C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 6

Tripping to Atlanta Part II

In our last exciting episode our fat heroine was trapped at LEGOLAND.  (GASP!)  There were Legos everywhere.  In fact, the Legos were about to attack when she escaped with Pain (Pain in the Ass Man or HIM, the man to who I'm married, or the man who is incredibly grumpy when traveling.)  Having suffered the wrath of the LEGOLAND experience, we made it to the hotel, which we later learned was in the middle of the ghetto, but it was close to Ikea.

Cressy demanded to use the pool, but then said it was no fun because it didn't have a) other kids in it, b) a ten story water slide, or c) that it wasn't much bigger than a postage stamp.

The next day we went to The World of Coca Cola.

While we were waiting for The World of Coca Cola to open up and show us its colaness, we explored the Centennial Olympic Park, or where the summer Olympics were held in 1996, or the Olympics that had the bombing in it at Atlanta.  (Sadly, that's the major event that pops into my head.)
 Olympic memorial or the cash cow that keeps
on giving to Atlanta.Of course, there were playgrounds there.  Only a parent knows that playgrounds are never created the same and that each must be tried out for posterity.
Playground joyfulness!
No one can frown on a playground.
It's the law.We also saw the CNN building.  I wanted to stop and see Jeanie Moos, who is my favorite offbeat commentator, but I was prevented.  (Security guards don't understand about my needs.  Stupid security guards.)
Of course, when I see the CNN building I think
of James Earl Jones saying,
"This...is CNN."
Now I bet you can't get it out of your head.
Onto Coca Cola World!In front of the World of Coca Cola there was a statue of the guy who invented Coca Cola.  I think he got gypped when he sold the entire kit and caboodle to someone else for peanuts.  But hey, he got a statue.
Have a drink and a smile...I must say that The World of Coca Cola has a serious set-up going on.  They have gauged their tourist clientele and they have them moving right along.  First there was a guy who did a funny short history of Coca Cola.  Then there was a movie which didn't really have anything to do with Coca Cola but it did use the song, On Top of the World, by Imagine Dragons, and had me humming it for the remainder of the day, whether I wanted to or not.  (I could say something about Imagine Dragons selling out to Coca Cola, but that would probably make me a hypocrite.)

Next it was on to the Coca Cola Polar Bear for a photo op.
I say they had someone in the bear suit.
HIM said it was all animatronic.
I wanted to go back to kick the bear
in the nuts to show HIM
but those pesky security guards
were everywhere.
  We went into the Vault, which
where they keep the secret formula
for Coca Cola, and they
did a whole top secret thing
and showed us the vault and la, de, dah,
but I didn't get to see the secret formula.
You'd think they would have
flashed us or something. There was Coca Cola art work everywhere.
Everywhere. I was forced to be in the photograph.
Remember the camera adds 50 pounds,
no, 100 pounds.  Whatever. We learned that Coca Cola has
sponsored Olympics for almost a thousand years.
(I may be exaggerating.)
They've got a ton of torches, so
they let the peasants hold it.
Some of those torches in the background
do not look like torches.
They look like something you'd buy at
Toys R Us or possibly
something used in an X-rated movie. Let me tell you, The World of Coca Cola
isn't messing around with its product
displays.The last part of the museum is going through the gift shop, and the gift shop is almost as largeas the rest of the museum.  They had stuff that was way cool.  I was forced to spend about $200 in there.  But we did get a souvenir bottle of Coca Cola. Next was Ikea, where we consumed of the Swedish meatballs.  The kid had macaroni and cheese because she hasn't learned the finer aspects of Swedish meatballs.  We bought a bunch of stuff here, too.
The hat Cressy's wearing was from
The World of Coca Cola.  It's a polar
bear hat.  It kind of looks like
Finn from Adventure Time to me.Finally, we left Atlanta, our wallets a little lighter, and our horizons broadened.  We stopped to pee here.
It needed to be said.Then we made it home about three hours later.  There was only one minor incident where the GPS told me to go the wrong way, and Pain freaked out, whereupon I threw the GPS unit out the window (not really).  At home everyone collapsed and the moron cat complained pitifully about our absence.  In all, it is grist for my mill.

Happy summer vacations to the rest of you.  May you find the cleanest restrooms and always have plenty of toilet paper.

Trippin' to Atlanta OR I'm Going to Caption Photos Again!

Because we don't have an Ikea in Huntsville, and Ikea charges inhuman shipping charges on their stuff, I was forced to drag the family to Atlanta, which has the nearest Ikea.  But then the whole entertainment thing kicked in and I had to come up with ideas of what else to do in Atlanta while we were there.  (As if Ikea wasn't enough.  Peasants.)

The first part of the trip was subjugating myself to the whim of Pain-in-the-Ass Man, otherwise known as HIM, the man to whom I'm married.  Pain, for short, cannot breath or exist if the car is not packed properly.  As this is a battle I shall never win, I let him.  It makes him feel good that all is dressed-right-dress in the back of the Ford.  (Marriage is all about these kind of concessions.) 
  HIM, in a rare peaceful moment.
HIM has just packed the car
and HIM is feeling Nina Simone.
No meteors approaching Earth at the moment.So after that arduous task was accomplished I took a photo to commemorate the moment.
All for two days.  Pillows, cooler, toolchest,
luggage.  I'm surprised Jimmy Hoffa wasn't back
there.Early in the morning we set off to Atlanta.  It was a three hour drive, not unlike a three hour tour and a cheap shot at Gilligan's Island.  (I think it should have been Mary Ann's Island.  Also she should have hooked up with the Professor.)

Passing lots and lots of kudzu, otherwise known as the plant that's slowly taking over Georgia, we finally made it to Atlanta.  (2 hours ad 46 minutes according to my new Garmin.)  Our first stop was Legoland, or the place that was guaranteed to give me a friggin' headache.  Legoland is clever enough to have put themselves into a high end mall.  While walking through the mall to Legoland, we had to stop to commemorate more moments.  I call these shots, Cressy standing next to places that I shall never shop in.
Not sure of the name of the store but it
had a giant Swarovski crystal covered
cheeseburger in the window.
It might not have been edible,
but it looked fab-u-lous. What you don't see is the two
clerks in Versace glaring at us
because we took a pic and didn't
come in to drop big bucks
on their crap.  But hey, I got
the shot.After trudging through the mall, there it was.  All primary colors blaring at us, letting us know not only had we survived the trip to Atlanta, the walk through the high end mall, but we had made it to LEGOLAND, home of little plastic bricks that will kill you if you step on them in the middle of the night on your way to the bathroom.

I'll tell you that Batman looks a lot bigger on the silver
screen.  Also I just noticed this is
Legoland Discovery Center,
not plain ol' Legoland.
I bet Legoland thinks the addition of
"Discovery Center" makes parents more
likely to bring their children here.
Haha.  We didn't even notice the
discovery part until after we were done.
I'll warn everyone now that I took a lot
of photos with Cressy posing.  Just saying.
I'm not sure who the Lego critter was,
but it was life-sized and Cressy liked it.
  This is really a shot of all the Lego stuff
we shall never build. Cressy enjoying all the bright lights
that Legoland had to have
in its place to make all the little
children happy.
I liked the shot with the colored lights on her.

The one "ride" in Legoland that involved
shooting
Lego targets and Lego villains
and occasionally each other. There was a four-D movie that involved
shaking, buzzing seats, and rain.
Finally it did, in fact, snow.
I tried to snooze but the seat kept waking me up.After the Legoland experience from whence few women remain sane, we went to the hotel and saw a hawk.  We also experienced the pool because you cannot go to a hotel with a pool and a ten-year-old and not use it.  Cressy was not impressed.  There wasn't a slide.

Coming soon - Part 2 of the Atlanta trippin' or how I took too many pictures for one blog.

Sunday Afternoon OR I Should Write a Blog But I'm Pooped OR Random Crapity

He is smiling but I suspect the cat isn't.So recently I had a writer's block.  I unblocked.  Now I'm halfway done with Deadsville, my next novel and paranormal mystery/urban fantasy/unable to categorize.  Let's just say that the heroine does die in the book.  (How many authors can say that?)  But in this case, that's where the story begins.  (The fictional story, that is.)
Again, I've taken the opportunity to put
random lols in my blog just
because they amuse me.Then we started feeding two feral cats.  (Nice transition there.  Halfway done with novel about dead heroine - feeding feral cats.  It flows.)  The moron cat - the cat of my daughter - sits on the enclosed porch and watches the feral cats.  The feral cats have figured out that Megaroy is a big pussy and is no threat to them.  But apparently their fleas are because one day HIM, the man to whom I'm married, was scooping the poop, and found, da da dah, worms.  Seriously gross.  You haven't lived until your pet has worms.  We have an inside cat who got worms from eating a flea that he got through a screen door from feral cats.  (This is something I would have been ever so glad to have not learned in my lifetime.)
This cat looks like a tribble, a drugged tribble.Off to the vet with the cat.  I dodged that bullet by going camping with our daughter and girl scouts.  (Upon reflection, I would have rather taken the cat to the vet.)  One $250 bill later, we're instructed to catch the feral cats, feed them medicine, and also bring them to the vet.  I will do it, but the feral cats aren't like Megaroy.  They have little brains in their noggins.  Megaroy got his meds and his poop is now worm free.  But now he has to wear a collar.  HIM thought it would be funny to get him one with a bell.  I had no idea how much that cat prowls at night.  You hear jingle, jingle, jingle, coming up the stairs.  You hear jingle, jingle, jingle going from room to room.  You hear jingle, jingle, jingle, patrolling downstairs as he goes from window to window.  Then you hear jingle, jingle, jingle as I remove the bell and give it to HIM as something that made the cat wince.
See, there's kind of a theme here.Anyway, the moral of the story is not to feed the feral cats anywhere close to where the moron cat hangs out at.  Also to never eat fleas.  Also never sleep in a room with 30 girl scouts without ear plugs and a sleeping pill, but that's a whole different blog.
Be all you can be.  Be a vet tech and stick things up cats' butts.

Shout Out - Author R. Mac Wheeler

I would like to acknowledge a fellow writer and blogger-friend for reaching a monumental milestone…publishing his 24th novel. I hope you'll visit his blog where he posts his photography and give him a congratulations…or visit his home page and peruse his titles…read an excerpt...and help him celebrate.

Mac has written across several genres including…·       Contemporary Fiction (2)
·       Speculative (6)
·       Paranormal (5)
·       Science Fiction (4)
·       Fantasy (7)

He spins tales around rich, gritty characters with a lot of baggage, and puts them through a bit more grief than they can handle. His tone leans toward the sarcastic, passive aggressive.
Please visit Mac at:http://rmacwheeler.com/
http://rmacwheeler.blogspot.com/ 


 

 

Blogity Blog Blog OR When it's the Attack of the Writer's Block from 50,000 Fathoms

It's been awhile since I ranted, er, blogged, so what shall I write about?
 I have never understood what the eff the monolith was
until this moment.I know.  Writer's block.  I have a nice outline all planned out.  I have characters prancing around in my head.  I have witty dialogue and titillating scenes.  Then when I sit down at the computer, I got nothing.

Nothing.  The big, fat, whomping zero.
 I have lots of assistance.Even when I've had an active case of insomnia, which does happen to me upon occasion and I happen to resemble a zombie (without makeup too!), I have been able to write.

So what do I do?  I Google it.  Because Bing and/or Google knows everything.  They're like omniscient Internet gods.  (I like the pictures on Bing but honestly I think the two are about the same otherwise.)  (Today's picture on Bing was a swimming duckling.  It was so cute I could have died.  But I still am blocked.)

People have lots of tips on breaking the psychosomatic problematic issue of writer's block.

1.  Write anything.  Write about nothing.  Write about your weird uncle who used to live down by the creek by the outhouse and ate nothing but kudzu and Moon Pies.  Write about your big toe.  (500 words on your big toe.  Just try it.)
2.  Read.  Read.  Read.  Today I was reading a book and I had to stop because this was the sentence I came to.  "She took hold of his big stalk and..."  I'm sure you can imagine where that was going.  It was obviously a romantically inclined scene with the Jolly Green Giant.  I had no idea.  So anyway, reading wasn't helping. 
3.  Change your environment.  I put up black drapes and started playing The Mikado.  Then I went outside and started weeding.  I hate weeding.  I couldn't find any unfinished novels out in the flower beds so I went back inside.  So instead I decided to run outside and see if anyone noticed if I went streaking.  Fortunately the police were not called.  (Pity.  I would have liked to see the inside of a Huntsville jail.  I'm sure that would do something for writer's block.)

4.  Research.  My research usually falls to Googling (or Binging, which actually sounds kind of lewd) odd drinks to make.  I found some new ones.  This one topped the list.  A Trickie Dickie Screwdriver, which I would think had something to do with Richard M. Nixon and/or Checkers.  But in actually is one part Jack Daniels, two parts purple Kool Aid and a jigger of formaldehyde from the jar Hitler's brain is kept in.  (That would be the hard part to obtain.)  Then I found a recipe for infusing gummy bears with vodka, which we have tried before, but it didn't really work that well.  (I would like to say that I did get smashed once from alcoholic gummies.)
5. Exercise.  Do something else.  Ask for help.  I glommed these together because I thought it was about the same thing.  We did go for a walk this morning and I tried to talk plot with HIM, the man to whom I'm married, but HIM immediately shut down.  I'm pretty sure it's the same to him as it is to me when he starts talking about his job.  "Rocket Science blah blah blah Missiles blah blah blah schematic arch of a trajectory blah blah blah."  Except HIM hears "Plot blah blah blah writing blah blah blah poopy head."
Anyway, so I wrote a blog instead.  Does this mean I don't have writer's block?  I will see tomorrow.

More on Having a Child OR Fat Woman Does Homework

Here's what I have learned upon becoming a mother.

1.) Never burp a baby without having a cloth over your shoulder.

2.) College funds do NOT create themselves magically.

3.) Kids will keep anything.  I mean, anything they get.  If you try to surreptitiously try to throw it away later, they will develop the ability to know what you've done and to the only toy/thing/item you've done it to.  (I also learned right now that I had to spell check surreptitiously three times.  My daughter just informed me that it has tit in the middle of it and then she giggled.)

4.) You get to re-learn math and English.  (I know a few moms and dads out there who only have little ones are going, "NOOOOOOOO!" right now, but it's true.  When you get that kid to the fourth grade, you'll be checking their homework or doing it with them, and you'll get to the part that says preposition and prepositional phrase and object of the preposition and you'll forget that you write books for a living and that you're supposed to know this stuff and how run-on sentences are poo-poo and that smart phones do have an Internet hook up so you can look this stuff up.
It was a good thing that the first paragraph of the homework sheet explained those terms to me.

Preposition: a word that connects a noun, pronoun, or phrase to other words.  In, of, over are examples of prepositions.  (They're also examples of words that Bill Clinton is still confused over.)

My definition of a preposition: A word that connects a noun, pronoun, or phrase to other words and drives me insane in the process.  It especially irks me when they ask the kid to identify TWO prepositions in the same sentence (because they put two in there) and then throw the kid in the water with the Great White Shark and absolutely no anti-shark spray.
Prepositional phrase: A phrase that begins with a preposition.  (This doesn't do you any good unless you know what a preposition is.)

My definition of a prepositional phrase: A phrase that begins with a preposition and makes the vein in your forehead pop.  (It's that throbbing vein that makes it so special.)  Examples include: to the store for Ben & Jerry's, to the asylum, and to the doctor for more valium.
Finally, we have the object of the preposition.  (Same problem.  If you don't know what a preposition is, you can't figure out what it's object is.  Or was.  Or has been.  That vein's starting to make Mount St. Helens look small.)
My definition of the object of the preposition: That thing that that other thing clarifies.  See?  Perfectly clear.  In the prepositional phrase to the store for Ben & Jerry's, it would be the store.  Crystally clear, right?  In to the asylum, the asylum would be the object, because that's where I'm going to need to go after helping my daughter with her homework.  And finally, the doctor to whom I must run for medicinal purposes is the object of the prepositional phrase.

Okay then.  English lesson is over. 

Fat Woman Watches a Movie OR There Will be HUGE HONKING SPOILERS!

Warning:  If you haven't seen The Conjuring and you want to see The Conjuring and you know that you will just die if you don't eventually see The Conjuring and you want to avoid knowing what happens in the movie and you want to avoid run-on sentences, then don't read any more of this blog.  YOU HAVE BEEN...WARNED...WARNED...WARNED...(You have to imagine it echoing in your head like you've just been to the mysterious gypsy in the wooden panel wagon and she just gave you some news about your family that you would rather keep to yourself.  Kind of like when the doctor tells you, you have genital warts except in a literary, obnoxious, know-it-all manner.  Yeah.  That.  Exactly.)

So recently I finished a novella and my burned out mind needed a break, so I sat down one day and perused the movies on the premium channels.  I like horror and sci-fi movies so I saw the listing for...dah...dah...dummmmmm....The Conjuring.
I mean, that's a horror movie, right?  Creepy farmhouse.  Creepy tree.  Creepy hangman's noose on the tree.  Creepy shadow on the ground that you don't notice until I point it out.  It's screaming that it's a horror movie.  SCREAMING!

Now here's the actual description from www.imdb.com : Paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren work to help a family terrorized by a dark presence in their farmhouse.

Pretty simple, right?

Let's now do my version: A family buys a creepy farmhouse and strange shizz starts happening.  Since they're basically stupid people, they don't get out, they stay and the shizz starts getting worse.  Also they play a hide and seek clapping game that is GUARANTEED, can you give me an amen, to come back later in a paranormal fashion in order to personify the phrase "cheap thrill."  Don't forget to wear your Depends.

My version is much better.  I even have a catchy tag phrase for the movie poster: You should have known better than to buy the evil farmhouse, dumbasses!

First we're introduced to Ed and Lorraine Warren who are investigating a possessed doll.  Two girl roommates had a doll which started moving around the apartment while they weren't there.  The girls found out that someone had died in the apartment and they told the spirit that it could stay in the doll.  The paranormal investigators, Ed and Lorraine, say, "What the he-ell?  Why did you do that, dumbasses?"
Poor Chucky.  He was really
just a psychopathic Pinocchio.
Right?  Except his nose didn't
grow.It turns out that the doll is now inhabited by a demony thingy that likes to leave crayon messages all of the place.  This segment of film is designed to let us know that Ed and Lorraine are serious demon hunting badasses and know the difference when a possessed doll is just freaky and when it's got a demon in it.
What does this have to do with Ed and Lorraine?
Nothing but I thought it was funny.
I should write a horror movie set in
a Walmart.  All the employees disappear
from the checkout lanes and you're left
standing there with a full basket.
Wait, that's not made up.So then we hop to the Perrons.  This is a family who buys a farmhouse.  The dad is played by Ron Livingston, which freaks me out because I know him mostly from Office Space and I can't see him without thinking of Gary Cole as the uber evil boss and Stephen Root as Milton.  (I had to stop to look for my stapler, and now I have to stop before I do a movie within a movie.)  Anyway, Ron Livingston is the dad and he's all like, "We bought a foreclosure and we don't know anything about it."  This statement is actually Hollywoodese for "We are now fucked."  (That makes me think of singing to the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands," except with my words "If you're fucked and you know it, clap your hands."  Get that tune out of your head now.  And these words are particularly apropos because of the hide and seek clapping game the kids play in the movie.)

Anyhoo.  The Perron family buys a farmhouse and their dog won't come in the door.  Another big freaking clue for the clueless.  If your formerly friendly, happy, good-to-go, best pet ever won't go into your new house, it's probably best if you don't go in, either.  Just sayin'.  It's like the rule.  Then of course, you have to know, as a random horror movie connoisseur that the dog just put a big target on his head.

The Perrons also has four daughters.  Four daughters.  I mean, that's like the ultimate formula is killing folks off.  One daughter in a horror movie = certain death.  Two daughters = one will probably die.  The other one will probably be the killer.  Three daughters = one will probably die.  The other one will probably be the killer.  The third one will be the one who trips and falls running from the killer.  Four daughters = bad shizz is coming.  Simple rule.  FFS, throw a boy in the mix so he can be possessed and twirl his head a la Linda Blair.

Then one of the daughters finds a creepy music box.  You know that it's creepy because when it plays the clown head pops up and down and we all know about clowns, don't we?
John Wayne Gacy pretty much spoiled
everything for all the other good little
clowns.And there was another horror movie rule blaring out at the audience.  If one of your daughters finds a creepy music box, it's not good and you should probably leave now.

Then the daughters are playing the hide and seek clapping game.  One daughter is blindfolded.  The others hide.  The blindfolded one gets the others to clap so she can be guided to them.  All bad news, of course.  This is the big plot device rule coming to play here.  The movie director and writer are saying, "Look at this cute game.  It's so cute.  Isn't it cutesy-wutsy-woo?  Not after we're done with it."

Of course before they get to that, the dog dies pretty much right away.
And those pesky Perrons are still ignoring the signs.

Two Perron daughters are in one room and something is tugging on their feet in the middle of the night, which is always bad news.  Here's the scene.  Two girls are in bed.  One gets her feet tugged on by something.  She looks around, blames her sister.  Her sister is all like "WTF?  No, I di-int."  Then it tugs the first sister really hard.  So what does she do?  She looks under the bed.  Of course, the audience is screaming "DON'T LOOK UNDER THE BED, DUMBASS!"  (Maybe that was just me.)  But it's not really under the bed.  (The director/writers fooled us.  Well, they fooled me.)  But the thing is standing behind the door.  The other sister, suspecting malfeasance on the part of the tugged sister, goes by the door where there is a huge black shadow, and the tugged sister sez, "It's standing right behind you."  Then the door slams, leaving complete blackness and screams commence.  Of course mumsy and dadsy come running and tugged sister says that something evil and ghostly is in the house.  (I didn't get the words exactly right.)  In my mind, I'd be thinking, "Who the eff is in the house and where the eff is my shotgun?"  I'm not sure how the two sisters jumped to the conclusion that something tugging on their feet and standing behind the door HAD to be evility.  But maybe the audience needed to be clued in.  (I di-int.)

We'll pause for a humorous LOL:

Of course, things go downhill.  The Warrens are called, because everyone knows that you have to call the Warrens when things be tugging on your feet in the middle of the night.  Seriously, they have the big ad in the Yellow Pages about nocturnal feet pulling.  It's really a big problem in some creepy, haunted farmhouses that stupid people move into.  (I never moved into a big creepy, haunted farmhouse that nocturnal feet pulling wasn't an issue.  Right up there with mice and spider webs.)

It turns out that the Warrens have a daughter too, and she's impacted long-distance by the creepy farmhouse ghost.  Also the doll from the first part comes into play.  Also some witch called Bathsheba was hanged at the Perron's tree in the front yard.  Some other kids were killed, too.  This is why you should always look into the history of a foreclosed house that you are desperate to buy and you have to have four nubile young darlings who are ripe for demonization and/or foot tugging.

But the Perrons aren't done yet.  There's a scary game of hide and seek and clap, where the demon witch ghost thingymajig gets all involved.  Maybe the ghost just wanted to play but doesn't have the right social skills.  These movies/demon hunter/investigators are just SO judgmental.

Time for another LOL break:
Not only is this LOL slamming scary movies but Crocs, too.
Now I have to try and remember which horror movie had
the hockey mask guy.  (Thank God for Google and/or Bing.)Then the mother of the Perrons gets all possessed and things go really south.  Of course, the Warrens come to the rescue and it's all about being good mothers because the ghost/demon thingy, Bathsheba, (I think she was really pissed off about her name) was not a good mother.  In fact, she was a very bad mother.

Problem fixed.  Ed Warren takes the creepy music box thing home to put in his display of things-that-should-not-be-in-normal-people's-houses, because we know that he'll take care of business if it goes all nuclearly demonic again.  (The room is blessed once a month by a priest.)

In conclusion, I would say watch it but don't take it seriously.  Also eat some buttered popcorn and feel free to drink shots of tequila for every time you wonder if some scary shizz is about to happen.

Sometimes I wonder why I watch these kinds of movies.  I didn't even get a good nightmare out of it.  (But the hide and seek and clap thing wasn't too bad.)

Bonus question: how many times did Fat Woman actually use the word "creepy" not including this one?

Hunter's Moon is Out!

Now Available! Hunter’s Moon: A Cat Clan NovellaBy C.L. BevillIt is a human world, but in the shadows lurk were creatures, witches, and dark magicks…Claire Bennett has been captured and held prisoner by the Council, the sinister association that oversees the shifter population.  She is the wolf shifter daughter of Braydon Bennett, the Bloodletter, and the sworn enemy of the Council.Shade is one of the Elite Guards of the Council and a werebear.  Once he believed in the righteousness of the Council; now he’s intent on bringing it down with the help of the Bloodletter.  Nevertheless, he’s just discovered that their latest prisoner is Claire, who just so happens to be his mate.The question is what Shade will do in order to protect the female he’s fated to be with.  How much will he lie to himself?This is a 42,000 word novella, approximately half the size of a full sized novel.  The order in which the Cat Clan Novellas should be read: Harvest Moon (Cat Clan Novella #1), Blood Moon (Cat Clan Novella #2), Crescent Moon (Cat Clan Novella #3), Hunter’s Moon (Cat Clan Novella #4)Amazon B&N Smashwords

Stuff Happening

A tale of woe or the 10th birthday party.

It turns out that our daughter is turning 10 next week.  The big 1-0.  It doesn't sound as daunting as the big 5-0, but she's feeling the years.  Double digits.  A few months ago one of her friends turned 10 and her mama had a limo take them to the mall and then to Cici's Pizza.  (I'm thinking Cici's because they couldn't afford anything else after the limo.)  Anyway, I was praying that Cressy wouldn't say she wanted a limo.  (Jeez, a limo.  I haven't even ridden in a limo.  Life is so unfair.)

Anyhoo, she picked having a party at home.  Theme: the 60s.  I don't know why it was the 60s, but I went with it.  I broke out the lava lamp and went to Party City.  Party City will now be putting their kids through college courtesy of me.
That's what I think of the sixties, unless I mention that I missed out on the Summer of Love because I was in kindergarten.  Also for those of you playing the game, slug-a-bug.
So Cressy decided on birthday party at home.  We wanted something special, so she got it in her head that she wanted a henna artist for the party.  Henna tattooing is pretty cool but it is long-lasting (a week to a month).  I had to pre-warn parents.  (BEWARE!  Fancy-shmancy stuff happening here!  If you think your ten year old is too young, warn me!  We also have glittery ones that wash right off!  Party poopers.)
This is what I wanted all the kids to get.  But the next one is what we got.  Oh well, it's still pretty.
The girls were initially more interested in watching the henna artist than anything else, including pizza and cupcakes.  (OMG!)

We sent out invites.  I talked Cressy into a few extras.  I put a RSVP on it.  You know what?  One person called to RSVP.  ONE PERSON.  Then I got an email on the day of the party.  I was all, like, FFS.  If I got invited to a party I would be the one dopey person who called to RSVP.  (It means to tell the host whether or not you're coming to the party, so they know how much food to buy, dumbasses.)  So we ended up with 7 girls, one henna artist, two parents, and a moron cat hiding under the bed upstairs.  (Poor little dumb bastard, or possibly I should say smart little dumb bastard.)
Everything went well until the first cupcake hit the carpet.  Then the sugar high set in and it turns out that our house can be used as an indoor race track for multiple 10 year olds.  I think records might have been set.  I'm surprised that an ambulance didn't need to be called for someone.
Advice for the future: if you have toilets that have a push button on top (one on the left is for peepee, the one on the right is for poopoo) please inform your young guests before they freak out because they can't figure out how to use the toilet.

Anatomy of Training a Moron Cat

About two years ago, I was subjected to getting a cat.  My daughter wanted a kitten.  She cajoled, pleaded, agreed to do all the dirty work, and voila, a kitten was obtained after Christmas of 2012.  Incidentally, HIM, the man to whom I'm married and the instigator of the kitten incident, is the one who actually cleans up the litter box.
 He wasn't really laughing at me.
I caught him mid-yawn, which
makes for good caption fodder.The kid named the cat Megaroy, a fact I still don't comprehend the reasons why.  I consequently determined that the cat, which is some kind of Maine Coon mix, is stupid.  I've blogged about my reasoning and I won't repeat them.  See My Daughter's Cat is a Moron and My Daughter's Moron Cat.  (I actually had to write more than one blog about the cat, so go figure.)

Once we moved, the cat determined that he loves the enclosed porch and wants to go out there all the time.  Winter, summer, spring, fall.  (Not so much when it's raining.  It might get his dainty, wootsie footsies wet and that's icky poo.)  Being pushovers we leave the door cracked.
 Looking out the cat door at the
cat lying on the porch.
This is pretty much his
every waking moment position,
except when he's pooping.
I try not to watch that part.Then this winter, HIM has decided that it shall be no more.  HIM went to Petsmart, forked over some moolah, and purchased a pet door, replete with flaps.  HIM installed the door, not on the door itself, but in the wall in between the inside and outside.  He only had to cut part of a stud and engage in some bright new colorful language to get the job done.  There.  The pet door is there.
Here you can see where HIM had to cut
part of a stud.  Oh what fun, knowing
that a stud has been cut to allow
the poop-for-brains cat to go and
come as is his want from the porch.
You can pretty much deduce what
the cat is thinking at this moment.
"I can still get the humans to
open the door."Before he bought the pet door I said, "The cat is too stupid to learn how to use it."

After the door was installed, I said, "See."

HIM decided to get determined.  He put food on the opposite side of the door.  Nothing.

HIM shoved the cat through.  Nada.

HIM pleaded with the cat.  No how.

Finally HIM took the flaps off the door.  The cat had a little, itty-bitty-itsy light bulb appear over his moronic head.  *PING!*  I can goz through to the porch!

Wait until HIM puts the flaps back on.
Okay I had to slam the poor skater girl with the wretched luck
to have a camera guy right in her face when she made
this face.