Thursday, September 29, 2011

Life is Like Forrest Gump Being Played by Donald Trump OR I Got Nothing But a Weird Title

I looked at my Big List of Blogs-to-Write and I was not inspired.  So then I thought of a weird title.  Recently I saw Forrest Gump again and I was trying to imagine another actor playing the character besies Tom Hanks.  According to, the Internet Movie Data Base, which is a place where some people spend entirely too much damn time watching movies and television, Bill Murray, John Travolta, and Chevy Chase all turned down the title role.  On a related note I heard once that Nick Nolte turned down the role of Han Solo.  I just can't picture it.  Furthermore, Tom Selleck was supposed to play Indiana Jones.  I guess Harrison Ford was the lucky one in those two.
Yes, this is my sister's cat, Mellow, who
should probably NOT play
Forrest Gump.  But I seem to
have neglected taunting the cat
for awhile so I obliged.
So who would be truly weird playing in a Forrest Gump remake?  A) Justin Bieber (Musical version) B) Will Ferrell C) Johnny Depp (But only if Tim Burton directed.) or D) Sandra Bullock (It's a revisionist version.)

And that led me to this question?  (It's coming.)  Of course this is wishful thinking and the movie rights haven't been sold.  (Seriously, Coen Brothers CALL ME!)  (And not only am I getting WAY ahead of myself and my sales, but it's somewhat arrogant, too.  However, I'm going with WTH?)  But who should play Bubba in the movie version?

I'm going to ask the question in big, bold letters so that people think I'm serious.

Who should play Bubba in a movie version?

I have to admit I'm a little buh-buh-buh.  (That's where I thumb my lower lip in a repetitive manner and look utterly confused.  Sometimes I'll even make strange noises that indicate that my brain has left the building.)  In my mind I've always pictured Bubba as being like Clint Walker.  He played in a television series called Cheyenne and in The Dirty Dozen, and about a million other things.  Here he is, in all his bubba-like, hulking glory:
Clint Walker from Cheyenne.
Come on, can't you picture it?
Who doesn't want to be rescued by
this cowboy?  (Perhaps we should
start a stampede.  Perhaps I should
stop typing words.)  And yes,
(Note to self: Buy HIM a cowboy hat and
maybe a whip.  Yee haw!  Did I leer?)
I've had people email me about what do I think Bubba looks like.  One man even wanted to know if I looked like Willodean.  (I don't.)  On a related note I've got two nice guys in Houston working on the audio version of Bubba and it's a blast to listen to their take on all the voices in the book.  (Yea, Matt and Kevin!)  (Hmm.  I wonder if I can attach an audio file to this.)

Anyway, who plays Bubba in the movie?  Come on, comment, you know you want to.

And yes, I know this is a little lame post for me today, but my brain is locked in on Bubba.  I'm writing, I'm working, and I'm fixated on the plot of Bubba and the Missing Woman.  I'm having dreams about Bubba and Miz Demetrice riding sparkly unicorns across a twinkling rainbow while they throw M&M's from a golden leprechaun's pot.  (Or was that a Skittles commercial?)

Let me know.  Who's Bubba?  Because I got nothing.

Next post: All about weird things growing in my yard and I don't mean jalapenos.

Monday, September 26, 2011

More Randomness OR How I Was at a Loss For What to Write OR Those Funky Jalapenos, What Will They Do Next?

Well, I'll just say that random thoughts will be ensuing in this blog.  I will jump from topic to topic in a fashion that will leave most readers annoyed or breathless or possibly both.

Okay, jalapenos have been on my mind.  Yesterday was chicken and sausage gumbo day.  I chopped of the vegetables.  I made a roux.  I boiled up a whole chicken and saved the broth for the gumbo.  I even used peppers from our own garden.  (The pumpkin leaves finally cleared enough for the pepper plants to grow and apparently we have a buttload of jalapenos.  Lots n lots n lots of jalapenos.)  And dang, that gumbo was good.

But what in the name of Jiminy Cricket am I going to do with all those other jalapenos?  (I will remind anyone who has previously read my blog that it was NOT my idea to grow three different packets of varied pepper seeds in a minuscule garden.)  Salsa comes to mind.  There's also a recipe I saw for little jalapeno dippers.  (It's got cream cheese in the middle of a sliced jalapeno and is wrapped in bacon.  Sounds like one of my arteries just instantaneously clogged up.)
I wasn't going to add captions but it seems like I should
explain that I didn't feel like drawing anything.  Hence,
a talking jalapeno.  It's my universe.

So here it is:

Jalapeno Stuffed Peppers

  • 1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened
  • 1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
  • 1/4 cup mayonnaise
  • 1 (1 ounce) package dry ranch salad dressing mix
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons garlic powder
  • 20 large jalapeno peppers, halved and seeded
  • 1 pound sliced bacon, cut in half


  1. Preheat an oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C).
  2. Stir together the cream cheese, Cheddar cheese, mayonnaise, ranch dressing mix, and garlic powder in a mixing bowl until evenly blended. Spoon some of the cheese mixture into each jalapeno half, wrap with half a bacon strip, and secure with a toothpick. Arrange the wrapped jalapeno halves onto a broiler pan.
  3. Bake in the preheated oven until the bacon is no longer pink and beginning to brown, about 20 minutes.

The recipe is from Mrs. Houston on  Thank you so much for telling me what to do with my peppers.  I was beginning to have delusions of pepper grandeur and visions of pepper inadequacies but I got better.  (Thank you, Monty Python.)
Once I bought Jamaican Hot Peppers to make a salsa and it
was the hottest salsa that I ever did.  It made HIM cry.  So
naturally HIM took a batch of it to work with chips so
HIM could share the love.  It made other men cry, too.
I'm so proud.  I'll never buy those kind of peppers again.
But hey I want to try one of the Ghost Peppers.
For some reason I couldn't pick a peck of pickled peppers.  (Hahaha.  I had to work that in.  It also reminds me that my name isn't Peter.  But there is a Peter Principle.  My husband thought I was making that up when I told him years ago because at the time he worked for a complete dick who was actually named Peter.)  (The Peter Principle states that "in a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence", meaning that employees tend to be promoted until they reach a position at which they cannot work competently.  This is from Peter Principle in Wikipedia.)  (I didn't have to make it up.  And OMG, you know this person don't you?  You worked for him/her/it until you couldn't stand it anymore and found another job.  Am I right?  You bet I'm right.)  (This is kind of how the presidency works except the electoral college does the honors.)  (I told you I was going to wander aimlessly.  Don't say you weren't warned.)
In perpetuity means I can mess with Mellow, my sister's cat,
the weird butted pumpkin I grew, and HIM forever.  I really
like that phrase, 'in perpetuity.'
And here's the reason I was thinking about jalapenos in the first place.  (It turns out that this blog has a point to it, after all.)  Last week, HIM, the man to whom I'm married, was traveling last week and made the mistake of consuming some massively cheese-drenched, jalapeno-topped, towering nachos of doom.  Apparently his stomach didn't think much of it and especially not of the jalapenos in particular.

How did he know that?  Well, I'll leave that to your imagination.

Anyhoo, one of the many airports at DFW was the proud recipient of his stomach's preeminent and grand moment of massive discontent.  Upon returning home, HIM shared with me some inspired tidbits of knowledge gleaned from using airport bathrooms.  (I'm supremely surprised at the thought that this subject was given and I'm compelled to share.)

Let's see.  How to proceed.  Well, the first thing is to mention that most of the toilets at DFW are motion sensitive controlled.  That's the auto-flushers for those of you who aren't following me.  Once you move, the toilet has a little sensor that either detects that you moved and assumes you're done and flushes or it's light sensitive and senses that it's not dark anymore and flushes.  One or the other.  I'm not so interested that I even feel like googling it.  You get the picture.  You don't have to pull the handle because the toilet will do it for you.

Allow me to describe the dilemma here.  It's happened to me.  And it's scared, well, the crap out of Cressy before.  (And if ever you have the crap scared out of you, then this is the correct place to be.)  If you move before you're done, sometimes the sensor will take that as initiative to let it rip.  It will flush before you're done and you're not expecting it so it's somewhat disconcerting.  (Not really a dilemma yet, but I'm getting to that.)

If an individual were to say, fill up the toilet and then move before ready, and the toilet were to back up because it had been filled a little too damned much, then the individual might look down and see that the contents of the bowl was coming at him like a little poopy tidal wave.  (Vivid imagery, huh?)Since the individual has got their pants down around their ankles, they can't just leap up and run away from the impending nastiness.  No, they're trapped in the compartment.  (Try to envision a person doing the droopy drawers shuffle whilst attempting to get away.  That's a wretched mental image, isn't it?)

And it gets worse.  You see, the poor individual is stuck between a whoopsiedoodle waterfall and the door, which opens to the inside.  (The poor bastard would have to move backward with the pants around his ankles in order to get the stall's door open and escape.  Thus, they are truly hosed because there really isn't a way to get out without getting into...something or other.)
Only the coolest jalapenos say, 'Dude.'
Consequently, HIM has mastered the hide-the-sensor method.  Using a bit of toilet paper one covers the sensor and prevents it from auto-flushing until an individual is well and truly prepared to amscray before calamity befalls them.  (I.e., this means that their pants are up, their belts are buckled, their bags are not on the floor and fully exposed, and they have the hand on the stall's door handle all before removing the toilet paper shield to allow the device to function.)  (Did I mention that I was impressed with the amount of thought that went into this particular subject?  Why, yes, yes I did.)

All of this because of jalapenos and possibly the Peter Principle.
I'm referencing a horror movie from the 80s here, as I have
done before.  But I thought it was apt since the
jalapenos certainly tore something of HIM's apart.

Yes, I am slightly demented.  I went from jalapenos in my garden to how to confuse auto-flushers at DFW International Airport in one blog!  WTFWIT?  I do not know.  However, I'll bet you don't ever look at those automatic flushing toilets the same again.

Friday, September 23, 2011

More on Writing OR OMG, NOT Again! OR Wait, I'm Not Ranting About My Writing This Time!

So I'm deeply, industriously, religiously involved in writing the third Bubba, Bubba and the Missing Woman.  (Yes, I know what my own title says and I'm not really writing about my writing.  Haha.  That's a funny sentence.)  However, I can't write all day long without a blood vessel in my eye exploding.  (I know, that's shameful, isn't it?  I should just chain myself to my laptop and produce a Bubba book just like that.  Cue fingers snapping.)  Anyhoo, I still like to read other things while I'm actively in the pursuit of the next Bubba story.

Just for human interest it turns out I can't read the same genre as what I'm writing while I'm writing it or weird things happen.  (Weird...things...)  As I'm writing mystery I CANNOT read mysteries.  I especially can't read humorous mystery or any other book that's humorous.  (For some reason I start writing in someone else's voice; it's very bizarre.  Did you ever hear someone speaking in an accent and find yourself wanting to imitate it?  It's kind of like that.  Obscure writer fact: Writers are strange.  Just go with it.)

Consequently, I'm reading a lot of Urban Fantasy right now.  I've got a few Emma Bull's on my Kindle and I'm liking Patricia Briggs, Ilona Andrews, and Faith Hunter.

Recently I read two books by Diane Sylvan.  The first one was called Queen of Shadows.

Here's the link to Queen of Shadows on Amazon.  Here's what Publisher's Weekly said about it:
Starred Review. Sylvan's powerful debut is packed with startling action, sensual romance, and delightfully nerdy vampires. An empathic gift is slowly killing Austin musician Miranda Grey, who uses her talents to influence her audience. After four men gang-rape her, Miranda uses her untrained powers to kill them with visions of their previous victims. Exhausted and traumatized, she's taken in by David Solomon, the steely but quirky leader of the South's vampires, whose no-kill laws have created unrest among his subjects. As David teaches Miranda to control her abilities and the two grow closer, a vampire civil war looms. Sylvan's compelling take on vampirism, her endearing characters, and a complex, unabashedly feminist plot will have readers hungry for a sequel. (Sept.)
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

I liked this one.  It had a few issues with it that I wasn't happy about but I won't spoil it for anyone who's interested.  (Since the description above mentions the gang-rape, I'll say I didn't care for that overly, but it was an integral part of the plot and was handled appropriately.)  It had some nice little twists in it about Sylvan's vampire world and I especially enjoyed the Austin, Texas setting.  (Austin is a great place for vampires.  I think New Orleans must be sick to death of vampires.  Hey, bad pun.)  Hey, how can you go wrong with vampires in Texas?  I don't think you can.

Therefore I downloaded the second one.  Here's the link to it, Shadowflame.
Don't you love these new UF's?  They get the cool girl in leather usually carrying a big sword.  I mean, nothing says kew-ell like a hot, hip babe in leather swinging a big sharp-edged weapon about to go postal on something big and beastly.  I'm putting that on the next Bubba book.  Bubba and the Hot UF Woman.  Yeah.  Well, not really, but it's fun thinking about it.

Back to the book.  Here's the product description (There's a reason why it's so short and I'll get to that.):
It's been three months since musician Miranda Grey became a vampire and married David Solomon. But when a powerful force from David's past appears, Miranda begins to realize how little she really knows about her husband.
Now for the warning:
Big, fat, freaking, world-shattering SPOILERS upcoming!
Don't read any further unless you ain't gonna read the book.

I've got to make a comment here.  Oh, I have to.  I'm compelled.  Here it is and it's a pretty big comment.  I have NEVER seen an author 'eff' themselves up the 'aaa' as quickly as Diane Sylvan seems to have done.  (Authors have done it.  Stephen King's done it many times, but he's got a humongous bank account so he can do it without compunction.  Who's gonna stop Steve?  Actors do it all the time.  Look at Charlie Sheen.  He's like the poster boy for 'effing' oneself up the 'aaa.'  He's like the founding member of the 'Eff Yourself up the Aaa' Club.  Politicians seem to make it a time-honored tradition.  This is the same as the WTFWIT category.  Oh, you'll figure it out.)

Back to Diane Sylvan.  I thought some of my readers were ticked with me, but I've got nothing compared to what this lady is going through.

Here's the spoiler.  The protagonist in book, the hero figure, turns out to be bisexual AND still in love with his former lover.  In fact, three months after marrying the heroine from the first book, he meets up with his old flame and they have a little interlude.  (Oh, the hell with it.  They had sex.  In the same building as their soul-mates and it turns out that the soul-mates could 'feel' everything!  So it wasn't like it was a big secret.)

OMFG.  When I got to that part of the book I was all like, "Oh, no, you didn't do that, you shithead."  I was speaking to the character, of course.  Then I was thinking about the author.

I don't normally leave reviews and I had to think about this book for awhile.  I like the author's writing alot.  The world she created in Queen of Shadows was cool.  The characters are cooler.  But the character that was the hero in both books suddenly became this whole different person in the second book.  Bisexuality aside, he cheats, is a totally different character than in book #1, and I'm a big HEA kind of girl.

That being said, it doesn't mean that Diane Sylvan is a bad writer.  She isn't.  The mores of the characters are just that, theirs, not the author's, and I can understand that the author was going for a little shock value.  But reviewers don't always see that.  Her second book got a lot of 1-star reviews just on the fact that the hero cheated and was an asshat.  Consequently, the author took exception to some of the reviews and began blogging and tweeting about it.  (Who would do that?  Hmm?  Me?  Nawww.)

Again, nothing wrong with letting off a little steam, but this lady apparently got PO'd with former fans.  She was so angry she said, "Now I want to have him f*** every guy in sight and become a cross dresser just to piss 'em off."  (Honestly, I think that's funny and it strikes me as a joke.  I guess some folks didn't get the humor.)  She also got pretty down on some of the reviewers.  (I know.  I do too.  There are basically two types of 'bad' reviews.  One type states their reasons for not liking a book.  Reasons are endless but it's not a personal attack on the author.  I might not like it, but they've stated their case in a mostly logical fashion.  Then there's the other type.  This one says things about the author and/or the book that are untrue and vicious to boot.  The latter is the kind I detest and occasionally rant about.  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)  (Don't say I didn't warn ya!)

However, here comes the however, Sylvan had to know she was going to tick people off.  She's writing a genre book.  It's got a formula.  If you eff with the formula, you tick people off.  (Not the same with me.  I'm not messing with Bubba and the Dead Woman's shtick.  Nope.  But I'm not going to write other books in other genres exactly the same as Bubba.  And yes, I'm going to continue to argue about that one until the cows come prancing back from the prom in six-inch-high, purple stilettos.  No offense to anyone wearing six-inch-high, purple stilettos.)

I believe that Diane Sylvan pretty much did something that is supposed to be physiologically impossible.  I read a little on her blog and she had to take her email address off because she was getting so much hate-mail.

(Apparently, The Life and Death of Bayou Billy hasn't inspired any of that yet, but it's still early in the day.)  (People did email me about the cliff-hanger ending on Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas, but that's a little more socially acceptable.  I'm hardly the first writer to do that.  Sheesh.)

Sylvan's got a third Shadow World book coming out in March, 2012.  Should be interesting to see what she does with that one.  Yes, I will buy it.  I do like the lady's writing.  But there's an important lesson for writers here.  I like my characters and although I don't want to see them hurt, if there isn't conflict there isn't a story.  Be careful, however.  There's conflict and then there's conflict.

And with that I can categorically confirm that Bubba is not a bisexual who will have an affair with a former lover three months after marrying Willodean Gray.  However, everything is still open.

Happy reading, ya'll!

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

A Scary Story As Told by CRESSY! Or How I Steal Material From My Daughter OR Halloween is Coming!

Recently, my seven year old daughter, Cressy, came to me and said, "Do you want to hear a scary story, Mommy?"  Of course, I had to say, "Yes.  I love scary stories.  I love Cressy's scary stories."
Parental Disclaimer:  Cressy totally did not watch the movie, Scream.
I'm not certain what motivated this particular story.  She had her guitar out and it was obvious that she was going to have musical accompaniment for the tale of terror.

So here it goes, as told by my daughter and illustrated by me.  Smart-assed comments interjected at will because, well, I can't not do it.  (Really, I can't.)

Cressy's Scary Story (almost verbatim):

Once there was a desert.  In the desert there were horses, rattlesnakes, and cactus's.  The horses whinnied.  The rattlesnakes rattled.  And the cactus's...hmm...the cactus' cactus's cactused.  Yeah, that's it.  (And yes, this is the true way that this was told to me.  The cactus's did, indeed, go cactusedity.)
Cressy's desert.  I wasn't sure how a cactus cactused
so I ad libbed.  I think it works.
And there were coyotes.  (Here's where the musical accompaniment came in.  I'm truly sorry I can't have audio here, so I'll do my best writing to encourage your imagination.)  *Strum!*  (*Strum!* is the sound of Cressy strumming in a malevolent movie-music sounding manner.  Come on, you can totally hear this in your mind.  For further clarification, it's the moment in time where the music starts playing in the movie where the nubile young cheerleader is about to get decapitated by the man in a Bill Clinton mask wielding a massive Maori sword.  It could be worse, you know, it could be a guy in a Hilary Clinton mask wielding a cigar.  And oh, I can't help it: *strum.*)  So anyway, there were...coyotes.  (Big, suspense building pause here.)  *Strum!*
Really not sure if I captured the essence of the penultimate twang
of this moment.  Whateveh.
These were bad coyotes.  They howled.  (There was a demonstration.)  They howled a lot.  And they liked to hunt...people.  (Wait for it.)  *Strum!*
Yes, the lips do, in fact, extend that far out.
But these were really bad coyotes.  (As opposed to just bad coyotes.)  They hunted people so they them.  (Here's the good moment.)  *Strum!*

(There was another pause here so the listener can truly absorb the horror and intensity of the terrifying tale of animals gone wrongity-wrong-wrong.)  And these coyotes would eat a lot of people.  *Strum!*

(It's my belief that I was supposed to gasp at that moment, so I did.  And Cressy obviously approved of my abject fear of man-eating coyotes because she nodded and then...)  *Strum!*

So in the middle of the night when it was really quiet, the coyotes would go hunting.  (Here it comes again.)  *Strum!*

And they would get you, Mommy.  (Uh-oh, this story seems to be taking a turn for the worse.)  *Strum!*

And they would eat you, Mommy.  (I'm not sure what brought about this need for my gruesomely bloody ending, but it could have something to do with the fact that I didn't let her stay up to 8 PM the other night or possibly that I won't let her have the Screaming Eagle tattoo on her derriere.  One or the other.)  *Strum!*

Then they eat your arms!  *Strum!*

Then they eat your legs!  *Strum!*

And you're still alive, Mommy!  *Strum!*  (Wow, have I really ticked off my 7 year old daughter or what?)

They eat your...tummy!  *Strum!*

And you're still alive, Mommy!  *Strum!*  (Remarkably and I'm still listening to the story.)

Then, Mommy...*Strum!*, *Strum!*, *Strum!*...they eat your head!

*Strum!* *Strum!* *Strum!* *Strum!* *Strum!* *Strum!*

The end.

(I think we're gearing up for Halloween.  Just a thought.)

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Return of Pain in the Ass Man OR On Folding the Laundry And Other Nonsense in Our Domicile

Look, a bird!  No, it's a plane!  No, it's a flying Pain in the Ass!  It's Pain in the Ass Man!

Let us discuss two issues that have befouled me of late.  One is the weekly laundry.  Two is the dishes.

I have the responsibility of the laundry.  It's kind of the way things work around here.  He does certain things.  I do certain things.  He takes out the garbage.  I do the cooking.  It works.  I also do dishes.  I don't do back rubs or windows.  Sometimes I'm incredibly sarcastic, but well, that's a given.

A recent occurrence: I was in the kitchen minding my own business when I suddenly perceived that HIM was opening the dish washer and inserting a freshly rinsed dish inside it.  I gasped loudly and startled HIM who thought that I was having a heart attack.
You see, I was unaware that HIM actually knew what the purpose of the dish washing machine was.  ("You mean, this is a door?"  "Where does it go?"  "You put dishes in this boxy thing?"  "Is it like Star Trek and they dematerialize?"  "Why are you getting upset?"  "Where are you going?")

I did have responses but they're usually snarky.  ("Dishes don't do themselves."  "You could rinse that out before you throw it in the sink."  "You could rinse that out after you eat it at lunch at work."  "You could hire a cheap Peruvian maid to do the #$%^@!! dishes for me.")

So I gasped loudly, i.e., theatrically, and scared HIM.  HIM thought something was wrong with me.  (Seriously, I'm pretty sure that HIM hasn't opened the dish washer in at least six months, so I was entitled to gasp.  And btw, sweetie, I dare you to amend that number when you're reading this blog.)  (SIX MONTHS.)  (All you Bubba fans can blame HIM because I'm not writing faster.  You see, I have to stop writing and do the dishes.  Haha.  I love blogging.)  (Okay, I had to add a note because when HIM read the above, he said, "Oh, that's not true, sometimes I open the dish washer to get a cup out."  This statement doesn't really help his position, does it?)

What is truly remarkable is that HIM is rather OCD about certain things.  That HIM is not OCD about dishes is a little weird.  I would think he would have some strange little quirk about all the dishes being at a right quadrilateral angle to the square root of a hippocampus.  (Whateveh.)  Or maybe all the cups have to be upside down because something would settle in them right side up.  Or only dishes can be located above the stove and only silverware in the drawers.  They have to be color coordinated at angles to the the northern hemispherical latitude.  But amazingly, shockingly, wonderingly HIM doesn't have any OCD issues about the dishes.

No, HIM saves the OCD-ediness for...da, dah, dahhhhhhhhh....the laundry.

Again, one of my details.  I do the laundry.  HIM changes the litter box.  (The fact that we no longer have cats seems to be moot because I'm still doing the laundry.)  Let me see if I can summarize the minutia of doing the laundry in less than twenty thousand words.  I'll try but being succinct is NOT one of my super-powers.  Fat Woman does not take short cuts in verbiage.  (You know, this is a frequent complaint with people in my novels.  Apparently I'm supposed to cut down on the use of the thesaurus.  Well, the truth is that I'm not using one.  Ya'll get a freaking dictionary.  Go listen to Dennis Miller and then come back and complain about me.  Sheesh.)

Okay, back to the laundry.

1.  T-shirts must be right side out.  No nasty tags on the outside.  They must be folded accordingly.  The shoulders are held by the seams and brought together in neat squares.  The arms are folded inward across the front.  The T-shirt is folded into thirds and results in a tidy little square that is placed in a tidy little pile inside his T-shirt drawer. 

2.  Pants are folded in a similar manner.  Seams together.  Folded in quarters this time.  Different drawer for accountability.

3.  Socks are returned to right side out.  Then they are paired appropriately and placed in a drawer so they can plan a little sock rebellion for later on in the day.  (Also only footie socks go on the left side of this drawer whilst underwear is stacked in the middle and black dress socks are congregated on the right side of the drawer.  Can't have those little sock bastards intermingling.  A gym sock might get together with a dress sock and we'll have the Apocalypse.)

4.  The manly underwear is turned right side out AND folded neatly.  (I don't see the point of folding underwear.  I mean, is HIM afraid he's going to be in a car accident and the paramedics are going to see wrinkles in his tidy-whities?)  Then the man underwear is placed in the middle of the socks.  (See above.  No co-mingling and the underwear is the referee.)

5.  Polo shirts are to be hung on hangers.  (Wire are acceptable but plastic is preferred.)  The collar must be folded as if being worn and before the warmth fades from the dryer.  (If one folds the collar after the warmth fades, the shirt is in danger of implosion or wrinkalage.  Or something equally hideous.

6.  Polo shirts must all be hung facing the same direction.  The tops of the hangers must all face the same direction.  (Hangers don't match?  Shirts don't line up?  Anarchy!!!!!)

7.  Business casual pants must be neatly folded in half and hung over the hangers with the little paper tubing on it.  If they are hung over a wire bottom, horrifying creases will stay in the pants when worn and people will stop and point and stare at HIM whilst at work.  Also they may throw him out of the building for having a wire caused crease with instructions to go home and change into something from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  (I'm thinking Dr. Frank-N-Furter in the fishnet stockings and the like.)

8.  And a partridge in a pear tree.

Okay, in conclusion, HIM is weird.  HIM is weird enough that I have to tease him.  Also when we were watching Animal Planet we saw an episode of Dogs 101.  They featured the Target dog or a Spuds McKenzie dog.  A bull terrier.  This is a funky looking dog with a funky nose.  Anyway, at the end of the segment they talk about the dogs' quirks and they said this breed is prone to OCD behavior.  Haha.  This is HIM's dog.  The dog would fit right into our house.  Doesn't it figure?

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

More on Writing OR Oh Crapulous, She's on a Bender OR How Long Can This Title Be, FGS?

And you thought I couldn't write any more about writing.  Hahaha.  I can rant a lot longer than that.  Just ask HIM, the man to whom I've been married for 27 years.  (28 next month and HIM will never forget it.)
My comments upon being awarded the highly coveted 'Ranty.'
Recently, a fan wrote me and said, "Dear C.L., (that's my author's name, in case you don't follow my blog, and btw, if you don't read my blog and you don't read my novels, then WTF?) I recently read your book, Bubba and the Dead Woman, and I loved it.  (All okay with me so far.  Don't mind at all.  In fact, it gives me a warm fuzzy.  No wait, that might be a caterpillar.  No, it does give me a warm fuzzy.)  In fact, I loved Bubba and the Dead Woman so much, I downloaded every other single one of your books.  (Starting to go downhill here and I will explain soonish.)  I was so thrilled to death with Bubba that I can hardly wait to read your other works with joy and happy thoughts abounding.  (Starting to exaggerate here, but that's me.)  Sincerely, a fan."

Excuse me for a moment whilst I bounce my head against a brick wall.

Do I not like hearing from fans?  I LOVE hearing from fans.  They say, "I liked this.  I loved that.  Maybe I didn't like this one.  Etc."  It's okay.  I don't expect folks to like all of my works.  After all, there's several distinct genres floating around in there and everything might not suit.  And I've got friends and family who've never read any of my novels, so if I don't feel put out by them, I won't be by folks who don't like this, that, or the other.  In fact, I was talking to my own sister yesterday who admitted that she hasn't read some of my books.  (MY ONLY SISTER!  Horrors abounding!)

Do I not like hearing that my fan has downloaded ALL of my novels?  Well, yes I like it, but I also wince because what I'm hearing is that they LOVE Bubba and I suspect, based on prior experience, that they may not be happy with other pieces of my work.  Specifically, I get a lot of feedback saying, and yes, I know I've gone here before, "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Bayou Billy," or "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Black Moon," or "While I loved Bubba, I am not happy with...Dial M for Mascara."

Over the years I've written a lot of different things.  Consequently, they all got pooped out into electronic publishing at the same time.  (What a wretched metaphor.)  I've even tried to get things out under pseudonyms.  The mysteries under C.L. Bevill.  The paranormal romances under another one.  The black comedy ones under another one.  But when e-pubbing came around, I basically said, "I wrote them all and I'm not ashamed of my work, so take it or leave it."

But when the person above writes back and says, "I loved Bubba but then I read Book X and it was complete and utter poopoo.  What were you thinking?" I say, "Didn't you read the description of the book?"

Did I sign a contract to make every book I ever wrote to read EXACTLY like Bubba and the Dead Woman?  No, I did not.  Don't get me wrong.  I like writing Bubba.  The characters are like best friends.  I'm having a good time writing Bubba and the Missing Woman right now, but the next one I work on will probably be very different.  That way, I'll enjoy the genre much more when I get back to a fourth Bubba.

Let me ask you readers.  Do I have an obligation to be more specific in the book descriptions?  Should I put in the description of The Life and Death of Bayou Billy: This book contains explicit language.  The protagonist of the book is an asshat.  It's black humor at its blackest.  Corpses are stolen!  Human sacrifice!  Dogs and cats living together!  Mass hysteria!  (Wait, that's Ghostbusters.  I think I need a Bill Murray fix.)

Rant, rant, de rant, ranty rant rant.  (Hummed to the tune of Bonanza.)  Rantety rant de rant rant.  Rant.  Rant.  Raaaaannnt.

Answers to unasked questions:
1.  Yes, I will continue to use potty language.  I love the First Amendment.
2.  Yes, the books will continue to be different, depending on what I'm feeling like writing.
3.  Yes, there will be future Bubba books and I will follow the same vein that I've used before.  Bubba is a good old boy who's smarter than the average Bubba and well, ya'll have to know that murders will continue to happen around him.  Also he's got a hankerin' to rescue a cute little gal with green eyes.
4.  Please, for the love of Bubba, read the descriptions of the other books before you download them.  Possibly you will enjoy all of my works.  Possibly you won't.
5.  If you're easily offended by explicit language and a free thinking woman, don't download Dial 'M' for Mascara.  Sex is included, even though it's supposed to be a parody of chicklits.  Also one recent reviewer of this novel seems to think that I have a predilection for describing genitalia in it, (Hey, the main character's boobs played an integral part of the plot) so be warned.
6.  If you're easily offended by coarse language, don't download The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  It will probably make you cringe.  If you can't get past the first chapter then well, there ya go.  After all, it starts out with an elderly madam reminiscing about Bayou Billy back in the day and the fact that he was such a handsome man and he possessed a long wee wee.  (He didn't have Long Dong Silver beat, but it was all legend anyway.)
7.  If you're easily offended by anything above, well, I suppose you shouldn't have read this blog.

Sunday, September 11, 2011


Never forget.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to fulfill it."
- George Santayana

Thursday, September 8, 2011

On Writing OR Jeez, Is She Going to Bitch About Another Review (Probably) OR On Writing Again!

So I'm a self-published author.

I feel obligated to announce it in a loud and blatant manner.

I'm a self-published author!

I also have one traditionally published novel.  Recently one of my writing buds asked a question in his blog about whether it was better to self-pub and continue to look for the traditional way too or to not self-pub because it would damage your cred.  Here's the link to it.  R. Mac Wheeler.  Mac is an interesting guy who writes in several genres and is trying his best to break into the field.  (I also like his writing and am looking forward to what he eventually decides to do.)  He's got some neat things to say about it.  (Also he critiqued several of my novels and although I was dinged, I do appreciate his directness.) (Not that I appreciated it the first time I read what he wrote about Bubba and the Dead Woman, but he was spot on.  Whether I like it or not.)

Incidentally, a revised version of Bubba and the Dead Woman should be soon appearing soon at all the epubbers.  Yea, corrections!  I bowed before all the people who said my overuse of commas sucked the mighty purple wang and went to town.

Back to self-pubbing versus e-pubbing.  Everyone, every writer wants to see their work in print.  It's a big deal.  It's a huge deal.  It feels good.  I still have like ten copies of Bayou Moon in hardback.  Occasionally someone will ask for a copy and I'm all like, "Hiss.  Go buy a .01 library reject on Abebooks."  These are all that are left, unless I start selling madly and St. Martin's decides to take advantage of an ambiguous contract and republishes Bayou Moon.  (By the by, when any of you budding Stephen Kings and John Grishams sign your publisher's contract, make certain that you're not signing your electronic rights away forever.  There should be some sort of time limit on e-pubbing even for the traditional publisher.  For some reason this makes them think that it's not really out of print.  Just a learning lesson for the uninitiated.  Since I signed my contract in 2001, I'm entitled to say, "Duh," because Kindle wasn't even close to a household word then.)

Here's what I did fifteen years ago.  I wrote my books.  I polished my books.  I made sure I had a synopsis and an outline.  I developed a list of literary agents who represented what I wrote.  I wrote a query letter.  I polished the query letter.  I ruminated about the query letter endlessly.  I sent out query letters.  Interestingly enough I found an agent fairly quick.  This agency who got me first wasn't the best agency around but they got me in the door.  St. Martin's picked up one of my mysteries.

Throughout the next year, I re-wrote the book for the editor.  I bent over backwards to make this woman, whom I've never met, happy.  She didn't like the original name of the book.  She didn't like the original ending of the book.  She wasn't happy about the heroine's interactions with the love interest.  This, you would understand, was my first to be published, novel.  I would have flown to New York from Texas and given this editor a hummer, if she had been a man and had thusly demanded it.  She did not and I am kidding.  I would have given her a foot massage, however.

Finally, the book was published.  Happy days.  People assumed I had it made.  I spent $10,000, which is significantly more than my advance, on publicity.  I went to book signings.  I went to book stores.  I went to mystery conventions.  I sent out press releases and notices to everyone I knew, was related to, or had ever spoken more than two words to.

The book didn't sell particularly well.  It was received all right.  It had some nice reviews from official reviewers.  Library Journal, for example, was nice to me.
The Headless Horseman and the Pumpkin wishes to interject
their thoughts on writing.  No, really.
So after much noncommunication between myself, my agent, and the editor, the editor passed on my next effort.  (She wanted another book exactly like Bayou Moon and well, only an idiot can see that the book, which is about a woman looking for her long missing mother, was amiable to a sequel that is exactly like the first one.  Who was she going to look for?  Her long missing granny?  Followed by a novel about her looking for her long missing cousin?)  I dumped my literary agent.  I wrote a couple more books and sought out a new one.

But I had been tainted.  Literary agents don't want to touch you if you previously published and it didn't sell well.  Eventually I found a really good one who was willing to take on one of my works, Shadow People.  But what I discovered about this literary agent was that she was only willing to send out about six of the manuscripts and if it didn't get picked up quickly then hasta la vista.
Okay, I know this has nothing to do with this blog, but I'm
kind of rushed for a humorous interlude.
I had become the dumped one.  Agencies with big brand names don't necessarily have author loyalty.

A few years went by and I kept plugging away.  I followed the above formula.  I wrote, I polished, I queried.  Pretty soon, the literary agents knew who I was before they read the manuscript and wouldn't even bother with me.  (That's sad.)  (Honest to God, one had a database about all the authors she had read manuscripts or partials and she quoted to me in email when I had sent her what and when.)

Then there was an interesting article in Newsweek in 2010 about self-pubbing.  It dawned on me that I didn't need to query anybody.  I didn't need to write a synopsis.  I didn't need to worry about anything except making myself happy writing.  I didn't sell well at first.  (Well, I'm still not selling well, exactly.)  But I am selling.  I ended up giving books away to draw readers in.  It was a wise decision.  Bubba and the Dead Woman still outpaces everything else.

In fact, Bubba compels readers to buy other works by myself.  One particular reader who was enthused about Bubba, however, was so appalled by The Life and Death of Bayou Billy that she/he announced that she/he/it was deleting everything of mine unread.  (Let's see.  The words 'horrendous' and 'smut' were both used in relationship to Bayou Billy.  So I gathered that the person was unhappy with the book.  But since she/he/they/whatever didn't actually 'buy' any books, I figured that they're just frustrated because they didn't read the description of the book where I WARNED folks that poopoo language was contained therein.)  (There.  There's my relatively brief reference to someone bitching about my work.)

Writers.  Writing isn't easy.  It isn't going to be a matter of just here-ya-go and people will snap it up.  I see people on smashwords all the time asking bizarre amounts of money for minuscule amounts of words.  (Some of which ARE smut and possibly could be horrendous.)  I'm not sure where they got the idea that if they published the work on smashwords then readers would descend in droves to buy their 5000 word short story about their penis for $12.99.  (Not making that one up, btw.)  I don't think self-pubbing has the poor reputation it used to have.  There are authors out there who are very good and are worth snapping up.  (I'm not saying I'm one, but I think I have potential.)  But the world I started out writing in doesn't exist anymore and the pickings are slim.

Here's the most important lesson.  There's no rule book anymore.  Literary agents can be great, if you're able to get the great ones.  (There's a few of them out there.)  But for the rest of us, we've got to wing it.

I say throw the rule book away and write your own damn rules.  Any would be writers out there, here is the message.  99% of writers work hard to do their thing.  No one will 'give' you anything.  So eff the rules and do what feels right.  (Hahaha.  I should have said write.  But it was too much of a groaner.)

Monday, September 5, 2011

My Alternative Vacation OR Running Away From Irene OR What To Do When Everyone is Bored Out of Their Skulls!

We were supposed to go to the beach.  We had a house rented in Kill Devil Hills, NC.  The day our rental began was the day that Irene roared into her landfall, which just happened to be pretty much where our house was located.  There was a brief conversation that consisted of HIM: "I think we should go."  Me: "I don't float well in hurricanes."  HIM: "We've never been in a hurricane before."  Me: "I can live with that."  HIM: "Just think how close the water will be."  Me: "The house we rented is on stilts for a reason."  HIM: "We'll bring snacks."  Me: "Hmm."

The upshot was that because we have a 7 year old child we were forced to be circumspect.  (If we hadn't had Cressy, we would have been out there, having a par-tay!  Right.)

So Irene passed by and I called the rental agency.  Apparently all the other people who had rented houses during that week were calling the same rental agency at the same time.  I ended up leaving six messages.  (For some asinine reason I thought that it was possible that we might be able to go to the house for a couple of days and enjoy what was left of our vacation.  After all, the county website said it was letting people back into the county and there was minimal damage in the area where we had a house.)  The rental agency NEVER called me back.  (Well, to be specific they never returned any of the six messages I left.)  (Yes, I'm aware I should cut them some slack but when you hear why they called me later in the week, you will roll your eyes.  As a matter of fact, you should just put Scotch tape on them in preparation of the eye rolling that will occur.)  (The Scotch tape will minimize damage to your central retinal artery and to your optic nerves.  I had to consult an opthamologist.)

I basically said, "Eff this.  We'll go to the...MOUNTAINS!"  There are no hurricanes there.  So we headed for the Shenandoah Valley and mountains galore.  (Hey, I was raised in Oregon and the official definition of a mountain is a very tall peak that still has snow on it, even in the middle of summer.  The mountains of Virginia do not qualify, but apparently I'm a minority opinion.)

So we went to Luray and hung out in the park with the Singing Tower.

Here's Cressy holding up the tower.  It's called
the Singing Tower because it has a buttload
of bells inside it and apparently rocks out when
played.  (We didn't plan ahead so we missed
out on the whole Quasimodo inspired head holding
We also saw some fungi in the park.
Yes, this is a big freaking mushroom.
There were others, too.  When I realized that
I needed some comparison I tried to get
Cressy to put her hand next to the thing and
she balked.  Apparently she isn't aware
that mushrooms are generally not
So I got HIM to do it.
This was right before the mushroom glommed onto
HIM's hand and devoured his face whilst
Cressy and I ran away screaming over our shoulders,
"You're on your own, sucker!"
Apparently enthused by mushrooms, we ate lunch with an old friend.  (The restaurant didn't have mushrooms on the menu but they did have corn fritters and this place knows how to make them right.  Uncle Buck's in Luray!  Check it out.)
Yum.  Corn fritters.  This will instantly add three pounds
to your waistline or butt (depending on your particular problem area)
simply by looking at this photograph.
We headed up to the Skyline Drive, where for a mere $15 you too can drive along the crest of the Shenandoah Mountains and hope that the cement and rock walls will repel your car if it happens to accidentally run off the side.  (The sheer excitement will make you wish that you were wearing those pee catching pads that Whoopi Goldberg hocks.  See my blog about that here.)
On one part where I was induced into forced outdoor activity (somehow
I had forgotten that this specific excursion was all my idea) and HIM
pointed out this.  (See photo above.)  HIM had to take a picture of it.
It's a geodetic survey marker.  I don't know what that is.  I think someone flipped
a coin, or perhaps the marker, and said, "Let's put it in concrete right here
to commemorate the fact that we worked on Skyline Drive.  Where's
the beer?"  (Somehow this is important.)
We were forced to stop to observe the fantastic view.  (I was protesting whiningly the whole time.  "Why is this happening to me?"  "Who cares about panoramic views?"  "Do I have to get out of the car again?")

Then we got to Skyline Lodge where more hilarity ensued.  Cressy was attracted instantly to the gift shop where a finger puppet chipmunk was obtained by fluttering her eyelashes longingly at her father.  (Do I need to mention that this particular puppet requires one to stick their finger up the chipmunk's aft area?  Well, if I didn't need to mention it, too bad, because I did it anyway.)
This is 'Chippy,' her new best friend for possibly
24 to 48 hours.  (Seriously, it's over three days later
and the poor little plush bastard is on the outs.)
Then we settled down to watch the sunset.  Cressy said, "Look a deer."  I thought she was kidding but here was a doe, who looked at us and fluttered her eyelashes longingly.  (Either she had taken a page out of Cressy's book or she had been fed by the tourists before.) 
This is from our room's balcony.  The deer hung out hopefully until
it became obvious that we weren't going to throw her any Cheesits.
(I swear the doe glared at us when she walked around the corner.)
The deer was so interesting that poor hapless Chippy was left inside to rot while Cressy cooed to the deer.  (She seriously thought that the deer would walk up to her and let Cressy pet her.)  (I let her watch 'Bambi' too much.  It's gonna haunt me.)
"Oh, woe is I," Chippy lamented.  "I have been left inside while
the deer and the antelope play.  Wait, that's the great plains or
the range or something.  I will fall on my side and look pitiful.
Possibly this will mean that no one will stick anything up
my aft area for awhile.  It's getting sore."
Then the sun set and we waited for the stars to come out.
The sun has setted.  (Yes, I used 'setted' on purpose.)
Cressy was dying for the first star to come out because she had just learned "Star Light, Star Bright."  But she was also very tired so she was saying grumpily, "When is the first star going to come out already?"  (I had told her that she had to go to bed after seeing the first star.  Normally bedtime isn't a welcome event, but she was pooped.)  Although she was ready to wait out that pesky first star she was going to let everyone know how unhappy she was with the current state of affairs.

We went out into the front of the room because it was darker in the east and saw that the doe had been joined by about twenty of her compatriots.  The grass was, apparently, greener on the other side of the hotel.  Or the deer knew that the humans would ooo-and-ahh over them.

Cressy saw her first star, said the mantra, and made a wish.  (The wish?  She wanted to fly.  Always interesting to listen to a 7 year old's perspective.)

The next day we went to Luray Caverns.  Our guide was Shaggy's twin brother.
If he had an animated Great Dane, we would
like, totally be solving the mystery
of the Creepy Caverns.  Jinkies!
Also we saw some neat cave stuff.
Not sure what this was called.  My mind
pretty much became a blur about this point.
And there was more cave stuff.
This looks like a volcano basically vomited its
guts out.
Eventually we were led out of the underworld.  We been gifted with a wealth of stalactite/stalagmite information that my puny brain can never hope to digest in one session.  The exit, interestingly enough, led into the gift shop.  (Pretty clever.)  I stood in the gift shop, panting from the three stories of stairs I just climbed, while the clerks waved cheap crap from China at me.  (I think they must be used to panting people and don't take it personally.)

Anyway, we got home sometime later.  Then the rental agency from North Carolina called.  (Here comes the eye rolling part I warned you about.)  They wanted to know if...we were okay.

I didn't answer right away because I was attempting to process the information that I had just been imparted.  Finally, I said to the woman on the phone, "Is there a reason why I shouldn't be?"  The woman, I never caught her name, said, "There was a hurricane."  (Oh, I love erudite people.)  "Yes," I said.  "We kind of noticed."  The woman said, "You weren't at the rental house?"  I had to take a breath then.  (I wanted to add, "And we have a television and we were watching the Weather Channel and we're not particularly stupid."  But I restrained myself.   Barely.)  Instead, I said in explanation, "The hurricane made landfall the day that our rental started."  (I thought it was a given.  Only a moron would have driven over and taken possession of a rental house that is 75 feet from the beach and in the FREAKING middle of a Cat 3 Hurricane.)  (But I'm thinking that this poor woman on the phone probably had a few examples of said morons.)  "So you didn't go?" the woman persisted.

That's the part where I screamed, "OWWW!" because my eyes rolled back so hard that they bounced off my brain.

"Of course, we didn't go to the #$%^@!! beach," I snarled.  "Okay, then," the woman said mundanely.  Then she added the killing statement, "Hopefully we'll see you next year."  (One must understand that this woman wasn't returning any of my six messages, but was, instead, covering the collective asses of the rental agency from potential lawsuits.)  ("Hello, potential return customer.  We're calling to see if you weathered the hurricane in one piece.  Isn't this a wonderific gesture of goodwill on our part?  Please don't seek out a lawyer."  "Go eff yourself."  "Nice talking to you.")

And how was your summer vacation?

Thursday, September 1, 2011

The Return of the Giant, Maneating, Killer, Obnoxious, Caffeine Deprived Pumpkin!

(Note to folks:  This blog was begun before the incident with the computer.  See ' How HIM Ruined My Entire Weekend...' from August 2011.  And also before 'EARTHQUAKE etc.'  And also before 'Random Stuff OR How I've Got Nothing OR Hurricane Schmurricane! We Don't Need No Stinking Hurricanes!'  So while it would be helpful to read those first, it's not completely necessary, BECAUSE I WILL ELUCIDATE!!!!!!!!)  (Look I made links to the blogs so you don't have to go look in the directory.  I have impressed myself with my computer eruditedness.  Also I made up another word.)

Well.  It occurs to me that I'm a little bored today.  I'm done writing on my other stuff.  (This means that my brain has been fried from thinking in Bubba vernacular.)  My MIL has departed for Texas where she has a date with a FEMA trailer and a truck to haul it from Mississippi to Texas.  (Unfortunately, I'm not permitted to blog about my MIL because I, sigh, promised not to do it.  But doesn't a story about a FEMA trailer and my MIL sound like it has unlimited potential?  I think it does.  In fact, just listening to my MIL talk to insurance companies on the phone to insure the FEMA trailer whilst on its travels has potential.  But my lips are sealed.  Too bad my fingers are a little loose.)

I think we need another story about pumpkins.  (See 'The Attack of the GIANT Monster Pumpkins OR What to Do When Your Garden Doesn't Produce (Get it?))  (Oh, the hell with it.  Just go back and read all the blogs.  I'll still be here.)

Warning:  To people with no sense of humor, you should just stop right here.  You won't get the jokes and you'll think my illustrated photos are silly and stupid.  It'll probably hurt you.  Stop reading now and go back to your Reader's Digest or The Dullest Blog in the World.  (I'm linking this because here it is.  I think it's funny.  He blogged about standing up and then was sitting down.  It couldn't get much duller than that.  He probably doesn't have anyone who writes and thinks his blog is offensive.)

Anyway, let me find a little inspiration.  Pumpkins.  I already did the obvious one.  Fairy Godmother.  Pumpkin carriage, etc.  So what else to do with pumpkins?  Pumpkin pie?  Pumpkin muffins?  Sleepy Hollow.  Yeah, Washington Irving lives forever.  (I have an urgent need to go watch Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci.  Tim Burton rocks.  I loved Christopher Walker as the Hessian.)
I don't see a pumpkin.  Does
anyone see a pumpkin?  Does
Tim Burton dislike pumpkins?
Do we need to boycott Tim Burton
on his lack of pumpkin use?
Nah.  The movie was made in 1999.
I think that ship has sailed.  But Tim
better watch it in the future.  (He looks almost
as weird as Johnny Depp in character so
how does he hang out with his hot
girlfriend/whatever, Helena Bonham Carter?)
So much for the story about the pumpkin.

See?  See?  I mean, really.  (But now Helena looks a
little funky, too.  Hey, it works for them.)  (And wouldn't
The Life and Death of Bayou Billy be a great novel
for Tim Burton to make into a movie?  Or the Coen Brothers.
Whichever.  Call me!)
Okay, focus, Fat Woman.  Pumpkins.

Once there was a pumpkin hanging out in a field of other pumpkins mind their own business.
Yes, I have used the pumpkin with the weird butt again.  I will
probably use this pumpkin that I grew in my garden in perpetuity
or until it's not funny anymore.  Probably the latter.
And here goes another tangent:
I think I might have missed messing with Mellow, my sister's cat,
for a few blogs.  So I felt compelled.
Back to the pumpkin.  One night a headless Hessian came looking for his head and found the pumpkin instead.
I wasn't sure about a headless Hessian's outfit so I winged it.
The pumpkin decided that things didn't look good.  So it tried to talk its way out of the situation.
Hey, weird butted pumpkin is quick on its...well...weird butt.
But it went on for awhile in this vein.
I don't think the real headless Hessian would have debated with
the weird butted pumpkin but it's my story.
Things were looking grim for the pumpkin.
Hmm.  Am I dragging on this topic too long?  Maybe.
So the pumpkin quickly watched several Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee movies and kicked the Headless Horseman into oblivion.
See, everything you need to learn can be learned from school and from
movies.  (My mother was definitely wrong about TV rotting my
brain.  What was I saying?)

In conclusion, the pumpkin settled down into its patch and then later on became the President of the Local League of Kick-Pumpkin-Throwers'-Butts.  (And you thought that Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman were the only perspectives of that story.)

The End.

But not the end of this blog.

Now Available: Now Available! Blackteeth A Novel By C.L. Bevill If you’re close enough to see the color of ...