C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 25
September 15, 2011
The Return of Pain in the Ass Man OR On Folding the Laundry And Other Nonsense in Our Domicile
Look, a bird! No, it's a plane! No, it's a flying Pain in the Ass! It's Pain in the Ass Man!
Let us discuss two issues that have befouled me of late. One is the weekly laundry. Two is the dishes.
I have the responsibility of the laundry. It's kind of the way things work around here. He does certain things. I do certain things. He takes out the garbage. I do the cooking. It works. I also do dishes. I don't do back rubs or windows. Sometimes I'm incredibly sarcastic, but well, that's a given.
A recent occurrence: I was in the kitchen minding my own business when I suddenly perceived that HIM was opening the dish washer and inserting a freshly rinsed dish inside it. I gasped loudly and startled HIM who thought that I was having a heart attack.
You see, I was unaware that HIM actually knew what the purpose of the dish washing machine was. ("You mean, this is a door?" "Where does it go?" "You put dishes in this boxy thing?" "Is it like Star Trek and they dematerialize?" "Why are you getting upset?" "Where are you going?")
I did have responses but they're usually snarky. ("Dishes don't do themselves." "You could rinse that out before you throw it in the sink." "You could rinse that out after you eat it at lunch at work." "You could hire a cheap Peruvian maid to do the #$%^@!! dishes for me.")
So I gasped loudly, i.e., theatrically, and scared HIM. HIM thought something was wrong with me. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure that HIM hasn't opened the dish washer in at least six months, so I was entitled to gasp. And btw, sweetie, I dare you to amend that number when you're reading this blog.) (SIX MONTHS.) (All you Bubba fans can blame HIM because I'm not writing faster. You see, I have to stop writing and do the dishes. Haha. I love blogging.) (Okay, I had to add a note because when HIM read the above, he said, "Oh, that's not true, sometimes I open the dish washer to get a cup out." This statement doesn't really help his position, does it?)
What is truly remarkable is that HIM is rather OCD about certain things. That HIM is not OCD about dishes is a little weird. I would think he would have some strange little quirk about all the dishes being at a right quadrilateral angle to the square root of a hippocampus. (Whateveh.) Or maybe all the cups have to be upside down because something would settle in them right side up. Or only dishes can be located above the stove and only silverware in the drawers. They have to be color coordinated at angles to the the northern hemispherical latitude. But amazingly, shockingly, wonderingly HIM doesn't have any OCD issues about the dishes.
No, HIM saves the OCD-ediness for...da, dah, dahhhhhhhhh....the laundry.
Again, one of my details. I do the laundry. HIM changes the litter box. (The fact that we no longer have cats seems to be moot because I'm still doing the laundry.) Let me see if I can summarize the minutia of doing the laundry in less than twenty thousand words. I'll try but being succinct is NOT one of my super-powers. Fat Woman does not take short cuts in verbiage. (You know, this is a frequent complaint with people in my novels. Apparently I'm supposed to cut down on the use of the thesaurus. Well, the truth is that I'm not using one. Ya'll get a freaking dictionary. Go listen to Dennis Miller and then come back and complain about me. Sheesh.)
Okay, back to the laundry.
1. T-shirts must be right side out. No nasty tags on the outside. They must be folded accordingly. The shoulders are held by the seams and brought together in neat squares. The arms are folded inward across the front. The T-shirt is folded into thirds and results in a tidy little square that is placed in a tidy little pile inside his T-shirt drawer.
2. Pants are folded in a similar manner. Seams together. Folded in quarters this time. Different drawer for accountability.
3. Socks are returned to right side out. Then they are paired appropriately and placed in a drawer so they can plan a little sock rebellion for later on in the day. (Also only footie socks go on the left side of this drawer whilst underwear is stacked in the middle and black dress socks are congregated on the right side of the drawer. Can't have those little sock bastards intermingling. A gym sock might get together with a dress sock and we'll have the Apocalypse.)
4. The manly underwear is turned right side out AND folded neatly. (I don't see the point of folding underwear. I mean, is HIM afraid he's going to be in a car accident and the paramedics are going to see wrinkles in his tidy-whities?) Then the man underwear is placed in the middle of the socks. (See above. No co-mingling and the underwear is the referee.)
5. Polo shirts are to be hung on hangers. (Wire are acceptable but plastic is preferred.) The collar must be folded as if being worn and before the warmth fades from the dryer. (If one folds the collar after the warmth fades, the shirt is in danger of implosion or wrinkalage. Or something equally hideous.
6. Polo shirts must all be hung facing the same direction. The tops of the hangers must all face the same direction. (Hangers don't match? Shirts don't line up? Anarchy!!!!!)
7. Business casual pants must be neatly folded in half and hung over the hangers with the little paper tubing on it. If they are hung over a wire bottom, horrifying creases will stay in the pants when worn and people will stop and point and stare at HIM whilst at work. Also they may throw him out of the building for having a wire caused crease with instructions to go home and change into something from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. (I'm thinking Dr. Frank-N-Furter in the fishnet stockings and the like.)
8. And a partridge in a pear tree.
Okay, in conclusion, HIM is weird. HIM is weird enough that I have to tease him. Also when we were watching Animal Planet we saw an episode of Dogs 101. They featured the Target dog or a Spuds McKenzie dog. A bull terrier. This is a funky looking dog with a funky nose. Anyway, at the end of the segment they talk about the dogs' quirks and they said this breed is prone to OCD behavior. Haha. This is HIM's dog. The dog would fit right into our house. Doesn't it figure?
Let us discuss two issues that have befouled me of late. One is the weekly laundry. Two is the dishes.
I have the responsibility of the laundry. It's kind of the way things work around here. He does certain things. I do certain things. He takes out the garbage. I do the cooking. It works. I also do dishes. I don't do back rubs or windows. Sometimes I'm incredibly sarcastic, but well, that's a given.
A recent occurrence: I was in the kitchen minding my own business when I suddenly perceived that HIM was opening the dish washer and inserting a freshly rinsed dish inside it. I gasped loudly and startled HIM who thought that I was having a heart attack.
You see, I was unaware that HIM actually knew what the purpose of the dish washing machine was. ("You mean, this is a door?" "Where does it go?" "You put dishes in this boxy thing?" "Is it like Star Trek and they dematerialize?" "Why are you getting upset?" "Where are you going?")I did have responses but they're usually snarky. ("Dishes don't do themselves." "You could rinse that out before you throw it in the sink." "You could rinse that out after you eat it at lunch at work." "You could hire a cheap Peruvian maid to do the #$%^@!! dishes for me.")
So I gasped loudly, i.e., theatrically, and scared HIM. HIM thought something was wrong with me. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure that HIM hasn't opened the dish washer in at least six months, so I was entitled to gasp. And btw, sweetie, I dare you to amend that number when you're reading this blog.) (SIX MONTHS.) (All you Bubba fans can blame HIM because I'm not writing faster. You see, I have to stop writing and do the dishes. Haha. I love blogging.) (Okay, I had to add a note because when HIM read the above, he said, "Oh, that's not true, sometimes I open the dish washer to get a cup out." This statement doesn't really help his position, does it?)
What is truly remarkable is that HIM is rather OCD about certain things. That HIM is not OCD about dishes is a little weird. I would think he would have some strange little quirk about all the dishes being at a right quadrilateral angle to the square root of a hippocampus. (Whateveh.) Or maybe all the cups have to be upside down because something would settle in them right side up. Or only dishes can be located above the stove and only silverware in the drawers. They have to be color coordinated at angles to the the northern hemispherical latitude. But amazingly, shockingly, wonderingly HIM doesn't have any OCD issues about the dishes.
No, HIM saves the OCD-ediness for...da, dah, dahhhhhhhhh....the laundry.
Again, one of my details. I do the laundry. HIM changes the litter box. (The fact that we no longer have cats seems to be moot because I'm still doing the laundry.) Let me see if I can summarize the minutia of doing the laundry in less than twenty thousand words. I'll try but being succinct is NOT one of my super-powers. Fat Woman does not take short cuts in verbiage. (You know, this is a frequent complaint with people in my novels. Apparently I'm supposed to cut down on the use of the thesaurus. Well, the truth is that I'm not using one. Ya'll get a freaking dictionary. Go listen to Dennis Miller and then come back and complain about me. Sheesh.)
Okay, back to the laundry.
1. T-shirts must be right side out. No nasty tags on the outside. They must be folded accordingly. The shoulders are held by the seams and brought together in neat squares. The arms are folded inward across the front. The T-shirt is folded into thirds and results in a tidy little square that is placed in a tidy little pile inside his T-shirt drawer.
2. Pants are folded in a similar manner. Seams together. Folded in quarters this time. Different drawer for accountability.
3. Socks are returned to right side out. Then they are paired appropriately and placed in a drawer so they can plan a little sock rebellion for later on in the day. (Also only footie socks go on the left side of this drawer whilst underwear is stacked in the middle and black dress socks are congregated on the right side of the drawer. Can't have those little sock bastards intermingling. A gym sock might get together with a dress sock and we'll have the Apocalypse.)
4. The manly underwear is turned right side out AND folded neatly. (I don't see the point of folding underwear. I mean, is HIM afraid he's going to be in a car accident and the paramedics are going to see wrinkles in his tidy-whities?) Then the man underwear is placed in the middle of the socks. (See above. No co-mingling and the underwear is the referee.)
5. Polo shirts are to be hung on hangers. (Wire are acceptable but plastic is preferred.) The collar must be folded as if being worn and before the warmth fades from the dryer. (If one folds the collar after the warmth fades, the shirt is in danger of implosion or wrinkalage. Or something equally hideous.
6. Polo shirts must all be hung facing the same direction. The tops of the hangers must all face the same direction. (Hangers don't match? Shirts don't line up? Anarchy!!!!!)
7. Business casual pants must be neatly folded in half and hung over the hangers with the little paper tubing on it. If they are hung over a wire bottom, horrifying creases will stay in the pants when worn and people will stop and point and stare at HIM whilst at work. Also they may throw him out of the building for having a wire caused crease with instructions to go home and change into something from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. (I'm thinking Dr. Frank-N-Furter in the fishnet stockings and the like.)
8. And a partridge in a pear tree.
Okay, in conclusion, HIM is weird. HIM is weird enough that I have to tease him. Also when we were watching Animal Planet we saw an episode of Dogs 101. They featured the Target dog or a Spuds McKenzie dog. A bull terrier. This is a funky looking dog with a funky nose. Anyway, at the end of the segment they talk about the dogs' quirks and they said this breed is prone to OCD behavior. Haha. This is HIM's dog. The dog would fit right into our house. Doesn't it figure?
September 13, 2011
More on Writing OR Oh Crapulous, She's on a Bender OR How Long Can This Title Be, FGS?
And you thought I couldn't write any more about writing. Hahaha. I can rant a lot longer than that. Just ask HIM, the man to whom I've been married for 27 years. (28 next month and HIM will never forget it.)
My comments upon being awarded the highly coveted 'Ranty.'Recently, a fan wrote me and said, "Dear C.L., (that's my author's name, in case you don't follow my blog, and btw, if you don't read my blog and you don't read my novels, then WTF?) I recently read your book, Bubba and the Dead Woman, and I loved it. (All okay with me so far. Don't mind at all. In fact, it gives me a warm fuzzy. No wait, that might be a caterpillar. No, it does give me a warm fuzzy.) In fact, I loved Bubba and the Dead Woman so much, I downloaded every other single one of your books. (Starting to go downhill here and I will explain soonish.) I was so thrilled to death with Bubba that I can hardly wait to read your other works with joy and happy thoughts abounding. (Starting to exaggerate here, but that's me.) Sincerely, a fan."
Excuse me for a moment whilst I bounce my head against a brick wall.
Do I not like hearing from fans? I LOVE hearing from fans. They say, "I liked this. I loved that. Maybe I didn't like this one. Etc." It's okay. I don't expect folks to like all of my works. After all, there's several distinct genres floating around in there and everything might not suit. And I've got friends and family who've never read any of my novels, so if I don't feel put out by them, I won't be by folks who don't like this, that, or the other. In fact, I was talking to my own sister yesterday who admitted that she hasn't read some of my books. (MY ONLY SISTER! Horrors abounding!)
Do I not like hearing that my fan has downloaded ALL of my novels? Well, yes I like it, but I also wince because what I'm hearing is that they LOVE Bubba and I suspect, based on prior experience, that they may not be happy with other pieces of my work. Specifically, I get a lot of feedback saying, and yes, I know I've gone here before, "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Bayou Billy," or "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Black Moon," or "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Dial M for Mascara."
Over the years I've written a lot of different things. Consequently, they all got pooped out into electronic publishing at the same time. (What a wretched metaphor.) I've even tried to get things out under pseudonyms. The mysteries under C.L. Bevill. The paranormal romances under another one. The black comedy ones under another one. But when e-pubbing came around, I basically said, "I wrote them all and I'm not ashamed of my work, so take it or leave it."
But when the person above writes back and says, "I loved Bubba but then I read Book X and it was complete and utter poopoo. What were you thinking?" I say, "Didn't you read the description of the book?"
Did I sign a contract to make every book I ever wrote to read EXACTLY like Bubba and the Dead Woman? No, I did not. Don't get me wrong. I like writing Bubba. The characters are like best friends. I'm having a good time writing Bubba and the Missing Woman right now, but the next one I work on will probably be very different. That way, I'll enjoy the genre much more when I get back to a fourth Bubba.
Let me ask you readers. Do I have an obligation to be more specific in the book descriptions? Should I put in the description of The Life and Death of Bayou Billy: This book contains explicit language. The protagonist of the book is an asshat. It's black humor at its blackest. Corpses are stolen! Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria! (Wait, that's Ghostbusters. I think I need a Bill Murray fix.)
Rant, rant, de rant, ranty rant rant. (Hummed to the tune of Bonanza.) Rantety rant de rant rant. Rant. Rant. Raaaaannnt.
Answers to unasked questions:
1. Yes, I will continue to use potty language. I love the First Amendment.
2. Yes, the books will continue to be different, depending on what I'm feeling like writing.
3. Yes, there will be future Bubba books and I will follow the same vein that I've used before. Bubba is a good old boy who's smarter than the average Bubba and well, ya'll have to know that murders will continue to happen around him. Also he's got a hankerin' to rescue a cute little gal with green eyes.
4. Please, for the love of Bubba, read the descriptions of the other books before you download them. Possibly you will enjoy all of my works. Possibly you won't.
5. If you're easily offended by explicit language and a free thinking woman, don't download Dial 'M' for Mascara. Sex is included, even though it's supposed to be a parody of chicklits. Also one recent reviewer of this novel seems to think that I have a predilection for describing genitalia in it, (Hey, the main character's boobs played an integral part of the plot) so be warned.
6. If you're easily offended by coarse language, don't download The Life and Death of Bayou Billy. It will probably make you cringe. If you can't get past the first chapter then well, there ya go. After all, it starts out with an elderly madam reminiscing about Bayou Billy back in the day and the fact that he was such a handsome man and he possessed a long wee wee. (He didn't have Long Dong Silver beat, but it was all legend anyway.)
7. If you're easily offended by anything above, well, I suppose you shouldn't have read this blog.
My comments upon being awarded the highly coveted 'Ranty.'Recently, a fan wrote me and said, "Dear C.L., (that's my author's name, in case you don't follow my blog, and btw, if you don't read my blog and you don't read my novels, then WTF?) I recently read your book, Bubba and the Dead Woman, and I loved it. (All okay with me so far. Don't mind at all. In fact, it gives me a warm fuzzy. No wait, that might be a caterpillar. No, it does give me a warm fuzzy.) In fact, I loved Bubba and the Dead Woman so much, I downloaded every other single one of your books. (Starting to go downhill here and I will explain soonish.) I was so thrilled to death with Bubba that I can hardly wait to read your other works with joy and happy thoughts abounding. (Starting to exaggerate here, but that's me.) Sincerely, a fan."Excuse me for a moment whilst I bounce my head against a brick wall.
Do I not like hearing from fans? I LOVE hearing from fans. They say, "I liked this. I loved that. Maybe I didn't like this one. Etc." It's okay. I don't expect folks to like all of my works. After all, there's several distinct genres floating around in there and everything might not suit. And I've got friends and family who've never read any of my novels, so if I don't feel put out by them, I won't be by folks who don't like this, that, or the other. In fact, I was talking to my own sister yesterday who admitted that she hasn't read some of my books. (MY ONLY SISTER! Horrors abounding!)
Do I not like hearing that my fan has downloaded ALL of my novels? Well, yes I like it, but I also wince because what I'm hearing is that they LOVE Bubba and I suspect, based on prior experience, that they may not be happy with other pieces of my work. Specifically, I get a lot of feedback saying, and yes, I know I've gone here before, "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Bayou Billy," or "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Black Moon," or "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Dial M for Mascara."
Over the years I've written a lot of different things. Consequently, they all got pooped out into electronic publishing at the same time. (What a wretched metaphor.) I've even tried to get things out under pseudonyms. The mysteries under C.L. Bevill. The paranormal romances under another one. The black comedy ones under another one. But when e-pubbing came around, I basically said, "I wrote them all and I'm not ashamed of my work, so take it or leave it."
But when the person above writes back and says, "I loved Bubba but then I read Book X and it was complete and utter poopoo. What were you thinking?" I say, "Didn't you read the description of the book?"
Did I sign a contract to make every book I ever wrote to read EXACTLY like Bubba and the Dead Woman? No, I did not. Don't get me wrong. I like writing Bubba. The characters are like best friends. I'm having a good time writing Bubba and the Missing Woman right now, but the next one I work on will probably be very different. That way, I'll enjoy the genre much more when I get back to a fourth Bubba.
Let me ask you readers. Do I have an obligation to be more specific in the book descriptions? Should I put in the description of The Life and Death of Bayou Billy: This book contains explicit language. The protagonist of the book is an asshat. It's black humor at its blackest. Corpses are stolen! Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria! (Wait, that's Ghostbusters. I think I need a Bill Murray fix.)
Rant, rant, de rant, ranty rant rant. (Hummed to the tune of Bonanza.) Rantety rant de rant rant. Rant. Rant. Raaaaannnt.
Answers to unasked questions:
1. Yes, I will continue to use potty language. I love the First Amendment.
2. Yes, the books will continue to be different, depending on what I'm feeling like writing.
3. Yes, there will be future Bubba books and I will follow the same vein that I've used before. Bubba is a good old boy who's smarter than the average Bubba and well, ya'll have to know that murders will continue to happen around him. Also he's got a hankerin' to rescue a cute little gal with green eyes.
4. Please, for the love of Bubba, read the descriptions of the other books before you download them. Possibly you will enjoy all of my works. Possibly you won't.
5. If you're easily offended by explicit language and a free thinking woman, don't download Dial 'M' for Mascara. Sex is included, even though it's supposed to be a parody of chicklits. Also one recent reviewer of this novel seems to think that I have a predilection for describing genitalia in it, (Hey, the main character's boobs played an integral part of the plot) so be warned.
6. If you're easily offended by coarse language, don't download The Life and Death of Bayou Billy. It will probably make you cringe. If you can't get past the first chapter then well, there ya go. After all, it starts out with an elderly madam reminiscing about Bayou Billy back in the day and the fact that he was such a handsome man and he possessed a long wee wee. (He didn't have Long Dong Silver beat, but it was all legend anyway.)
7. If you're easily offended by anything above, well, I suppose you shouldn't have read this blog.
September 11, 2011
9/11
Never forget.
"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to fulfill it."- George Santayana
"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to fulfill it."- George Santayana
September 8, 2011
On Writing OR Jeez, Is She Going to Bitch About Another Review (Probably) OR On Writing Again!
So I'm a self-published author.
I feel obligated to announce it in a loud and blatant manner.
I'm a self-published author!
I also have one traditionally published novel. Recently one of my writing buds asked a question in his blog about whether it was better to self-pub and continue to look for the traditional way too or to not self-pub because it would damage your cred. Here's the link to it. R. Mac Wheeler. Mac is an interesting guy who writes in several genres and is trying his best to break into the field. (I also like his writing and am looking forward to what he eventually decides to do.) He's got some neat things to say about it. (Also he critiqued several of my novels and although I was dinged, I do appreciate his directness.) (Not that I appreciated it the first time I read what he wrote about Bubba and the Dead Woman, but he was spot on. Whether I like it or not.)
Incidentally, a revised version of Bubba and the Dead Woman should be soon appearing soon at all the epubbers. Yea, corrections! I bowed before all the people who said my overuse of commas sucked the mighty purple wang and went to town.
Back to self-pubbing versus e-pubbing. Everyone, every writer wants to see their work in print. It's a big deal. It's a huge deal. It feels good. I still have like ten copies of Bayou Moon in hardback. Occasionally someone will ask for a copy and I'm all like, "Hiss. Go buy a .01 library reject on Abebooks." These are all that are left, unless I start selling madly and St. Martin's decides to take advantage of an ambiguous contract and republishes Bayou Moon. (By the by, when any of you budding Stephen Kings and John Grishams sign your publisher's contract, make certain that you're not signing your electronic rights away forever. There should be some sort of time limit on e-pubbing even for the traditional publisher. For some reason this makes them think that it's not really out of print. Just a learning lesson for the uninitiated. Since I signed my contract in 2001, I'm entitled to say, "Duh," because Kindle wasn't even close to a household word then.)
Here's what I did fifteen years ago. I wrote my books. I polished my books. I made sure I had a synopsis and an outline. I developed a list of literary agents who represented what I wrote. I wrote a query letter. I polished the query letter. I ruminated about the query letter endlessly. I sent out query letters. Interestingly enough I found an agent fairly quick. This agency who got me first wasn't the best agency around but they got me in the door. St. Martin's picked up one of my mysteries.
Throughout the next year, I re-wrote the book for the editor. I bent over backwards to make this woman, whom I've never met, happy. She didn't like the original name of the book. She didn't like the original ending of the book. She wasn't happy about the heroine's interactions with the love interest. This, you would understand, was my first to be published, novel. I would have flown to New York from Texas and given this editor a hummer, if she had been a man and had thusly demanded it. She did not and I am kidding. I would have given her a foot massage, however.
Finally, the book was published. Happy days. People assumed I had it made. I spent $10,000, which is significantly more than my advance, on publicity. I went to book signings. I went to book stores. I went to mystery conventions. I sent out press releases and notices to everyone I knew, was related to, or had ever spoken more than two words to.
The book didn't sell particularly well. It was received all right. It had some nice reviews from official reviewers. Library Journal, for example, was nice to me.
The Headless Horseman and the Pumpkin wishes to interject
their thoughts on writing. No, really.So after much noncommunication between myself, my agent, and the editor, the editor passed on my next effort. (She wanted another book exactly like Bayou Moon and well, only an idiot can see that the book, which is about a woman looking for her long missing mother, was amiable to a sequel that is exactly like the first one. Who was she going to look for? Her long missing granny? Followed by a novel about her looking for her long missing cousin?) I dumped my literary agent. I wrote a couple more books and sought out a new one.
But I had been tainted. Literary agents don't want to touch you if you previously published and it didn't sell well. Eventually I found a really good one who was willing to take on one of my works, Shadow People. But what I discovered about this literary agent was that she was only willing to send out about six of the manuscripts and if it didn't get picked up quickly then hasta la vista.
Okay, I know this has nothing to do with this blog, but I'm
kind of rushed for a humorous interlude.I had become the dumped one. Agencies with big brand names don't necessarily have author loyalty.
A few years went by and I kept plugging away. I followed the above formula. I wrote, I polished, I queried. Pretty soon, the literary agents knew who I was before they read the manuscript and wouldn't even bother with me. (That's sad.) (Honest to God, one had a database about all the authors she had read manuscripts or partials and she quoted to me in email when I had sent her what and when.)
Then there was an interesting article in Newsweek in 2010 about self-pubbing. It dawned on me that I didn't need to query anybody. I didn't need to write a synopsis. I didn't need to worry about anything except making myself happy writing. I didn't sell well at first. (Well, I'm still not selling well, exactly.) But I am selling. I ended up giving books away to draw readers in. It was a wise decision. Bubba and the Dead Woman still outpaces everything else.
In fact, Bubba compels readers to buy other works by myself. One particular reader who was enthused about Bubba, however, was so appalled by The Life and Death of Bayou Billy that she/he announced that she/he/it was deleting everything of mine unread. (Let's see. The words 'horrendous' and 'smut' were both used in relationship to Bayou Billy. So I gathered that the person was unhappy with the book. But since she/he/they/whatever didn't actually 'buy' any books, I figured that they're just frustrated because they didn't read the description of the book where I WARNED folks that poopoo language was contained therein.) (There. There's my relatively brief reference to someone bitching about my work.)
Writers. Writing isn't easy. It isn't going to be a matter of just here-ya-go and people will snap it up. I see people on smashwords all the time asking bizarre amounts of money for minuscule amounts of words. (Some of which ARE smut and possibly could be horrendous.) I'm not sure where they got the idea that if they published the work on smashwords then readers would descend in droves to buy their 5000 word short story about their penis for $12.99. Not making that one up, btw.) I don't think self-pubbing has the poor reputation it used to have. There are authors out there who are very good and are worth snapping up. (I'm not saying I'm one, but I think I have potential.) But the world I started out writing in doesn't exist anymore and the pickings are slim.
Here's the most important lesson. There's no rule book anymore. Literary agents can be great, if you're able to get the great ones. (There's a few of them out there.) But for the rest of us, we've got to wing it.
I say throw the rule book away and write your own damn rules. Any would be writers out there, here is the message. 99% of writers work hard to do their thing. No one will 'give' you anything. So eff the rules and do what feels right. (Hahaha. I should have said write. But it was too much of a groaner.)
I feel obligated to announce it in a loud and blatant manner.
I'm a self-published author!
I also have one traditionally published novel. Recently one of my writing buds asked a question in his blog about whether it was better to self-pub and continue to look for the traditional way too or to not self-pub because it would damage your cred. Here's the link to it. R. Mac Wheeler. Mac is an interesting guy who writes in several genres and is trying his best to break into the field. (I also like his writing and am looking forward to what he eventually decides to do.) He's got some neat things to say about it. (Also he critiqued several of my novels and although I was dinged, I do appreciate his directness.) (Not that I appreciated it the first time I read what he wrote about Bubba and the Dead Woman, but he was spot on. Whether I like it or not.)
Incidentally, a revised version of Bubba and the Dead Woman should be soon appearing soon at all the epubbers. Yea, corrections! I bowed before all the people who said my overuse of commas sucked the mighty purple wang and went to town.
Back to self-pubbing versus e-pubbing. Everyone, every writer wants to see their work in print. It's a big deal. It's a huge deal. It feels good. I still have like ten copies of Bayou Moon in hardback. Occasionally someone will ask for a copy and I'm all like, "Hiss. Go buy a .01 library reject on Abebooks." These are all that are left, unless I start selling madly and St. Martin's decides to take advantage of an ambiguous contract and republishes Bayou Moon. (By the by, when any of you budding Stephen Kings and John Grishams sign your publisher's contract, make certain that you're not signing your electronic rights away forever. There should be some sort of time limit on e-pubbing even for the traditional publisher. For some reason this makes them think that it's not really out of print. Just a learning lesson for the uninitiated. Since I signed my contract in 2001, I'm entitled to say, "Duh," because Kindle wasn't even close to a household word then.)
Here's what I did fifteen years ago. I wrote my books. I polished my books. I made sure I had a synopsis and an outline. I developed a list of literary agents who represented what I wrote. I wrote a query letter. I polished the query letter. I ruminated about the query letter endlessly. I sent out query letters. Interestingly enough I found an agent fairly quick. This agency who got me first wasn't the best agency around but they got me in the door. St. Martin's picked up one of my mysteries.
Throughout the next year, I re-wrote the book for the editor. I bent over backwards to make this woman, whom I've never met, happy. She didn't like the original name of the book. She didn't like the original ending of the book. She wasn't happy about the heroine's interactions with the love interest. This, you would understand, was my first to be published, novel. I would have flown to New York from Texas and given this editor a hummer, if she had been a man and had thusly demanded it. She did not and I am kidding. I would have given her a foot massage, however.
Finally, the book was published. Happy days. People assumed I had it made. I spent $10,000, which is significantly more than my advance, on publicity. I went to book signings. I went to book stores. I went to mystery conventions. I sent out press releases and notices to everyone I knew, was related to, or had ever spoken more than two words to.
The book didn't sell particularly well. It was received all right. It had some nice reviews from official reviewers. Library Journal, for example, was nice to me.
The Headless Horseman and the Pumpkin wishes to interjecttheir thoughts on writing. No, really.So after much noncommunication between myself, my agent, and the editor, the editor passed on my next effort. (She wanted another book exactly like Bayou Moon and well, only an idiot can see that the book, which is about a woman looking for her long missing mother, was amiable to a sequel that is exactly like the first one. Who was she going to look for? Her long missing granny? Followed by a novel about her looking for her long missing cousin?) I dumped my literary agent. I wrote a couple more books and sought out a new one.
But I had been tainted. Literary agents don't want to touch you if you previously published and it didn't sell well. Eventually I found a really good one who was willing to take on one of my works, Shadow People. But what I discovered about this literary agent was that she was only willing to send out about six of the manuscripts and if it didn't get picked up quickly then hasta la vista.
Okay, I know this has nothing to do with this blog, but I'mkind of rushed for a humorous interlude.I had become the dumped one. Agencies with big brand names don't necessarily have author loyalty.
A few years went by and I kept plugging away. I followed the above formula. I wrote, I polished, I queried. Pretty soon, the literary agents knew who I was before they read the manuscript and wouldn't even bother with me. (That's sad.) (Honest to God, one had a database about all the authors she had read manuscripts or partials and she quoted to me in email when I had sent her what and when.)
Then there was an interesting article in Newsweek in 2010 about self-pubbing. It dawned on me that I didn't need to query anybody. I didn't need to write a synopsis. I didn't need to worry about anything except making myself happy writing. I didn't sell well at first. (Well, I'm still not selling well, exactly.) But I am selling. I ended up giving books away to draw readers in. It was a wise decision. Bubba and the Dead Woman still outpaces everything else.
In fact, Bubba compels readers to buy other works by myself. One particular reader who was enthused about Bubba, however, was so appalled by The Life and Death of Bayou Billy that she/he announced that she/he/it was deleting everything of mine unread. (Let's see. The words 'horrendous' and 'smut' were both used in relationship to Bayou Billy. So I gathered that the person was unhappy with the book. But since she/he/they/whatever didn't actually 'buy' any books, I figured that they're just frustrated because they didn't read the description of the book where I WARNED folks that poopoo language was contained therein.) (There. There's my relatively brief reference to someone bitching about my work.)
Writers. Writing isn't easy. It isn't going to be a matter of just here-ya-go and people will snap it up. I see people on smashwords all the time asking bizarre amounts of money for minuscule amounts of words. (Some of which ARE smut and possibly could be horrendous.) I'm not sure where they got the idea that if they published the work on smashwords then readers would descend in droves to buy their 5000 word short story about their penis for $12.99. Not making that one up, btw.) I don't think self-pubbing has the poor reputation it used to have. There are authors out there who are very good and are worth snapping up. (I'm not saying I'm one, but I think I have potential.) But the world I started out writing in doesn't exist anymore and the pickings are slim.
Here's the most important lesson. There's no rule book anymore. Literary agents can be great, if you're able to get the great ones. (There's a few of them out there.) But for the rest of us, we've got to wing it.
I say throw the rule book away and write your own damn rules. Any would be writers out there, here is the message. 99% of writers work hard to do their thing. No one will 'give' you anything. So eff the rules and do what feels right. (Hahaha. I should have said write. But it was too much of a groaner.)
September 5, 2011
My Alternative Vacation OR Running Away From Irene OR What To Do When Everyone is Bored Out of Their Skulls!
We were supposed to go to the beach. We had a house rented in Kill Devil Hills, NC. The day our rental began was the day that Irene roared into her landfall, which just happened to be pretty much where our house was located. There was a brief conversation that consisted of HIM: "I think we should go." Me: "I don't float well in hurricanes." HIM: "We've never been in a hurricane before." Me: "I can live with that." HIM: "Just think how close the water will be." Me: "The house we rented is on stilts for a reason." HIM: "We'll bring snacks." Me: "Hmm."
The upshot was that because we have a 7 year old child we were forced to be circumspect. (If we hadn't had Cressy, we would have been out there, having a par-tay! Right.)
So Irene passed by and I called the rental agency. Apparently all the other people who had rented houses during that week were calling the same rental agency at the same time. I ended up leaving six messages. (For some asinine reason I thought that it was possible that we might be able to go to the house for a couple of days and enjoy what was left of our vacation. After all, the county website said it was letting people back into the county and there was minimal damage in the area where we had a house.) The rental agency NEVER called me back. (Well, to be specific they never returned any of the six messages I left.) (Yes, I'm aware I should cut them some slack but when you hear why they called me later in the week, you will roll your eyes. As a matter of fact, you should just put Scotch tape on them in preparation of the eye rolling that will occur.) (The Scotch tape will minimize damage to your central retinal artery and to your optic nerves. I had to consult an opthamologist.)
I basically said, "Eff this. We'll go to the...MOUNTAINS!" There are no hurricanes there. So we headed for the Shenandoah Valley and mountains galore. (Hey, I was raised in Oregon and the official definition of a mountain is a very tall peak that still has snow on it, even in the middle of summer. The mountains of Virginia do not qualify, but apparently I'm a minority opinion.)
So we went to Luray and hung out in the park with the Singing Tower.
Here's Cressy holding up the tower. It's called
the Singing Tower because it has a buttload
of bells inside it and apparently rocks out when
played. (We didn't plan ahead so we missed
out on the whole Quasimodo inspired head holding
action.)
We also saw some fungi in the park.
Yes, this is a big freaking mushroom.
There were others, too. When I realized that
I needed some comparison I tried to get
Cressy to put her hand next to the thing and
she balked. Apparently she isn't aware
that mushrooms are generally not
carnivorous.
So I got HIM to do it.
This was right before the mushroom glommed onto
HIM's hand and devoured his face whilst
Cressy and I ran away screaming over our shoulders,
"You're on your own, sucker!"
Apparently enthused by mushrooms, we ate lunch with an old friend. (The restaurant didn't have mushrooms on the menu but they did have corn fritters and this place knows how to make them right. Uncle Buck's in Luray! Check it out.)
Yum. Corn fritters. This will instantly add three pounds
to your waistline or butt (depending on your particular problem area)
simply by looking at this photograph.
We headed up to the Skyline Drive, where for a mere $15 you too can drive along the crest of the Shenandoah Mountains and hope that the cement and rock walls will repel your car if it happens to accidentally run off the side. (The sheer excitement will make you wish that you were wearing those pee catching pads that Whoopi Goldberg hocks. See my blog about that here.)
On one part where I was induced into forced outdoor activity (somehow
I had forgotten that this specific excursion was all my idea) and HIM
pointed out this. (See photo above.) HIM had to take a picture of it.
It's a geodetic survey marker. I don't know what that is. I think someone flipped
a coin, or perhaps the marker, and said, "Let's put it in concrete right here
to commemorate the fact that we worked on Skyline Drive. Where's
the beer?" (Somehow this is important.)
We were forced to stop to observe the fantastic view. (I was protesting whiningly the whole time. "Why is this happening to me?" "Who cares about panoramic views?" "Do I have to get out of the car again?")
Then we got to Skyline Lodge where more hilarity ensued. Cressy was attracted instantly to the gift shop where a finger puppet chipmunk was obtained by fluttering her eyelashes longingly at her father. (Do I need to mention that this particular puppet requires one to stick their finger up the chipmunk's aft area? Well, if I didn't need to mention it, too bad, because I did it anyway.)
This is 'Chippy,' her new best friend for possibly
24 to 48 hours. (Seriously, it's over three days later
and the poor little plush bastard is on the outs.)
Then we settled down to watch the sunset. Cressy said, "Look a deer." I thought she was kidding but here was a doe, who looked at us and fluttered her eyelashes longingly. (Either she had taken a page out of Cressy's book or she had been fed by the tourists before.)
This is from our room's balcony. The deer hung out hopefully until
it became obvious that we weren't going to throw her any Cheesits.
(I swear the doe glared at us when she walked around the corner.)
The deer was so interesting that poor hapless Chippy was left inside to rot while Cressy cooed to the deer. (She seriously thought that the deer would walk up to her and let Cressy pet her.) (I let her watch 'Bambi' too much. It's gonna haunt me.)
"Oh, woe is I," Chippy lamented. "I have been left inside while
the deer and the antelope play. Wait, that's the great plains or
the range or something. I will fall on my side and look pitiful.
Possibly this will mean that no one will stick anything up
my aft area for awhile. It's getting sore."
Then the sun set and we waited for the stars to come out.
The sun has setted. (Yes, I used 'setted' on purpose.)
Cressy was dying for the first star to come out because she had just learned "Star Light, Star Bright." But she was also very tired so she was saying grumpily, "When is the first star going to come out already?" (I had told her that she had to go to bed after seeing the first star. Normally bedtime isn't a welcome event, but she was pooped.) Although she was ready to wait out that pesky first star she was going to let everyone know how unhappy she was with the current state of affairs.
We went out into the front of the room because it was darker in the east and saw that the doe had been joined by about twenty of her compatriots. The grass was, apparently, greener on the other side of the hotel. Or the deer knew that the humans would ooo-and-ahh over them.
Cressy saw her first star, said the mantra, and made a wish. (The wish? She wanted to fly. Always interesting to listen to a 7 year old's perspective.)
The next day we went to Luray Caverns. Our guide was Shaggy's twin brother.
If he had an animated Great Dane, we would
like, totally be solving the mystery
of the Creepy Caverns. Jinkies!
Also we saw some neat cave stuff.
Not sure what this was called. My mind
pretty much became a blur about this point.
And there was more cave stuff.
This looks like a volcano basically vomited its
guts out.
Eventually we were led out of the underworld. We been gifted with a wealth of stalactite/stalagmite information that my puny brain can never hope to digest in one session. The exit, interestingly enough, led into the gift shop. (Pretty clever.) I stood in the gift shop, panting from the three stories of stairs I just climbed, while the clerks waved cheap crap from China at me. (I think they must be used to panting people and don't take it personally.)
Anyway, we got home sometime later. Then the rental agency from North Carolina called. (Here comes the eye rolling part I warned you about.) They wanted to know if...we were okay.
I didn't answer right away because I was attempting to process the information that I had just been imparted. Finally, I said to the woman on the phone, "Is there a reason why I shouldn't be?" The woman, I never caught her name, said, "There was a hurricane." (Oh, I love erudite people.) "Yes," I said. "We kind of noticed." The woman said, "You weren't at the rental house?" I had to take a breath then. (I wanted to add, "And we have a television and we were watching the Weather Channel and we're not particularly stupid." But I restrained myself. Barely.) Instead, I said in explanation, "The hurricane made landfall the day that our rental started." (I thought it was a given. Only a moron would have driven over and taken possession of a rental house that is 75 feet from the beach and in the FREAKING middle of a Cat 3 Hurricane.) (But I'm thinking that this poor woman on the phone probably had a few examples of said morons.) "So you didn't go?" the woman persisted.
That's the part where I screamed, "OWWW!" because my eyes rolled back so hard that they bounced off my brain.
"Of course, we didn't go to the #$%^@!! beach," I snarled. "Okay, then," the woman said mundanely. Then she added the killing statement, "Hopefully we'll see you next year." (One must understand that this woman wasn't returning any of my six messages, but was, instead, covering the collective asses of the rental agency from potential lawsuits.) ("Hello, potential return customer. We're calling to see if you weathered the hurricane in one piece. Isn't this a wonderific gesture of goodwill on our part? Please don't seek out a lawyer." "Go eff yourself." "Nice talking to you.")
And how was your summer vacation?
The upshot was that because we have a 7 year old child we were forced to be circumspect. (If we hadn't had Cressy, we would have been out there, having a par-tay! Right.)
So Irene passed by and I called the rental agency. Apparently all the other people who had rented houses during that week were calling the same rental agency at the same time. I ended up leaving six messages. (For some asinine reason I thought that it was possible that we might be able to go to the house for a couple of days and enjoy what was left of our vacation. After all, the county website said it was letting people back into the county and there was minimal damage in the area where we had a house.) The rental agency NEVER called me back. (Well, to be specific they never returned any of the six messages I left.) (Yes, I'm aware I should cut them some slack but when you hear why they called me later in the week, you will roll your eyes. As a matter of fact, you should just put Scotch tape on them in preparation of the eye rolling that will occur.) (The Scotch tape will minimize damage to your central retinal artery and to your optic nerves. I had to consult an opthamologist.)
I basically said, "Eff this. We'll go to the...MOUNTAINS!" There are no hurricanes there. So we headed for the Shenandoah Valley and mountains galore. (Hey, I was raised in Oregon and the official definition of a mountain is a very tall peak that still has snow on it, even in the middle of summer. The mountains of Virginia do not qualify, but apparently I'm a minority opinion.)
So we went to Luray and hung out in the park with the Singing Tower.
Here's Cressy holding up the tower. It's called
the Singing Tower because it has a buttload
of bells inside it and apparently rocks out when
played. (We didn't plan ahead so we missed
out on the whole Quasimodo inspired head holding
action.)
We also saw some fungi in the park.
Yes, this is a big freaking mushroom.
There were others, too. When I realized that
I needed some comparison I tried to get
Cressy to put her hand next to the thing and
she balked. Apparently she isn't aware
that mushrooms are generally not
carnivorous.
So I got HIM to do it.
This was right before the mushroom glommed onto
HIM's hand and devoured his face whilst
Cressy and I ran away screaming over our shoulders,
"You're on your own, sucker!"
Apparently enthused by mushrooms, we ate lunch with an old friend. (The restaurant didn't have mushrooms on the menu but they did have corn fritters and this place knows how to make them right. Uncle Buck's in Luray! Check it out.)
Yum. Corn fritters. This will instantly add three pounds
to your waistline or butt (depending on your particular problem area)
simply by looking at this photograph.
We headed up to the Skyline Drive, where for a mere $15 you too can drive along the crest of the Shenandoah Mountains and hope that the cement and rock walls will repel your car if it happens to accidentally run off the side. (The sheer excitement will make you wish that you were wearing those pee catching pads that Whoopi Goldberg hocks. See my blog about that here.)
On one part where I was induced into forced outdoor activity (somehow
I had forgotten that this specific excursion was all my idea) and HIM
pointed out this. (See photo above.) HIM had to take a picture of it.
It's a geodetic survey marker. I don't know what that is. I think someone flipped
a coin, or perhaps the marker, and said, "Let's put it in concrete right here
to commemorate the fact that we worked on Skyline Drive. Where's
the beer?" (Somehow this is important.)
We were forced to stop to observe the fantastic view. (I was protesting whiningly the whole time. "Why is this happening to me?" "Who cares about panoramic views?" "Do I have to get out of the car again?")
Then we got to Skyline Lodge where more hilarity ensued. Cressy was attracted instantly to the gift shop where a finger puppet chipmunk was obtained by fluttering her eyelashes longingly at her father. (Do I need to mention that this particular puppet requires one to stick their finger up the chipmunk's aft area? Well, if I didn't need to mention it, too bad, because I did it anyway.)
This is 'Chippy,' her new best friend for possibly
24 to 48 hours. (Seriously, it's over three days later
and the poor little plush bastard is on the outs.)
Then we settled down to watch the sunset. Cressy said, "Look a deer." I thought she was kidding but here was a doe, who looked at us and fluttered her eyelashes longingly. (Either she had taken a page out of Cressy's book or she had been fed by the tourists before.)
This is from our room's balcony. The deer hung out hopefully until
it became obvious that we weren't going to throw her any Cheesits.
(I swear the doe glared at us when she walked around the corner.)
The deer was so interesting that poor hapless Chippy was left inside to rot while Cressy cooed to the deer. (She seriously thought that the deer would walk up to her and let Cressy pet her.) (I let her watch 'Bambi' too much. It's gonna haunt me.)
"Oh, woe is I," Chippy lamented. "I have been left inside while
the deer and the antelope play. Wait, that's the great plains or
the range or something. I will fall on my side and look pitiful.
Possibly this will mean that no one will stick anything up
my aft area for awhile. It's getting sore."
Then the sun set and we waited for the stars to come out.
The sun has setted. (Yes, I used 'setted' on purpose.)
Cressy was dying for the first star to come out because she had just learned "Star Light, Star Bright." But she was also very tired so she was saying grumpily, "When is the first star going to come out already?" (I had told her that she had to go to bed after seeing the first star. Normally bedtime isn't a welcome event, but she was pooped.) Although she was ready to wait out that pesky first star she was going to let everyone know how unhappy she was with the current state of affairs.
We went out into the front of the room because it was darker in the east and saw that the doe had been joined by about twenty of her compatriots. The grass was, apparently, greener on the other side of the hotel. Or the deer knew that the humans would ooo-and-ahh over them.
Cressy saw her first star, said the mantra, and made a wish. (The wish? She wanted to fly. Always interesting to listen to a 7 year old's perspective.)
The next day we went to Luray Caverns. Our guide was Shaggy's twin brother.
If he had an animated Great Dane, we would
like, totally be solving the mystery
of the Creepy Caverns. Jinkies!
Also we saw some neat cave stuff.
Not sure what this was called. My mind
pretty much became a blur about this point.
And there was more cave stuff.
This looks like a volcano basically vomited its
guts out.
Eventually we were led out of the underworld. We been gifted with a wealth of stalactite/stalagmite information that my puny brain can never hope to digest in one session. The exit, interestingly enough, led into the gift shop. (Pretty clever.) I stood in the gift shop, panting from the three stories of stairs I just climbed, while the clerks waved cheap crap from China at me. (I think they must be used to panting people and don't take it personally.)
Anyway, we got home sometime later. Then the rental agency from North Carolina called. (Here comes the eye rolling part I warned you about.) They wanted to know if...we were okay.
I didn't answer right away because I was attempting to process the information that I had just been imparted. Finally, I said to the woman on the phone, "Is there a reason why I shouldn't be?" The woman, I never caught her name, said, "There was a hurricane." (Oh, I love erudite people.) "Yes," I said. "We kind of noticed." The woman said, "You weren't at the rental house?" I had to take a breath then. (I wanted to add, "And we have a television and we were watching the Weather Channel and we're not particularly stupid." But I restrained myself. Barely.) Instead, I said in explanation, "The hurricane made landfall the day that our rental started." (I thought it was a given. Only a moron would have driven over and taken possession of a rental house that is 75 feet from the beach and in the FREAKING middle of a Cat 3 Hurricane.) (But I'm thinking that this poor woman on the phone probably had a few examples of said morons.) "So you didn't go?" the woman persisted.
That's the part where I screamed, "OWWW!" because my eyes rolled back so hard that they bounced off my brain.
"Of course, we didn't go to the #$%^@!! beach," I snarled. "Okay, then," the woman said mundanely. Then she added the killing statement, "Hopefully we'll see you next year." (One must understand that this woman wasn't returning any of my six messages, but was, instead, covering the collective asses of the rental agency from potential lawsuits.) ("Hello, potential return customer. We're calling to see if you weathered the hurricane in one piece. Isn't this a wonderific gesture of goodwill on our part? Please don't seek out a lawyer." "Go eff yourself." "Nice talking to you.")
And how was your summer vacation?
September 1, 2011
The Return of the Giant, Maneating, Killer, Obnoxious, Caffeine Deprived Pumpkin!
(Note to folks: This blog was begun before the incident with the computer. See ' How HIM Ruined My Entire Weekend...' from August 2011. And also before 'EARTHQUAKE etc.' And also before 'Random Stuff OR How I've Got Nothing OR Hurricane Schmurricane! We Don't Need No Stinking Hurricanes!' So while it would be helpful to read those first, it's not completely necessary, BECAUSE I WILL ELUCIDATE!!!!!!!!) (Look I made links to the blogs so you don't have to go look in the directory. I have impressed myself with my computer eruditedness. Also I made up another word.)
Well. It occurs to me that I'm a little bored today. I'm done writing on my other stuff. (This means that my brain has been fried from thinking in Bubba vernacular.) My MIL has departed for Texas where she has a date with a FEMA trailer and a truck to haul it from Mississippi to Texas. (Unfortunately, I'm not permitted to blog about my MIL because I, sigh, promised not to do it. But doesn't a story about a FEMA trailer and my MIL sound like it has unlimited potential? I think it does. In fact, just listening to my MIL talk to insurance companies on the phone to insure the FEMA trailer whilst on its travels has potential. But my lips are sealed. Too bad my fingers are a little loose.)
I think we need another story about pumpkins. (See 'The Attack of the GIANT Monster Pumpkins OR What to Do When Your Garden Doesn't Produce (Get it?)) (Oh, the hell with it. Just go back and read all the blogs. I'll still be here.)
Warning: To people with no sense of humor, you should just stop right here. You won't get the jokes and you'll think my illustrated photos are silly and stupid. It'll probably hurt you. Stop reading now and go back to your Reader's Digest or The Dullest Blog in the World. (I'm linking this because here it is. I think it's funny. He blogged about standing up and then was sitting down. It couldn't get much duller than that. He probably doesn't have anyone who writes and thinks his blog is offensive.)
Anyway, let me find a little inspiration. Pumpkins. I already did the obvious one. Fairy Godmother. Pumpkin carriage, etc. So what else to do with pumpkins? Pumpkin pie? Pumpkin muffins? Sleepy Hollow. Yeah, Washington Irving lives forever. (I have an urgent need to go watch Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci. Tim Burton rocks. I loved Christopher Walker as the Hessian.)
I don't see a pumpkin. Does
anyone see a pumpkin? Does
Tim Burton dislike pumpkins?
Do we need to boycott Tim Burton
on his lack of pumpkin use?
Nah. The movie was made in 1999.
I think that ship has sailed. But Tim
better watch it in the future. (He looks almost
as weird as Johnny Depp in character so
how does he hang out with his hot
girlfriend/whatever, Helena Bonham Carter?)
So much for the story about the pumpkin.
See? See? I mean, really. (But now Helena looks a
little funky, too. Hey, it works for them.) (And wouldn't
The Life and Death of Bayou Billy be a great novel
for Tim Burton to make into a movie? Or the Coen Brothers.
Whichever. Call me!)
Okay, focus, Fat Woman. Pumpkins.
Once there was a pumpkin hanging out in a field of other pumpkins mind their own business.
Yes, I have used the pumpkin with the weird butt again. I will
probably use this pumpkin that I grew in my garden in perpetuity
or until it's not funny anymore. Probably the latter.
And here goes another tangent:
I think I might have missed messing with Mellow, my sister's cat,
for a few blogs. So I felt compelled.
Back to the pumpkin. One night a headless Hessian came looking for his head and found the pumpkin instead.
I wasn't sure about a headless Hessian's outfit so I winged it.
The pumpkin decided that things didn't look good. So it tried to talk its way out of the situation.
Hey, weird butted pumpkin is quick on its...well...weird butt.
But it went on for awhile in this vein.
I don't think the real headless Hessian would have debated with
the weird butted pumpkin but it's my story.
Things were looking grim for the pumpkin.
Hmm. Am I dragging on this topic too long? Maybe.
So the pumpkin quickly watched several Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee movies and kicked the Headless Horseman into oblivion.
See, everything you need to learn can be learned from school and from
movies. (My mother was definitely wrong about TV rotting my
brain. What was I saying?)
In conclusion, the pumpkin settled down into its patch and then later on became the President of the Local League of Kick-Pumpkin-Throwers'-Butts. (And you thought that Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman were the only perspectives of that story.)
The End.
But not the end of this blog.
Well. It occurs to me that I'm a little bored today. I'm done writing on my other stuff. (This means that my brain has been fried from thinking in Bubba vernacular.) My MIL has departed for Texas where she has a date with a FEMA trailer and a truck to haul it from Mississippi to Texas. (Unfortunately, I'm not permitted to blog about my MIL because I, sigh, promised not to do it. But doesn't a story about a FEMA trailer and my MIL sound like it has unlimited potential? I think it does. In fact, just listening to my MIL talk to insurance companies on the phone to insure the FEMA trailer whilst on its travels has potential. But my lips are sealed. Too bad my fingers are a little loose.)
I think we need another story about pumpkins. (See 'The Attack of the GIANT Monster Pumpkins OR What to Do When Your Garden Doesn't Produce (Get it?)) (Oh, the hell with it. Just go back and read all the blogs. I'll still be here.)
Warning: To people with no sense of humor, you should just stop right here. You won't get the jokes and you'll think my illustrated photos are silly and stupid. It'll probably hurt you. Stop reading now and go back to your Reader's Digest or The Dullest Blog in the World. (I'm linking this because here it is. I think it's funny. He blogged about standing up and then was sitting down. It couldn't get much duller than that. He probably doesn't have anyone who writes and thinks his blog is offensive.)
Anyway, let me find a little inspiration. Pumpkins. I already did the obvious one. Fairy Godmother. Pumpkin carriage, etc. So what else to do with pumpkins? Pumpkin pie? Pumpkin muffins? Sleepy Hollow. Yeah, Washington Irving lives forever. (I have an urgent need to go watch Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci. Tim Burton rocks. I loved Christopher Walker as the Hessian.)
I don't see a pumpkin. Does
anyone see a pumpkin? Does
Tim Burton dislike pumpkins?
Do we need to boycott Tim Burton
on his lack of pumpkin use?
Nah. The movie was made in 1999.
I think that ship has sailed. But Tim
better watch it in the future. (He looks almost
as weird as Johnny Depp in character so
how does he hang out with his hot
girlfriend/whatever, Helena Bonham Carter?)
So much for the story about the pumpkin.
See? See? I mean, really. (But now Helena looks a
little funky, too. Hey, it works for them.) (And wouldn't
The Life and Death of Bayou Billy be a great novel
for Tim Burton to make into a movie? Or the Coen Brothers.
Whichever. Call me!)
Okay, focus, Fat Woman. Pumpkins.
Once there was a pumpkin hanging out in a field of other pumpkins mind their own business.
Yes, I have used the pumpkin with the weird butt again. I will
probably use this pumpkin that I grew in my garden in perpetuity
or until it's not funny anymore. Probably the latter.
And here goes another tangent:
I think I might have missed messing with Mellow, my sister's cat,
for a few blogs. So I felt compelled.
Back to the pumpkin. One night a headless Hessian came looking for his head and found the pumpkin instead.
I wasn't sure about a headless Hessian's outfit so I winged it.
The pumpkin decided that things didn't look good. So it tried to talk its way out of the situation.
Hey, weird butted pumpkin is quick on its...well...weird butt.
But it went on for awhile in this vein.
I don't think the real headless Hessian would have debated with
the weird butted pumpkin but it's my story.
Things were looking grim for the pumpkin.
Hmm. Am I dragging on this topic too long? Maybe.
So the pumpkin quickly watched several Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee movies and kicked the Headless Horseman into oblivion.
See, everything you need to learn can be learned from school and from
movies. (My mother was definitely wrong about TV rotting my
brain. What was I saying?)
In conclusion, the pumpkin settled down into its patch and then later on became the President of the Local League of Kick-Pumpkin-Throwers'-Butts. (And you thought that Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman were the only perspectives of that story.)
The End.
But not the end of this blog.
August 29, 2011
OH, NO!!! Fat Woman Changed the Background AGAIN!!!
There. That says everything. End of story. (Why does she keep typing? I do not know. I think she's incapable of writing something succinct. See. It just keeps going on and on and on. Someone stop her.)
Random Stuff OR How I've Got Nothing OR Hurricane Schmurricane! We Don't Need No Stinking Hurricanes!
WARNING: I have an urge to simply blather on about various and sundry subjects. This could bode ill to those who like a straight-forward blog about one subject. May also cause warts to appear on the webbing of your thumb and mad cow disease. (Okay, maybe not the latter, except in my head.)
First off, I learned a new word from one person who reviewed one of my novels, Bubba and the Dead Woman. Homophone. (Homophone for those of you who can't read the rainbow colored letters.) This means words that sound the same or possibly are spelled the same but mean different things. (Like a rose can be a flower or someone rose from the dead.) Apparently this reviewer, of a review that I'm not supposed to read anymore, felt that I abused homophones in my novel. My comment: The word 'homophone' sounds like a communication device that has decided that it doesn't like other communication devices that prefer the same sex.
So I suppose I should swear off reading reviews again. I really should. We'll see how that works out.
Onto the next subject. Recently on Facebook several friends were discussing Duck Tape. I do mean, Duck Tape, not Duct Tape. (Brand name difference.) So when I went into Target last week, I found this, and I mean the display of various tapes, not the kid. I came to Target with the kid pre-attached to me:
Cressy showing her choice of which Duck Tape should
be used ideally. (Paint splotches.) I liked the
leopard skin one. But hey, they had so many to choose from.
I applaud those who use Duck Tape in inventive ways but why do we need 40 different colors? (There's probably more. Target probably didn't buy all of them, just the ones they thought were funky enough for their particular market.)
So then I was compelled to Google funny uses for Duck Tape and discovered these. (All pix from Uses for Duck Tape who apparently has lots of time and alcohol on their hands):
HIM, the man to whom I'm married,
will love this. Now everyone can drink Foster's, including
people without thumbs.
And since I went looking, I found this one, which bears mentioning because, well, just look at the guy! I'm not sure what was going on here, but it looks kinky in a manner that I've never thought about before. (I swear. If I write another Bayou Billy type book, this is going into that book.) (This picture falls under the category that people will do stuff that writers can NEVER make up in a million years.):
I think there might have been padding going on here
and everyone is going to hear the screaming when the
tape eventually does get removed.
(I want to point out that I correctly used a homophone in
the above caption. Here and hear. Take that,
Random Reviewer!)
And I swear this will be the last one. (At least the last Duck Tape related photograph.) I'm having trouble visualizing what was going on with the group of people who did this. More alcohol was probably involved. They might have been using the stuff that comes from a still with the bad chemicals in it.
How did they hold him up long enough to get the Duck Tape to stick?
What if he has to go pee pee? (I'm just saying.)
Abrupt Subject Change Alert!
I'm sorry to announce that the pumpkin with the weird butt has passed onto the place where all pumpkins go. (From 'The Attack of the Giant Monster Pumpkins OR What to Do When Your Garden Doesn't Produce (Get It?)' from August 2011). The poor pumpkin developed some kind of wasting disease and started to rot. Then it had to go into intensive care.
I know this is truly horrifying but it had to be
seen. The poor pumpkin.
This, of course, led me to think of famous last lines. So here we go with that:
I bet some of you are Googling right now.
All righty then. On to the next one:
Hah! More Googling. This is only for die hard Casablanca and
African Queen fans.
OH, NO! This should be the time for a subject matter change, but I seem to be stuck.
These are the famous last words of many an inebriated redneck.
It doesn't really fit the empowered pumpkin with the weird butt
theme, but WTH?
Here's the subject change that should have come earlier but didn't. I'm sitting in front of the laptop typing all this random crap because no one can go outside. Hurricane Irene (Mean Irene or Goodnight Irene both pop into my head) is meandering up the coast. She's pretty much hosed us on our beach vacation that was supposed to take place this week.
With that in mind, I came up with a conclusive poem. It's called, 'The Lament of Irene.' (I know. I'm not a poet and I may never write another one. Someone will probably legally restrain me from doing so, but go with the humor on this one.):
Oh, mean, mean Irene,Our summer vacation is so lean.We could have had such a fun beach scene.Instead Chuck E. Cheese's is from which we're forced to glean.We're forced into a mundane routine.Oh, I pray this is the end of Irene.
I can hear the comments now. (GROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAN!!!!!)
And so this is the end of Fat Woman's blog.
First off, I learned a new word from one person who reviewed one of my novels, Bubba and the Dead Woman. Homophone. (Homophone for those of you who can't read the rainbow colored letters.) This means words that sound the same or possibly are spelled the same but mean different things. (Like a rose can be a flower or someone rose from the dead.) Apparently this reviewer, of a review that I'm not supposed to read anymore, felt that I abused homophones in my novel. My comment: The word 'homophone' sounds like a communication device that has decided that it doesn't like other communication devices that prefer the same sex.
So I suppose I should swear off reading reviews again. I really should. We'll see how that works out.
Onto the next subject. Recently on Facebook several friends were discussing Duck Tape. I do mean, Duck Tape, not Duct Tape. (Brand name difference.) So when I went into Target last week, I found this, and I mean the display of various tapes, not the kid. I came to Target with the kid pre-attached to me:
Cressy showing her choice of which Duck Tape should
be used ideally. (Paint splotches.) I liked the
leopard skin one. But hey, they had so many to choose from.
I applaud those who use Duck Tape in inventive ways but why do we need 40 different colors? (There's probably more. Target probably didn't buy all of them, just the ones they thought were funky enough for their particular market.)
So then I was compelled to Google funny uses for Duck Tape and discovered these. (All pix from Uses for Duck Tape who apparently has lots of time and alcohol on their hands):
HIM, the man to whom I'm married,
will love this. Now everyone can drink Foster's, including
people without thumbs.
And since I went looking, I found this one, which bears mentioning because, well, just look at the guy! I'm not sure what was going on here, but it looks kinky in a manner that I've never thought about before. (I swear. If I write another Bayou Billy type book, this is going into that book.) (This picture falls under the category that people will do stuff that writers can NEVER make up in a million years.):
I think there might have been padding going on here
and everyone is going to hear the screaming when the
tape eventually does get removed.
(I want to point out that I correctly used a homophone in
the above caption. Here and hear. Take that,
Random Reviewer!)
And I swear this will be the last one. (At least the last Duck Tape related photograph.) I'm having trouble visualizing what was going on with the group of people who did this. More alcohol was probably involved. They might have been using the stuff that comes from a still with the bad chemicals in it.
How did they hold him up long enough to get the Duck Tape to stick?
What if he has to go pee pee? (I'm just saying.)
Abrupt Subject Change Alert!
I'm sorry to announce that the pumpkin with the weird butt has passed onto the place where all pumpkins go. (From 'The Attack of the Giant Monster Pumpkins OR What to Do When Your Garden Doesn't Produce (Get It?)' from August 2011). The poor pumpkin developed some kind of wasting disease and started to rot. Then it had to go into intensive care.
I know this is truly horrifying but it had to be
seen. The poor pumpkin.
This, of course, led me to think of famous last lines. So here we go with that:
I bet some of you are Googling right now.
All righty then. On to the next one:
Hah! More Googling. This is only for die hard Casablanca and
African Queen fans.
OH, NO! This should be the time for a subject matter change, but I seem to be stuck.
These are the famous last words of many an inebriated redneck.
It doesn't really fit the empowered pumpkin with the weird butt
theme, but WTH?
Here's the subject change that should have come earlier but didn't. I'm sitting in front of the laptop typing all this random crap because no one can go outside. Hurricane Irene (Mean Irene or Goodnight Irene both pop into my head) is meandering up the coast. She's pretty much hosed us on our beach vacation that was supposed to take place this week.
With that in mind, I came up with a conclusive poem. It's called, 'The Lament of Irene.' (I know. I'm not a poet and I may never write another one. Someone will probably legally restrain me from doing so, but go with the humor on this one.):
Oh, mean, mean Irene,Our summer vacation is so lean.We could have had such a fun beach scene.Instead Chuck E. Cheese's is from which we're forced to glean.We're forced into a mundane routine.Oh, I pray this is the end of Irene.
I can hear the comments now. (GROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAN!!!!!)
And so this is the end of Fat Woman's blog.
August 25, 2011
EARTHQUAKE!!!! OR EARTHQUAKE!!!! OR EARTHQUAKE!!!! OR I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet! OR How I Stole a Title From a Carole King Song From the 70s!
I was at the pool enjoying conversation with mommy friends. The concrete beneath our feet began to shake. Initially I thought it was a big truck nearby because we could hear the noise. Then it dawned on me that, 'Hey, this is a very big truck.' My mommy friend, Marla, said something like, "Is that...?" (I'm a little fuzzy on the conversation because I was freaking out.) Then I said something like, "I don't know but I'm freaking out." (And I was freaking out.) Then I looked up and everyone in the pool area has pretty much the same kind of 'duh' expression on their faces. (Everyone was pretty much freaking out.) Then we broke into a flash mob music edition of 'Freak the Freak Out.' (Okay, that was just me and not really, only in my head. And only in my head, hours later.)
So, children, any questions about earthquakes?
There will be a quiz later.
Then I texted HIM, the man to whom I'm married, who was in the city. Wowzers. (Okay, my daughter forced me to watch the movie, Inspector Gadget, the other day. I like Matthew Broderick, but come on.) The cell towers were jammed and nobody was getting through. Everyone had their cells out and were tapping away. My other mommy friend, Tara, managed to get in a Facebook status. Man, she's good and quick with her smart phone. (Everyone was trying to text when they should have just gotten on Facebook and posted.)
This is an actual movie from the 70s.
It was a period of time where everyone was
obsessed with destruction and annihilation.
Kind of like the Obama administration. (BURN!)
Irwin Allen didn't produce this one, but he should
have. (As per a later Irwin Allen reference
in this blog.) (Now I feel compelled to explain
that Irwin Allen was a movie producer who
specialized in big 'DISASTER' movies
like The Towering Inferno and The Poseidon
Adventure.)
My daughter, Crescenia, was oblivious. Hours later, she was like, "There was an earthquake?" She tilted her head and said, "Really?" (She's seven and the concept didn't do anything for her since she didn't directly experience it. She was in the water at the pool and the biggest consequence to her was that the lifeguards freaked out and made everyone get out of the water.) (Cressy didn't freak out.)
Later, I got a call from my sister who said our aunt was freaking out because the other aunt, who lives in Maryland, had fallen mid-earthquake and broken her ankle. So later on Facebook, I asked my cousin, Karl, who is my Maryland Aunt's son, and who also lives in Maryland, "So your mom broke her ankle?" Then he read it and called his mother. Then she called me. (That's what I get for listening to freaked out relatives.)
This is what I call a twisted grapevine. It's like playing 'Telephone' and the message gets all garbled. Then at the end, the last person says something like, "A purple nerd flew strategic jets into my underwear," and everyone laughs. Except me.
Anyway, my warped brain concedes that we all need an earthquake readiness kit.
But then a hurricane is coming. Apparently, Irene (that rotten, horrible bitch) is meandering up the coast and ruining the hell out of our impending beach vacation. (The conversation between myself and the rental agent: "So, what's the news on the hurricane?" Mary, the agent: "You know you don't have travel insurance." Me: "I know. So what about-" Mary: "And it's too late to get some now." Me: "I know that too. If the house is still there are we allowed to-" Mary: "Did you read your contract?" And that was pretty much where my mind decided to give up the ghost.) And we'll need to be prepared for that, too.
Let's see. Earthquake. Hurricane. What's next? Plague? Pestilence? Or as one of my old high school friends said, 'Weeping butt sores?' You never know. She could be right, you know.
My preparedness list:
- 2 bottles Whaler's Vanille Rum. (Medicinal purposes only. It's good for snakebites. You ever hear what W.C. Fields said? "Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore, always carry a small snake." It's the same principle completely.) Hell, make it five bottles. There could be a lot of snakes.
- Ingredients for the Ultimate Hangover Cure: 1 banana, 1 small can V-8, 6 large strawberries, 2 tablespoons honey, 1 cup orange juice, 1/2 cup milk (or powder), 1/4 teaspoon salt, a dash of nutmeg. Mix thoroughly. Use a blender with your generator's power. Follow with 2 aspirins, 200 mg. of cysteine, 600 mg of vitamin c and 1 tablet of vitamin B-complex. (This might be helpful if prepared in gallon form. Don't worry about spoilage. You'll use it quickly enough.)
- A generator
- A blender
- The entire series of Sopranos DVDs
- A DVD player
- One 16 oz jar of Boudreax's Butt-Paste (for those weeping butt sores.)
And I feel obligated to interject an earthquake joke. What do you get from cows during an earthquake? A milk shake. (Haha. No, don't leave rude comments. I couldn't help myself. It's the only earthquake related joke I know and I really couldn't help myself.)
So the USGS (U.S. Geological Survey) sez we should go to FEMA's website for earthquake preparedness. There I see that FEMA is now a part of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. (I think keeping our collective asses safe from earthquakes should be a part of Homeland Security.) (What the heck does FEMA stand for?) (It took me awhile but I drudged through their website and found it. Federal Emergency Management Agency or, as people in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida call them, the asshats who didn't help out after Katrina.)
Anyhoo, before an earthquake, we should make sure all our 'i's are dotted and our 't's are crossed. We should be Boy Scouts in every sense of the motto. If a shelf hasn't been securely fixed to a wall, then by God, we have failed in our god-given FEMA right to be prepared. Get that drill, soldier, and grab those screws and just attach everything that is not previously attached to every wall available. No, I don't mean the dog or your husband, although they may need it. Then we should check our home for hazards.
There shouldn't be any mirrors or pictures or anything else hanging above where people are sitting. (Well, I'm hosed on that one.) We should brace overhead electronics. (Brace it with what? I should attach pieces of 2X4's to my ceiling fans? I would think that would fall under the things hanging above where people are sitting rule.)
We should repair defective electrical and gas attachments. (If I knew the gas or electricity was broken I think I would have already fixed it. "Gee honey, I smell gas." "It's not me, I swear." "No, silly, it smells like a natural gas leak." "I have natural gas." "I mean the kind for the oven and the water heater." "Oh, that. It's been leaking for months. We're all sleeping better. We should just ignore it." "Oh, gleeful noises.")
We should repair deep cracks in the ceilings or the foundations. (Doesn't this come after the earthquake? I don't know about your house but apparently I'm crack free. Hahaha. That's funny. Don't lie. You laughed.)
We should identify safe places outside. (This is easy. A safe place from an earthquake is anyplace where they're not having one.) And oh yes, FEMA calls earthquakes, EQ's. So you're in the know. When those FEMA officials start snapping out pertinent info about recent EQ's, you don't turn to the person next to you and say stupidly, "Dude, what's an EQ?"
Now for the during part. What to do during an EQ! (See, you, the really savvy one, you got the EQ part right away, didn't you?)
Most importantly. Drop, cover, and hold on. (I'm serious. This is what FEMA says to do.) It's like in the sixties when they were prepping school kids for the big Soviet nuke-a-thon coming our direction. They had tens of thousand of school kids freaking out at the thought that the big bad Soviets would launch their nukes before we had a chance to launch our nukes at them and secure capitalism for the masses. So back to the EQ. Drop, cover, and hold on. (Don't hide under the crappy card table. It will not protect you.)
Don't use the elevators. (If you've seen any Irwin Allen movie you'll know that you're instantly screwed if you get into an elevator. It's like being the couple having sex in the opening twenty minutes of any horror movie. You're gonna die.)
If you're outdoors, don't stand under the big, granite gargoyle on the side of the building. Well, it might fall on your head. (You're a dumbass if you stand under it during an EQ, so it would be a favor to the rest of us.)
If you're in a car and driving down the road. You should stop. Don't park under a bridge. (See the gargoyle thing above. Also see Darwin Awards.)
If you happen to be trapped under debris, don't light a match. (I like this. I don't carry matches but if I did, I don't think I would be thinking about lighting one while in the middle of an earthquake, crap, I mean EQ. Why would you need to? Would you be thinking, 'Gee, my legs are crushed, yet through all the tremendous shaking occurring I feel the need to have a minuscule light so that I may feel some hope. Golly, I've got matches.'?)
Okay, enough of causticity. (I used a made up word again.) Hopefully everyone is safe and sound, except my aunt in Maryland, who may be the only person who was injured by the EQ. Her ankle is severely sprained and yes, I got it from the horse's mouth. (Not that my aunt is a horse.)
Next blog: How I Survived the Hurricane OR Making Hurricanes During a Hurricane OR The Hell With Coastal Advisories!
Note to self: Add ingredients listed here to
My Hurricane Preparedness List.
So, children, any questions about earthquakes?
There will be a quiz later.
Then I texted HIM, the man to whom I'm married, who was in the city. Wowzers. (Okay, my daughter forced me to watch the movie, Inspector Gadget, the other day. I like Matthew Broderick, but come on.) The cell towers were jammed and nobody was getting through. Everyone had their cells out and were tapping away. My other mommy friend, Tara, managed to get in a Facebook status. Man, she's good and quick with her smart phone. (Everyone was trying to text when they should have just gotten on Facebook and posted.)
This is an actual movie from the 70s.
It was a period of time where everyone was
obsessed with destruction and annihilation.
Kind of like the Obama administration. (BURN!)
Irwin Allen didn't produce this one, but he should
have. (As per a later Irwin Allen reference
in this blog.) (Now I feel compelled to explain
that Irwin Allen was a movie producer who
specialized in big 'DISASTER' movies
like The Towering Inferno and The Poseidon
Adventure.)
My daughter, Crescenia, was oblivious. Hours later, she was like, "There was an earthquake?" She tilted her head and said, "Really?" (She's seven and the concept didn't do anything for her since she didn't directly experience it. She was in the water at the pool and the biggest consequence to her was that the lifeguards freaked out and made everyone get out of the water.) (Cressy didn't freak out.)
Later, I got a call from my sister who said our aunt was freaking out because the other aunt, who lives in Maryland, had fallen mid-earthquake and broken her ankle. So later on Facebook, I asked my cousin, Karl, who is my Maryland Aunt's son, and who also lives in Maryland, "So your mom broke her ankle?" Then he read it and called his mother. Then she called me. (That's what I get for listening to freaked out relatives.)
This is what I call a twisted grapevine. It's like playing 'Telephone' and the message gets all garbled. Then at the end, the last person says something like, "A purple nerd flew strategic jets into my underwear," and everyone laughs. Except me.
Anyway, my warped brain concedes that we all need an earthquake readiness kit.
But then a hurricane is coming. Apparently, Irene (that rotten, horrible bitch) is meandering up the coast and ruining the hell out of our impending beach vacation. (The conversation between myself and the rental agent: "So, what's the news on the hurricane?" Mary, the agent: "You know you don't have travel insurance." Me: "I know. So what about-" Mary: "And it's too late to get some now." Me: "I know that too. If the house is still there are we allowed to-" Mary: "Did you read your contract?" And that was pretty much where my mind decided to give up the ghost.) And we'll need to be prepared for that, too.
Let's see. Earthquake. Hurricane. What's next? Plague? Pestilence? Or as one of my old high school friends said, 'Weeping butt sores?' You never know. She could be right, you know.
My preparedness list:
- 2 bottles Whaler's Vanille Rum. (Medicinal purposes only. It's good for snakebites. You ever hear what W.C. Fields said? "Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore, always carry a small snake." It's the same principle completely.) Hell, make it five bottles. There could be a lot of snakes.
- Ingredients for the Ultimate Hangover Cure: 1 banana, 1 small can V-8, 6 large strawberries, 2 tablespoons honey, 1 cup orange juice, 1/2 cup milk (or powder), 1/4 teaspoon salt, a dash of nutmeg. Mix thoroughly. Use a blender with your generator's power. Follow with 2 aspirins, 200 mg. of cysteine, 600 mg of vitamin c and 1 tablet of vitamin B-complex. (This might be helpful if prepared in gallon form. Don't worry about spoilage. You'll use it quickly enough.)
- A generator
- A blender
- The entire series of Sopranos DVDs
- A DVD player
- One 16 oz jar of Boudreax's Butt-Paste (for those weeping butt sores.)
And I feel obligated to interject an earthquake joke. What do you get from cows during an earthquake? A milk shake. (Haha. No, don't leave rude comments. I couldn't help myself. It's the only earthquake related joke I know and I really couldn't help myself.)
So the USGS (U.S. Geological Survey) sez we should go to FEMA's website for earthquake preparedness. There I see that FEMA is now a part of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. (I think keeping our collective asses safe from earthquakes should be a part of Homeland Security.) (What the heck does FEMA stand for?) (It took me awhile but I drudged through their website and found it. Federal Emergency Management Agency or, as people in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida call them, the asshats who didn't help out after Katrina.)
Anyhoo, before an earthquake, we should make sure all our 'i's are dotted and our 't's are crossed. We should be Boy Scouts in every sense of the motto. If a shelf hasn't been securely fixed to a wall, then by God, we have failed in our god-given FEMA right to be prepared. Get that drill, soldier, and grab those screws and just attach everything that is not previously attached to every wall available. No, I don't mean the dog or your husband, although they may need it. Then we should check our home for hazards.
There shouldn't be any mirrors or pictures or anything else hanging above where people are sitting. (Well, I'm hosed on that one.) We should brace overhead electronics. (Brace it with what? I should attach pieces of 2X4's to my ceiling fans? I would think that would fall under the things hanging above where people are sitting rule.)
We should repair defective electrical and gas attachments. (If I knew the gas or electricity was broken I think I would have already fixed it. "Gee honey, I smell gas." "It's not me, I swear." "No, silly, it smells like a natural gas leak." "I have natural gas." "I mean the kind for the oven and the water heater." "Oh, that. It's been leaking for months. We're all sleeping better. We should just ignore it." "Oh, gleeful noises.")
We should repair deep cracks in the ceilings or the foundations. (Doesn't this come after the earthquake? I don't know about your house but apparently I'm crack free. Hahaha. That's funny. Don't lie. You laughed.)
We should identify safe places outside. (This is easy. A safe place from an earthquake is anyplace where they're not having one.) And oh yes, FEMA calls earthquakes, EQ's. So you're in the know. When those FEMA officials start snapping out pertinent info about recent EQ's, you don't turn to the person next to you and say stupidly, "Dude, what's an EQ?"
Now for the during part. What to do during an EQ! (See, you, the really savvy one, you got the EQ part right away, didn't you?)
Most importantly. Drop, cover, and hold on. (I'm serious. This is what FEMA says to do.) It's like in the sixties when they were prepping school kids for the big Soviet nuke-a-thon coming our direction. They had tens of thousand of school kids freaking out at the thought that the big bad Soviets would launch their nukes before we had a chance to launch our nukes at them and secure capitalism for the masses. So back to the EQ. Drop, cover, and hold on. (Don't hide under the crappy card table. It will not protect you.)
Don't use the elevators. (If you've seen any Irwin Allen movie you'll know that you're instantly screwed if you get into an elevator. It's like being the couple having sex in the opening twenty minutes of any horror movie. You're gonna die.)
If you're outdoors, don't stand under the big, granite gargoyle on the side of the building. Well, it might fall on your head. (You're a dumbass if you stand under it during an EQ, so it would be a favor to the rest of us.)
If you're in a car and driving down the road. You should stop. Don't park under a bridge. (See the gargoyle thing above. Also see Darwin Awards.)
If you happen to be trapped under debris, don't light a match. (I like this. I don't carry matches but if I did, I don't think I would be thinking about lighting one while in the middle of an earthquake, crap, I mean EQ. Why would you need to? Would you be thinking, 'Gee, my legs are crushed, yet through all the tremendous shaking occurring I feel the need to have a minuscule light so that I may feel some hope. Golly, I've got matches.'?)
Okay, enough of causticity. (I used a made up word again.) Hopefully everyone is safe and sound, except my aunt in Maryland, who may be the only person who was injured by the EQ. Her ankle is severely sprained and yes, I got it from the horse's mouth. (Not that my aunt is a horse.)
Next blog: How I Survived the Hurricane OR Making Hurricanes During a Hurricane OR The Hell With Coastal Advisories!
Note to self: Add ingredients listed here to
My Hurricane Preparedness List.
August 22, 2011
How HIM Ruined My Entire Weekend OR How HIM Should Not Be Allowed to Shop at Costco OR How HIM Might Be in the Doghouse
I was going to write about more pumpkin madness. I even have a cool new pumpkin story with funky pumpkin illustrations. The creative juices were flowing.
I did not get to write about pumpkins and their weirdly shaped posteriors that have emerged from my garden.
"NO!" You scream. "How could this have happened?" I will explain in an amusing and probably caustic manner. (My MIL recently visited. When I asked if she read my blog, she said, "I read the one about your neighbor. It was caustic." I wasn't sure if I should be a) alarmed, b) insulted, c) complimented, or d) concerned that she would disown me. It turned out that she liked the caustic. Well, my neighbors did piss me off. Anyway, I like caustic and since I can't blog about my MIL, I have to go with HIM, he who made the grievous error of fucking around with my writing time.)
So once upon a time HIM went to Costco. It was a seemingly benign day. Low cloudiness. Low humidity. The radio was playing, 'Outside' by Staind. Nearby fluffy sheep were being herded by Little Bo Peep. (Wait. The last part was just me. That was probably a NyQuil induced dream. Man, I have weird dreams.)
Here is what happened. I swear. HIM went by the computer section in Costco and all was lost forever. (I could say an evil wizard cast a spell on HIM, but that isn't true. He started making noises at the electronics section and well, you could say that people started to stare. I just grabbed Cressy and walked away, pretending I didn't know him. As I hurried off, the clerk said loudly, "Sir, drool is not good for electrical equipment!")
I swear this is what HIM looks like when faced with new and appealing
computer gadgetry or needing a caffeine fix. Either one.
This is the route that I should have taken to get to the back of the store INSTEAD of going directly by the computer section.
The road that was NOT traveled.
But I was not wise and this is what actually happened.
It was a pretty short trip through Costco. Or at least it was for
some of us.
Therefore, the new laptop was purchased. Words were spoken. They went something like, "I'll update your computer, transfer all the files, and copy over all the music and pictures and badabing, badaboom. It'll be done in a few hours." Wink. Wink. "Trust me, baby."
Day One: Once the computer was registered and all the bells and whistles had ceased their noise, the transfer of the files began. The little window on the new computer said, "8 hours, 10 minutes remaining." It also said, "You may not use this computer." Also I could not use my old computer because it had the same message on it. (If I touched either one, apparently sparks would shoot out of my butt and I would instantly combust into a pile of gelatinous goo, or something equally distasteful.)
I was computerless. It felt like someone had chopped off one of my legs. One day when the electricity goes out, I'm going to be completely screwed. Also when we have the Apocalypse, I'm going to die from computer/android/whatsit withdrawal.
Thirty minutes later and the computer said still said, "8 hours, 10 minutes remaining." I knew my life was over.
Eons later, or actually it was the next morning, it was done with that. Then the loading of email configuration and software and transferal of licences began. HIM took a break to take Cressy, our daughter, to Spy Kids 4, which apparently was the best movie ever, according to Cressy. (It had smell-o-vision. These little cards with numbers on them. When the number popped up on the screen, you scratched and sniffed. One of the numbers was vomit. And people complain about my writing. Hmm. I wonder if I could incorporate scratch and sniff into my next Bubba book. There could eau de redneck and dogly sweat no. 5. Hmm. Hmmm? Hmmmmmmm.) So I basically had to lump it in a mass of discontented, frustration whilst HIM and Cressy gorged on popcorn and smelled strange stuff at the theater.
Day Two: More transgressions occurred against me in the form of preventing me from blogging. Thoughts of pumpkin stories were quickly disappearing from my head. Instead a new blog was forming itself in my mind. It was a blog about people who can't say no to new computers and gadgets. It was a blog about wasting my time. It was going to be caustic. (It was going to be a whole level of causticity. Look I made up a new word. It was going to be an erupting MOUNTAIN of caustic displeasure with the computer situation.)
Things didn't improve when I sat behind HIM, saying, "Now what's wrong?" when he grunted at the new laptop. It didn't help that the laptop kept trying to turn itself off and load new software updates without being prompted. Then it would stay that way for an hour while I made other noises. (Sighing deeply, tapping my fingers on the table, wistfully saying, "I wish I could work on my blog.")
This is NOT a prescribed manner to ensure a long and happy
marriage.
Day Three: I woke up and discovered that the laptop was on my desk and benignly appeared to be approachable. When I turned it on it said this:
Apparently, HIM had stayed up late and fixed 97.5% of the issues. But I'm sure I'll find the others very quickly.
This morning HIM is texting me with smug, know-it-all messages indicating that he knows that he's managed to slip out of this particular noose with technical ease. But then he hasn't read the blog, yet.
And thusly, the blogging has been good.
I did not get to write about pumpkins and their weirdly shaped posteriors that have emerged from my garden.
"NO!" You scream. "How could this have happened?" I will explain in an amusing and probably caustic manner. (My MIL recently visited. When I asked if she read my blog, she said, "I read the one about your neighbor. It was caustic." I wasn't sure if I should be a) alarmed, b) insulted, c) complimented, or d) concerned that she would disown me. It turned out that she liked the caustic. Well, my neighbors did piss me off. Anyway, I like caustic and since I can't blog about my MIL, I have to go with HIM, he who made the grievous error of fucking around with my writing time.)
So once upon a time HIM went to Costco. It was a seemingly benign day. Low cloudiness. Low humidity. The radio was playing, 'Outside' by Staind. Nearby fluffy sheep were being herded by Little Bo Peep. (Wait. The last part was just me. That was probably a NyQuil induced dream. Man, I have weird dreams.)
Here is what happened. I swear. HIM went by the computer section in Costco and all was lost forever. (I could say an evil wizard cast a spell on HIM, but that isn't true. He started making noises at the electronics section and well, you could say that people started to stare. I just grabbed Cressy and walked away, pretending I didn't know him. As I hurried off, the clerk said loudly, "Sir, drool is not good for electrical equipment!")
I swear this is what HIM looks like when faced with new and appealing
computer gadgetry or needing a caffeine fix. Either one.
This is the route that I should have taken to get to the back of the store INSTEAD of going directly by the computer section.
The road that was NOT traveled.
But I was not wise and this is what actually happened.
It was a pretty short trip through Costco. Or at least it was for
some of us.
Therefore, the new laptop was purchased. Words were spoken. They went something like, "I'll update your computer, transfer all the files, and copy over all the music and pictures and badabing, badaboom. It'll be done in a few hours." Wink. Wink. "Trust me, baby."
Day One: Once the computer was registered and all the bells and whistles had ceased their noise, the transfer of the files began. The little window on the new computer said, "8 hours, 10 minutes remaining." It also said, "You may not use this computer." Also I could not use my old computer because it had the same message on it. (If I touched either one, apparently sparks would shoot out of my butt and I would instantly combust into a pile of gelatinous goo, or something equally distasteful.)
I was computerless. It felt like someone had chopped off one of my legs. One day when the electricity goes out, I'm going to be completely screwed. Also when we have the Apocalypse, I'm going to die from computer/android/whatsit withdrawal.
Thirty minutes later and the computer said still said, "8 hours, 10 minutes remaining." I knew my life was over.
Eons later, or actually it was the next morning, it was done with that. Then the loading of email configuration and software and transferal of licences began. HIM took a break to take Cressy, our daughter, to Spy Kids 4, which apparently was the best movie ever, according to Cressy. (It had smell-o-vision. These little cards with numbers on them. When the number popped up on the screen, you scratched and sniffed. One of the numbers was vomit. And people complain about my writing. Hmm. I wonder if I could incorporate scratch and sniff into my next Bubba book. There could eau de redneck and dogly sweat no. 5. Hmm. Hmmm? Hmmmmmmm.) So I basically had to lump it in a mass of discontented, frustration whilst HIM and Cressy gorged on popcorn and smelled strange stuff at the theater.
Day Two: More transgressions occurred against me in the form of preventing me from blogging. Thoughts of pumpkin stories were quickly disappearing from my head. Instead a new blog was forming itself in my mind. It was a blog about people who can't say no to new computers and gadgets. It was a blog about wasting my time. It was going to be caustic. (It was going to be a whole level of causticity. Look I made up a new word. It was going to be an erupting MOUNTAIN of caustic displeasure with the computer situation.)
Things didn't improve when I sat behind HIM, saying, "Now what's wrong?" when he grunted at the new laptop. It didn't help that the laptop kept trying to turn itself off and load new software updates without being prompted. Then it would stay that way for an hour while I made other noises. (Sighing deeply, tapping my fingers on the table, wistfully saying, "I wish I could work on my blog.")
This is NOT a prescribed manner to ensure a long and happy
marriage.
Day Three: I woke up and discovered that the laptop was on my desk and benignly appeared to be approachable. When I turned it on it said this:
Apparently, HIM had stayed up late and fixed 97.5% of the issues. But I'm sure I'll find the others very quickly.This morning HIM is texting me with smug, know-it-all messages indicating that he knows that he's managed to slip out of this particular noose with technical ease. But then he hasn't read the blog, yet.
And thusly, the blogging has been good.
