C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 28

The Dance of the Fireflies OR Implications of Making Assumptions

Where to start.  Our seven year old daughter, Cressy, has been running amok lately.
Doesn't that look amok to you?  Looks amok to me.
Wait.  I need to go look up the word, 'amok.'  It means in a
murderously frenzied manner or a violently raging
fashion.  Guess that really isn't Cressy, unless
she was on crack or maybe on pixy stix.  By the way, amok
is in between the word, 'amoebula,' and 'amoldering,' both
of which I have no idea what they mean.  Maybe
I should read the dictionary.  What I should certainly do is
stop writing on this caption, which is getting
ridiculous.  (BTW, she's not really unhappy to
be standing on some poor bastard's grave, she was
just saying that she really wanted ice cream instead.)There was the firefly incident.  We came home after dark and there were fireflies in the yard.  So Cressy said, "I want to catch them!"  Mommy and Daddy said, "We're tired."  Cressy said, "But I want to catch them!"  So I folded like a cheap suit in a cheaper dry cleaning joint and said, "Okay, for five minutes.  Cressy said, "I need a glass jar for them."  When she said that what she really meant was, "Mother, you shall procure an item for me that I shall incarcerate said insects within so that I may gloat over their little imprisoned bodies for the next several days until they perish."
[image error] The exact moment of firefly realization.  (If you ask Cressy
the fireflies were 'asking' to be captured and imprisoned.  Maybe
it was the way they were dressed, the hussies.)Well, I didn't have a glass jar.  I already knew that I didn't have a glass jar.  But I had disposable bowls with lids.  No problem.  I didn't think the kid would catch one anyway.  After all, she runs like a transvestite in his first set of stiletto heels.  (She does.  I was going to get out the camcorder to show people but then I decided it might be crossing the line.  I don't want to offend any transvestites, after all.)  I really, seriously thought, 'Kid doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of catching a firefly.'  Anyway, it took me 30 seconds to get the disposable plastic bowl with the lid and as I was going back outside, Cressy comes trotting up and said, "I got one."  She's got her hands clasped together and a smug look of triumph on her little face.  (She has kicked firefly butt and she knows it.)

I was like, "Naw, you didn't get one this quick."  (Unthinkable.  She can't catch a caterpillar, how was she going to catch a firefly with wings and a disposition for escape.)

[image error] Actual firefly security detail.
They're kind of like the Secret Service,
except without Obama.It was THIRTY seconds, tops.  No exaggeration at all.  I was inside for a half a minute to get the container that I didn't really think I was going to use.  I had been thinking as I carried it back outside if I should put holes in the top and rapidly decided that since Cressy wasn't going to catch a firefly then I didn't need to put holes in the lid.  So I open the container up, thinking she got a mosquito or something equally icky in between her hands, and sure enough, it was a freaking FIREFLY.  She put it into the container.  (Actually it kind of fell into the container because when she had slapped her hands together, she hadn't left any space for the firefly.)

We both looked at it as it lay on the bottom of the container and I said, "Maybe we should let it go."  So the poor little smooshed thing could die in peace.  Poor little luminescent bastard.
[image error] Oh, it's time to steal lines from the classics.
Cressy looked at the sad, pitiful dying insect and I suspected that she knew that she had smooshed its little, green, glow-in-the-dark guts out.  She said, "Okay, Mommy," in a subdued sort of voice.  So we somberly let it out in the grass where it sat on a piece of grass and glowed for awhile.

Then Cressy went back into the yard to catch more.  She even called to the little fireflies like they were dogs.  "Here, firefly.  Here, firefly.  Come here, firefly."  She was getting annoyed that they wouldn't listen to her.  But I suspected that the word had gotten around.
[image error] You know what they say about gossip.She came back a few minutes later, disgruntled because the fireflies weren't acting like friendly little puppies, and took a look in the grass for the one she'd smooshed.  "Oh, I can't see him anymore," she said blithely.  (The principle of 'Out of sight, out of mind' works well with her, except with Chuck E. Cheese, toy promises, and play dates with her BFF, Addie.)  "He must have flown away.  Bye!  Bye!  I'll see you tomorrow!"

Then we went inside because all of the fireflies had mysteriously vanished.

The moral of the story is: Don't make assumptions AND Don't squish fireflies.

OH NO! I May Be Ranting! Again! Don't Tell HIM or My Sister!

Here is a recent review from a satisfied reader  (You know, the reviews I'm not supposed to look at, comment on, even glance at, or rant about in a demeaning manner.  Those reviews, yes.)  (But this was a happy review.  C.L. Bevill = Good writer.  Yea!  C.L. Bevill!  This review makes me want to spin through an alpine meadow singing, 'The hills are alive with the sound of...music,' or something like that.  Maybe it makes me want to spin through an alpine meadow singing, 'You shook me all night long.'  Yes, that's more the picture I'm looking for.)  (And it reminds me that recently a mommy friend told me that her four year old daughter LOVES, LOVES, LOVES the movie, The Sound of Music, and has watched everyday for the last month.  Good movie but my brain would have rotted into mush.  When Cressy was that age we watched Wall-E for six weeks straight and my brains did turn into mush.  Seriously, even zombies weren't interested.)

I can totally picture Julie Andrews rocking out to AC/DC.
 Anyway, I think I was actually talking about a review.  So here it is:

I+really+enjoyed+this+story%21
No+book+is+ever+long+enough+on+free+downloads+but+this+was+quite+a+decent+length.+I+liked+the+characters+and+especially+Bubba%27s+basset+hound+dog+Precious.+Fun+plot+and+little+twists+in+this+book.+Read+it%21+%3A%29

So this is a good review.  This person liked Bubba and the Dead Woman and gave it five stars.  Thank you so much for the good words about Bubba!  (Yea!  Positive reviews rock!)  But what's with all the symbols?

HIM, the man to whom I am married, said it was because the person was using a Linux operating system and the translation was iffy.  (Funny story about the word, iffy, and the weather, but I'm digressing and in a very bad manner.  So I'll get back to that.)  (And a personal note to HIM, not everything in the world has to do with Linux operating systems and computer information systems.  Sorry, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, but it had to be said.)


Symbols.  Right.  Okay, this isn't the Da Vinci Code around here.  I'm not an alien.  (The last time I looked I still only had two boobies instead of an alien standard of three.  That's pretty conclusive, right?)  The NSA isn't parked down the street.  (Although that cleaning van has been here all week and what are those satellite dishes pointed in my direction?)

Okay here's another one for a novella I wrote:

Liked+it

It+was+a+good+novella%2C+i+would+have+loved+to+see+it+as+a+book%21++I+would+have+likes+to+know+more+background+on+all+if+the+main+players

Is this from a certain kind of phone?  Are people saying something to me that I'm not aware of?  I feel incredibly old all of a sudden.

But then I have to put this one on because I've gone off on a sudden tangent of gargantuan proportions and feel compelled.  (There were no symbols involved.)  (You know the reviews I'm not supposed to read anymore.  Shh.  Don't tell HIM or my sister.  I'll send you homemade brownies.):

Worthless drivel

Crude, not believable.

This one is in reference to The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  Granted this is probably the one book I've written where people seem to gravitate in a spectacularly polar manner.  They hate it.  Like him above, Mr. Worthless Drivel.  Or they love it.  But I felt compelled to talk about it because my work has never been called worthless drivel before.  Ever.  It's a first.  I feel like Sally Field at the Oscars.  ("You like me.  You really, really like me."  or in this case, "You hate me.  You really, really hate me.")

My initial reaction to 'worthless drivel.'I'm honestly touched that someone felt so obligated by a free download that he had read to come back and write five words about it.  Five whole words.  Those words must have been torn from his tortured psyche.  So what did I do?  I went to all the digital platforms and added the following to the description of Bayou Billy.  Warning: May contain poopoo language for those who are easily offended.  There may be worthless drivel contained inside.  What can I say?  It's my description of my book.  I can write what I want about it.

So HIM just texted me and asked what I was doing.  I replied that I was writing worthless drivel and couldn't be interrupted.  HIM naturally interrupted with, 'Garbage?  Utter garbage or just worthless drivel?'  This, of course, prompts me to go off on yet another tangent.  God, I love those tangents.  They make life so darned interesting.

Shades of mediocrity.There it is.  The big list of how to judge an author.

And by the way, does anyone know why there's symbols on the reviews?  Cause I'd like to know.

I'm Driving a Jet Plane OR Baby, How Stuff Has Changed

I was driving today, as I do, and while I was sitting at a stoplight, considering whether to flip the man off next to me for trying to cut me off or whether I should just look the other way in case he turns out to be a closet serial killer, it dawned on me that I drive a jet plane now.
Think about it.  I learned how to drive in a 1969 VW Beetle.  (My parents bought the car new for $1995 and doesn't that make you wince.  A few years later, I can vividly remember my mother complaining vehemently about the price of gas being an astounding .69 cents!  Horrors!)  Anyway, at the time I learned how to drive I was fourteen (This was legal in Oregon at the time because there were a lot of farmers who needed their children to drive and become free slave labor.  Fortunately I wasn't the daughter of a farmer and got to freeload off the law.) and things were pretty simple.


The interior of a VW Beetle.
Isn't it complicated?
Doesn't it look like years of training would
be required?  No, you wind up this sucker
like a rubber band plane and then let it rip.
This could be the longest caption ever.While actually driving you could steer, honk, turn on the turn signal or turn it off, or you could shift gears and brake.  This car certainly wasn't confusing.  You pretty much could go or you could stop.  There wasn't an option for automatic.  Probably learning how to drive a manual clutch was the hardest part.  But I've never forgotten and I can go between my automatic car which I've driven for 10 years and HIM's New Beetle, which has a five speed, without even thinking about it.
But obviously cars evolved.  And so has everything else.  (When I go back and read books I wrote years ago, I laugh because I mention certain technology in them.  I remember one of my characters in a book being so amazed at a cellular phone that was about the size of a toaster.  Haha.  Lesson 56 in writing: Don't date yourself in books unless it's absolutely vital to the plot.  That way if it doesn't get published you can haul it out years later and epublish it.  Epublishing and free enterprise rock!)  (Lesson 13 in writing: For God's sake, read it RELIGIOUSLY for typos because there are people out there who will tear out your throat for even one solitary typo.  And never, ever misuse a word either.  I think there's a secret society of people out there who never forgive me for using Camero instead of Camaro.  Please forgive me.)

Back to cars.  So I'm looking at my car now and thinking there are buttons on this car that I don't know what they're for.  And it's a TEN YEAR OLD Ford Explorer.  (It's practically an antique.  And now I'm smiling at all the people who are thinking, 'Why is an author driving a ten year old Ford Explorer instead of a brand new Ferrari?' Hahaha.  Author is just another word for starving artist.  I'm lucky I have a car that works and a spouse who makes a much better living that I do.)  The auto makers had to make all the cars automatic because if they hadn't people would be killing themselves while trying to shift gears and push buttons at the same time.

Okay, here's the interior view of the 2002 Ford Explorer.

I look at this and make grunting sounds.  Fat Woman drive car.
Good.  Grunt.  Snort.  Snoggle.You know, it occurs to me that one day I'm going to press a button and it's going to be a seat ejection unit.  I'm going to be launched out, just like Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2.  Oh, wait, I've been inspired to do an illustration for effect.
Man, it's eerie how much I resemble Bruce Willis flying
into the air after pressing an ejector button to
escape an exploding airplane.So anyway, what I really want is a Dodge Charger.  It's sporty but not too sporty.  BC (that's Before Cressy for you neophytes.  Cressy being my 7 year old daughter.) I drove a 1975 Datsun 280Z.  Now that was a car.  One day I stopped at a light and some kid in a car pulled up beside me.  He looked over at the sporty car and then looked at me and I didn't need to be a psychic to read his mind.  He was thinking, 'Hot car.  Hopefully there's a hot babe driving.'

The moment before utter despair set in in a teenage boy's
heart.  Poor kid.There was not a hot babe driving it.  There was a short, middle aged Fat Woman driving it.  His little teenage heart was immediately broken.  You could see it in his face.  He was well and truly crestfallen.  This was the moment in time when I realized that I shouldn't be driving an antique sports car anymore.  (That and the fact that every time it broke it needed a minimum of $100 to fix it.)

Does this look like the epitome of abject disappointment?
Why, yes, yes it does.
So I want that Charger next.  I drool over them every time someone drives by.  Screw economical gas mileage.  I want the cool car.  I want to rumble down the street.
Yeah, that's what I'm talking about.Anyway, so I found an interior shot of the Dodge Charger.

Well, that wasn't the interior of a Dodge Charger.  WTFWIT?
This is just a typical night at the Bevill residence.
Zombies, witches, and the like.Okay, here's the real interior of a Dodge Charger:

All right, it isn't really the interior shot of a Dodge Charger.
Can't fool you, can I?Here it is.  Really.  With sarcastic comments attached even.

 
Maybe I need to go test drive it before I buy it?
Ya think?

I Have NOT Yet Finished With My Sister's Cat OR How I Continue To Taunt a Hapless (Hah!) Animal

Recently I ridiculed and mocked my sister's cat, Mellow.  (I was laughing with the cat.)  Although I did tell the truth about said animal, there was some underlying gratifying indulgence in illustrating the feline in funny poses and addlepated movies.  That being stated, I feel compelled, as I often do, to do some more!  Yea!  Illustration!
For those of you who aren't up to speed on the Harrowing Case of the Jeered Animal, read 'Things I CANNOT Blog About OR How I've Been Repressed,' and then 'The Dissing of My Sister's Cat OR How It Sounded Like a Challenge.'  Basically I'm having way too much fun at the expense of my sister's beloved antisocial pet.  Oh, so what the hell.
Mellow, who may just sue me if I continue.
You know I'll just blog about the lawsuit.You know, when I called my sister last weekend she said my daughter wasn't going to want to do anything with me anymore unless I promised first not to blog about it.  Haha.  I guess I won't blog about my daughter this week.

Oh, where oh where shall I start?  With the obvious I think.

Too pithy?  Too bad.  It's my blog.  I'm feeling pithy.  What the
hell does pithy mean?  Sounds like bitchy could be
easily substituted for it.
All righty then.  Next up an old classic.  If you don't know it, then you should go watch your Vincent Price movies again.
You know, Mellow probably eats flies all the time.  Maybe
spiders too.  Some irony here.Now a little more class stuff.  Say Sean Connery-ish.

See.  Mellow can be suave and debonair.
I'm going to have to work on the way I draw suits.
This looks like a kid about to go to a Catholic school,
not really Bond, James Bond.
But I've only scratched the surface.  (Get it?  Scratched?  Those of you without cats will have to turn to those of you with cats to understand.  Sorry.)

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, er, Mellow.Okay, hitting a classic war film.  I wasn't sure if I should go with Sheen or Brando on this one so I went for the famous quote instead.

I hope the Coppola fans will forgive my transgressions.
I guarantee that HIM will be giggling at this one.
Man, does Martin Sheen look just like Charlie,
except without the crazy, paranoid ranting.  Oh, yes.  I have more.  Lots more.

Run, Mellow, Run!
Maybe that should be: Run, Fat Woman, Run!  Because
Mellow and my sister are coming to get me.Could I possibly be going too far?  Possibly but I'm not caring!  So here goes...

Actually this was Dr. Zira about to lock lips with Taylor but
I couldn't find another profile of an ape so oh well.
I really liked The Planet of the Apes and Tim Burton had
a sucky redo, although otherwise he's a wonderful director.
(Planet of the Apes - First time I saw naked men's butts on film.  Obscure factoid.)As long as I'm cruising down Classic Hollywood Lane, I might as well offend every Bogie fan out there alive.

Yes, I know that's not the real quote.  But it's the one everyone
hears.  If I put the real quote down, a significant proportion of
people would go, "Huh?"  So there it is.Well, I think I have derided and provoked my sister's cat enough for this week.  It's possible I missed some very good quotes.  I haven't even started looking at famous political quotes yet.  ("Bitch set me up," - Marion Barry, "I'm not going to have some reporters pawing through our papers.  We are the President." - Hillary Clinton, and "The Internet is a great way to get on the net." - Bob Dole all come to mind.)

And of course, I'm open to suggestion.

The Attack of the Great, Huge, Glomping, Dripping, Drooling Personnals

So I was sitting around, drinking tea, contemplating how I was going to go back on the diet wagon tomorrow, how I should probably eat everything in the fridge today, and how I'm probably going to be horribly, wretchedly sick later on today.  And it occurs to me that I've got nothing much to blog about.  I could blog about my diet...for the 20,000,000th time.  (Yes, diet again.  Good luck.  Let's make a pool about how long this one lasts.  If she can get past 24 hours then she's doing pretty good.  Hahaha.  I paused to warn HIM, the man to whom I'm married, that I would be dieting tomorrow.  I said it would be kind of like PMS except I'm not actually having PMS, I'm having hunger pangs and also bad temper due to a drop in blood sugar.  I think I might be something like this.)
HIM deciding discretion is the better part of valor or suddenly
deciding that South America sounds like a dandy place
to visit on the spur of the momentOf course, when Godzilla popped into my head, I thought of what a sad lonely life he must have.  After all, Godzilla's the biggest boy on the block.  Sure, he's radioactive and he's got flames shooting out of his body that have to be a problem area for him.  He must get teased.  He's kind of green or is it black?  He's got some dental issues.  (Do I have to mention the sulfur breath?)  Let's face it.  Godzilla must be hard up.  He's always attacking Tokyo and I'm thinking the Japanese must be tired of all those fires and giant footprints in the middle of their town.  He's just a big, misunderstood kind of goober.  And looky, looky, looky, I've suddenly gone on a wildly divergent tangent of monstrous proportions and I HAVE SOMETHING TO BLOG ABOUT!  LIFE IS GOOD AGAIN!  YEA!

The keys to understanding GodzillaFirst, a make over for the big green colossus.
Stage 1: Finding one's perfect foilsThere.  Big improvement.  What else?
Stage 2: Flirting with subtle changes in appearance.All right.  It is an interesting look but maybe not the one we're shooting for.  I think we want confidence but not overconfidence.
Still on Stage 2.Hmm.  Almost there.  Needs a little tweaking.
Still on Stage 2 and holding.  This might take some adjustment.Okay.  Not quite right.  Let's try again.
Still tweaking Stage 2.Or does the pony tail say, 'I'm a little sleazy and hey, dated to the fifties and/or sixties.'?  Maybe.
There ya go.  Now, for the personal ad.

Finally, Stage 3: the dissemination of the availability
Yes, but does it really describe the essence of the overly large
monster in need of female companionship?Okay.  I'm going to try again.
But does it really nail that which is truly Godzilla?One last try.


Oh, if this doesn't do it for the big lizard face, I don't know what will.

But I've had a moment.  I felt compelled to add a video.  Who doesn't want to rock out with BOC singing to clips of Godzilla kicking butt.  (Someone should remind him not to act like this on his first date, but not me.)
Yeah.  That's it.  Remember live long and screeeeeeeeeechhhhhhhh!

The Dissing of My Sister's Cat OR How It Sounded Like a Challenge

So in a previous blog I dissed my sister's cat.  I even used photographs and my autodesk sketchbook program to have much fun.  I laughed.  Then my sister read the blog and she said that the cat was insulted.  And I thought, 'Well, hell, that wasn't an insult.  Just wait.'  (This is an insult, "Mellow, your mama was a Cocker Spaniel."  You have to be a cat to get it.)

And here we go.  Here's Mellow the cat.  She's an innocuous appearing large boned animal who prefers wet food and isn't really a cuddling type.  (When I threw a toy for her, she looked at me as if saying, 'Do you seriously think I'm going to chase after that when someone will open a can for me instead?  Fool.  And btw, I have plans to shred your underwear later.  Insolent peasant.')
Mellow in a nonthreatening moment OR the instant before she attacks
and eats your big toe.  Also your ear.  Maybe your pinkies, too.Anyway, so considering the way my mind works, it sounded kind of like...a challenge.  ("Oh, no, you just didn't challenge me, did you?")  So, I'm back, with my autodesk sketchbook program and a vivid imagination and the not-inconsequential ability to insert artistically improved photos into my blog.
The Silence of the Pussies.Haha.  I love Sir Anthony Hopkins.  I wonder if he ever regrets doing that particular role.  What he probably regrets is hearing the same comment about beans and wine every time he goes into public.

Well, I guess Mellow can't be a bad guy all the time.

Somewhere Judy Garland is rolling in her grave.Speaking of graves, I might as well go for broke.  Sorry Bruce.

I couldn't find one where Bruce Willis wasn't bald or looking like he just
took down Hans in Die Hard.  Oh, well.  Mellow will just have
to understand my artistic mentality.
And that being said, I have to pay homage to my favorite movie of all time.
Roy Scheider!  Robert Shaw!  Where are you?Oh, hell, no.  Not finished yet.  Mellow, you're going down.
Yeah, punk.  Do ya feel lucky?  Well, do ya?Am I getting carried away?  Maybe.  But I ain't done yet.
Do you think Mellow needs an axe for this one to work?There.  I feel my dissing work is thoroughly accomplished.  Mellow is either going to hide in Tibet and become a Buddhist monk or she's going to hire a hit man.  One or the other.
A final note: HIM has suggested that Mellow could have her own guest blog: Confessions of a Fat Cat, if she's feeling perky.  Bring it, bee-yotch.

Important Life Lessons OR What a 7 Year Old Can Teach YOU

Recently my 7 year old daughter came to me and said that everyone in her class hated her.  Try to follow along because it's an arduous journey of 7 year old reasoning here.  They hate her.  Therefore her name has to be changed.  Also there's a girl in her class who wants to be her friend but Cressy doesn't want to be her friend because you can only have one friend and the girl is ugly.  Of course, Cressy did say that she knew that was a mean thing to say but it had to be said.  Then there was something about one girl who told her that she couldn't be friends with any other girls.

Let's see.  How to wade through the quagmire?  First, I have to look up the meaning of the word 'quagmire.'  (It can mean swampy or it can mean a precarious position where disengagement is difficult.  Wow.  I like that.)  Back to the quagmire.

Okay, I have to say that whilst I was listening to my daughter, her father, HIM, the man to whom I am married and probably will always be married, was sitting in the background with a certain look on his face.  The best description of the look is akin to a wild animal who is crossing a road and suddenly realizes that a car is racing toward him and will most likely smoosh him into little bits of blood and guts.  The animal looks into the headlights and freezes because he doesn't know what else to do.  That's HIM.  Caught in the headlights.  But behind the big eyes was the fleeting thought, 'If I don't move or make any noise, they will forget I'm here.'

Note the expression of dismay.  Behind these eyes is an exotic, well-laid plan
of escaping to a third world country where HIM can live on the beach
and drink pina coladas.The alternative, you see, would be the following:
Whoops.  Wrong picture.  I'm still laughing about that.  This is my sister's cat who got smeared in the last blog.  (Hint about the quote reference: for those of you under 40, it's a movie called Hellraiser.  Lots of gore, guts, stuff.  It's kind of like parenthood except you get to eat highly buttered popcorn while you're watching everything around you explode.)

Here we go.  This is what would happen if I hadn't been in the house when Cressy decided to offload childhood baggage:
HIM dispensing sage parental advice to our only child.However, it was me who had to right wrongs, to balance her innate sense of unfairness, and to let her know that she was still okay.

Here's what I had to say.  1.  Your classmates don't hate you.  2.  Treat other people the way you want to be treated.  3.  Judging someone by the way they look is wrong.  4.  If someone doesn't want to be your friend then it's their loss.  5.  Other people don't have the right to tell you who you can and can't be friends with.  6.  If you want to change your name that's fine, but it's not going to change who you are.  (And I didn't even have to break out the rule book to spout these fine witticisms.)

All of these were taken with sincere aplomb.  "Good ideas, Mommy," Cressy said thoughtfully.  "I concur with your adept psychological and sociological adeptness at gauging the situation."  (Not really.  She just nodded a lot.)

Then came the killer statement that was not unlike a bomb being dropped on an Asian island in WWII.  She announced with unerring accuracy, "This is just like when people don't like Bubba, Mommy."  (My daughter is referring to one of the books I've written, Bubba and the Dead Woman, and my recent negative response to critical reviews, which apparently I've broadcasted a little too loudly.)

I looked up at HIM, but HIM was trying to count the bumps in the popcorn ceiling with amazing determinedness.  That ceiling certainly was awe-inspiring.

Only seven years old and she says that.  (What I was thinking was, 'How much was I talking about the reviews of Bubba?' and 'I thought she really wasn't listening.'  Both of which shows me, doesn't it?)

So what could I say?  "Yes, dear, this is like that.  Sticks and stones."

Cressy: "Sticks and stones?"

Me: "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but names can never hurt you."  (Unless you let them hurt you.)

Cressy, scoffing: "I wouldn't hit anyone with a stick or a stone."

Then she watched The Smurfs and life was pretty much okay again.  Interesting about life's little lessons, isn't it?

Things I CANNOT Blog About Anymore OR How I've Been Repressed

Yes.  In a previous blog, I ranted.  (See 'I'm Sorry This Individual Never Had a Female Dog OR Denial Ain't Just a River in Egypt OR I Rant Therefore I AM.')  I admit that I ranted.  The ranting was, indeed, mine.  I quoted a reviewer who did not like one of my works and who sounded like a jackass.  (The reviewer sounded like a jackass.  He/she was so full of wind he/she sounded like a corn-eating horse.)  (Think about it, it'll come to you in a minute.)

Therefore, I've received instructions from several people.  In particular these people have spoken: HIM, my sis, and my daughter.  It was a truly biblical moment.  HIM said it first.  Cressy, my daughter, said, "Don't be sad, Mommy.  Be happy."  (Can you believe she's never heard that song?)  But my sis said it best.  Really, she nailed it.  And here I go, quoting because well she made the mistake of emailing it to me, and I know how to use the copy/paste command:

You've got to stop reading the comments. These are not people with any kind of brain capacity. Birds fly through one ear and out the other. These are mole people from the center of the earth. Vegetoids from planet Puree.Things from another dimension where they elected Sarah Palin President (shudder). My cat possesses more insight into literary criticism than these people do. She'd tell you if you hadn't pissed her off. Really. Seriously. Stop. Reading. The. Comments. Stop. Stop. Stop.

There's a funny story about her cat in there that I feel compelled to tell.  (How I pissed off my sister's cat is the story, in case you've missed the way my brain is bouncing around.)  Once I visited my sis in Spokane.  This was the same trip that I experienced the flight attendant joy that is **KYLE** and the wrath of not having potable water on board a plane when I've just consumed a Venti Chai Tea Latte.  (See 'Why I Love to Fly in Airplanes Or How a Venti Chai Tea Latte Almost Ruined My Personal Flotation Device.')

The alleged cat, Mellow.  Looks pretty benign there, doesn't she?
Well, don't hang your hands over the sides of the bed at night, dumbass.So I was hanging out in Spokane with my sister and we were doing stuff.  (We got to see a laser show on a very large dam and I made fun of a documentary about the damn dam.  I made so much fun of it that we got the giggles and almost got kicked out.)  Anyway, my sis's cat was cruising around the house pretty much minding her own catly business and doing catlike things.  Her cat is a girl cat named Mellow.  (She's a Fat Cat and she isn't really mellow.  As a matter of fact she is the opposite of Mellow.  Her name really should be Angry-Don't-Touch-Me-I-Have-All-My-Claws-And-I'm-Not-Afraid-To-Use-Them.  Seriously.)

Well, I hid around a corner and when Mellow came up I kind of jumped out and made a loud noise at her.  (Mellow was not harmed in the execution of the pranking, but she did do a backflip in the air that would have made Nadia Comaneci jealous and it was frankly a backflip that a cat of her...shall we say...stature shouldn't have been able to perform.)  Let's just say that Mellow wasn't enthusiastic about my little prank.  In fact, I've never had a cat hiss at me continuously for thirty minutes straight.  For the remainder of my stay the cat would periodically look at me and hiss.  I think if my sister says my name to the cat, even now, a few years later, she still hisses.
Yes, I know I've moved past the cat story but I'm feeling the
creative dialogue mood.So anyway, I've been instructed not to look at reviews any longer.  Furthermore, I can't blog about specific reviews, no matter how shitty, tacky, stupid, and whack-jobbed they are.  (Hmm.  I may be skirting the line here.) Okay, if you don't get the reference then you need to google it.
And don't mention that you hid in a closet during the eighties.All right, have I gotten off the point of the blog or what?  But no, I can't help myself.
Okay, referencing the same movie.  But if you met this cat, you would
understand completely.So what was I ranting, er, talking about?  Oh, yes.  I can't look at comments, reviews, or otherwise relating to my books unless someone is pointing an uzi at my head.

But wait, I found pictures of the damn dam (Haha.  It's not as funny the second time.) that my sis's nice friends so graciously took us to see.  I'll explain why I was so silly.  I went to visit and the time zone is three hours earlier.  So by the time the laser light show was starting it's like 1 AM in Fat Woman Time.  (That's a special time zone.  FWT.)  I wanted to see the light show, but I was pooped.  Then I became silly.  (And I hadn't even had a drink.  Man, if they had given me alcohol there would have been a lampshade and not much else, I'm telling you.)  (Anyone who didn't have a vision of a naked fat woman wearing a lampshade on her head and nothing else doesn't have an imagination.)

My sis at the Grand Coulee Dam, I swear.So they had the light show on the side of the dam and much hilarity ensued.  I don't think my sister's friends thought much of me.  Oh, well.
Now who said a blog had to go from point A to point B.  Hell, I just went from point A to XJH squared in triplicate divided by PI.  Yea, me.

I'm Sorry This Individual Never Had a Female Dog OR Denial Ain't Just a River in Egypt OR I Rant Therefore I AM

First thing I'll do is post a recent review of Bubba and the Dead Woman, my parody/comedy mystery set in rural Texas.  This was the criticism of an individual who apparently didn't think much of my work.

This native small-town Texan says please, please pass.,

Seldom do I leave a mildly intriguing plot-line unread, but I simply could not get past the inaccurate and absurd attempts at Texan dialect, the ridiculous name of every other character (Lurlene? Willodean? REALLY?), and the numerous misspellings (the Good Will store instead of Goodwill, the often-mentioned Camero, etc), the seemingly lost-in-the-stereotyped-50's portrayal of Texan life, and the ever-present, if random, addition of commas into sentence structure.  

A note to the author, as well as to other non-Texans: We don't harbor fantasies of "naturally Southern women" (in fact, we barely consider ourselves Southerners - we're Texans), we're not likely to have heard the word carpetbagger mentioned seriously in the last two generations, it's not illegal to have a social poker game for money, and for heaven's sake, in a non-Texan-related observation, female dogs do not mark tires. (This was actually the last page that I read. I simply couldn't take it any longer.)


There is a reason why the first bit of advice given to any potential author is "write what you know." If you are from Texas, expect to be enraged by the sheer enormity of how "wrong" the portrayal is, and if you are not from Texas, please know that this is so off the mark as to be utterly and completely insulting.

That being said.  I shall say this.  Criticism is good.  Criticism can help authors improve their work as long as they take it in the proper vein.  Absolutely.  Of course, I prefer positive criticism but negative criticism can be helpful too.

Now I have to make some other comments before I can really get down to brass tacks.  Bubba and the Dead Woman is the book that's downloading best on the epubs.  Yea.  Free enterprise!  There are folks who just love Bubba to death.  In fact, the sequel, Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas, is selling very well.  All gravilicious there.  (Yes, I made up a work.  Gravilicious: it's all good stuff.  Gravy + Delicious = Gravilicious.  Possibly an adjective.  Could be a noun depending on context.)  Anyhoo, Bubba is a good old boy in rural Texas whose ex-fiancee shows up and gets murdered.  Everyone is looking at Bubba as the bad guy and Bubba has to figure who done did it.

Good book.  I always liked Bubba.  He's a fun character and I enjoy writing about him and the imaginary town of Pegramville.  That being said, I'd like to say to the reviewer, who was quoted above, that the book is FICTIONAL.  That means made-up.  It means that I created the characters, the town, and the setting in my head and wrote it down in a book.

Things to clear up.  1).  Although I'm not a native Texan, I lived there for a very, very long time.  (Decades.)  I do know what some Texans sound like and I do know the way they speak.  Certainly not all Texans sound like the personalities in my novel, but these are characterizations.  (That means they're made-up, concocted, or fictional, if you'd prefer.)

2).  Do I really think that small town Texas is just like Pegramville?  Does anyone who reads my books think that?  No, of course not.  Again.  It's for humor's sake.  It's a parody.  It's supposed to be funny and quaint and adorable.  And certainly, there are parts of Texas that are just that, a truly delightful place.

3).  Let's address 'absurd names,' as mentioned above.  In Bubba and the Dead Woman I did something that I hadn't done before.  I was tired of using a baby name book, so I picked up the phone book.  (Some of you are smiling right now.)  With the exception of Bubba, which is a name that I specifically wanted to use in the book because of the connotations, every name in Bubba and the Dead Woman was selected from a telephone book.  Demetrice, Adelia, Annalee, Lurlene, Willodean, Foot Johnson, George Bufford, Daniel Gollihugh, Roscoe Stinedurf, and every other name in the book, again with the exception of Bubba, were selected out of the phone book of a small Texas town in which I lived at the time I wrote this book.  (Granted not all the names were matched up with the last names but believe it or not there was a Foot Johnson listed in the town I was living in at the time I wrote the book.)  So much for absurdity.

4.  Misspellings galore.  Yes, there were misspellings in the book.  Misused words, too.  I just finished fixing them and it's reposted on Amazon.  Also on smashwords.  It might take a few weeks for smashwords to get the document downloaded to bn.com so be patient.  I corrected Camero to Camaro.  (My abject apologies to Chevy fans everywhere, I did not mean to take the classic car's name in vain.  Seriously.  I love Chevy.  I also love Ford.  My husband has a 1954 Chevy truck sitting in the garage right now and it's the best storage device I've ever had.  I love that truck.)  I also fixed Goodwill from Good Will.  (I may go to hell for that error by itself.)  I incorrectly used gage for gauge once and that's taken care of.  I fixed every one that I could find.  I admit my sins.

Now I'll tell a typo story.  The first book I ever sold was Bayou Moon. I've written about it before. It's a Gothic mystery set in the south. (I should hope so.) I sold it to St. Martin's and it came out in hardback. Then I went around promoting the heck out of it. I must have read that sucker twenty times before it got published. Then there was my editor who must have read it twenty times too. HIM, the man to whom I'm married, read it multiple times. Several friends and relatives read it. Then there was a line editor who tore it apart with a red ink pen. Sounds like it was proofread, right?  About a month after the book came out I was doing a signing in Plano, Texas when a lady came up to me with a list. She said, "Here's a list of all the typos in your book, dear. I made note of them so you can change them in the future." Wasn't that nice of her? At the time I was mildly insulted. I looked at her list and looked in my book and said, "Shit, there are still typos in the book. There really are." And there were. Still are in Bayou Moon, if you care to find them. I never changed them, although I meant to, if Bayou Moon had come out into a paperback, which it did not. I was polite to this lady and thanked her for her principled interest. Now, I'm like, 'Thanks for the heads up.' Seriously.

The point of the story is there will always be typos in a book.  It's not the end of the world.  But if you feel perky send me a list and I will fix them.  I'm good about that.  I don't want them in there any more than you want to read them.
5.  Back to my reviewer's words.  Commas, well, yeah, heck, commas, what, was, I, thinking, with, too, many, commas?  Sheesh.  ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.  There.

6.  The crack about naturally Southern bred women doesn't really need to be commented about but I will.  Refer back to parody.  The individual might want to look it up in the dictionary for clarification.  Do Texans and Southerners harbor secret fantasies about 'naturally Southern bred women?'  Well, yes, yes some of them do.  They also harbor secret fantasies about all kinds of other women.  Probably some of them about men, too.  But then that's perfectly normal.

7.  Texans vs. Southerners.  I've heard Texans say both.  Many times.  Some of them are fiercely Texan.  I've heard some refer to themselves as Southerners, and yes, Texas was part of the South.  It's official.  Nothing wrong with that either.  It's one of the reasons that Texas is such a great place to be.  And it makes for a wonderful topic to write about, too.  I've also heard Texans refer to 'carpetbaggers' too.  Especially older Texans, so I guess the reviewer isn't very happy about older Texans and Southerners.  That's the reviewer's problem, I suppose.

8.  Social gambling is still illegal in some parts of Texas.  (Gambling for profit is illegal in many places.)  That's a no-brainer.

9.  And OMFG, I'm sincerely sorry that this person never had a female dog.  (That's called a bitch, and now I'm really laughing.)  This person really missed out.  As a point of elucidation, I checked with HIM's sister, who happens to be a licensed veterinarian, and get this, she's a licensed veterinarian in the state of Texas.  (I'm really laughing now.)  Yes, female dogs do mark things like tires.  Some of them even lift their legs to do it.

10.  Finally, it was never my intention to insult Texans.  I can't make it any more clear than this.  I love the state of Texas.  My daughter was born in Texas.  Some of my family and some wonderfully dear friends live in Texas.  It's a simply fantastic place to be.  One day, when the economy and life permits, we'll move back there.  Yes, I will write more Bubba books.  Furthermore, I'll be giggling when I do it.

In conclusion: Texas is GOOD!  Texas is WONDERIFIC!  I LOVE TEXAS!  I love my fans.  I even love the reviewers who don't like my work but are constructive.  (Thanks for the feedback.  I'll certainly keep it in mind.)  Bubba is GOOD!  Bubba in TEXAS is even better.  Go Bubba.

In further conclusion, and because I can't keep myself from adding this, this reviewer left his or her comment on http://www.amazon.com/.  Amazon permits others to commit on reviews.  While I'm restraining myself here, I would tell folks to feel free to leave a comment on this person's review.  And here's the link: http://www.amazon.com/review/R1CBR3O8KXBMOT/ref=cm_cr_pr_cmt?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B004E10W0E&nodeID=&tag=&linkCode=#wasThisHelpful

Peace.  Out.  Y'all be good hear?

PS.  Thanks to my wondrous sister-in-law, Amy, who is undoubtedly the best veterinarian in Texas, and possibly in the world, and who is gracious and wise for answering my weird questions.  Also thanks to Mark Twain for saying, 'Denial ain't just a river in Egypt.'

HIM Had Surgery OR How This Day Got Progressively Weirder!

HIM, the man to whom I'm married, had two neuromas in his right foot.  Okay.  First I have to tell you just what the heck a neuroma is.  Hey, we'll have a questionnaire.  It sounds like a funky word and who knows, it might just be something really, really, really funny.
This is HIM prior to having foot surgery.  Haha.  I love my autodesk sketch program.
A neuroma is: A) A neurotic disorder of the limbs causing one to inadvertently kick other people in the butt whenever they're being stupid and/or silly.  No, wait, that's me.  B) A rare type of meatball dish which is covered with noodles, peas, and pig's intestines sauteed in a light butter cream.  C) An odd game played in Turkey by goatherders using rocks and other men's testicles.

Answer: D) None of the above, although I'd like to see the game in Turkey.

Here's what a neuroma is from my trusty, large dictionary: 1. A tumor or mass growing from a nerve and usually consisting of nerve fibers.  It can also be 2. A mass of nerve tissue in an amputation stump resulting from abnormal regrowth of the stumps of severed nerves - called also amputation neuroma, pseudoneuroma.  HIM has definition number 1, since I'm pretty sure he still has all his limbs attached.  (Not certain about his brain however, so that could have been amputated without my knowledge.)

This interesting little thing happened to HIM because whilst in the US Army he was forced to road march 15 miles with a 60 pound rucksack once or twice a month for many years.  (Although HIM was a Patriot Missile Warrant Officer who fixed the missile and radar systems, for some reason the battalion thought that all of the troops should be able to hump 15 miles down sandy dirt roads carrying 60 pounds on their backs.  Whateveh.)  In any case, his feet got fubared.  (For those of you who are acronymically challenged, that's FUBAR-ed or Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition - ed.  This is a highly technical term developed by people in the military.)

So the VA Hospital decided that HIM's pain was overwhelming and debilitating and that they would remove the neuromas.

They set the day for Friday, May 20th but they wouldn't tell us what time the surgery would be because that would mean some ordnance of convenience for us.  After all, our lives are comparable to an ant that was trod upon when compared to the importance of the outpatient surgical center.  The day before the surgery they finally announced condescendingly it would be at six am.

Seriously.  6 am.  What this means is that HIM would have to get up at 4 am, and drive to Crystal City and take the metro over to the hospital because I would have to stay at home and make sure our daughter Cressy gets off to school.  (Asking friends, family, and neighbors for a special keep-my-daughter-overnight-and-get-her-off-to-school favor kind goes against my grain.)  Thanks, VA for the compassion.  So HIM got up at 4 am and naturally I couldn't go back to sleep.

A few texts and an hour and a half later, HIM notified me that he was at the VA, and they were prepping HIM.  I got the kid off to school and got off on a drive whereby I would go to the VA hospital and be there ready to drag him home in his new, improved neuroma-less state.

So HIM had programmed the VA's address into the Garmin and put it into my car.  I knew how to get into the District but I didn't know exactly how to get to the hospital.  Once I got up to where I could see all the monuments and wave hi to Barrack and Michelle, I turned the Garmin on.  Let's see.  Where to begin.  Oh, HIM programmed the Garmin to have a New Zealand accent.  I'm sure that most Kiwi's are very nice people but having a New Zealand accented voice to give you direction in heavy, downtown traffic is like trimming nose hairs with a flame thrower.  (Not that I've done that.  Really.)

At one point in time it told me to turn left on a one-way street, going the wrong way.  There was a lovely incident where the Garmin was telling me to do a U-turn on a freeway that was, well, very well populated by vehicular occupation.  By the time I got to the VA hospital I was a nervous wreck and I was lucky I hadn't caused one.  (There's one guy in a Lincoln Continental who's probably still swearing a blue streak about me.  He looked like he was ready to stop his car and beat me with his shoe or maybe his wife.  But hey, the good part was that our cars didn't actually make contact, so it's all gravy.)

Enter the hospital.  The VA hospital isn't like normal hospitals.  No, this is a place for veterans.  Most are great people, just like New Zealanders.  But of course there are exceptions.  Notably the man in the elevator.  My first error was getting on the elevator with him.  You see, he wasn't wearing his I'm-a-crazy-SOB-you-should-avoid-me-in-tight-constricted-places sign.  And I think he had an aluminum foil hat under his ball cap.  He talked to himself.  That's what I thought at first.  Then I figured out that he was talking to someone else.  But there were only the two of us in the elevator.  And it was a freaking good conversation.

The veteran: "I told you not to come here."

Invisible person: "But we had to come."

The vet: "I told you.  I told you.  I told you.  I told you."

Invisible person: "Don't like it here."

The vet: "Shut up."

Invisible person: "No, you shut up."

Me, thinking to myself, 'I'll just back into the far corner of the elevator and pretend I'm a part of the wall.'

And here was the funny part, I was only going up ONE floor.

I located the outpatient surgical center and bypassed it to find a bathroom.  When I found a bathroom (girl bathrooms seem to be at a premium at the VA hospital so it was well hidden.) there was a single stall inside.  This normally wouldn't have been a problem except a woman was using the toilet with the stall door open.  (As far as I could tell she wasn't physically challenged and didn't need to leave the door open.)  But I believe I turned beet red and hightailed it out of there because I didn't feel inclined to stand and watch a strange women go pee pee and/or poo poo.  (And I could have because the woman told me to stay, which made me leave EVEN FASTER.)

After finally using a bathroom (with the stall door shut) I made it back to the surgical center, where I talked to the receptionist.  More drama ensued.

The receptionist had a very nice mustache, which was curly at the ends, and on the chin was a very nice goatee beard.  It was even combed into a Colonel Sanders-like arrangement which a neat little curl at the end.  I think Dippity-Do might have been used to achieve this effect.

Doesn't sound like an issue does it?

Except the person had long hair, 'd' sized boobies, and spoke in a feminine persuasion.  After the psychotic voice on the GPS unit, the man in the elevator talking to himself, ("I'm not schizophrenic and neither am I."  "It is as bad as you think and they are out to get you.") I was at a loss.  I couldn't decide whether I should stare at the ground, her boobs, or her face.  (I'm 75% sure it was a woman.)  Now Fat Woman has facial hair issues.  I have been known to use tweezers, wax, and exotic mud compounds from the depths of an Amazonian rain forest, but I don't think I'm brave enough to let it all go, much less go ahead and style it too.  ("Hey, y'all, I've got facial hair and if you don't like it, then you can kiss my hairy tushie.  Both cheeks and I styled them, too.")

And I thought about taking a picture with my Droid but conscience and logistics won out.  I couldn't get close enough and she looked like she was big enough to hurt me.

This looks just like her.  I swear.Anyway, I found out HIM was still not back from surgery and I went to hide in the waiting room before I asked about what conditioner worked best for facial hair.

HIM rolled in five minutes later with a goofy smile on his face.  (Yes, Virginia, there is a sedative.)  More hilarity ensued.
Well, HIM wasn't really singing.  But he was happy.
Very, very happy.  But here look at the alleged neuroma-less foot:

This is a foot under the blanket.  I swear.Okay.  Okay.  Here's a better shot of the alleged victim of neuromalic attack:

Of course, once everything was in the clear, we relaxed and had a sandwich.
HIM eating a sammy with orange juice.  It's good for you, boy.Then they released HIM from the hospital and I drove HIM home where Cressy drew little happy faces on all his exposed toes.  Why?  This is really good.  Wait for it.  She wanted him to have HAPPY FEET.  Haha.  She's so cute.