C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 7

Went OVER 100 K!

Yep.  Right there.  Sometime in the middle of the night.  I wasn't sitting at the computer to watch it.  Maybe I should have been.
I say always stick a picture of Hannibal Lecter in
your blog whenever you can.  He is watching you.
Not my counter, but you and maybe Jodie
Foster, too.What does it really mean?  There's a philosophical argument lurking here.  It means approximately 100,000 clicks on the website.  I know some people are clicking on it once or twice a day, eagerly waiting for a new blog.  (T-shirt idea: "I went to Fat Woman's Blog and all I got was a lousy t-shirt.")  My sister said to me, "How does it feel to know that 100,000 (she might have said 1,000,000 at the time because I was under the mistaken interpretation that I was about to top a million because basically I couldn't count) people have looked at your blog?"  I believe my response was: "Meh." because it wasn't really a million, or even 100,000.  It's probably like 30 people who've looked at my blog 3,333.3333 times.
So I was looking for funny eyes watching pictures
and I found this one, which reminds me of watching
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad in the 70s.
For those of you of a certain age, who actually
saw this stinker (the Ray Harryhausen special
effects were worth the whole movie), there
was a girl in there with a tattoo of an eye
on her palm.  What does this have to do
with anything?  Well, I always wanted a tattoo
of an eye on my palm so I could
hook up with Sinbad.  (I was like ten years
old.)  (The Kali statue gave me nightmares.)Ah, the momentous occasion of 100,000 visitors.  I'm not sure if I thought I would get there.  I like to blog.  (I like to hear myself talk, or rant as the case may be.  Did I tell you about the water heater dying and the propane gas people forgetting to turn off the bleeder valve?  No?  Let's say it involved me, the BBB, the fire department, certified mail, and a lawsuit in the making.  I get carried away sometimes.  And the blog is my relief valve.)  I do like to blog.  I get to talk about whatever.  It's usually funny shizz or stuff that's happening in my life that's funny.  (Mostly it isn't funny until I blog about it and then it's funny, because that's the way my mind works.)
Haha.  Cross-eyed Siamese cat.  We had two
of these for years.  The lesson learned: I will
never again own a Siamese cat.  Loud,
bitchy cats who are high maintenance.
The moron cat, while he's learned how to
garner attention by using his claws on my butt while
I'm sitting in the office chair, is much less
maintenance.  (Although claws in the butt certainly
doesn't make it sound that way.)And I suppose I should just put a standard warning at the top, saying I will meander.  Sometimes I probably won't make sense.  Occasionally I'll take a rabid detour of epic proportion.  (Kind of like I did just now.  And before.  And before.)
So now I'm onto the Police.
I have this cassette tape someplace.Anyhoo, I think what I should really do, is thank all the people who read the blog, occasionally comment, and generally keep coming back for more, no matter how silly I get.

Thank you!  I really appreciate your support and am always glad to hear from you.  Thank you!

More on Being 50 OR Oh, Crappoes, Fat Woman Shall Now Commence the Rant AND Also Some Content About...GASP!...Exercise!

There's something about a t-rex chasing you to
get you to move on out.Recently I turned 50, and readers shall probably read about it until I get used to it or it gets old.  (Get it?  Gets old?  No, just me?)
Consequently, I broke out the bucket list and read where I wanted to hike 50 miles at age 50 on the Appalachian Trail.  (I don't specifically remember writing that on there.  Must be me getting old.)  Then we moved and I'm pretty sure I couldn't drag HIM or the kid on a 50 mile hike, and let's face it, I don't know if I could do 50 miles on a single mountain hike.  (Doubt does arise.)  So I came up with 50 miles in 50 days.  It's reasonable and I won't be far away from an ambulance.  This I could drag HIM with me, and sometimes the kid on her scooter or her bike.
Needs several reps to really work.So off we go.  A mile or so every day.  I'm doing a little more because I expect something to happen and I'll have to skip a few days and I really want to do 50 miles in 50 days at age 50, because if I don't I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror, plus I told my doctor I would do it and he giggled.  (Seriously, he giggled.  I should be offended, but for some odd reason I wasn't.)
What does this have to do with me being obnoxious while
walking?  Nothing, but it's my blog.What's the funny part?

One day we're walking down the green way and it's a nice day, so lots of people are out and walking, biking, jogging, getting out while they can.  As we pass people I say, "Hi."  Half the time they don't say anything back.

Here's where I get strange.  I mean, is it that hard to say hi back?  No.  (I wasn't asking for their first born child or anything of that ilk.)  Half of these people are being obnoxious effs.  Then I stopped saying hi, so HIM felt compelled to fill in for me.  For HIM, they say hi.  More women do, anyway.  But strangely some men do it, too.  (Hmm.) 

Consequently the rant began.  I theorized that if I said, "Hi," and the person didn't say "Hi," back, then I could say, "I said, Hi, bitch!" and they would acknowledge me, thus validating that I was a person to whom one should say hi.  Or validating that I was a person who didn't really care if I ticked a total stranger off on a walking trail.  Either one.  Upon sharing my revelation with HIM, HIM decided that he should walk ahead of me and pretend that we weren't married.  I think I saw him surreptitiously putting the police on speed dial.  (I have consequently determined that exercise makes me mean.)  (I wonder how that would sound in a trial?)
I'd look like a complete ass if I ran like I stole something.
Then I'd fall over and die after 50 feet.The next victim quickly approached and I said, "Hi."  To my utter disappointment they said, "Hi," back.  So I was robbed of an opportunity to validate myself with the calling of the licentious name.  And it was thusly until we reached the parking lot.  Every single one said, "Hi," back to me.  I felt robbed.

How did they know?
If you HAVE to exercise, then do it in the most imaginative manner
possible.

On Turning 50 OR I'll Kill the Next Person Who Says 50 Isn't So Bad

Well, there it was, a perfectly good Wednesday morning when I got woken up to "It's the End of the World as We Know It" by REM.  I can thank HIM, the man to whom I'm married and the man whose shallow grave is located in the woods out back, for that.  I got presents wrapped in black.  (A travel mug, two meat thermometers, and a subscription to The Week.  My sister sent me a pendant.  She doesn't get buried in the back yard.  The cat decided to ignore the whole thing, which was a wise decision on his part, or simply because he's a moron and didn't know any better.)
So what could I do?  I hid in the closet for the next two hours fondling my meat thermometers.  (One is digital and wireless.  I should go buy a turkey.  HIM isn't known for buying the best gifts.  I got him 50 black balloons on his birthday.  I sent them to work.  HIM has a cubicle.  I thought that was funny as hell.  My MIL mentioned this to me when I said I was less than happy about turning 50.  I said that it was funny when HIM was turning 50, not me.  The moron cat would have freaked at having 50 black balloons in the house anyway.)
I went looking for pissed off LOLs and found a lot with cats.  Apparently cats are pissed a lot.  Or they're perceived as being pissed off a lot.  I know if someone put an itty bitty hat on my head and took a picture I'd be pissed off, too.

I remember when I turned 30 and I was upset.  I don't remember 40, probably because I was 7 months pregnant and peeing every...five...minutes.  Seriously, a note to women who haven't yet had a child, you will pee every five minutes and you won't sleep more than an hour at a time and that's before you have the baby.  Just be prepared.

But 50.  Sheesh.  I depressed.  Sofa king depressed.  I will now endeavor to amuse myself.

 This looks like hairy hairless cat.  I like the message.
Look the tree is ticked.  I wouldn't cut that tree down, I'll tell you.
I suppose I should just accept it.  It's done.

And then the heat pump broke.  It wasn't 50.  I'm sure.  I hate 50.  50 sucks.  I want to be 49 for another year.

Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies

Sheesh, I can't believe I forgot to announce this on my blog!


It’s trouble as usual for Bubba.  His mother, Miz Demetrice, and her good friend, Miz Adelia, are up to no good with the DEA watching them for mysterious reasons.  In addition, Bubba’s also trying to get the beauteous sheriff’s deputy, Willodean, alone for some quality time, when zombies invade in a cinematic manner.  Further, the director of the movie is apparently murdered by persons unknown, and someone is pointing a finger directly at Bubba (again).  Zigzaggery zombies, fetid filmmakers, maternal madness, and cryptic casualties are all par for the course.  What’s a Bubba to do?Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies is book 5 in the Bubba series.  Book 1 – Bubba and the Dead Woman.  Book 2- Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas.  Book 3 – Bubba and the Missing Woman.  Book 3.5 – Brownie and the Dame.  Book 4 – Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note.  Book 4.5 – The Ransom of Brownie.Buy it on B&N here.Buy it on Amazon here.Buy it on Smashwords here.And for hardcore Bubba fans, buy it in paperback here. 

Fat Woman Cannot READ Numbers OR 100,000 Isn't the Same as 1,000,000

Okay, I'm closing in on 100,000, not 1,000,000.  I'm depressed because I couldn't tell the difference between almost 100,000 and almost 1,000,000.  Big difference.  Talk about wishful thinking.

I feel like this.
 Phooey.

Trip-Trap-Trip OR We Went to Chattanooga!

I love doing vacation blogs.  I post pictures.  I make pithy comments.  People get entertained.  It's all win-win.  Plus, every hit gets me closer to 1,000,000 on my counter.  I don't know what will happen when I get to a 1,000,000.  Could be fireworks.  Could be confetti.  Could be meatcake.  (You have to be a George Carlin fan to get that one.)

Anyhoo, during our holiday break, I said, "Let's take a road trip."  This might have been a mistake on my part, but I went with it.  Chattanooga is not far away and they have lots of cool stuff to do.  So we went, leaving the moron cat in the care of a pet sitter.  (She doesn't think he's a moron, but then she likes animals a lot more than I do, and I like animals.  Really I do.)

First thing I saw on the way out of town was:
 This is a Piggly Wiggly.  A Piggly Wiggly
is a grocery store for those of you
north of the Mason Dixon Line.  There is nothing
really funny about a Piggly Wiggly except the
name, which makes me giggle every time
we pass one.  Luckily for me and all the other
drivers involved, I don't live near too many of them.
 The rest of the trip was uneventful.  We passed a nuclear plant and had a brief round of how-does-it-really-get-pronounced.  Nuke-u-lar.  I just can't say it the other way.  Oh, well.  I did not take a picture because I suspect the NSA has cameras posted on the road to take a picture of me taking a picture of them.  I do not wear an aluminum foil hat, I swear.

But we got to town and immediately went to the aquarium.
Cressy points out the aquariumness of it all.
Nice hat, eh?Then there were lots of things to touch in the aquarium.
Cressy didn't want to touch the rays and the sharks, but
I did.  HIM said his sleeves were too long, but
it was really an excuse for why he didn't
want to touch the rays and the sharks.There were lots of tanks with fishes inside.  This is an aquarium that knows how to entertain the kiddos.
Cressy demonstrates how to exist in a bubble.Later on I got to touch a Giant Calcedonian Gecko, which really riled up the people on my author's page on Facebook.  (It felt a little like Velcro.)  But after that a Blue Morpho got to touch me.  In fact, he/she wouldn't get off my forehead.
I know it doesn't look blue, does it?
(Maybe it's on Prozac.)
When the wings open up, it's totally blue.
Strangers were taking pictures of me, too.
I should have flashed them.We followed up the aquarium with a boat ride, where we saw 10 bald eagles.  Personally I saw 6 bald eagles, but the tour guide informed me that I had seen 10, two of which were juveniles.  I did not get a photograph, but if I had, it would have looked just like this one:
Seriously, my pictures showed a very distant blob on a branch,
although we did get to look at them with binocs, my
camera was poopoo for capturing the moment.Cressy quickly got bored with eagle watching and subjected HIM to the infamy of bunny ears.  Also twenty-odd people pretty well saturated the inside of the boat with their hot air and made the windows all covered with condensation, so the visibility was for crap.  I started a trend by using my sleeve to wipe it off, but soon my sweater was soaking wet and the crew finally broke out some rags.
"Are we done yet?"
"Are we done yet?"
"Are we done yet?"
"Are we done yet?"Finished with a three hour tour, (Well two and not a single professor in sight.  The professor was my favorite character.  I think he should have gotten together with Mary Ann.) we checked into the hotel.  The view was of the baseball stadium!  Oh joyfulness!

And the hotel had a swimming pool!  You had to walk past it to go to your room.  There was no escaping it.  Inside our room we determined the room was haunted because the drawers of the dresser kept coming open by themselves.
It was freaky because I didn't want to put my
clothes in their drawers anyway.The hotel room also had weird decorations:
I couldn't figure out if they were going
for music, surfing, woodys, or bowling pins.
It was eclectic.  I totally had to spell check
that word.The next day we overwhelmed ourselves with a trip to Ruby Falls.  This is a waterfall inside a cave.  I think a couple of people missed the cave part because as soon as they saw the narrow passage they freaked out and went right back up the elevator.  The tour guide, named Doug by the way, was way too excited about all of us.  Just as I was beginning to wonder if there was, in fact, a water fall, we finally made it, and my camera on my phone actually did something good.
They got colored lights set up on this thing, plus
muzak.  I don't remember the song but
Doug was worshipping the waterfall so
it became kind of moot.  Doug was seriously
worshipping the waterfall.  He had his hands
in the air and was bowing.  I guess some
people will do anything for a paycheck.Then we went and found the incline railway.  When they say it's an incline railway, they mean it's an incline railway.  At one point it's a 75% grade.  Couldn't see much from the top but who cares, it was a 75% grade.
This pic doesn't do it justice.  And btw, I took
it from the observation platform not the top
of the train.So exhausted we went to get lunch and look at the inside of the hotel again. The hotel had funky rugs.
HIM took the kid to the children's museum.
I napped.More swimming in the pool ensued.  Fortunately other people with children were there and our child played with their children.  A pool makes for instant lifetime friendship.

We also walked along the waterway and the sun went down:

Cressy chased sea gulls, but I didn't get a picture of that.  I was too busy pretending she wasn't my child.

The next day we went home and the cat was happy to see us, but not before we drove by this:

One hasn't experienced the wonder of fireworks
if one hasn't been to Big Daddy's Fireworks.  Pardon
me, I mean, BIG DADDY'S FIREWORKS.
This sign is a lot bigger than it looks in the picture.
See the ordinary sized billboard on the left for
comparison.Finally, I ran out of pithy things to say.

The Counter

I just happened to notice that the counter is closing in on...one million.  What does this mean?  Well, I haven't been clicking on my blog in order to raise numbers, that's for sure.  (Once maybe.  Twice on one day.  But that was before I told it not to save the times that I clicked on it.  I swear.)  (Okay, it's not that close to one million, but it's getting a lot closer than it was.)

Whoo-hoo.  One million views.  And some of them were actually people who read the blogs.  (I get spam from all different countries.  I wish I could read the Russian ones.)

Stuff

Warning: the author may change subjects randomly because that's the way she is.
I think if I had a townhouse like this I would definitely
paint it like this.  Rainbow bubbles or something
vaguely LSDy.  What does this have to
do with my foyer being painted?  Well, nothing,
but I started looking for weird painted houses and
found a bunch of funky houses.The foyer in our house is being painted.  Could they bang on the walls any more than they are?  I don't think they could.  I think they're wailing on my walls and giggling about it.  Why can't I paint my own bleeping foyer?  It's two stories and I've discovered that I have a fear of heights in my older age.  Standing on the ground looking up = okay.  Standing on a ladder looking down = whoops, so much for those panties.
Who doesn't want a cow house?Furthermore, I asked them how they would work around the stairs and the guy said, "That's a piece of cake."  To which I said, "How is that a piece of cake?" because I am disbelieving and I want to know how they do it without scaffolding, a parachute, and some vicodin.  He tells me that they will simply stand on a tall ladder and cut in at the top.  Then stand on a six foot ladder and roll the rest.  Haha.  So funny.  I need to check to see if my insurance covers dumbasses.  This is the part where my husband or HIM decides to take the child and scamper off to South America for the duration of my crankiness.
I like that the stars aren't all even but then that's the
way I think.I mean, have you ever woke up in the morning and said, "I should just go stay in the closet for the rest of the day."?  Well, this morning I did.  HIM wanders in and says, "Good morning," and I say, "What's so bleeping good about it?" except I didn't use the word, bleeping.  Then the kid wants chocolate milk and the chocolate syrup only wants to make big chocolate colored syrup farts (this is ugly if you haven't seen it) and I'm not sure if the result was really something I could call chocolate milk, or even semi-chocolate milk.  In any case, the kid did drink it, without saying anything about it, so I'm saying, "Yes.  I pulled the chocolate syrup lacking wool over my child's eyes."
I'm completely past the whole foyer painting
thing but how could I not
put this house in here?
The neighbors must be pissed.Then the kid says she needs money for the school's Christmas shop.  (Excuse me, I think they're calling it a holiday shop to avoid political hysteria.)  Do I have money in my wallet?  No, I have a credit card and a debit card.  I almost gave the kid the credit card with instructions on how to fake sign mommy's name.  Then I robbed HIM's wallet.  HIM had fives and ones.  I nearly started looking under the cushions in the couch.  But no I remembered the kid's change purse and stole all her money to give to her to spend.  (Does that make me a bad mommy?)  I stole my kid's money to give back to her to spend.  I'll go to the bank and get more money to stick in her change purse, so technically I won't steal from her.  But I can't go anywhere because the painting people are here and I can't leave.
Could be a Scottish house.The cat has hidden under the bed for the duration because he's afraid of the painters.  He thinks the doorbell as a signal for the apocalypse.  All is safer under the king sized bed in the master bedroom.  Haha.  Is there room under that bed for me?  Nope.
I love the rainbow house.  Needs to be on
a beach somewhere.But I did finish the first draft of Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies.  Yea.  I even finished my first edit.  I sent it off to the editor, who will polish it up for me and tell me if I made an insane hot mess of the whole thing or not.  HIM said I nailed it, but HIM is legally and morally obligated to say that.  I can't trust him to tell me if it sucks big hairy moose dick or not.  I have to wait until the reviews start coming in, which is like sitting on a bed of nails.  (I don't really sit on a bed of nails.)
In conclusion, I hate having my foyer painted, and I can't make chocolate milk because I ran out of chocolate syrup, and I'm pretty sure that HIM might be afraid of me in the morning, but I did finish the draft of my latest Bubba masterpiece and am getting it ready for release.  I'm thinking late January.  I will announce it, of course.

Sigh.  Back to work.

It Must be in the Water OR BAD Things Continued to Happen!

Not sure exactly what happened last week.

I destroyed a microwave by decimating two bags of popcorn in it.  (For those of you who suggested baking soda and vinegar or was it baking powder and vinegar?, it did not work.  Really.  It didn't work.  The microwave now smells like vinegar flavored burnt popcorn.)  We finally gave up and bought a new microwave.  Normally I wouldn't have done that but burnt popcorn smells really, really, really, really awful.

Okay that was bad enough, but the badness fairy had landed on our house and was not through with waving her silly ass wand about.

Then I got an abscess.  In a bad spot.  I actually had to go to an urgent care center where the nurse practitioner looked at it and said, "Yep.  That's an abscess."  They gave me pain pills, antibiotics, and a big shot in the ass.  I haven't gotten a shot in the ass for years.  That was pretty much the highlight of that day.  I took one of the pain pills and that was pretty much the end of the weekend as I remember it.
I think I would have rather stepped on a Lego than
get an abscess where I got an abscess.While I was reclined in a chair in the den, enjoying all the pretty colors, I happened to notice that water was falling from the ceiling.  It occurred to me that this was part of the pharmaceutical experience but no, there was water dribbling from the ceiling.  The pump on the Jacuzzi tub upstairs had decided to give up the ghost.

Later I pried up marble and HIM, the man to whom I married, actually cracked one piece, to get to the pump because the original builders of the house HAD NOT installed an access panel.  (I hate them.  I would find them and stick the pump up you-know-where if I thought I wouldn't be arrested.  Oh those pesky state laws that hold you back.)
I obviously need to move my kitchen sink into the den.But wait, the weekend of fun, abscesses, failing pumps, and joyful happiness was not over!  The next day the garage door opener said, "If the pump's going buh-bye, I am too."  And voila, the garage door opener gave up.  Fortunately it did not burn up, leak, or explode in a painful location.
I originally drew this for ANOTHER leak from our upstairs to
our downstairs in this house, but hey, it still
works.But wait, I have another LOL about pain and Lego's, which doesn't really have anything to do with where I'm going, but let me tell you, that abscess was painful.  I couldn't sit down for a week.  Or I could sit down but only on one cheek.  (Who knew abscess had 3 s's in it?  Not me.  But my spell check did.)
Anyone who has kids and Lego's knows what I'm talking about.
Or abscesses.In unrelated topics, I am officially sick of turkey.

List of turkey dishes I have made so far.  Potato-turkey cakes.  Creamed turkey over biscuits.  Open faced turkey sandwiches with gravy.  Turkey salad over biscuits.  Turkey spaghetti.  Turkey tetrazzini.  Turkey-sausage gumbo.  I'm freezing the rest of the turkey. I'm not sure if this is real or photoshopped but if you happen to love
turkeys and have an old VW Beetle, hey, why not?Okay.  Enough complaining.  Hope your week was better than mine.

Bad Things Happen in Threes OR My Week from Hell

I was painting the den.  La de dah, dah, dah.  My daughter, Cressy, said, "Let's watch a movie."  Then when I got down to help her find the movie of her choice, The Corpse Bride (MY daughter, ya'll!!!) she said, "And let's eat popcorn."  So I went to put the popcorn in the microwave whilst the kid put the dvd in the dvd player.  Now I will explain that the whole movie dvd/cable box/television/wii U is in the den, where I was painting.  In fact, I had already painted my way around where that set up was located.  HIM, the man to whom I'm married, had put it back together in his typical OCD inspired manner using pink and blue ties and labeling each wire while spinning in a counter clockwise manner and wearing his lucky socks.  (I may be exaggerating.)
Oh I couldn't find a burned popcorn lol
but wth?While I was waiting for the popcorn to pop, my daughter says, "It won't work."  So I trudged into the den and tried to figure out why the signal from the dvd player was not working.  It took me about eight tries to determine that none of the television channels were working.  It took me about ten seconds after that to realize that the microwave was no longer popping, but it was smoking.  (And not in a good, I-have-a-doobie way.)  I had put it on 4 minutes because the popcorn function button doesn't work, intending to stop it manually when the popping stopped.  (It's a good plan in theory when I actually followed through.)  However, I became distracted by the whole television- not-receiving-a-signal-from-the-dvd-player thing.
This didn't really work for me.The kitchen was awash with smoke.  I have since determined that burnt popcorn smoke smells worse than my daughter's moron cat's poop.  I opened the windows.  I turned on the fans.  I turned on the exhaust fan.  I carried the still smoking popcorn through the house.  It turns out that while I was rushing to get the popcorn bag out of the house I held it upside down and the very hot oil dripped out onto the floor and onto the rug.  I have since determined that Berber rugs can be melted by hot oil.  Really.  I've got evidence.
When I buy another microwave that
doesn't smell like burned popcorn
I totally want a Chaos button.My daughter took a moment to illuminate me on what she thought of the situation.  She said, "I guess we won't be eating that popcorn."  If Cressy wasn't nine years I would have suspected that she was being sarcastic.
You have to read the little yellow sticker.I got my daughter to lock up her moron cat upstairs and opened all the doors and windows.  It was cold outside so pretty soon we were wrapped up in sweaters and fuzzy socks.  And the smoke slowly began to dissipate.
 My daughter told me the other day she was going
to invent a time machine and I told her
to get a Delorean.I put another bag of popcorn into the microwave and went back to check the cords on the back of the television and the dvd player.  While doing that I forgot the popcorn in the microwave...again.  At which time I should have just said, "Eff the popcorn.  We're eating carrot sticks."  I should have.

I did not but the third bag of popcorn was a go.  I told Cressy we would have to wait for HIM to come home so he could tell me why he didn't attach the dvd player and then chastise him roundly.  Cressy made herself happy watching Wild Grinders and Rabbids Invasion.  (You should check out the Rabbids.  They're twisted, just like me.)
Okay, this isn't funny to Little People.HIM came home about a half hour later and was mildly alarmed that the front door was wide open.  His words were "Has anyone seen the cat?"  HIM was worried about the cat but not us.  (Now I truly know where I'm ranked in the household, except when I'm making some dish he really likes, and then I'm number one.)

And the microwave, although having been scrubbed no less than FIVE times, still smells like burnt popcorn.

I need a new microwave.  Pretty sure.