Post Christmas Blues OR How the Cold of Doom Lingers On

So today I said to HIM, the man to whom I'm married, "When are we taking the Christmas decorations down?"  HIM responded with what can best be described as the grunt of extreme dismay.  "Urgglemapnerd," HIM said and fled for the sanctity of the bathroom.  Not that I blame HIM.  Who wants to take down all the pretty Christmas stuff?  It becomes non-Christmasy and yucky.  I mean the lights were pretty.  When they're gone, they're not pretty.  It's just blah.  Which means I want to leave the Christmas tree up year round.  (I knew someone who did this.  They decorated it seasonally.  But I am not Martha Stewart.  I don't think this is going to happen in this household no matter how pretty it is.  Also I will never learn how to fold the stupid fitted sheet, no matter how many times that DIY twat shows me how.)

And Martha Stewart appears to be the winning of
the who-will-fat-woman-eff-with-today
contest.
Congrats, Martha.

But honestly I don't feel like doing anything because the head cold that started around the middle of the month turned into sinusitis with a prelude to pneumonia.  Haha.  A little special Christmas gift for everyone.  I've taken like five naps today because I've been so sick.  So sick I don't want to write and I don't want to blog, either, but i don't want the blog to go unblogged for too long.  (People might talk.)  (This is how urban legends start.  "Did you hear that Fat Woman was decapitated by Michelle Obama when the fiscal cliff happened?  The Secret Service said she was really shopping at Target and photo-shopped it.")  (Am I getting in trouble for that?)

I pity da fool who didn't watch the A-Team back in the 80s.

Where am I going with this?  God alone knows.

Cressy believes that Santa is rocking.  The new Wii U is a blast.  She even bought herself a game with her allowance so she's totally into it.  HIM wants to race her in Mario Carts and Cressy just wants to play bumper cars with HIM so she can knock him off the racetrack.  Right now she's been on the Wii for about three hours straight.  I think her little butterbean butt is going to merge with the couch.  Outside is snow-sprinkles and HIM is teaching a group of high school kids how to make a rocket.  (Megaroy the moron cat fled for the security of the bed when the doorbell rang.)  I'm just hanging out coughing and hacking and generally trying to keep out of the way.

Hah, blumbug.

I'm making progress on the latest Cat Clan novella.  In fact, I should polish it off just as soon as I feel like writing the last two chapters.

What does this have to do with the blog?
Nothing, but I'm on a roll
and I feel like Michelle
needed to be kidded a little.
Plus I just took a big hit
of Nyquil.

Can you believe people are writing me emails that complain about the lack of progress in the romance department between Bubba and Willodean?  ("Move it along.  Let Bubba live a regular life.  I'm very disappointed.")  Does any of you remember when Sam finally got with Diane on Cheers and then no one wanted to watch the show any more?  Ditto with Moonlighting?  I mean once Maddie and David hooked up it was totally the end of business.  Now I'm trying to think of a comparable book reference and all that pops into my head is Archie and Betty.  (Wasn't Archie diddling with Veronica, too?  Even though she was a total bitch?  Doesn't that make Archie a playah?  Why, yes it does.)

Okay.  I'll stop rambling.  I can't think of anything else funny at the moment, except the hairball the cat just threw up resembles the country of Bolivia.  It might be a sign.

And apparently I can't let anything go.

Happy new year everyone.  May your sense of humor always be warped.

Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note

Okay Nook people who luv Bubba,

Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note is up on B&N.

Get it here on B&N.

P.S. I suppose I should amend the blog just below this but I will emphasize that B&N did not solve the problem for me, I ended up doing it myself via suggestion from someone on the community board.  So I'm not amending shizz.

The Cold Virus of Doom OR I Have Been Sick

Last weekend the 'laws visited and I got a cold.  Coincidence?  I think not.  When Bevills get together, things happen.  For example, on Friday when they arrived, there was a mass shooting.  I'm not saying it was our fault, but hey, maybe it's a sign that Bevills shouldn't get together.  The last time, I think Princess Di died.  Think there was something on September 10th, too.  There ya go.  Definitive proof.

I was looking for a picture of a cold virus and got
distracted.
This is not a cold virus, but it should be.  Just
think how fun cold viruses would be if they
looked like this.  ("I got sinus problems and my nose
feels like it's going to implode, but hey, I got cheeze doodles.")

I hate friggin' colds.  This one was a nasty one.  (It was a solid 8 on my cold Richter scale.)  On Friday, I muttered the immortal words that spelled my doom.  I said to someone, "I'm lucky because I haven't had a cold for a long time."  I should have just shot myself in the foot after saying that, because I was asking for it.  I was slapping Karma in her silly face and saying, "I double-dawg dare ya, bee-yotch!"  Whereupon Karma laughed her ass off.

This is also not a cold virus, but where we
promised we would take Cressy.
(Only when she gets better.)
Just checking to see if you're really paying attention.

So yesterday Cressy, our eight-year-old daughter says, "My throat hurts."  Which means that Karma is still laughing, that fickle bitch.  Fortunately for me, I missed the 3 a.m. I-am-about-to-vomit-on-your-bed wake-up call.  HIM, the man to whom I'm married, had to man-up and take the call.  In fact, HIM has been manning up all week.  He's been doing laundry, dishes, and various and sundry stuff while I walked around like the fat zombie from The Walking Dead.  (They don't have many of them in the show, but they do have them.  Maybe all the fat people got eaten first.  Gross.  I icked myself out.  Another reason to lose weight.)  (I had a sudden mental image of a zombie trying to pick between a live skinny human and a live fat human.  You do the math.  It isn't pretty.)  (Wait, the point of the paragraph was to give HIM kudos for taking care of business but I got distracted...again.)

This was the best representation of Karma
that I could find.  Dilbert and Scott Adams rules.

Today, we all lay around, basically trying to get Cressy to sip more Gatorade.  I finally had to threaten her with "If you don't drink enough liquid, you will get dehydrated and you will have to go to the doctor, and the doctor will have to put an IV in you.  An IV involves getting a needle stuck in your hand."  (God, I'm evil, but she drank more liquid after that.)

In the meantime, B&fuckingNoble (sorry for the language but I'm incredibly pissed at them now) has been sitting in an imaginary world where they don't have to deal with indie authors who publish with them through pubit! or smashwords.  Apparently this is the world where they don't answer emails, they don't answer their phones, and they don't have voice mail.  Apparently they also don't train their customer service staff to deal with the authors that they encourage so virulently to publish with them.  I sold the majority of my work through B&fuckingNoble this year.  Probably over 60,000 sales and I'm so angry I want to jerk all my books off, but I don't want to lose my customer base there.  So I've concluded that B&fuckingNoble hates my guts and doesn't want to do business with me.  It probably doesn't help that I posted their email on my blog and encouraged fans to feel free and email them.  I don't know how many of you emailed publit@bn.com (whoops, did I do that?) but thank you for the support.  (Thank you!  No, THANK YOU!  You really, really like me.)  Maybe it will make a difference.  I'm not sure what to do next in relation to this perplexing situation.  I've written emails to the CEO and everyone else I can think of, and I've got nothing in response.  The B&fuckingNoble community board has dozens of complaints along a similar line and they're still doing nothing.  Clearly they're not interested in supporting the indie authors that they try so hard to bring in.  Bet they like the paycheck but hey, why bother supporting the author?

Okay, enough ranting.  No wait, one more picture.

Not an actual B&fuckingNoble coupon.

In other news, Moron Cat, AKA Megaroy AKA my daughter's cat, has cornered the mouse market in our house.  He goes into the garage and waits by the door until some dumb bastard of a mouse comes looking for something.  Then Moron Cat pounces, which means some of his synapses and dendrites are still operational.  Then he carries the mouse, still alive, into the house, where the humans are forced to hunt it down.  I'm still singing "The mice come out at night" to the tune of "The freaks come out at night."  (Sorry to those of you who know the song and who are now singing in their heads.  For all others, here's a link so you can be also so-inflicted:

There.  Try getting that out of your head.)

Lastly, happy holidays to all and to all a good night.  (Or whatever time it is where you're at.)

P.S.
This is what I think of December 21st, 2012:

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have been good all year long.  I haven't gone to jail once.  (NOT ONCE!)  In fact, the police only came to my house one time and it was because of the neighbors.  (I didn't even call them.  The police, I mean.)  I did have bad thoughts about the neighbors but it was completely justified.  (They are bad.  They don't pick up their cigs or their dog poop).  I know I complained about my new neighbors, but would it have hurt them to come over and say they didn't appreciate the wonderful new tree house in the side yard instead of calling the city's zoning officer?  (His name is Mark and he's very nice but he doesn't seem to really know what the zoning laws are.  There was disagreement of whether or not a structure on the side of the house could have a roof or not, and if it had a platform of over six feet, whether it needed a building permit.  The whole thing gave me a headache, so we moved the tree house to the back of the yard where the new neighbors have to peer through the bushes to see it.  Maybe they need a new hedge cutter, Santa?)  I have complained about my daughter's moron cat's bad, poopy smell, but mostly I was joking at his expense.  (I don't think he understands that I'm making fun of him, but I do give him extra crunchy bites to make up for it.)  HIM has borne some of the brunt of my snarkiness, but only in a funny fashion and with his permission.  (If he's going to act like Pain In The Ass Man, then I'm going to blog about it.  Is that being naughty?)  I did brake for all those chipmunks, squirrels, and the one stupid cat licking his butt in the middle of the street.  (Butt cleanliness was obviously of great importance to that particular feline.)  I helped load an old lady's groceries into a car last month and she offered me a dollar.  (I didn't take the dollar.)  I was on my best behavior with my inlaws during a recent visit, and I had a head cold at the time.  (This was a trial and there are reasons why I could have been REALLY, REALLY bad.  We'll leave it at the ambiguous "reasons" because I'm not allowed to blog about them.)  (By the way, do the elves ever make something for head colds, because that would be really bitching.)  I fully prescribed to the one good deed a day theorem.  (One little thing a day, no matter how small.)  I'm really sorry about the mouse that Megaroy brought into the house, but he/she/it would not let us catch he/she/it and I don't want hantavirus.  I totally would have put the mouse outside if we could have caught it.

So with the summery, here's what I want.

I would like B&N to stop dicking around and publish Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note.  I know you've read the Bubba books, Santa, and probably Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas specifically.  Everyone knows Santa has a kicking sense of humor and likes Texans in particular.  Plus you know, Santa, how much of proceeds go to charity.  You know.

Just wanted to see if anyone was paying attention.

So I sent 7 emails to the people at Pubit!, which is a B&N publisher for indie authors.  They sent me two roboresponses and nothing changed.  One email had a title of "Naked BOOBIES Below", just to see if it would get their attention.  I guess it was the asexual one's turn to read the email, or maybe they thought I was being lewd and deleted it.  (I had to try something different.  Obviously they weren't answering their email.  I'm not even sure if they're looking at it.  If it was paper letters, it would be used as TP or bird cage liners.)  By the way, Santa, Pubit!'s email is pubit@bn.com.  Feel Free to try it yourself.  Maybe if they got an email from Santa, they would be a little more amenable.  May I suggest something like: Dear Pubit!, You're going to get coal in your stocking if you don't publish Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note.  Sincerely, Santa Claus.  P.S.  J. L. K., I know about that secret hoard of magazines under your bed.  Your mother knows, too.

This is really wrong, but I still laughed.

Yesterday I called the customer service line for B&N.  (That's 1-800-843-2665).  They had me on hold for 55 minutes before I gave up.  Today I called the same number and was on hold for twenty minutes and then I got to talk to a nice young lady from India.  Her name was Keetah or Kita or something like that.  She listened to me for a while and then asked if I was happy with my Nook.  When I re-explained my problem, she transferred me to another nice young lady from another country.  I did not catch her name but she kept calling me Kim (Five times).  She put me on hold and then came back about ten minutes later.  (This is the part of me being good, because I did not explode on the phone the way I normally would have.)  She transferred me to the digital services department where I talked to May.  (I'm not sure where she was located.)  May couldn't quite seem to grasp that I did not have a problem with a Nook book that I had purchased.  Eventually, she put me on hold.  Then she came back and directed me to the B&N Distribution Center at 1-732-656-7285.  The recording there seems to think that I should have some sort of purchase order or such.  I dialed 0 because I just wanted to talk to someone live, even if they were on another continent.  Well, I think you know what happened, Santa.  They didn't answer.  And furthermore, there wasn't a way to leave a message.  (Coal!  Coal!  Coal!)

So today, I shall try another email to Pubit!  But I thought I would drop a line to you, Santa, so that you could put in a good word for me.  You know, like, the book doesn't sell to die hard Nook fans if the book isn't available because the book is languishing in the "processing" mode and no one seems to answer the emails there.  What do you think, Santa?  I'm thinking B&N is getting more coal in their stockings again this year.  May I suggest smelly, nasty coal?  Wait, is that suggestion being naughty?

Anyway, good will toward all men people, fiscal cliff being narrowly avoided, no more mass shootings, and Megaroy's poop miraculously not smelling anymore, would all be good additions to my want list.  Thank you in advance.

You the man, Santa, and feel free to eat as many Moon Pies as you want when you visit.  (There's a whole box in the pantry.)

Sincerely,

Fat Woman

P.S.  I will be spiking the egg nog, so don't drink too much.  And for God's sake, tell Rudolph that his nose is a little too bright at night.  NASA was very upset last year, here.

I Have Been Inspired OR Here She Goes Again

Recently I went to the store to purchase cat food for my daughter's moron cat.  (Some people have stated that I am being mean to the cat.  Don't worry about it.  I don't think he can read.  And I'm pretty sure that no one will read the blog to him.)  Whilst I was processing whether or not I should purchase Fancy Feast or Cat YumYums (Can you believe they don't have sardine flavored cat food?) I looked over at the dog food section and saw this.

Yes, this is Old Yeller dog food made by Disney.  (Who knew Disney made dog food?  Not me.)  It says it on top of Old Yeller.  Now I will warn people who may have not seen the movie, Old Yeller, and who have a great need to see it.  This is a spoiler alert.  I will tell those of you who continue to read this blog what happens in the movie.

SPOILER!  SPOILER!  SPOILER!

Just so you were warned and you still have the urge to rush out and get a Disney fix.

Okay, what is wrong with this dog food?  A.) It is yellow.  B) It is dog food made by Disney.  C) It is dog food named after a movie in which the lead character, a dog named Old Yeller, who might have been old and yeller, I don't remember because it's been so long since I've seen the movie, who contracts rabies and the kid owner of the beloved Old Yeller AKA Old Foamy, Bitey Mouth has to shoot the dog.  (Yes, Virginia, Disney killed off a protagonist, but it was a long time ago in a film made in the fifties with Davy Crockett.)

Hmm.  Yes, that's exactly the kind of image that inspires me to buy dog food.  (This is sarcasm.  Smell it.  It has that finely tuned, snarkish aroma.)

Therefore, inspired by this foot-forward or foot-in-mouth type of logic for advertising, I, with a little help from HIM, came up with some other lesser known name brand ploys that you might not have heard of and probably will never hear of again.

I'm warning you ahead of time, some of these may be...shall we say, inappropriate.  (That would be the point.)

And I'm starting with the big boom.

Of course, as I've said, HIM had to get into it.

You know, I couldn't find a photo of this whackjob smiling.

And because I'm so wrongity wrong, I went on.

Sorry about the serial killer theme, but it kind of lent itself to it.
Please don't sue me, VW.  It's a parody!

Oh goodness, I'm so not finished.

Also suggested by HIM, who luvs this movie.
I refuse to watch it again because, well,
everyone frickin' dies except stupid Private Ryan.

Of course, I'm compelled to throw in something from my favorite movie of all time.  (I don't know how the movie studios missed out on this advertising extravaganza!)

You know, this movie is really a bromance.
Richard Drefus and Roy Schieder should have run off together
in the end.  (They kind of did.)

There was certainly a few items to choose from in the following movie.

I love the smell of sarcasm in the morning.

Finally, a last suggestion from HIM, who will probably go to hell for it.  (Or he should, right after me.)

On Being a Parent OR I Owe My Parents an Apology

Recently, we were watching Life After People.  If you haven't caught this show, well, hey, it's all in the title.  What happens to all of our stuff if we weren't around to take care of it, or to mess it up, depending on your perspective?  (No explanation.  People gone.  Dogs, cats, and kangaroos take over the world.  The Statue of Liberty falls into the water.  Kudzu takes over the south.)  (This is kind of what happens after a Presidential election.  Suh-lam.)

I've been interested in this show because one of my written series is about an apocalyptic world where pretty much everyone vanishes and only a few people are left, which I wrote years before Life After People, but the idea of what happens is certainly apropos for the novel.  (Brings to mind, Wall-E, which takes place about what, eight hundred years after everyone beat feet because the world was yucky-poo.  If one listens to the series Life After People, all those buildings and bridges that Wall-E the cleaner-upper robot goes around in the movie literally wouldn't be there, but it doesn't mean it's not a good movie.)  (And what does that have to do with being a parent?  Well, there was a period in my life where the daughterly one wanted to watch Wall-E.  Day after day, after day, after day.  I think we watched Wall-E for about two months straight, which reminds me of a mommy friend who had a daughter who wanted to watch The Sound of Music day after day after day.  The kid could sing all the songs verbatim.  I think I prefer Wall-E.  Sorry, Julie.)

Okay back to Life After Humans.  (How, you might ask, does this lead up to being a parent?  I will explain.  Eventually.)

Cressy, our daughter, watches the show, gets the gist of it, and says to daddy during the commercial, "I know what I would do if you and mommy were gone."  (She had a plan, just in case we disappeared.  It's nice to know she's prepared.)  "I will get mommy's wallet (the place where all money emanates apparently) and go to Target and buy food.  Then I would eat until I was full and then I would poop.  Then I would eat until I was full.  Then I would poop."  (Not sure how the pooping relates to the apocalyptic ending of the world, but we were going with the eight-year-old's logic.)  (A thought occurred to me.  Apocalyptic ending = poopoo.  Heavy stuff.)

So I asked, "How would you get to Target?" (Target is about three miles away.  Horrors.)  "Would you ride your bike?"

"I would walk."  (Haha.  Wait until she tries to carry those groceries home for three miles.)  (Furthermore, not sure if it occurred to her that if mommy and daddy were gone, then maybe all the other mommies and daddies would be gone, too.  I swear she hasn't read Lord of the Flies.)

Daddy got into it.  "What about Megaroy?  Who would take care of him?"  (Megaroy, for you blog neophytes, is my daughter's moron cat.  He is, really, a moron.)

Cressy had to think about it.  I believe she was attempting to rationalize bringing us back from the dead to attend to litter box cleanliness.  "I would."

"You would scoop his poop and brush his fur and play with him?" I asked.  (I swear it wasn't condescendingly.)

"I would clean his poop, but I wouldn't throw up like you, Mommy."  (Trust her not to forget the one time his poop made me ralph.  Hey, if you had picked up that poop, smelly, squishy, and still warm, you would have gagged, too.)

We would have gone along this vein for awhile, except that I was thinking about the time I ran away.

This event occurred when I was eight-years-old.  (Which pretty much strikes me in the heart dead, right now.)  (Somewhere my mother is saying, "Haha!")  I had gotten a dollar bill for my birthday.  (One whole dollar.  I thought I was rich.  I thought I could buy anything.  Really.  Anything.)  I don't remember why I decided to run away.  I think the reasoning was something along the lines of "They won't let me do what I want here," and "I've got a dollar bill and I don't need them anymore."  (This makes me sound like a truly rotten kid.  I might have been.)

So I loaded up the dollar bill and some clothes into a laundry basket and snuck out about five a.m. one morning.  I walked to the school and hid the basket in the baseball dugout.  Then I went to school.  I figured I could live in the dugout, with my dollar bill, and go to school, which I liked at the time.

All you parents can probably relate to the part I wasn't thinking about.  I mean, can you imagine what my parents thought when they woke up, not only didn't they find me in my bed, but also not in the house?  This was the seventies, and while child abduction wasn't in the forefront of the daily news, it was around.  Now, all I can think about is what they must have gone through in the hour or two before the school called them to tell them I was there.

Mom came and got me.  She stood in the cafeteria, where they had been feeding me breakfast, and shrieked at me for several minutes.  (My reaction was to play dumb.  The less that was said the better.)  Ultimately the family came to the conclusion that I must have been sleep-walking.  (I should have left a note.  My plan wasn't well thought out.)  When I went back to get my stuff out of the dugout, someone had gone through it and stolen the dollar.  (Can anyone smell the irony?)

Anyway, sorry Mom and Dad.

Of course, this was followed by me saying to Cressy, "You wouldn't run away from home, would you, sweetie?"

"No, mom."

"Promise?"

"Yes, Mommy, I promise."

All is well again.

Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note

Okay Bubba fans in need of a Bubba fix.  It's here!

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to Pegramville...

Oh no!  Bubba's got problems...again!  For months, Pegramville and Pegram County have been relatively peaceful.  But then there's the "attack" of the Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival, organized by none other than Miz Demetrice herself.  Who knew people would make fun of the murders that happened in their own town?  To add a spoonful of hot pepper to the mix, the local judge has just announced his run for the gubernatorial seat of Texas, and The Purple Singapore Sling has a new persona, causing all kinds of confusion, chaos, and commotion.

During the midst of the festival madness, Bubba's truck has broken down, and he's found a cache of original car parts.  One of the boxes contains a lost soul's plea that may be as old as the antique truck, "If someone finds this note, then I have been murdered.  My name is M—.”

And you thought small towns were boring...

Get it at Amazon.

Get it at Smashwords.

Get it at B&N.  (B&N is lagging behind due to technical difficulties. I will announce it when it finally comes up.  Many apologies about this to all my Nook fans.)

Insomnia and Other Random Subjects OR Warning, There May Be Randomitivity OR Made-Up Words

Sometimes I have bouts of insomnia.  This usually make me grumpy and drink more tea.  I have illustrated a definitive picture.  (I have used this picture before in connection with HIM, the man to whom I'm married, because HIM seems to have a problem understanding why a lack of sleep would impact EVERYTHING IN THE ENTIRE FREE FRICKIN' WORLD.)

Two nights ago, the insomnia finally peaked.  I was sleeping peacefully (for a change) and I was woken up.  Yes, woken up.  WOKEN UP!  By forces who should have known better.  I will tell the terrifying and awful and melodramatic story.  Because I have to and I'm compelled.  Also I need to blog about something.

I was sleeping.  On the bed.  (I don't usually sleep anywhere else but there is a recliner in the living room that isn't bad.)  I do not know how but my butt was hanging off the side of the bed.  (It's a psychological mystery.  Maybe a physiological mystery.)  It is, after all, a king-sized bed and we have plenty of room.  (However, there are times when a fifteen pound cat and an eight-year-old girl can hog the holy living hell out of that king-sized bed.  Another metaphysical mystery.  Kind of like those moving rocks in Death Valley.  Exactly the same thing.)  (I told you randomness was involved.  If you didn't believe me, then I'm sorry for you.  Was that a pink duck playing pinochle with Fidel Castro?  No, just my eyes.  I totally need to see the eye doctor.)

Ass hanging off the bed.  There ya go.  Back on track.

I know I misspelled a word.  Maybe more.  Oh, the hell with it.

Anyhoo, there I was, sleeping with my tuckus hanging off the bed, when suddenly I felt something patting my butt.  Since I was happily sleeping, (mostly at that specific time) it did not occur to me that it was a paranormal event kind of situation.  (I'm thinking paranormal entities would go after the kid first in my house, you know, if it was like a movie.  Or maybe after HIM.  Fat Women would totally be at the end of the list.) (I have recycled the reason why below.)

So something was patting my ass and I thought, half-asleep, "Baby?"  But Baby (AKA HIM AKA Snookums AKA Some other stuff I don't dare blog about) snored from all the way across the king-sized bed, way farther over than his hand would reach.  And something else went, pat, pat, pat from the floor side of the bed, where my gluteous maximus was cantilevering off the bed.

Since the kid had strep throat this weekend, I thought, "Cressy?"  But I looked and there was no almost-about-to-puke-kid standing there, letting me know that she had bypassed one bucket and two bathrooms to inform me of her impending need to vomit.  (This really does happen.  Mommies everywhere know about this.)

Instead there was another pat-pat-pat and a "Mrrrw?"  And being on the way to all-the-way-awake, I looked and saw this:

Wouldn't you have screamed like a little girl
if you'd seen this looming over the side
of your bed at 4 a.m.?  Yes, yes, you
would have.

As soon as I moved, Megaroy the Moron Cat plunged for the hallway, happy that he had woken me up and that I would likely go downstairs and feed his portliness.  The moron cat had learned a new trick.  Later I plan to show him a trick with a butcher's knife or possibly the locking-his-dumb-ass-in-a-room-by-himself trick.  Either one.

More on Writing OR I Don't Feel Like Writing Right Now OR It Looks Like Rain

Here I sit broken-hearted, started out with an old limerick and only...

Anyway, post Thanksgiving stomach mystery ailment has accosted me in a vile and nasty manner that I will not describe because this isn't that kind of blog.  (Well, it is, but that's a line I won't cross.)

The high and low of it, (well, not really the lowest) is that I don't feel like writing today.  Or eating, which generally is enough to alarm HIM into hysteria.  ("You're not hungry!  OMG!  I'll CALL AN AMBULANCE NOW!  DON'T GO INTO THE LIGHT!") I don't think I need to go to the doctor based on the following criteria: I'm not bleeding copiously from any part of my body, I'm not vomiting like Linda Blair, and I'm not running a high temp.  (It's just a little, itty-bitty baby temp.)

You wouldn't believe how many
nudie shots Linda Blair did.  I had
no idea until I searched for
photos of her on Bing.
I mean, it looks like she did a spread
every month for a a couple of
years.  Well, you do what you
have to to pay the mortgage, right?

However, not being hungry for me is like ringing a huge church bell.  Also, try to picture Robby Robot in your head yelling, "Danger, Will Robinson!" except he's saying, "Danger, Fat Woman!  Have a bag of potato chips!"  (Haha.  Get that out of your head now.)

So I'm not really feeling like writing but I do feel like sitting at the computer and bitching about it.

And the mouse from last week's blog makes a guest appearance,
since he/she/it hasn't been caught.

I had to stop because my daughter's moron cat saw the UPS truck drive up outside and started growling at it.  (I'm not sure what Moron Cat thinks will happen.  The UPS truck will hear his growling and drive away quickly?  Or will it be properly subjugated?  I do not know.  I cannot read Moron Cat's mind and I'm not sure if I want to.)  Anyway, the UPS truck left a package, which is a Xmas present for my daughter and I had to go hide it.  (Wow, I'm going off track here.)  Our daughter, who is 8, still thinks Santa is da bomb.  She wrote a letter to him last weekend.  (All by herself.)  She wants an EZ bake oven, Orbeez, a stuffed cat with three kittens, and something else I forgot already.  I was already on top of the EZ bake oven and the Orbeez (these are mysteriously growing beads in a funky package that makes a huge freakin' mess.  I'm so looking forward to the thrill of this.)  But I didn't know about the stuffed cat with three kittens.  Fortunately there was AMAZON to the rescue.  I luv Amazon except that they don't sell as many of my books as Barnes & Noble, which is why I luv Barnes & Noble.  Anyway, quick search for stuffed cat with three kittens and I found a winner.  (Santa is going to be da man this year.  That super saint will be pulling out the loot on Christmas Eve for sure.)  We've told Cressy that she needs to leave Santa Moon Pies and Beer.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, UPS truck, cat growling, package for kid, hiding the package, Moon Pies and beer, which I secretly loathe and of which thinking about it now makes me want to barf, and finally back to blogging about being sick.  (It's a circuitous route but I managed to pull it off.)

I think I have an ulcer.  A writer's ulcer.  I keep having dreams about characters and the funky things they're doing.  For example, I'm writing a paranormal suspense novella for my Cat Clan fans, while I'm waiting for the proofreader/editor (She RULES!) to finish with Bubba and the MMN, and I decided that I should have a were Yeti in the novella.  It's my book.  I get to do what I want with it.  (This is the reason they never find Yeti bodies.  Good, huh?)  Jeez, someone needs to get me a ruler to keep me straight because I go off on a side note all the time.

Writer's ulcer.  Also a worried-about-the-economy ulcer.  I had a Facebook person tell me that their relative lost their job at Hostess after I posted the Twinkie funeral picture.  (This made me wish I hadn't posted the picture because it seems rather thoughtless but in today's economy I don't know too many people who haven't lost their jobs or whose jobs aren't at risk.)  (You HAVE to laugh about this stuff or you will cry instead.  I'm telling you it's much better to laugh.)  I try not to get too politic in the blogs but is our economy getting better or is everyone just having wishful thinking?

Okay enough of that.  It's making my stomach hurt.  Time to go find the Pepto-Bismol and hope for the best.  Plus the Moron Cat is now growling at HIM as HIM walks down the driveway.

The Attack of the Moron Cat OR Moron Cat Finds a Special Friend

Recently I was sitting at my desk, writing.  (I might have really been juggling six torches and a chainsaw while sipping a martini.)  (No, I wasn't, but I might have been.)  Suddenly, Moron Cat, otherwise known as Megaroy, otherwise known as my daughter's cat, comes in from the garage.  Why was he in the garage, you might ask?  Well, it's someplace for him to explore and leave me alone to write.  Moron Cat thinks that I am his human despite my consistent affirmations that I think that he is a) a moron, b) stinky, and c) so not my cat.  He, despite his lack of intelligence, has learned that putting his claws into my ass while writing will garner him attention.  Granted chasing after him with a butcher's knife isn't always the attention he wants but it's attention.  (This is called negative reinforcement for all you Skinnerians.)  So I let him in the garage where he can chase Daddy Long Legs and sniff boxes and do things that do not include inserting his claws into my buttocks through the back of the mesh chair I sit in to create literary masterpieces.

Sounds good, right?

Well, he exploded into the room and I looked over to see him go into the kitchen and put something down by his food bowl.  I thought, "My goodness, he found a cockroach."  Then I reconsidered when the thing started to run toward me.  It was somewhat larger than the average cockroach.  (Although I have seen some pretty large cockroaches.)  "My goodness," I thought, "FUCKING MOUSE!"

Megaroy had found a special friend in the garage and he brought it in to share.  Isn't that nice?
I started making noises (high pitched girly noises, I'm not afraid to admit) and pulled my feet up.  The cat tried to recapture his mousely booty.  HIM and the kid ran in to see why I was screeching.  Just another fun day in the Bevill household, let me tell you.

Upon reflection, it occurs to me that Megaroy was doing one of two things with his new mouse buddy.  1) Moron Cat was trying to show the mouse his food bowl.  He wanted to share a bite with the mouse.  After all, he dropped the mouse right next to the food bowl.  OR 2) Megaroy brought the mouse to the food bowl because that is where food (the mouse) was to be eaten.  All that training of the Moron Cat paid off.  Either that or Moron Cat is also OCD Cat, or he who can't eat anywhere but from the food bowl.  (I didn't ask him which it was.  I was busy shrieking.)

It took HIM about three minutes to make it the twenty-five or so feet from the den to the kitchen.  (Apparently I scream and make girly noises so much that it really didn't register as a genuine issue for HIM.  Wait until that serial killer with the axe shows up and I can say, "See.  When I scream, there's something really to be worried about.")

Megaroy was having a very good time chasing the mouse.  The mouse first darted at me.  Then the mouse apparently decided that I was too loud, big, and girly to rescue him, so he headed back into the kitchen.  Megaroy probably thought I should have been more properly appreciative.  I was not.

The mouse went over to the fridge and did not find refuge.

HIM finally showed up.  The kid decided that if Mommy was afraid of it, she should hang out on the stairs where it was safe.  (She also picked up a mouse toy that belongs to Megaroy and thought she could distract the real mouse with the fake mouse.  I kind of like that thinking.)  HIM found a Cheezit box to trap and/or decimate the mouse.  (A Cheezit box from Sam's Club.  The big kind of Cheezit box that someone could probably be buried in.  And yes, the Cheezits were absent from the box.)

The mouse took exception to the box and evaded HIM and Megaroy, although Megaroy had his big-ass paw on the mouse a couple of times.  Perhaps Megaroy got freaked out by the Cheezit box.  I was too busy making noises from the office and holding my feet off the floor.

The mouse evaded the cat, HIM, the Cheezit box, the fake mouse, and my shrieking by escaping under the kitchen counters.

The cat was pissed.  The kid doesn't want to go into the kitchen anymore.  (She said something about rabies, which really impressed me because I thought at first she was talking about a hantavirus.)  The Cheezit box didn't care one way or the other.  I'm afraid for my toes.  (I have a mental image of washing dishes at the sink while a mouse tries to nibble on said digits.)  HIM was relieved he didn't have to dispose of a little rodent body.  (Try to picture a burial at sea, except not at sea, and in a bathroom with a toilet already flushing.  Sailors everywhere are shuddering.)

We went and got mouse traps plus peanut butter.  They have a nice selection at Home Depot.  So far we haven't caught any mousies.  And I feel compelled to inject my very favorite Kliban cartoon.  I wish Megaroy knew how to read and had a brain instead of dead space there so he could read this cartoon and gain inspiration from it.  Too bad.

 

The Return of the Return of Pain in the Ass Man!

Ah.  I bet you were wondering when Pain in the Ass Man would come back.  Truly he has never left.  Pain in the Ass Man, otherwise known as HIM, otherwise known as the man to whom I'm married, is the super hero persona of a mild-mannered rocket scientist.  Able to piss me off in three words or less, he also has lesser known super powers.  The fart-on-command power is particularly useful in elevators and crowded locales.  The ability to vanish when some job around the house  needs to be done is another lesser known ability.  But the one I will discuss in a hilarious and snarky fashion today is the ability NOT to see things that need to be put away.  This is also a power shared by OCD Girl, otherwise known as my daughter.  Super Stinky Cat, otherwise known as Megaroy, otherwise known as Moron Cat, only has the power of exuding a smell that will often bring the HAZMAT team running.  He doesn't put anything away because he doesn't get anything out.

Back to Pain in the Ass Man.  Recently on a search for coffee, he brought out a plastic bin that had been unpacked but not unloaded.  It had the sealed bags of coffee for which he was searching.  Community Coffee for those of you not inclined to drink of the coffee arabica, comes from Louisiana and has chicory in it.  I don't drink coffee, but Pain in the Ass Man swears by it.  Out came the Community Coffee to be put in a special locale of worship by the coffee pot.  Hosannas were said repeatedly.  There might have been sweet murmurings.  ("You're the only coffee for me, baby."  "Would I drink that shitty Maxwell House, sugar?"  "Who's my little, widdle, middle baggie of coffee-poo?")

But then the plastic bin from which the single bag of Community Coffee had emerged remained in close proximity to the dining room table, i.e., it did not move.  (No poltergeists around here.)

Fat Woman did not feel like putting the bin up.  Furthermore, Fat Woman's back had suffered through the building of Tree House I and Tree House II and her sciatic nerve was screaming, "Eff YOU!  We ain't putting no stinking plastic bin up!"  Therefore, the plastic bin sat on the rug next to the dining room table.  And sat there.  And sat there.  For five weeks.  FIVE WEEKS!  (I started marking the days off on my calender.)  No one said anything.  No one moved it.  It just sat there, growing moss on the top.  (Or algae.  Or dust bunnies.  Something.  I certainly wasn't going to move it, much less dust it.)

I started having my morning tea with the bin.  The conversations went like this:
Me: "Hey, plastic bin, how's it hanging?"
Bin: "Oh, doing well.  A spider came by and cast a web on my left rear quadrant but then Megaroy came by and ate him.  Can you do something about the way that cat's poop smells?  It singed my lid.  You can see where it isn't blue anymore."
Me: "Sorry.  The cat's poo stinks.  We all have to live with it.  So do you."
Bin: "Are you ever going to move me?"
Me: "No, I think I might use you as a foot stool."
Bin: "That Tupperware container on the counter has been winking at me.  I think I could hook up if you moved me closer to the counter."
Me: "Ever had the notion that you've completely lost your mind because you're talking to a plastic bin?"
Bin: "No, no, I haven't."

So I finally said to Pain in the Ass Man, "You know that plastic bin in the dining room hasn't moved for five weeks."

HIM said, "I hadn't noticed."

OCD Girl said, "I noticed!  Daddy put it there!"

Me said, "Why didn't you put it up after you got out the coffee?"

Pain in the Ass Man said (and this is where the Pain in the Ass persona came out in full fledged, flying colors), "It had kitchen stuff in it."

"Yes," I prompted, "and?"

"Well, I thought you would put the kitchen stuff up and then put it away yourself," Pain in the Ass Man finished sheepishly.

"For five weeks," I said.

"FIVE WEEKS!" OCD Girl screamed helpfully.  (Not really, but she was watching with gratuitous abandon.

Pain in the Ass Man mumbled something under his breath.

The next day, the bin was still sitting next to the dining room table.  I thought about drawing a face on it and putting a cup of tea in front of it but I didn't think anyone but Megaroy would notice.

So I put it away.

Pain in the Ass Man: 1.  Fat Woman: 0.