C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 22
December 19, 2011
Confessions of an Assistant Girl Scout Leader OR My Big, Fat Trip into the Potomac Woods OR Are There Bears Out There? Part I
Yes, I know. Part I. I have a lot of information to impart to the humor-deficit masses and only so much blog, so I'm breaking this bad boy down. Of course, it's dependent on how sarcastic and ranty I can get, which make for a longer blog. (Yes, ranty is probably a made up word but I don't care to look it up in my dictionary to find out.)
Okay, here goes. There was...a camping trip. With Girl Scouts. In December. In the wilds of Virginia. (Would you believe the wilds of the nearest Girl Scout camp ground? The wilds of the suburb? About thirty miles away?) We weren't really camping. We had a building with electricity, heat, and water. We had a grocery list. We had a winery right down the road for the adults. (Seriously, a half mile away. Way to hook us up, Girl Scouts.)
Day One:
8:30 am. We meet at Harris Teeter. (Just an interjection but Harris Teeter sounds likes too much like Harris Tweeter and that sounds like someone who just tooted and I don't mean on a horn. It does not sound like a grocery store and btw their prices are a little steep. Recession, much? Get a clue. Change your name. Or sue Twitter. Something. Add totter. Yeah, that's it.)
Immediately all the grown-ups rushed in to get coffee. The children screamed and shrieked in joy and tried to play chicken with cars in the parking lot. (Hey, we had a first aid guy.) The teens just kind of looked at us and said, "What ever ."
Eventually we got on the road. I had a tall cup of french vanilla latte, a big ass load of firewood, a cooler with baloney and cheese sandwiches and a really effed up map. I knew I was in trouble. Plus Cressy, our only child, was in the back talking about how fun things were going to be. Life was going to be way cool for this child. She had a horror story picked out to tell. (See Disembodied Hand for more information on that winner.) She had her sleeping bag. She had her stuffed penguin for protection. Mommy was just a side note. ("Convenient and nice to have in a clench but if we lose her, what the heck because I've got other GIRL SCOUTS!")
Off we went, braving Saturday morning traffic. And everyone was out going someplace. Eventually we turned off main roads and after a few miles I was on a single lane road, wondering if I had seriously effed up. There was the sound of banjos and guitars in the air. (My radio plays weird stations. Honest.)
I stopped to look at my maps on my droid and see
if I could get a signal. So I took a picture of the road
just to show people what I was talking about. Do
you see anything? Cause I didn't. I was seriously
pondering stopping at someone's house but I was kind
of afraid to see who answered.10 am. And voila, around the corner was the camp. Someone had mysteriously beaten me there and got the gates open. Cressy was atwitter in the back. (I must have a tweeting-teeter-twitting thing going on in my mind. I'm broken.)
This was our designated shelter. I think they stuck us in here because
they were afraid of what we might do. But hey, it had heat and electricity and a
refrigerator. Refrigerator good.But I'm missing an opportunity. Let me illustrate.
This is what I actually 'saw.'
I'm getting in a lot of trouble for this.Then brownies descended in a drove. (A drove is any number guaranteed to be annoying to me.)
See. This is definitely a drove. Plus two other parent escorts looking
grim in the background.11 am. We unloaded stuff. I unloaded all of the wood while everyone was playing around. (It's okay, I kind of threw it on the ground because I wasn't inclined to stack it neatly.) I instructed our fire coaches (Not an official title but as men, they were the only ones qualified to build of the manly fire. They were there to help out and teach us puny she-women...I have to stop ranting now.) Let's just say these guys were in charge of teaching the senior scouts (4 teens) how to make a fire with flint. (Later, I heard that fire starter and a lighter were actually required to accomplish the deed. Nanner, nanner doo doo.)
My daughter admiring the manly he-fire. (I brought
the fire starter and lighter and I don't get any credit.)12 pm. The demands began. "We're hungry." "We're starving to death." "Feed us or anarchy now!" (Well, the brownies didn't actually say the last part, but it was very close.) We broke out the brown bag lunches and took the brownies on a nature hike. We saw birds, rocks, trees, and possibly coyote tracks. (Could have been an acorn rolling around in the mud, too.) After the consuming of the food, which all the girls said was, "Good. Grunt. Need more baloney," and "No talking. More eating," our erstwhile scout leader and volunteer mom (not me) taught the girls how to make a shelter. A poncho, cord, and leaves were involved. Much fun was had by all.
I said to smile and they grunted at me. Baloney lunch residual aftereffect.
Also they were gathering leaves to shelter the poncho from the windy
side.1 pm. We tromped back to the cabin and all collapsed. Upon looking at my watch I couldn't believe that it was only 1 pm. I thought my droid was broken. Alas it was not.
2 pm. Other try-it badges were worked upon. The girls had to seek out nature stuff and check it off, working in teams. They found spider webs, tree leaves, bark, animal tracks, and other stuff. Then they all snuck off to play with the seniors. (The seniors were much cooler than the moms. Plus they played soccer with them while I just let them throw rocks at trees.)
You can totally see the coolness emanating from the senior girls in this
picture.But I did show them fungus on a nearby tree. Also we took a picture for a flat Stanley request.
The Flat Stanley is the one on the right of the tree.3 pm. The moms hid inside while the fire-making dad lords kept girls occupied around the fire. (Totally needed the break. Plus apparently watching the fire was as fun as other stuff, too.)
For more titillating details on the camping trip of doom, check back.Will the fire go out?Will we make s'mores?Will any one get a booboo?Will a random bear come in and chow down on an unsuspecting camper?Will I say the words, twitter, tweeter, or teeter again for continuity?Will any of the adults make a run for the winery?
Part II to come soon.
Okay, here goes. There was...a camping trip. With Girl Scouts. In December. In the wilds of Virginia. (Would you believe the wilds of the nearest Girl Scout camp ground? The wilds of the suburb? About thirty miles away?) We weren't really camping. We had a building with electricity, heat, and water. We had a grocery list. We had a winery right down the road for the adults. (Seriously, a half mile away. Way to hook us up, Girl Scouts.)
Day One:
8:30 am. We meet at Harris Teeter. (Just an interjection but Harris Teeter sounds likes too much like Harris Tweeter and that sounds like someone who just tooted and I don't mean on a horn. It does not sound like a grocery store and btw their prices are a little steep. Recession, much? Get a clue. Change your name. Or sue Twitter. Something. Add totter. Yeah, that's it.)
Immediately all the grown-ups rushed in to get coffee. The children screamed and shrieked in joy and tried to play chicken with cars in the parking lot. (Hey, we had a first aid guy.) The teens just kind of looked at us and said, "What ever ."
Eventually we got on the road. I had a tall cup of french vanilla latte, a big ass load of firewood, a cooler with baloney and cheese sandwiches and a really effed up map. I knew I was in trouble. Plus Cressy, our only child, was in the back talking about how fun things were going to be. Life was going to be way cool for this child. She had a horror story picked out to tell. (See Disembodied Hand for more information on that winner.) She had her sleeping bag. She had her stuffed penguin for protection. Mommy was just a side note. ("Convenient and nice to have in a clench but if we lose her, what the heck because I've got other GIRL SCOUTS!")
Off we went, braving Saturday morning traffic. And everyone was out going someplace. Eventually we turned off main roads and after a few miles I was on a single lane road, wondering if I had seriously effed up. There was the sound of banjos and guitars in the air. (My radio plays weird stations. Honest.)
I stopped to look at my maps on my droid and seeif I could get a signal. So I took a picture of the road
just to show people what I was talking about. Do
you see anything? Cause I didn't. I was seriously
pondering stopping at someone's house but I was kind
of afraid to see who answered.10 am. And voila, around the corner was the camp. Someone had mysteriously beaten me there and got the gates open. Cressy was atwitter in the back. (I must have a tweeting-teeter-twitting thing going on in my mind. I'm broken.)
This was our designated shelter. I think they stuck us in here because they were afraid of what we might do. But hey, it had heat and electricity and a
refrigerator. Refrigerator good.But I'm missing an opportunity. Let me illustrate.
This is what I actually 'saw.'I'm getting in a lot of trouble for this.Then brownies descended in a drove. (A drove is any number guaranteed to be annoying to me.)
See. This is definitely a drove. Plus two other parent escorts lookinggrim in the background.11 am. We unloaded stuff. I unloaded all of the wood while everyone was playing around. (It's okay, I kind of threw it on the ground because I wasn't inclined to stack it neatly.) I instructed our fire coaches (Not an official title but as men, they were the only ones qualified to build of the manly fire. They were there to help out and teach us puny she-women...I have to stop ranting now.) Let's just say these guys were in charge of teaching the senior scouts (4 teens) how to make a fire with flint. (Later, I heard that fire starter and a lighter were actually required to accomplish the deed. Nanner, nanner doo doo.)
My daughter admiring the manly he-fire. (I broughtthe fire starter and lighter and I don't get any credit.)12 pm. The demands began. "We're hungry." "We're starving to death." "Feed us or anarchy now!" (Well, the brownies didn't actually say the last part, but it was very close.) We broke out the brown bag lunches and took the brownies on a nature hike. We saw birds, rocks, trees, and possibly coyote tracks. (Could have been an acorn rolling around in the mud, too.) After the consuming of the food, which all the girls said was, "Good. Grunt. Need more baloney," and "No talking. More eating," our erstwhile scout leader and volunteer mom (not me) taught the girls how to make a shelter. A poncho, cord, and leaves were involved. Much fun was had by all.
I said to smile and they grunted at me. Baloney lunch residual aftereffect.Also they were gathering leaves to shelter the poncho from the windy
side.1 pm. We tromped back to the cabin and all collapsed. Upon looking at my watch I couldn't believe that it was only 1 pm. I thought my droid was broken. Alas it was not.
2 pm. Other try-it badges were worked upon. The girls had to seek out nature stuff and check it off, working in teams. They found spider webs, tree leaves, bark, animal tracks, and other stuff. Then they all snuck off to play with the seniors. (The seniors were much cooler than the moms. Plus they played soccer with them while I just let them throw rocks at trees.)
You can totally see the coolness emanating from the senior girls in thispicture.But I did show them fungus on a nearby tree. Also we took a picture for a flat Stanley request.
The Flat Stanley is the one on the right of the tree.3 pm. The moms hid inside while the fire-making dad lords kept girls occupied around the fire. (Totally needed the break. Plus apparently watching the fire was as fun as other stuff, too.)For more titillating details on the camping trip of doom, check back.Will the fire go out?Will we make s'mores?Will any one get a booboo?Will a random bear come in and chow down on an unsuspecting camper?Will I say the words, twitter, tweeter, or teeter again for continuity?Will any of the adults make a run for the winery?
Part II to come soon.
December 15, 2011
The Stupefying, Bloodcurdling Tale of the Disembodied Hand OR Cressy Tells Another Story
The other night I put my child, Cressy, to bed and she said, "Do you want to hear a scary story?" (I know. I know. She really hasn't seen that movie. I swear. I let her watch Raiders of the Lost Ark a while back and she absolutely balked at the snake scene, so I figure really scary movies with all the blood and gore are off limits until, I'm not sure until when. Maybe when she's thirty-five. I guess I should be glad she's not going to mess with snakes or spooky archaeological digs in Egypt.)
Of course, when my only child says, "Do you want to hear a scary story?" I have to say, "Sure," because I never know when they're going to be truly blog worthy. (Far be it for me not to steal material from my onliest offspring.) And what do you know, this one was.
So here goes:
Once, there was a dark, dark night.
See. She was talking really pitch black. I mean, there could be
lions, tigers, and bears about to eat your ass right there and
YOU WOULD NOT KNOW. Just sayin'.Okay, it was a really, really dark night, but not that dark.
"And there weren't any red eyes, Mommy," the peanut gallery
just announced. So much for artistic inventiveness.So you're asleep, Mommy. (Apparently, the story got personalized after I stuck my nose into it. Woe be unto the mommy who interferes with a good plot line.) And there's something near by. It's creepy and crawling and inching its way up the bed covers. (Hopefully it's HIM, but it could also be those stinking meal moths looking for some human tartare.)
There, the creeping, crawling thing from some one's hand. Somewhere,
someone is going, "Now, where did my hand go? I mean, I just had it."So the hand goes up your...arm!
I suspect I have gone away from the original intent of this story, but
I don't care. Shouldn't this be like some kind of funky
Christmas Story? I mean, the hand could lick a metal pole or
something? (Only for Christmas Story fans.)And the disembodied hand eats your hand, Mommy! (Why my hand? Why not HIM's hand? Why not some random stranger's hand? I mean, I use my hands to type and write blogs and stuff. Let it take a foot and be disembodied feet. That sounds way better. The Putrefying Attack of the Disembodied Feet - they will give you athlete's foot and dirty up your socks. Plus, OMG, TOE JAM! Way scarier than a mobile hand with nibbling habits.)
Cressy actually demonstrated on ME. Her hand was the disembodied
hand while my hand was the innocent victim. And I couldn't get away
because I was the designated character to be savagely mauled
by the creepy hand.Consequently, the disembodied hand bit off your hand, Mommy! Then your hand became...like the other disembodied hand!
I couldn't put a goatee on one to be the 'evil' one a la Star Trek, so
I settled with blue fingernail polish. It's the 'new' goatee.Then they go to other hands in other houses, Mommy. They bite them off, too! They become an Army of Disembodied Hands, MOMMY! (I think the loudness was an indication of how dramatic the story was and also how scared I should be of the creepy, crawly hands. Wasn't there a movie about disembodied hands with Michael Caine? Uh-oh, I'm going to have to Google it. I can't NOT Google it. I'm compelled.)
I love the evil scientist laugh.Then, Mommy, Cressy said near the exciting end. The sun came up and all the hands withered away, because they don't like the sun. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. (I could make a fortune selling the extra duty, heavy SPF sunblock to all the hands in the Army of Disembodied Hands.)
Blogging is so much fun.
Incidentally, The Hand (1981) does star Michael Caine. And is directed by...OLIVER FREAKIN' STONE. Obviously before Platoon. I swear Cressy has never seen this movie.
And in conclusion, it dawns on me, as often things do, that I've neglected the possible Christmas connotations therein. (What Christmas connotations you say?) Here ya go. (I'm so twisted.)
Happy holidays!
Of course, when my only child says, "Do you want to hear a scary story?" I have to say, "Sure," because I never know when they're going to be truly blog worthy. (Far be it for me not to steal material from my onliest offspring.) And what do you know, this one was.
So here goes:
Once, there was a dark, dark night.
See. She was talking really pitch black. I mean, there could belions, tigers, and bears about to eat your ass right there and
YOU WOULD NOT KNOW. Just sayin'.Okay, it was a really, really dark night, but not that dark.
"And there weren't any red eyes, Mommy," the peanut galleryjust announced. So much for artistic inventiveness.So you're asleep, Mommy. (Apparently, the story got personalized after I stuck my nose into it. Woe be unto the mommy who interferes with a good plot line.) And there's something near by. It's creepy and crawling and inching its way up the bed covers. (Hopefully it's HIM, but it could also be those stinking meal moths looking for some human tartare.)
There, the creeping, crawling thing from some one's hand. Somewhere,someone is going, "Now, where did my hand go? I mean, I just had it."So the hand goes up your...arm!
I suspect I have gone away from the original intent of this story, butI don't care. Shouldn't this be like some kind of funky
Christmas Story? I mean, the hand could lick a metal pole or
something? (Only for Christmas Story fans.)And the disembodied hand eats your hand, Mommy! (Why my hand? Why not HIM's hand? Why not some random stranger's hand? I mean, I use my hands to type and write blogs and stuff. Let it take a foot and be disembodied feet. That sounds way better. The Putrefying Attack of the Disembodied Feet - they will give you athlete's foot and dirty up your socks. Plus, OMG, TOE JAM! Way scarier than a mobile hand with nibbling habits.)
Cressy actually demonstrated on ME. Her hand was the disembodiedhand while my hand was the innocent victim. And I couldn't get away
because I was the designated character to be savagely mauled
by the creepy hand.Consequently, the disembodied hand bit off your hand, Mommy! Then your hand became...like the other disembodied hand!
I couldn't put a goatee on one to be the 'evil' one a la Star Trek, soI settled with blue fingernail polish. It's the 'new' goatee.Then they go to other hands in other houses, Mommy. They bite them off, too! They become an Army of Disembodied Hands, MOMMY! (I think the loudness was an indication of how dramatic the story was and also how scared I should be of the creepy, crawly hands. Wasn't there a movie about disembodied hands with Michael Caine? Uh-oh, I'm going to have to Google it. I can't NOT Google it. I'm compelled.)
I love the evil scientist laugh.Then, Mommy, Cressy said near the exciting end. The sun came up and all the hands withered away, because they don't like the sun. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. (I could make a fortune selling the extra duty, heavy SPF sunblock to all the hands in the Army of Disembodied Hands.)Blogging is so much fun.
Incidentally, The Hand (1981) does star Michael Caine. And is directed by...OLIVER FREAKIN' STONE. Obviously before Platoon. I swear Cressy has never seen this movie.
And in conclusion, it dawns on me, as often things do, that I've neglected the possible Christmas connotations therein. (What Christmas connotations you say?) Here ya go. (I'm so twisted.)
Happy holidays!
December 12, 2011
How I Have Been Remiss in Taunting My Sister's Cat OR More Illustrations to Amuse the Masses
Recently it dawned on me that I have neglected my humorous blogs because I have been busy whining about finishing a novel. (Psst. You. Bubba and the Missing Woman is done. Go buy it on Amazon, B&N, or Smashwords. I'll wait. Really, go and buy it now. You're missing out. You *NEED* to find out what happens to Willodean.) (Has any reader yet figured out that I use my blog to shamelessly plug my work? Yes. I really do.)
So since funny things continue to happen to me and I'm obliged to offer running commentary, I will return to the ritualized taunting of my sister's cat. A brief round-up for those of you not familiar with the taunting of my sister's cat. It started with Things I Cannot Blog About... I introduced my sister's cat, Mellow. Mellow is the cat whom I pissed off in a poorly executed scaring attempt. (Hey, it always worked on my cats.) Then my sister said the cat was insulted, which I took as a challenge. (It sounded like a challenge, therefore I was obligated to answer.) The following blog ensued The Dissing of My Sister's Cat... It was followed by I Have Not Yet Finished With My Sister's Cat... And Mellow appeared in multiple illustrations in various blogs to follow, all of which usually had nothing to do with the blog but amused the hell out of me.
Mellow, my sister's cat. She appears pretty innocuous until you're sleeping.
So glad she lives on the opposite of the country. Or else I would
be totally hosed.
Anyhoo, I was thinking about cats today because my daughter, Cressy, would die to have a cat for Christmas. Literally, she's thinking she will die if a cat doesn't appear in her Christmas sockie. I don't want another pet right now but she's seven and I'm a wuss, so guess what's happening for Christmas.
Voila, we could get a cat like Mellow. My sister thinks she owns the cat. Hahaha. The cat owns her. I only jumped out at the cat and went, "Boo!" or something like that. The cat leaped into the air, performed an Olympic quality back spring, and hissed at me for a substantial amount of time later. Seriously, the cat hissed at me for like 30 minutes and avoided me religiously for the remainder of the visit. And I didn't even touch her.
So I thought about how I have defamed my sister's cat, Mellow. It occurs to me that I may not be done. And since there was a very interesting debate on television last night, I was inspired. ('m speaking of the dreaded 'P' word, you know. I'll whisper it. Politics. Shh.)
Now I'm in trouble. I may never get to go to Arkansas again. (Too bad, I like that state.) And, of course, I'm far from finished. I might as well throw Al Gore under the illustrative bus, too.
Now Tennessee is going to ban me, too. That's really a shame because I haven't been there yet.
However, I'm an equal opportunity taunter and I'm going for republicans, too. If you don't get this reference, you're obviously born after 1988, which means you're too young to read my blog.
I hope Texans (wonderful, beautiful, terrific Texas and its open-minded, humor filled occupants) will take it in the same light as Alabamians and Tennesseans. (Those don't look right. I can't believe the spell check didn't flag either one of those. I probably confused the program.)
And I saved the best for last.
And now California is probably going to shake its finger at me. See, I slammed my sister's cats and Republicans, too.
In conclusion, I think I shouldn't watch Presidential debates or mess with my sister's cat, anymore. I'm starting to feel icky.
So since funny things continue to happen to me and I'm obliged to offer running commentary, I will return to the ritualized taunting of my sister's cat. A brief round-up for those of you not familiar with the taunting of my sister's cat. It started with Things I Cannot Blog About... I introduced my sister's cat, Mellow. Mellow is the cat whom I pissed off in a poorly executed scaring attempt. (Hey, it always worked on my cats.) Then my sister said the cat was insulted, which I took as a challenge. (It sounded like a challenge, therefore I was obligated to answer.) The following blog ensued The Dissing of My Sister's Cat... It was followed by I Have Not Yet Finished With My Sister's Cat... And Mellow appeared in multiple illustrations in various blogs to follow, all of which usually had nothing to do with the blog but amused the hell out of me.
Mellow, my sister's cat. She appears pretty innocuous until you're sleeping.So glad she lives on the opposite of the country. Or else I would
be totally hosed.
Anyhoo, I was thinking about cats today because my daughter, Cressy, would die to have a cat for Christmas. Literally, she's thinking she will die if a cat doesn't appear in her Christmas sockie. I don't want another pet right now but she's seven and I'm a wuss, so guess what's happening for Christmas.
Voila, we could get a cat like Mellow. My sister thinks she owns the cat. Hahaha. The cat owns her. I only jumped out at the cat and went, "Boo!" or something like that. The cat leaped into the air, performed an Olympic quality back spring, and hissed at me for a substantial amount of time later. Seriously, the cat hissed at me for like 30 minutes and avoided me religiously for the remainder of the visit. And I didn't even touch her.
So I thought about how I have defamed my sister's cat, Mellow. It occurs to me that I may not be done. And since there was a very interesting debate on television last night, I was inspired. ('m speaking of the dreaded 'P' word, you know. I'll whisper it. Politics. Shh.)
Now I'm in trouble. I may never get to go to Arkansas again. (Too bad, I like that state.) And, of course, I'm far from finished. I might as well throw Al Gore under the illustrative bus, too.
Now Tennessee is going to ban me, too. That's really a shame because I haven't been there yet.
However, I'm an equal opportunity taunter and I'm going for republicans, too. If you don't get this reference, you're obviously born after 1988, which means you're too young to read my blog.
I hope Texans (wonderful, beautiful, terrific Texas and its open-minded, humor filled occupants) will take it in the same light as Alabamians and Tennesseans. (Those don't look right. I can't believe the spell check didn't flag either one of those. I probably confused the program.)
And I saved the best for last.
And now California is probably going to shake its finger at me. See, I slammed my sister's cats and Republicans, too.
In conclusion, I think I shouldn't watch Presidential debates or mess with my sister's cat, anymore. I'm starting to feel icky.
December 8, 2011
The Foibles of Indie Pubbing OR UH-OH, She's Going to Rant AGAIN! OR Wait For the Punchline!
Upon finishing my last manuscript, Bubba and the Missing Woman, I made a list. I followed the list. I reread it. HIM reread it. My lovely and wonderful proofreader read it. My writing buds read it. I made corrections. I read it again. HIM read it again. I then checked the formatting. I uploaded it to both B&N and Amazon and looked at the pre-reader's look of it. I reloaded to Amazon three times because the kindle platform didn't want to recognize that my manuscript had paragraph indents. I ascertained all was well. I uploaded to B&N, Smashwords, and Amazon. I prepared my blog for the announcement. I prepared an email announcement for my fan list. I made notes about what to say on Facebook.
Then Amazon posted Bubba 3 in like two hours. Yea. Smashwords in about two minutes. Yea. B&N...not yet. Okay, I can deal. I waited 24 hours. Nothing on B&N. I checked their guidelines. They say it'll be up from 24-72 hours. I waited. Hour 48: nothing. I went ahead and posted on my blog, my website and Facebook to let people know it was up on the two. I advised we would have to wait on B&N. End of the day, about Hour 60, I read on B&N's bulletin boards that lots of folks were having a similar problem. I gritted my teeth. Someone said try another file type. I tried that. So now I have two editions of Bubba 3 uploading on B&N. Nothing.
Hour 72: I wrote Pubit! an email. I was polite. Please fix my shizz. That's what I said. Please, before Christmas. Nook-having Bubba fans are going to shiskabob me and never buy one of my books again. Please, please, please, please, PLEASE fix my shizz. My shizz is not working. My shizz needs to be up and running so people can download all the wonderful Bubbaness before and after Christmas when loads of folks get their new ereaders, flames, iPads, etc. Please.
No response.
So I looked in my Pubit! account for help. Here is their idea of customer service support. This is an actual quote.:
If more than 72 hours goes by and your eBook still is not on sale, there may be a problem with your account information. If that is the case, you will receive an email from pubitregistration@barnesandnoble.com with a phone number you can call. You can also email pubit@bn.com if you have questions.HELL YES, I have questions. A lot of them. It's going to be a VERY LONG email. Are you certain you're up to it?
Recently I told a fellow indie writer that B&N has been good to me. Yes, it has. But this sitch is freaking ANNOYING the crap out of me. (My writer bud is going to chortle when he reads this.) I still want to use B&N, but for the love of Merciful Pete, can they please pick up the pace?
And I can't help but wonder if they do this to traditional writers. I don't think so because they can't afford to piss off the big publishing houses.
So I'm saying to my nook fans. Go buy Bubba and the Missing Woman at Smashwords because obviously B&N isn't interested in the revenue.
Oh, yes, my name might not be David, but I'm throwing the effing rock at Goliath's head right now.
And here comes the punchline. As soon as I finished this blog, I got a response from B&N and Bubba 3 is up. So the nasty thought waves I was sending to them actually got them into motion. I think. I'm still not happy. I think Pubit! needs to rethink its customer service contacts. Indie authors are legitimate customers/clients, too. Pffft.
Anyway. It's up on the big three and the others will follow as Smashwords delivers unto them. What a relief.
December 7, 2011
Bubba and the Missing Woman is AVAILABLE! OR How I Finished and Am Dancing Luridly in the Streets OR Be Ready When I Call for Bail Money
Hey, you! Here's the description. Go buy it on Amazon or Smashwords.Coming soon to all the rest.
B&N is being a pest. (Look I rhymed!)
Quite naturally, Bubba's got another problem. The woman he likes, a lot, is missing. Folks 'round Pegramville don't have an inkling whether Bubba done did anything this time. In fact, Bubba doesn't know what to think, but he is plumb dedicated on finding Willodean Gray, through fair means or foul. It will take a trip to the big city of Dallas, a run-in with an unstable superhero called The Purple Singapore Sling, a kidnapping by a Dallas crime lord, and a headlong hunt for a devious individual who snatched the fair Sheriff's Deputy to figure out which end is up. What Bubba comes to understand is not all the crazy folks live in the country.
Bubba's on the edge and he's goin' hog-wild in a donut factory! Book 3 of the Bubba series.
Here's where to click if you want it on Amazon.Here's where to click if you want it on B&N.
(Soon)Here's where to click if you want it on Smashwords.
B&N is being a pest. (Look I rhymed!)
Quite naturally, Bubba's got another problem. The woman he likes, a lot, is missing. Folks 'round Pegramville don't have an inkling whether Bubba done did anything this time. In fact, Bubba doesn't know what to think, but he is plumb dedicated on finding Willodean Gray, through fair means or foul. It will take a trip to the big city of Dallas, a run-in with an unstable superhero called The Purple Singapore Sling, a kidnapping by a Dallas crime lord, and a headlong hunt for a devious individual who snatched the fair Sheriff's Deputy to figure out which end is up. What Bubba comes to understand is not all the crazy folks live in the country.
Bubba's on the edge and he's goin' hog-wild in a donut factory! Book 3 of the Bubba series.
Here's where to click if you want it on Amazon.Here's where to click if you want it on B&N.(Soon)Here's where to click if you want it on Smashwords.
December 5, 2011
The Evil Perpetrator, the School System OR Shameless Moneygrubbing Swine Abounding
So Cressy, my seven year old daughter, goes to elementary school. No big. She's in 2nd grade. All is good, right?
Wrong. Wrongness personified. Wrongity-wrong-wrong. Wrongenivity.
So what have I learned about the public school system since Cressy began attending? Why, I'll tell you. In excruciating detail, too.
They love to squeeze you for money. "Excuse me, we have needs, you have extra cash, give it to us. What's that you say? We already get your tax money and federal money and some other money that we don't want to talk about? Pshaw. Silly excuses. You're a stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf-herder if you don't hand over your wallet immediately." (Okay, I felt compelled to insert an odd homage to a classic movie. Go George Lucas. It doesn't have anything to do with the subject of the blog but WTF?)
Hmm. Public school asking for money. Okay, fine. I get it. Their budget is tight. Taxes are down. They want kids to do stuff that is fun. Parents might have some extra cash or whatnot. I get it. I really do.
But what do they do? They manipulate us via slyly using our children. I shall explain.
Last week, Cressy got off the bus and yelled, "I HAVE PICTURES!" She was referring to school pictures. The problem was that I had already gotten school pictures and paid for them. $45 for a package. (Certainly a fair deal for photographs even though we don't use all of them.) (No, I'm not complaining yet.)
So last week there was another package of photographs. This time not solicited from the school by me. (You see, they know Christmas is approaching and photographs of your beloved child are a favored gift to send to the 'rents and the laws. They know. They probably made up the rule. Hell, they probably giggled when they did it.)
I feel obliged to mention when I went to school in the olden days of yore (You know when we walked ten miles to school, uphill in the snow, with a backpack that weighed forty tons, both ways.) we only had one picture event a year in school. ONE!!!!! (It was so thrilling we nearly peed our pants but not me.)
Let me tell you what today's public school does. There's the fall photos. There's the spring photos. There's the group/class photo. This year we had a little brochure featuring your own child's art work. And once a month they send home a brochure for books for your child. Then two or three times there's a fund raiser for the PTO at Chuck E bleeping Cheese or Chick Fil A. They would also like you to contribute all of your soup labels, your little pink labels, and some other labels I've forgotten the name of, too. If you don't contribute labels, obviously you're a cheapskate of ginormous magnitude who's only buying generic. There's the holiday gift shop where they allow your child to make a list, so you'll feel really, really, really guilty if you don't send back a check with the conveniently aforementioned, pre-filled out list. There are movie nights, game nights, and a fair, all to raise money. Then there's a fun run, too. As a parent I'm encouraged to participate, volunteer, and send money. But also they remind my child to REMIND me, if I don't.
If I didn't have a steady income in the family I'm not sure how we could afford any of it.
And the sneaky part, well, there's several sneaky parts, but the sneakiest is involving your child. Not is the child encouraged to blab on you, but also to harangue you in case you...don't wanna contribute. (You utter swine.)
I shall explain some more for I'm in an explaining (complaining/moaning/wailing) mood.
They sent this additional package of photos home. (Actually they're magnets and laminated pictures from the 'fall' shot and ideal for sticking in your Christmas cards. It even says so on the package. Ideal for use as ornaments, gifts and as personal gift tags. The magnet ones says holiday magnets, great gifts and keepsakes. The unsaid portion says, "Hey, you, the tightwad starving writer, are you really going to send these unsolicited potential keepsakes back to the school with your only beloved child so that she will be mortally embarrassed for your penny-pinching ways? Are you really? Really?") Then they make sure they rub it into your child. (Cressy takes photographs of herself very seriously. I mean, she doesn't 'take' them but she has a vested interest. After all, they're of HER. Taking them back to school = Mom is a poopoo head.) Cressy held them up like they were a big game trophy. "LOOOOOOK, MA! PHOOOOOTOOOOGRAPHS!!!!!!"
And oh, don't forget they do the same thing with the fund raisers. For example, on Chuck E Farting Cheese night, they slap stickers on all the children, lest the manipulation not be forgotten. I'm pretty sure it goes like this: "Psst, kid, here's a sticker for Chuck E Cheese. Tell your parents you have to go because you're being graded and all the other kids will know if you're not there." Then they look around to make sure no one is watching them or using a local security camera and say menacingly, "We're watching you, little child." The stickers are good for ten tokens but also they're good for smashing it into your silly, miserly face, and questioning if you've really been supportive of the school this year.
Hahaha. Okay, I get wanting the money. But I dislike the child involvement tactic. The school sucks. I should just give them my freakin' bank account number and some withdrawal slips. And they're probably going to blackball me for complaining about it.
Wrong. Wrongness personified. Wrongity-wrong-wrong. Wrongenivity.
So what have I learned about the public school system since Cressy began attending? Why, I'll tell you. In excruciating detail, too.
They love to squeeze you for money. "Excuse me, we have needs, you have extra cash, give it to us. What's that you say? We already get your tax money and federal money and some other money that we don't want to talk about? Pshaw. Silly excuses. You're a stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf-herder if you don't hand over your wallet immediately." (Okay, I felt compelled to insert an odd homage to a classic movie. Go George Lucas. It doesn't have anything to do with the subject of the blog but WTF?)
Hmm. Public school asking for money. Okay, fine. I get it. Their budget is tight. Taxes are down. They want kids to do stuff that is fun. Parents might have some extra cash or whatnot. I get it. I really do.
But what do they do? They manipulate us via slyly using our children. I shall explain.
Last week, Cressy got off the bus and yelled, "I HAVE PICTURES!" She was referring to school pictures. The problem was that I had already gotten school pictures and paid for them. $45 for a package. (Certainly a fair deal for photographs even though we don't use all of them.) (No, I'm not complaining yet.)
So last week there was another package of photographs. This time not solicited from the school by me. (You see, they know Christmas is approaching and photographs of your beloved child are a favored gift to send to the 'rents and the laws. They know. They probably made up the rule. Hell, they probably giggled when they did it.)
I feel obliged to mention when I went to school in the olden days of yore (You know when we walked ten miles to school, uphill in the snow, with a backpack that weighed forty tons, both ways.) we only had one picture event a year in school. ONE!!!!! (It was so thrilling we nearly peed our pants but not me.)
Let me tell you what today's public school does. There's the fall photos. There's the spring photos. There's the group/class photo. This year we had a little brochure featuring your own child's art work. And once a month they send home a brochure for books for your child. Then two or three times there's a fund raiser for the PTO at Chuck E bleeping Cheese or Chick Fil A. They would also like you to contribute all of your soup labels, your little pink labels, and some other labels I've forgotten the name of, too. If you don't contribute labels, obviously you're a cheapskate of ginormous magnitude who's only buying generic. There's the holiday gift shop where they allow your child to make a list, so you'll feel really, really, really guilty if you don't send back a check with the conveniently aforementioned, pre-filled out list. There are movie nights, game nights, and a fair, all to raise money. Then there's a fun run, too. As a parent I'm encouraged to participate, volunteer, and send money. But also they remind my child to REMIND me, if I don't.
If I didn't have a steady income in the family I'm not sure how we could afford any of it.
And the sneaky part, well, there's several sneaky parts, but the sneakiest is involving your child. Not is the child encouraged to blab on you, but also to harangue you in case you...don't wanna contribute. (You utter swine.)
I shall explain some more for I'm in an explaining (complaining/moaning/wailing) mood.
They sent this additional package of photos home. (Actually they're magnets and laminated pictures from the 'fall' shot and ideal for sticking in your Christmas cards. It even says so on the package. Ideal for use as ornaments, gifts and as personal gift tags. The magnet ones says holiday magnets, great gifts and keepsakes. The unsaid portion says, "Hey, you, the tightwad starving writer, are you really going to send these unsolicited potential keepsakes back to the school with your only beloved child so that she will be mortally embarrassed for your penny-pinching ways? Are you really? Really?") Then they make sure they rub it into your child. (Cressy takes photographs of herself very seriously. I mean, she doesn't 'take' them but she has a vested interest. After all, they're of HER. Taking them back to school = Mom is a poopoo head.) Cressy held them up like they were a big game trophy. "LOOOOOOK, MA! PHOOOOOTOOOOGRAPHS!!!!!!"
And oh, don't forget they do the same thing with the fund raisers. For example, on Chuck E Farting Cheese night, they slap stickers on all the children, lest the manipulation not be forgotten. I'm pretty sure it goes like this: "Psst, kid, here's a sticker for Chuck E Cheese. Tell your parents you have to go because you're being graded and all the other kids will know if you're not there." Then they look around to make sure no one is watching them or using a local security camera and say menacingly, "We're watching you, little child." The stickers are good for ten tokens but also they're good for smashing it into your silly, miserly face, and questioning if you've really been supportive of the school this year.
Hahaha. Okay, I get wanting the money. But I dislike the child involvement tactic. The school sucks. I should just give them my freakin' bank account number and some withdrawal slips. And they're probably going to blackball me for complaining about it.
December 1, 2011
O Christmas Light Torture OR Things Not to Do on Thanksgiving Weekend
I know this blog is delayed a wee bit. I got distracted because my proofreader/editor gave me back a corrected copy of Bubba and the Missing Woman and my brain melted into primordial writer's goo. (Ask any writer. It's when you HAVE to do something to your manuscript before something else happens.)
But on the weekend after the esteemed Turkey Day, we recuperated by the putting up of the Christmas lights.
I have some obligatory comments to make. (Also something that happens to me. I HAVE to comment on stuff like this. It's either make comments or get gagged. One or the other.)
Every year we put up Christmas lights. In actuality, HIM, the man to whom I'm married, puts up the lights and I help...marginally. (Mostly I interfere and ask inane questions and gripe about how none of the other neighbors will put up lights.)
This event commences with the detanglement of the mass of Christmas lights from the previous year. This is also known as the Eff-It-I'm-Just-Throwing-Them-Into-The-Big-Plastic-Tub-Without-Wrapping-Them-Neatly Day. (Taking down Christmas lights = yuckiness. Who wants to wrap them neatly so the following year they can be utilized without damaging your cerebral cortex? Where's the fun in that?)
This also inspired me to want to wrap Cressy, our daughter, up in Christmas lights for our annual Christmas photo, but I was outvoted by HIM and Cressy. HIM didn't want to unwrap the light in order to wrap them around a squirmy seven year old. Cressy didn't want the lights wrapped around her. Cressy also suggested that we wrap them around HIM instead, but HIM mysteriously vanished in the moment I turned my head away. Thus I was outvoted and outmaneuvered. Bah, humbug.
Anyway, the lights were retrieved from the attic. The boxes were opened. Various balls of light strands were extracted. Groans at the messiness were emitted.
HIM mentally designed his supreme composition. Strands of multicolored effervescent lights would adorn the fence draped in delicate scallops. Wisps of red brilliance would dance along the eaves of the roof. More multicolored lights would wind around the columns, showing their dazzling LED-edness. Ah, the artistic flair. The wonder. The post-Christmas surprise of the amount of the electricity bill.
Upon assisting HIM with his vision I discovered that HIM wanted the strands in a specific order. Apparently I put the male end on the wrong side. (Silly me. Male end with two little prongy things. Female end with the holes. How could I get that mixed up?) Everything had to be reversed.
The reversing happened. Then I "helped" with another cord. Hahaha. Just because the other cord was the male end on that side DID NOT mean I had it correct the second time because HIM had a special plan for that set of lights. The reversing happened again. Low pitched grumbling commenced.
Extension cords were retrieved. We did not have enough. Browning out the neighborhood would not suffice. We had to cause a black out of epic proportion. We had to show planes where to land. We had to signal the Martians of our holiday intentions. We had to go to Home Depot for more extension cords.
After I asked HIM to explain his "plan" for the third time and HIM had the following expression on his face, I decided to go inside where I could watch from the window and drink spiked eggnog. (Oh, I kind of skipped the eggnog part.)
Then HIM got the big ladder out and proceeded to extract the staple gun. HIM and staple gun, hmm. My mind boggled. (What does that mean anyway? I mentally picture someone shaking up my brain in a plastic container and dumping it on the floor to see what it spells.) I turned on the Christmas music channel and then turned on the volume. I also put my phone in my pocket for faster speed dialing to 9-1-1.
HIM came in a while later and said, "There's wood rot on the eaves." How, you might ask, did he know? Well, the short answer is that when he stapled the lights to the wood, the wood fell apart. (Let me come up with the long answer. When HIM decided on his ultimate design of masterful Christmas artistry to shame the neighbors and suck the electric dry of all of its energy, HIM briefly considered that we're about to have our roof replaced. So HIM opted not to use the little plastic doohickeys that attach to the shingles and to use the staple gun. HIM might have also been shooting staples at squirrels but I'm not saying that officially. So HIM thought if he stapled the wires to the wood, all would be well. Also HIM wouldn't let me staple the wires because one time in 1994 I stapled Christmas lights to our house and accidentally stapled inside the wires, thereby shorting out the entire set of lights in perpetuity. Yes, that is a long answer, Virginia.)
Anyway, here's the picture of the lights at night. They won't be up long because we're taking them down to have someone fix all the wood rot HIM discovered.
Anyhoo, hope your Christmas light experience goes better than ours. Or if you're really smart you said, "Eff that, we're going to Vegas."
But on the weekend after the esteemed Turkey Day, we recuperated by the putting up of the Christmas lights.
I have some obligatory comments to make. (Also something that happens to me. I HAVE to comment on stuff like this. It's either make comments or get gagged. One or the other.)
Every year we put up Christmas lights. In actuality, HIM, the man to whom I'm married, puts up the lights and I help...marginally. (Mostly I interfere and ask inane questions and gripe about how none of the other neighbors will put up lights.)
This event commences with the detanglement of the mass of Christmas lights from the previous year. This is also known as the Eff-It-I'm-Just-Throwing-Them-Into-The-Big-Plastic-Tub-Without-Wrapping-Them-Neatly Day. (Taking down Christmas lights = yuckiness. Who wants to wrap them neatly so the following year they can be utilized without damaging your cerebral cortex? Where's the fun in that?)
This also inspired me to want to wrap Cressy, our daughter, up in Christmas lights for our annual Christmas photo, but I was outvoted by HIM and Cressy. HIM didn't want to unwrap the light in order to wrap them around a squirmy seven year old. Cressy didn't want the lights wrapped around her. Cressy also suggested that we wrap them around HIM instead, but HIM mysteriously vanished in the moment I turned my head away. Thus I was outvoted and outmaneuvered. Bah, humbug.
Anyway, the lights were retrieved from the attic. The boxes were opened. Various balls of light strands were extracted. Groans at the messiness were emitted.
HIM mentally designed his supreme composition. Strands of multicolored effervescent lights would adorn the fence draped in delicate scallops. Wisps of red brilliance would dance along the eaves of the roof. More multicolored lights would wind around the columns, showing their dazzling LED-edness. Ah, the artistic flair. The wonder. The post-Christmas surprise of the amount of the electricity bill.
Upon assisting HIM with his vision I discovered that HIM wanted the strands in a specific order. Apparently I put the male end on the wrong side. (Silly me. Male end with two little prongy things. Female end with the holes. How could I get that mixed up?) Everything had to be reversed.
The reversing happened. Then I "helped" with another cord. Hahaha. Just because the other cord was the male end on that side DID NOT mean I had it correct the second time because HIM had a special plan for that set of lights. The reversing happened again. Low pitched grumbling commenced.
Extension cords were retrieved. We did not have enough. Browning out the neighborhood would not suffice. We had to cause a black out of epic proportion. We had to show planes where to land. We had to signal the Martians of our holiday intentions. We had to go to Home Depot for more extension cords.
After I asked HIM to explain his "plan" for the third time and HIM had the following expression on his face, I decided to go inside where I could watch from the window and drink spiked eggnog. (Oh, I kind of skipped the eggnog part.)
Then HIM got the big ladder out and proceeded to extract the staple gun. HIM and staple gun, hmm. My mind boggled. (What does that mean anyway? I mentally picture someone shaking up my brain in a plastic container and dumping it on the floor to see what it spells.) I turned on the Christmas music channel and then turned on the volume. I also put my phone in my pocket for faster speed dialing to 9-1-1.
HIM came in a while later and said, "There's wood rot on the eaves." How, you might ask, did he know? Well, the short answer is that when he stapled the lights to the wood, the wood fell apart. (Let me come up with the long answer. When HIM decided on his ultimate design of masterful Christmas artistry to shame the neighbors and suck the electric dry of all of its energy, HIM briefly considered that we're about to have our roof replaced. So HIM opted not to use the little plastic doohickeys that attach to the shingles and to use the staple gun. HIM might have also been shooting staples at squirrels but I'm not saying that officially. So HIM thought if he stapled the wires to the wood, all would be well. Also HIM wouldn't let me staple the wires because one time in 1994 I stapled Christmas lights to our house and accidentally stapled inside the wires, thereby shorting out the entire set of lights in perpetuity. Yes, that is a long answer, Virginia.)
Anyway, here's the picture of the lights at night. They won't be up long because we're taking them down to have someone fix all the wood rot HIM discovered.
Anyhoo, hope your Christmas light experience goes better than ours. Or if you're really smart you said, "Eff that, we're going to Vegas."
November 28, 2011
Stuff That Amuses Me OR Things That Make Me Snort Peas Out of My Nose and Not in a Good Way
My daughter, seven years old, Cressy, brought home an art project she did last week. As an artist, I'm always interested in what she does. She showed me the project.
The wings are attached by little metal dohickeys that allow the wings to go up and down. So it can fly.
I said, "So, you did an eagle. Good job." But UH-OH! The mother train had derailed dramatically. I did not automatically see the artistic visionary process that a seven year old had portrayed in crayola a la carte.
"It's not an eagle," my little budding Van Gogh announced to me. Her tone was deadly serious. As a mother and parental unit, I had made a grievous error in judging too quickly. I looked again.
"Looks like an eagle to me," I said, wondering if I was stuffing my feet into my mouth. (Contrary to popular belief, fat women can, in fact, insert both feet into their mouths AND at the same time. I ought to know. I do it frequently.)
My daughter cast a death glare upon me. Sometimes I forget she's only seven. She's got that glare down to at least sixteen. Maybe even thirty.
"It's not an eagle," she said again.
"Oh kay," I said carefully. The death bell had tolled for thee, me, whatever. (Dead mommy walking.) "What is it?"
(Here it comes. It's a good one.) "It's a zombie eagle," she said with a straight face.
I looked again. "There's blood coming out of its mouth."
See. I've pointed out the blood. One can see how I might have initially missed this important aspect to the drawing. One can see, but obviously a daughter CANNOT see how I missed it.
But Cressy wasn't done outlining her artistic creativity with the national bird of our country. "The pink stuff is...brain juice." (She paused for melodramatic effect.)
You see, if you previously read about the Cressy rules concerning zombies you would instantly comprehend her reasoning. See 'The Origin of Zombies OR Why We Must Never Drive Past Graveyards at Night.' Specifically, Zombies eat brains, brain juice and cereal. (Not any icky kinds of cereal like Wheaties and Corn Flakes. But the good stuff like Captain Crunch and Count Chocula.) Therefore if they eat the brains there's going to be brain-stuff all over the zombie eagle's chest. (Mommies are, apparently, clueless concerning zombie eagles.)
"You mean brains," I said. Obviously I had missed some integral details on my daughter's magnum opus.
"No, it's brain juice," my only offspring announced as if I was stupid. (I suspect to her I was.) "The zombie eagle ate the brains, so it's only juice on its feathers." (There was a silent, "Dumbass," on the end of that statement. What was I thinking? After all, it wasn't a zombie eagle with a bib.)
Now I'm picturing a restaurant just for zombie eagles. (Maybe zombie turkeys or zombie pelicans, if they're lucky.) Red Brains? Pink Brains? I'm certainly open for suggestion.
Again, I've come to the realization that no one switched my daughter at the hospital. This is all on me.
The wings are attached by little metal dohickeys that allow the wings to go up and down. So it can fly.
I said, "So, you did an eagle. Good job." But UH-OH! The mother train had derailed dramatically. I did not automatically see the artistic visionary process that a seven year old had portrayed in crayola a la carte.
"It's not an eagle," my little budding Van Gogh announced to me. Her tone was deadly serious. As a mother and parental unit, I had made a grievous error in judging too quickly. I looked again.
"Looks like an eagle to me," I said, wondering if I was stuffing my feet into my mouth. (Contrary to popular belief, fat women can, in fact, insert both feet into their mouths AND at the same time. I ought to know. I do it frequently.)
My daughter cast a death glare upon me. Sometimes I forget she's only seven. She's got that glare down to at least sixteen. Maybe even thirty.
"It's not an eagle," she said again.
"Oh kay," I said carefully. The death bell had tolled for thee, me, whatever. (Dead mommy walking.) "What is it?"
(Here it comes. It's a good one.) "It's a zombie eagle," she said with a straight face.
I looked again. "There's blood coming out of its mouth."
See. I've pointed out the blood. One can see how I might have initially missed this important aspect to the drawing. One can see, but obviously a daughter CANNOT see how I missed it.But Cressy wasn't done outlining her artistic creativity with the national bird of our country. "The pink stuff is...brain juice." (She paused for melodramatic effect.)
You see, if you previously read about the Cressy rules concerning zombies you would instantly comprehend her reasoning. See 'The Origin of Zombies OR Why We Must Never Drive Past Graveyards at Night.' Specifically, Zombies eat brains, brain juice and cereal. (Not any icky kinds of cereal like Wheaties and Corn Flakes. But the good stuff like Captain Crunch and Count Chocula.) Therefore if they eat the brains there's going to be brain-stuff all over the zombie eagle's chest. (Mommies are, apparently, clueless concerning zombie eagles.)
"You mean brains," I said. Obviously I had missed some integral details on my daughter's magnum opus.
"No, it's brain juice," my only offspring announced as if I was stupid. (I suspect to her I was.) "The zombie eagle ate the brains, so it's only juice on its feathers." (There was a silent, "Dumbass," on the end of that statement. What was I thinking? After all, it wasn't a zombie eagle with a bib.)
Now I'm picturing a restaurant just for zombie eagles. (Maybe zombie turkeys or zombie pelicans, if they're lucky.) Red Brains? Pink Brains? I'm certainly open for suggestion.
Again, I've come to the realization that no one switched my daughter at the hospital. This is all on me.
November 24, 2011
The Attack of the Moth Beast From HELL OR Happy Thanksgiving to Insects OR Happy Thanksgiving to the Rest of You, Too!
In the last few years there's been an ongoing battle with a gigantic, enormous, beastly pest in my house. (No, not HIM. Although HIM, the man to whom I'm married, can be a pest, he isn't the pest of which I speak.)
Not cockroaches, silverfish, ants, or alien hordes from the Dagobah System. (Okay, who got that reference? Go ahead, admit you're a technogeek from the seventies.)
No, it's #$%@^&!!! moths. Little vicious heifers called meal moths.
Apparently these fiends from hell get into various pantry food. (Dry pet food, rice, cereal, anything not battened down with iron clippies that would make a dominatrix howl.) They lay their little eggy vermin and then they take over your house. (I was wondering who was TIVO-ing Desperate Housewives.) Did I mention these little sh*theads are only 1/4 inch long, fully grown?
Well, they are. 1/4 inch FULLY FRICKIN' GROWN!!!
How to get rid of meal moths? Pray, light your house on fire with napalm, and rebuild in Alaska, where hopefully the little f**kers can't follow you. (No guarantees because they probably got into your luggage, so you should just burn all of your belongings and move into a hut in the wilderness instead. Get used to wearing leaves. Learn that adage: Leaves of three, leave it be.)
I have to clean out the pantry of anything that's open. I did this four times already. I have to spray the nooks and crannies with a special insecticide. (Which sounds bad considering the area is a PANTRY, which allegedly contains foods that WE eat. Chemicals near food we eat = badness or possibly a third arm growing out of my back-ness.) Then I put out these little traps that emit pheromones and trap all the boy meal moths. (The lady moths are going to be pissed with me.)
Finally, the creme de la creme. We'll have to wait for NINETY #@$%^*!!!! days because that is how long the eggs might continue to hatch.
I'm told the rotten little bleep-bleep-bleeping-bleeps get their danders up and find other food sources until you get lazy with the cereal/catfood/whatever again. So I have to put those little smell-good-to-boys traps in every room. For ninety days. Ad nauseam.
At least it's not bedbugs. Did I mention we're eating out for Thanksgiving? Possibly Chinese food.
Anyway, I'm thankful for free speech. Also HIM, Cressy, my favorite relatives who read my novels, my sister, my blog, and the fact that I get to epublish pretty much what I want. Screw the meal moths. Life is good.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Not cockroaches, silverfish, ants, or alien hordes from the Dagobah System. (Okay, who got that reference? Go ahead, admit you're a technogeek from the seventies.)
No, it's #$%@^&!!! moths. Little vicious heifers called meal moths.
Apparently these fiends from hell get into various pantry food. (Dry pet food, rice, cereal, anything not battened down with iron clippies that would make a dominatrix howl.) They lay their little eggy vermin and then they take over your house. (I was wondering who was TIVO-ing Desperate Housewives.) Did I mention these little sh*theads are only 1/4 inch long, fully grown?
Well, they are. 1/4 inch FULLY FRICKIN' GROWN!!!
How to get rid of meal moths? Pray, light your house on fire with napalm, and rebuild in Alaska, where hopefully the little f**kers can't follow you. (No guarantees because they probably got into your luggage, so you should just burn all of your belongings and move into a hut in the wilderness instead. Get used to wearing leaves. Learn that adage: Leaves of three, leave it be.)
I have to clean out the pantry of anything that's open. I did this four times already. I have to spray the nooks and crannies with a special insecticide. (Which sounds bad considering the area is a PANTRY, which allegedly contains foods that WE eat. Chemicals near food we eat = badness or possibly a third arm growing out of my back-ness.) Then I put out these little traps that emit pheromones and trap all the boy meal moths. (The lady moths are going to be pissed with me.)
Finally, the creme de la creme. We'll have to wait for NINETY #@$%^*!!!! days because that is how long the eggs might continue to hatch.
I'm told the rotten little bleep-bleep-bleeping-bleeps get their danders up and find other food sources until you get lazy with the cereal/catfood/whatever again. So I have to put those little smell-good-to-boys traps in every room. For ninety days. Ad nauseam.
At least it's not bedbugs. Did I mention we're eating out for Thanksgiving? Possibly Chinese food.
Anyway, I'm thankful for free speech. Also HIM, Cressy, my favorite relatives who read my novels, my sister, my blog, and the fact that I get to epublish pretty much what I want. Screw the meal moths. Life is good.
Happy Thanksgiving!
November 21, 2011
Randomness OR Randomivity OR Stuff I Just Thought I Had to Talk About
Just waiting on my editor/proofreader to send me back Bubba and the Missing Woman. I have to be patient because she's such a nice person and she has a family and she does such a good job for me. But she emailed me and said she was having a hard time editing the manuscript because she was eager to find out what happened to Willodean. I can understand. I get lots of email about that very same subject matter. Also get emailed about when, when, when is Bubba 3 coming out on Kindle/Nook/ereader of your choice?
I would put a specific date on it, but I don't want to do it because there's always the chance it might be late. Not because of the editor/proofreader, of course. (Her name is Mary and SHE'S GREAT! She's uber nice and she catches 99% of everything. She even checks for consistency, because well, with everything going on in Bubba, it's hard to remember who had cornflower blue eyes and who had peacock blue eyes. Seriously, Mary caught that and she's right. So not the same color.) (I also have other readers doing their thing to make sure I didn't step on my metaphorical weewee but I won't mention names.) But it comes down to my favorite saying of all time:
Stuff happens.
Except I don't usually say, stuff. I say something else with four letters and usually in a sarcastic manner, because you know, stuff happens. It happens all the time. I'm standing there, minding my own business and a meteor drops on my head. (In reality this would be a positive thing because those guys on Meteorite Men say one falling on an actual person would be like, an expensive thing. Of course, it wouldn't be good for me since the meteor landing on my person would likely hurt me or even worse, kill me. And hey, I'm mentally picturing the best gravestone saying, ever. But my family would be set. "Yeah, Mom died, but we got a million bucks for the meteor that hit her, so it's all gravy.") So there ya go, stuff happened.
I should knock on wood because I don't want stuff to happen. I want Mary to finish. I want to make my corrections. I want to look at the finished product and be all silly and happy and weird because I'm finally FINISHED with Bubba 3! Then I want to put it on Amazon, Smashwords, and BN and run outside and yell something completely bizarre so that my neighbors will be absolutely certain I am, in fact, insane! (Things I might yell: "Yellow monkeys are taking over the White House! Should we save Obama or let him eat bananas?!" or "I have become frantically spastic with my need for a hot fudge sundae!" or possibly "Who wants to go skinny-dipping in the Potomac with the Speaker of the House?" (Well, I had to ping both Democrats and Republicans, in all fairness.)
Wait. I lost my train of thought.
Stuck on gravestone epitaphs
Oh, yes. Stuff happens. When I lived in El Paso one of my Hispanic friends said that in Spanglish they say, "Kaka pasa." I like that, too. Kaka does pasa. A lot.
Anyone have a headache?
And today I have an excellent illustration of that concept. I have undeniable proof that stuff happens. All the time. To me. Dammit.
Here's the photo. This is an actual photo that I took with my Droid in my kitchen:
Does anyone need a hint as to what this is? It's something sitting inside a microwave oven. Specifically, my microwave oven. Okay, the hell with it. It's a container of Chinese food sitting inside my microwave oven. AND it's been somewhat charred.
How did this happen, you ask? Shit happened. Excuse me, stuff happened.
Oh, the hell with it again. It's HIM's fault. Yesterday I saw HIM put a cup of coffee inside the very same microwave oven with a metal spoon still in the cup. I naturally protested. "The product guidelines do not recommend the insertion of metallic objects into the oven area for safety reasons," I said. (Not really, but I'm pretty sure I thought it.)
HIM said, "It's okay. I do it at work all the time." (Well, sure HIM does. It's their microwave. Not ours. If their shit blows up and starts a fire then well, it's just an office casualty, right?)
I said, "Well, okay, but I thought metal and microwaves don't go together."
So HIM microwaved his coffee to volcanic intensity and the spoon did not spark or blow up.
Fast forward to today. I took the container of Chinese food out of the refrigerator and thought, Well, HIM did it with the spoon. No problem.
Problem. Big BLEEPING PROBLEM!
Well, more than one problem. The first problem was that I walked away after pushing the button on the microwave for sixty seconds while I was speaking to my sister on the phone.
The second problem was the picture above.
Apparently a spoon in a cup of coffee is not the same as a Chinese food container with metal handles. I'm told that the paper was ignited by the metal handles.
You see. Stuff happened.
On the brighter side, the fire seemed to have put itself out. Or maybe it was the Chinese food inside the container that put it out. And the microwave wasn't even scorched.
On the bad side, I had to throw away the Chinese food because it didn't look appetizing with ashes all over it.
I should have knocked on some wood.
I would put a specific date on it, but I don't want to do it because there's always the chance it might be late. Not because of the editor/proofreader, of course. (Her name is Mary and SHE'S GREAT! She's uber nice and she catches 99% of everything. She even checks for consistency, because well, with everything going on in Bubba, it's hard to remember who had cornflower blue eyes and who had peacock blue eyes. Seriously, Mary caught that and she's right. So not the same color.) (I also have other readers doing their thing to make sure I didn't step on my metaphorical weewee but I won't mention names.) But it comes down to my favorite saying of all time:
Stuff happens.
Except I don't usually say, stuff. I say something else with four letters and usually in a sarcastic manner, because you know, stuff happens. It happens all the time. I'm standing there, minding my own business and a meteor drops on my head. (In reality this would be a positive thing because those guys on Meteorite Men say one falling on an actual person would be like, an expensive thing. Of course, it wouldn't be good for me since the meteor landing on my person would likely hurt me or even worse, kill me. And hey, I'm mentally picturing the best gravestone saying, ever. But my family would be set. "Yeah, Mom died, but we got a million bucks for the meteor that hit her, so it's all gravy.") So there ya go, stuff happened.
I should knock on wood because I don't want stuff to happen. I want Mary to finish. I want to make my corrections. I want to look at the finished product and be all silly and happy and weird because I'm finally FINISHED with Bubba 3! Then I want to put it on Amazon, Smashwords, and BN and run outside and yell something completely bizarre so that my neighbors will be absolutely certain I am, in fact, insane! (Things I might yell: "Yellow monkeys are taking over the White House! Should we save Obama or let him eat bananas?!" or "I have become frantically spastic with my need for a hot fudge sundae!" or possibly "Who wants to go skinny-dipping in the Potomac with the Speaker of the House?" (Well, I had to ping both Democrats and Republicans, in all fairness.)
Wait. I lost my train of thought.
Stuck on gravestone epitaphsOh, yes. Stuff happens. When I lived in El Paso one of my Hispanic friends said that in Spanglish they say, "Kaka pasa." I like that, too. Kaka does pasa. A lot.
Anyone have a headache?And today I have an excellent illustration of that concept. I have undeniable proof that stuff happens. All the time. To me. Dammit.
Here's the photo. This is an actual photo that I took with my Droid in my kitchen:
Does anyone need a hint as to what this is? It's something sitting inside a microwave oven. Specifically, my microwave oven. Okay, the hell with it. It's a container of Chinese food sitting inside my microwave oven. AND it's been somewhat charred.
How did this happen, you ask? Shit happened. Excuse me, stuff happened.
Oh, the hell with it again. It's HIM's fault. Yesterday I saw HIM put a cup of coffee inside the very same microwave oven with a metal spoon still in the cup. I naturally protested. "The product guidelines do not recommend the insertion of metallic objects into the oven area for safety reasons," I said. (Not really, but I'm pretty sure I thought it.)
HIM said, "It's okay. I do it at work all the time." (Well, sure HIM does. It's their microwave. Not ours. If their shit blows up and starts a fire then well, it's just an office casualty, right?)
I said, "Well, okay, but I thought metal and microwaves don't go together."
So HIM microwaved his coffee to volcanic intensity and the spoon did not spark or blow up.
Fast forward to today. I took the container of Chinese food out of the refrigerator and thought, Well, HIM did it with the spoon. No problem.
Problem. Big BLEEPING PROBLEM!
Well, more than one problem. The first problem was that I walked away after pushing the button on the microwave for sixty seconds while I was speaking to my sister on the phone.
The second problem was the picture above.
Apparently a spoon in a cup of coffee is not the same as a Chinese food container with metal handles. I'm told that the paper was ignited by the metal handles.
You see. Stuff happened.
On the brighter side, the fire seemed to have put itself out. Or maybe it was the Chinese food inside the container that put it out. And the microwave wasn't even scorched.
On the bad side, I had to throw away the Chinese food because it didn't look appetizing with ashes all over it.
I should have knocked on some wood.
