know that you have a lot of spelling errors in your book that should be fixed. For example, you use the word shore instead of sure. Also you use cain't instead of can't. I don't think your spellcheck is working properly. (Thar's a spellcheck on my computer doohickey? Hot dam.)
This greatly diminishes your book which is somewhat amusing and has an interesting plot. (Okay I'm now properly chastised.)
Sincerely,
A fan who doesn't like misspellings.
Oh, my brain threatens to explode with the implications of this. Whoops, there it went. (Man, that cat can move out when properly motivated.  Apparently exploding brain fragments frighten his little gray fuzziness.) I'm going to need to break out the bleach spray to clean that up. You know, brain remnants really stain the walls. (How do I know? Well, that's just another story I can't really tell to an unsuspecting populace.)


On a tangent, I was reading a review of a novel reviewed at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. (I love that website.) In the novel the writer was having the Scottish hero speak in an accent. Not a lot, but enough where he would say, "Fooking." I wonder if that author has people writing to her about her misspelling the word, "Fooking." After all, whenever I'm fooking around with my manuscripts I can't fooking well be bothered with spelling. Fook that. (You'd never know I'm not Scottish. And if I have any Scottish fans reading this, I'm sorry if I offended you. I'm also sorry if I offend any rednecks with my writing a redneck accent. Not that I consider it really a redneck accent. It's more of an East Texas accent. Ya'll hold on, I need a better shovel for this hole I'm digging for myself.) (No, wait, a fooking better shovel.)  (Also, I just got a very nice letter from a Scottish blogger who loves my work, so I'm going to apologize to her personally.  Michelle, I'm fooking sorry.)
Okay, back to the fooking letter that started all of this.
Dear A Fan Who Doesn't Like Misspellings,
I believe you might have lost a few things. You might want to look for one in particular. I think it was a sense of humor.  You might be missing it.
Onto your complaint. This is a ". It's called a double quotation mark. It's used for speech or quotes. For example, "Someone had blundered: Theirs was not to make reply, theirs was not to reason why, theirs but to do and die." This was from Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade and it seemed apt for the moment.
Here's another example, "If there was a rule in the south, another man didn't mess with someone's truck, his dog, or his woman, in that precise order." And for further clarification, "It shore gets their attention away from having stabbed their girlfriend or mother."  Both of those quotes are from Bubba and the Dead Woman, which I did write, and gleefully whilst shooting peas out of my nostrils I might add. (Oh, the heck with it, I did add it. No might about it.)  
And here's where I get to bend the rules as a writer. (Freedom of speech and all of that. That includes freedom of creativity in there, as well. It's fooking implied!) There are places in the south where folks pronounce "sure" as "shore." "I shorely do miss that white elephant in the corner," being an example.
Furthermore, I allege that if something is within the confines of a double quotation mark, then it's out of bounds for spelling critiques. "I cain't be bothered with spelling, ya'll." Of course, I've thrown the rule book in the trash because I find it particularly annoying. (I had to read it and then I had to look things up. Very vexing, I'm shore. Oh, wait, very fooking vexing, I'm shore. Might as well combine those so somebody will really have something to complain about.)
Let me expound. Yes, expound in a way that will probably drive you to go get that last cold beer in the fridge. I'll wait.
If the words are within the confines of a double quotation mark, in all probability I meant the words exactly the way they are. It's meant to sound that way. Most other people understand this, but for you I'll explain further. It's meant to sound as if they're from a certain region. Some of it's meant to be humorous in a fun, silly manner and not offensive to the folks who live there.
And yes, I meant to write "shore" and "cain't" and quite a few other things like "bizness," and "ya'll," and "the gators are gonna et you up," and "you shall be heeeeaaaaled." (You might notice that the last one is a character who has a tendency to speak like an evangelical preacher and not really meant as a specific dialect.) (And that means I pick on everyone, not just the people from the south.  No one is safe.  I'm not just picking on Texans and evangelical preachers and Scots.  No, I'll get to the rest of you soon, if I haven't already done it.)
Thank you so much for writing. It's always entertaining to hear people's opinions on my work, even if I don't agree with them.
Sincerely (Fooking A I do mean it),
Me.
Well, that just about says fooking everything. There's a little gray cat in the house somewhere complaining that my daughter is carrying him in an awkward manner and he's about to get his little claws out and show her who's the boss, so I'm outta heah. (Maybe I should put quotations around "outta heah" so I won't get a complaint about that, too. Oh, the fook with it.)  
  
This is what I have to put up with while writing.
Can you tell which one is which?

Oh, Little Addition to the Family OR My Daughter Had to Have a Cat OR Why Does the Little Beast Have to Sleep on My Side of the Bed?

Our daughter, Cressy, age 7, has been wanting a cat for months.  She's been priming that Santa pump for at least six months.  She would pick up a gone-to-seed-dandelion in the summer and blow all the seeds away and wish loudly, "I wish for a cat."  Of course, that was interspersed with, "I wish to fly."  (If only she'd asked for a flying cat.  Or possibly to fly with the cat.)  Being parents with great, gooey marshmallows where our hearts were supposed to be, we folded like cheap suits.  She didn't get the cat on Christmas day but she got the letter from Santa.  "Dear Cressy, you can have the cat but I can't take the poor little thing on the sleigh because it's too cold.  You can go with mommy and daddy in two days to pick it up.  Sincerely, Santa."  ("Oh my gosh, Mommy and Daddy, SANTA wrote ME a letter!  Oh my gosh!  You didn't get one, Mommy!  It's because you say potty words in the car when you're driving!")  (Whoops.)

You can tell Megaroy's fitting right into the Bevill/Fun 'O' Rama
Mansion household.  He's got a beer and is cuddled up to a warm
human.  How much better is that for a cat?
(Upon reflection, which usually gets me into trouble,
Megaroy is a good name for a redneck cat, and hey as
this family has roots in Georgia, Louisiana, Alabama, and Oklahoma
he fits right the heck in.
That's right.  We're all 100% rednecks here.)I thought I was being smooth.  HIM, the man to whom I'm married, took Cressy to get the cat, and here he is, already prenamed.

Megaroy.  I know.  I've mentioned it before.  My daughter named the cat, Megaroy.  (Megaroy.  It sounds really weird if you keep repeating it.  Try it.  Like ten times.  See.  Weird.  Megaroy.  Megaroy.  Megaroy.  Megaroy.  Megaroy.  Oops.  My brain broke.)  I asked her what that meant and she said she made it up.  Then she changed it a few times.  Megaroy became Riki-tiki for about ten hours.  (Thanks to my husband's predilection to Rudyard Kipling, although Cressy certainly didn't appreciate that the cat does NOT look anything like a cobra munching mongoose.)  (My suggestion that the cat be called Dorkus-malorkus was disregarded as offensive to all cats everywhere.)  (Whisper from the side of Cressy's mouth, "You'll hurt his feelings, Mommy.")

So the cat's household occupation (I used the word 'occupation' because I'm reminded of how the Nazi's marched into France in the last century, not that I see myself as French but I do see the cat as vaguely dictatorial.) started innocuously enough.  He sniffed around.  He hid in Cressy's room.  She got upset because he wouldn't sit in her lap.  Poor cat was frightened.  He thought about peeing on the rug.  He saw we had a litter box and food.  THEN.  THEN.  THEN.  The light came out and dawned upon the poor forlorn animal so sadly rescued from the shelter.  Then he realized that he was in cat heaven and we're all his bitches.  (Seriously.  I saw the moment when the little wheels in his tiny furry brain clicked with the knowledge.)

I love the red eyes here.  It makes my daughter
look very demonic.
I did not intercept a secret feline communique from my sister's cat, Mellow, but I think there had to be one.  (Back story: Once upon a time I pissed off my sister's cat, Mellow.  See The Dissing of My Sister's Cat OR How It Sounded Like a Challenge and I Have NOT Yet Finished With My Sister's Cat OR How I Continue To Taunt a Hapless (Hah!) Animal.


How could I not add words?
And btw, the neck feathers reference is
to a Daffy Duck/Bugs Bunny cartoon.
Then I have felt compelled to randomly insert various tauntings of the cat until this day, which I find vastly amusing and my sister to a lesser degree.  There should be a new blog entitled, How I Wore Out the Taunting of My Sister's Cat OR How it Got Very Boring.  But hey, I'm not there yet.)  Anyway, I'm pretty sure there was an encoded message in the kitty litter from my sister's cat.  I can't read cat poop/peepee lumps but I think it went like this:

Dear Recent Feline Addition to the Bevill Family,

Good to have another kitty to subvert and antagonize the hapless human slaves.  Welcome.  Learn from my felis catus wisdom.
Humans aren't merely servants but put on this earth to placate our every whim.  Never forget they are to be stomped under our fuzzy little paws.The beds the humans sleep on are ours by right, so don't put up with their crap if they try to sleep on it.  Kick them the eff out.  It doesn't matter if it's king sized.  There isn't room for you and them, so it's yours by default.Kibble, schmibble.  Just meow loudly until they give you the good stuff.  Sometimes they'll even cook chicken for you.  (They call it take out from KFC.  That colonel was really a cat in a human's disguise.)Don't worry about slicing or drawing blood on your human.  They heal.  They have boo-boo stickers, too.  They love the boo-boo stickers.  (The boo-boo stickers come in all shapes and sizes including Hello Kitty, which means humans are basically big pansies.)So what if the humans like to sleep the night through.  We don't.  And it's our house now.  So cats rule and humans drool.  Don't forget that toes wiggling at night under the covers are legitimate targets for bouncing upon.It's your job to spread fur over everything.  If a human isn't picking fur off his best suit just before going to work, then you're not doing your job correctly.  Remember cats have standards.  Also as a gray furred animal, you have a special duty to spread the fur over articles of clothing that accentuate your fur.  Gray goes better on black clothing.  Just sayin'. Learn the kitchen zone.  I suggest memorizing the sound of the refrigerator opening.  This sound represents all good-food opportunities.  If a human is in the kitchen it means food is available.  Also humans can be herded toward the kitchen in a handy pinch.Humans are hot water bottles in a skin suit.  Wherever they're sitting, is a lap ready to perch upon.  If they try to get up, dissuade them with the judicious use of claws in the thigh.  (I personally try not to aim for the major arteries because they get all upset if they bleed too much, but hey, see the one about the boo-boo stickers above.)Cats rule the world.  It's a fact.  Dogs slobber and fetch, but cats are much more selective.  So don't fetch the wadded up paper ball for the humans or they'll think you're whipped.  Learn to toss your head back in feline disdain.  It's a fine art.Oh, humans do this funny thing in the little room with the round white seat.  It makes them very uncomfortable for you to follow them in and just stare at them.  You should do it often.  It's funny as hell.Remember the secret cat motto: No matter what you've done, make it look like the dog did it, or in your case, the kid.Power to the cat, brother!  Remember the good fight!  What's mine is mine; what's yours is mine, also!  Nothing good ever comes out of a squirt bottle!

I tried for the Che Guevara poster look, but it just looks kind
of pseudo communist to me.  Well, that works, too.

OMG, More Trash, er, I Mean Another Paranormal Suspense Novella!

Okay, paranormal fans here it is:



Available on B&N and Amazon.  Yea!

Oh, what's it about?
Sage Ingram has been changed to a werecougar against her will, kidnapped, and locked in Under, a magickal place with monstrous creatures so alarming, she's shaking in her paws.

Per Forester, a Cat Clan Warrior, has just come back from another mission to find Emma Lucia, his clan's Second, returned from being hunted by vicious humans.  She also has clothing belonging to Sage and as soon as Per scents the clothing, he knows he's been hooked.

Caught in a sorcerous realm, Under, populated by beings out of nightmares, Per fights to find Sage before it's too late and Sage battles to stay alive.

Blood Moon is the second Cat Clan novella.  It is a novella of about 31,500 words.

OMG, I'm BACK!

Yes, I have returned!  All is well in the land of humor and sarcasm!  And most wonderfully, I have cynical and sage things to impart to the masses.

Now to discuss Things That Inspire Me... because that's the odd way my brain is wired.  Also stuff I noticed while taking my blog break and couldn't it get out of my head because it was silliness personified.  (Kind of like politics.)

Strange fish found on Beach.  Yes, this person, as pictured below, was trotting along the beach and saw this thing washed up and said, "Oh, my goodness gracious googley woogley, there is something really strange.  What shall I do?  Hmm.  Shall I ignore it?  No, I can't do that.  Shall I bring it to a museum?  No, for I am connected to the Internet and think it could be a baby Loch Ness Monster.  I KNOW!  I shall pick it up and take a picture of it while holding it because nothing from the ocean could possibly be poisonous or possibly still alive to bite me, right, honey?"  His significant other, who took the picture and is notably NOT holding the thing, can only have one reasonable response, "Sure baby, is your insurance paid up?"


I mean, how did he know it was dead?  Did he poke it with a stick?  Check its pupil dilation?  Did he take its pulse?  Really, inquiring minds want to know.


I'm just saying.  If I see something on the beach that I've never seen before, something like in the photograph, that resembles a giant, alien seahorse,  something that appears as though it might enjoy a random sampling of my flesh and whatnot, I DO NOT go and pick it up. 


Okay, maybe I've milked this guy for all he's worth.  But maybe not.


All right now that well is dry.  On to other amusing things.

Just before Christmas a woman traveling through Las Vegas' McCarran Airport had her cupcake seized by TSA officials.  See here.  Ohhhh-kaaaay.  I'm having a hard time imagining how a cupcake can be interpreted as a security threat.  (And btw, I want to know what does one do in Las Vegas with a cupcake, because it sounds vaguely lascivious in a sarcastic, droll sort of way.)


As a fat woman who enjoys a good cupcake, I still can't see the problem.  Apparently, the official thought there was enough frosting on the cupcake to make use of the 3 ounce limit of gel-like items.  (Two notes here.  One is that's a lot of freakin' frosting on the cupcake.  And two is how does a TSA official eyeball frosting and equate it to 3 ounces?)

So my take on what really happened to the red velvet cupcake?

But hey, the poor woman who got her cupcake taken away from her?  She said that the TSA really overestimated the levels of her frosting.  (Hahaha.  I love that sentence.  How does one overestimate the levels of frosting?)  See Mass. Woman Disputes TSA Portrayal of Her Cupcake.  (You know I didn't make that title up.)  (The cupcake was maligned!  I swear!  Now I want one of those cupcakes because well, it was maligned and I must have one.)

And you want to know the best part.  The bakery that actually made the cupcake has renamed it the National (Security) Velvet Cupcake just because of this whole thing.  (I bet they're selling like...wait for it...hotcakes.  Or would that be better as: I bet they're selling like...wait for it again...cupcakes.?)

There ya go.  Things that amuse me.

I'm back, baby.  It's good to be the blogger.

Hey Fat Woman Fans! OR Taking a Blogging Break Until January 15th OR Didn't Want You to Go Away Unhappy!

Okay, it's the shortest blog ever.  I'll tell a dirty joke.  You ready?  It's very dirty.

Two white horses fell in the mud.

See you in 2012 and (blow your noise makers here and also drink some cold duck) Happy New Year!

Okay, I couldn't find TWO white horses rolling in the mud, but
I think this illustrates my point.

Christmas Randomness OR I'm Going to Blather-I'm Just Warning You in Advance OR Happy Holidays, Ya'll! Don't Drink Too Much of the Spiked Eggnog and Then Talk to Weird Uncle Chainsmoke

That's a Xmas tree.  I would have done beer cans myself, but
Spam cans are a definite contender for uniqueness, redneckedityness,
and flair.
First off, happy holidays to everyone who's blessed enough to read my blog.  (All wonderfully clever people with a superb sense of humor.)  Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy Christmas to my UK cohorts, happy Kwanzaa, happy any other holidays I missed in my blatant attempt to cover everyone.  (It's actually a blatant attempt to CMA.  Psst.  That stands for cover my ass, an ability I've developed over many years of constant practice and am lately woefully stretching the boundaries of the CMA.)

Second, bad news for all you Fat Woman addicts.  (Horrid, wretched news.  Lock your alcohol away now and keep your knives in a drawer where you can't see them.)  I'm taking a blog break for two weeks.  That's right.  No new blogs until January 15, 2012.  (Oh, stop shrieking in agony.  It's only two weeks.  Two and a half technically.  If you really wanna get technical.  Well, do ya, punk?)

I just saw a collection of Dirty Harry movies at Target and
I wanted to use the line.  Well, do you, punk?
Now for more amused anecdotes that will probably cause peas (or other mysteriously lodged food) to shoot out of your nostrils.  (Or whatever else you put in there when you were six years old.  You know who you are and your mama remembers that, too.  She probably kept the emergency room X-ray just in case you get uppity when you're older.)  Of course that makes me think of a story I heard this week.

25 years ago a woman was standing on a set of stairs using a felt tipped pen to poke at something in her throat.  Something else happened and she swallowed the pen.  (She said she was standing on a set of stairs using a felt tip pen and a mirror to poke at a lump in her throat, I do not know.  I suspect she does not know.  In fact, I suspect if the pen hadn't caused her problems in the future it would have been an insignificant side note in the family history.)  She told the doctor and her husband but they didn't believe her.  (This story sounds taller and taller to me.  I wouldn't have believed it.  "Excuse me, Irene, you were doing what with what while on the what?  Oh, please.")  Fast forward to today when she had the pen removed and the pen was still capable of writing.  (Note to manufacturer: Your pen obviously has staying power.  You might want to buy it and put it in your museum of weirdness.  Or maybe make a commercial with Charley Sheen.  Either would work well.)

I see the pen.  Also I see massive depression and two dogs playing ping pong
while playing pinochle.  (I was just playing with some Rorschachs's cards.  If
you don't get this reference, it's because you didn't take Psych 101 in college
or you didn't watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.)Oh, wait.  I forgot this is a Christmas themed blog.  I must go back and illustrate in my twisted manner.
Do you think the woman gave her permission for her
x-rays to be posted ALL over the Internet?  Because
if it was me who had a 25 year old pen lodged
inside me because I was obviously completely
effed up, standing on some stairs poking a pen
down my throat to see something about
my tonsils, I WOULD NOT give permission
to share with the entire freakin' world.What does this have to do with Christmas?  Not a lot, but the story amused me and I did initially bring up the possibility of things shooting out of people's noses.  (Wouldn't it have been funny if this woman had sneezed at the holiday dinner table and a 25 year old felt tip pen came shooting out of her nose?  Well, probably not.)
I'm certain there would be a rational, intelligent conversation about
it, at the dinner table. You think she upped her fiber after the alleged
incident? I would have. I would have just gone ahead and
invested in the BIG package of laxative.

Warning: change of subject about to happen!  Whoops.  There it went.

HIM, the man to whom I'm married, went to find a kitten for our daughter.  Our daughter, Cressy, will apparently die without a cat this Christmas.  She's even got a name picked out for him.  A weird name, which is pretty much par for our house's course.  It's Megaroy.  I asked her to repeat this several times while she got increasingly irritated with me.  "MEGAROY, MOTHER, jeez, are you deaf?"  "Yes, but what does it mean?"  "It means kitty," she said condescendingly.  Then I gave up because it was better than what she named the dwarf bonzai.  (Bathtub.  I do not understand.)

This is a face I've had to look at consistently for the last month.Perhaps we parental units got a little wrapped up in other things and put off the cat search for a little too long.  So HIM went out and shopped shelters.  Consequently we came to the conclusion that we'll have to write a letter to Cressy from Santa.  It goes something like this:

Dear Cressy, 

I know you asked for a cat and Santa wanted to bring you one.  But Santa's sleigh is too cold for kitties and I worry about kitties falling off the sleigh while I'm flying all around the world.  So your parents are going to take you to a special place where there are lots of kitties who need your loving care.

Sincerely,

Santa Claus.

P.S. Go easy on your mother when you're thirteen and madly in love with the fourteen year old in your algebra class and you don't want braces on and you think you should have your own Porsche when you get your learner's permit.  She likes her teeth in one piece and not ground down into little white crumbles of dentin.

Oh, we're going on the naughty list.  It's a conundrum.  We're 'supposed' to lie about Santa Claus, but if we lie then we should get coal in our stockings.  Right?  You think Santa sits at the North Pole trying to figure out who was telling the 'good' lies and who was telling the 'bad' lies?



Basically, Santa's got a messed up job.  Is there any kid on earth who isn't on the naughty list?

Well, happy holidays to one and all.  Be back to blog about my experiences with the hitherto unknown cat, Megaroy and who is really going to clean the litter box.  (I have the nasty suspicion it's going to be me and I'm not happy about it.)  But hey, think of all the fresh blog material.

See ya next year!

Part II - The Camping Trip from Heck OR Where is the Nearest Starbucks? OR Where is the Nearest Bathroom with a Locking Door in it? OR Can I Make This Title Longer Than the Actual Blog?

Part II.

4 pm.

Where was I?  Ah yes.  Deep dark woods.  Brownies.  Camping trip with six 7-8 year olds and 4 teens.  Otherwise known as the seventh level of heck.

You wouldn't believe how worn out everyone was at about 4 pm.  We were all whipped.  Little girls wanted to put pjs on and climb into sleeping bags because they were pooped.  They draped themselves on their little sleeping bags and moaned their discontent, until the troop leader popped out another craft project, whereupon they jumped it upon as if they were lions and the craft project was a hapless antelope.  (Really.  It happened.)  Then, they returned to being tired.

Alas, they found their second wind.

These are fine examples of girlscout diggitous.
This not-so-elusive creature enjoys digging
in the ground for rocks, sticks, and possible
fossils.  (I erred in mentioning
there might be fossils about and the brownies
decided that meant there WAS definitely
fossils about and they all became
budding archaeologists, paleontologists, somethingologists.)Meanwhile, back inside, Super Moms were cooking of the dinner.  There were noodles, spaghetti sauce, carrots, and other stuff.  I'm not sure how the older scouts got a different menu but it turned out they had hot dogs and quesadillas roasted on the fire.  (Cheese quesadillas on the fire in aluminum foil for all you naysayers.)  Well, the sight of hot dogs pretty much melted all the younger girl's brains (kind of like the cheese in the quesadillas) and they all wanted them, so we had a lot of noodles and sauce left over.  (Which was a shame because it was tasty, although I had to cook one batch twice because I made the mistake of not checking the al dente-ness of it before draining the entire batch.  Hey, al dente-ness could be a word.  Anyway, don't pour the boiling water out until you're sure the noodles are done.  Just sayin'.)

We didn't have chairs but one of the moms had brought camp chairs.  (Somehow she knew.  I bow to her superior knowledge.)  Moms collapsed into a boneless mass after dinner while brownies flocked to the campfire to be with Super Fire Lord Dads.  (Their capacity for sitting by the fire and keeping it going certainly impressed the brownies.  Also they kept the brownies, some of whom were inordinately interested in how fire works and waving the fire around, from burning down the campground.)  (Kudos to the dads for their Smoky the Bear-ism.)  (Apparently, I can't keep myself from making up words today.  Just go with it.)

The older scouts were forced to perform minor
surgery on one junior due to the senseless attack
of a maddened splinter.  The splinter was eventually
located and disposed of in a humane manner.  But
it took three girls to perform the surgery.  Faces
have been concealed to protect the innocent.  Also
they moved because they didn't want a picture taken.S'mores followed while moms cleaned up.  Eventually the moms were allowed to sit by the fire and partake of the chocolatey-marshmallowy-graham-crackerity goodness.  Sticky fingers were had by all.  More rocks were dug up.  There were also several attempts to see just how much wood could be burned in one sitting.  (Turns out it's quite a bit.)

Then it began to SNOW!  I checked my droid for the weather map.  And lo and behold, there was a tiny patch of pinky-purpleness ONLY over us, like we had been cursed.  There was a hundred square miles showing on the little map and it was only snowing on us.

Well, it wasn't this bad.  But it was snow!  No, it was SNOW!
No, it was ***SNOW***!!!I called HIM, the man to whom I'm married, and said, "It's snowing here, bud."  HIM said, "Not here."  I said, "You'll come dig me out tomorrow, right?"  "No," HIM said.  "Watching the Military History Channel with a Foster's Lager.  Use the four wheel drive on the Explorer.  Buh-bye."  (No, HIM didn't really say that, but I'm pretty sure that's what he was thinking.)

7 pm.  The girls decided to watch a pukey Barbie movie.  (Pukey may be another made up word but I stand by my made up words.)  I'm pretty sure I turned green with vomitious implications.  (Barbie sucks, i.e., Barbie movies REALLY, REALLY, REALLY suck.  Here's an example of Barbie dialogue: "Look, there's an evil, fairy wizardess who's going to do bad things unless we save the fairy world.  We must use rainbows, light, and wishful thinking as our weapons."  "First, we must rescue a mermaid prince and have lots of adventures with strange creatures we wouldn't normally associate with and who are here for comic relief."  Okay, I'm not really using true Barbie dialogue, but I'm not exaggerating that much.)  Moms escaped into the kitchen to avoid the inevitable brain damage and for coffee, tea, and adult conversation.  (Example of adult conversation: "You tired?"  "Yes, dead beat."  "More tea.")

In the interim I was called on to kill four, flying beetle-like bugs who were threatening to dismember the children.  Also a poor spider was forced down although I told the girls the thing wasn't bothering anyone.

There was the splinter incident, a bloody nose (caused by dry air not a fist), two girls who wanted their absent mommies, two more who were scared of the dark (one of those was Cressy), a bathroom with one door that didn't lock, and a partridge in a pear tree who was screaming, "Christmas is over commercialized!"  One poor upset girl thought she'd popped the scout leader's air mattress (the kids were playing on them while the adults weren't looking and she didn't really pop it.)

Lessons learned:

For future reference, my air pump has a reversible flow.  One way blows and the other way sucks.  (Guess which way I had it set on when I tried to blow up my air mattress?  Guess how long it took me to figure that out?)  Furthermore, air mattresses are cold.  Additionally, kids do not want to go to sleep when they are congregated together in a large room.  Also, Barbie movies have not magically improved since the last time I saw one.  Lastly, kids are still finicky eaters and anything they don't like is, "Stuff that makes my stomach hurt."  (Direct quote.)

Day 2:

Moms packed and stuffed and cleaned.  The older scouts took the younger ones to the Pooh Tree.  I was dragged along because the scout leader knew there were hills involved and wisely abdicated.  Why is it called the Pooh Tree?  I will show you.

One little girl was smart enough not to want to go
into the big bleeping hole in the tree.The older scouts then fell into the hole.  I had a strong urge to run and leave the kids in the hole in the tree but my conscience kicked in.

I told them not to close their eyes.So off we went back to camp, up hill, and eventually I dragged myself back.  Some of the brownies got some of the seniors to CARRY them up a very large hill.  (Can someone say, "Suckers!"?)  My daughter eyed me speculatively but realized mommy wasn't going to play ball, so she quickly got to one of the seniors before the other girls.

Once back in camp, we all threw our stuff in the back of our cars and drove back to the real world.

I was so tired I fell into bed without taking a shower and had to later change the sheets because of it.

But hey, Cressy had a blast and they're already planning their next camping trip.