Stuff OR Let Me Clue In the Uninitiated and Also Check the Spelling of Uninititated

So I've been blogging for over a year now.  In the beginning (not trying to lift a line from another more infamous writer and also not trying to compare myself to that individual) I blogged three or four times a week.  I made lists of things I wanted to blog about.  Funny stories about stuff that has happened in my life.  Sometimes I go and look at my list.  Occasionally I do one but mostly I end up blogging about what's going on in my life.  About writing.  About the stupid cat.  (My cousin noted sagely that I seem to be blogging about the cat a lot.)  (He tried to eat my big toe this morning and I think he's a Communist spy from a third world nation, but I'm not saying which one.)  (I meant the cat tried to eat my toe NOT my cousin.)  Now I'm getting to twice a week and while I'm writing a book, it's getting a little difficult to keep up.

But I'm game.  So if things start to lag, you'll understand why.

It occurs to me, as stuff usually does and not always in a good way, that more recent readers may not understand all the players in the blog.  Some of these folks may not have had the time to go back and read every blog I ever wrote.  (Gasp!)  (WTHWTT?)  I did this several months ago, but now feel compelled to do it again, with a little more feeling.  (Once more with feeling.  Hahahaha.)

The People of Fat Woman's Blog

Me: Fat Woman, author, artist, mommy.  (This list isn't in order of importance.)  Whilst I enjoy being a fat woman, my most challenging job is momminess.  (And possibly making up words to amuse the masses.)  I'm also interested in reading,cooking, Girl Scouts, working out, plaguing my husband, and hiking.  (The cooking seems to trump the working out and hiking, for some reason, otherwise it would be called Confessions of a Mildly Obese Woman or maybe Confessions of a Pleasantly Plump Woman, which just don't have the same appeal as the original.)  I have, for those of you who haven't noticed, a perverse sense of humor.  Most people enjoy that about me, in the form of the blog or some of my writing.  My favorite color is red and has never changed in all the years that I remember.  My favorite movie is still Jaws.  (Robert Shaw's character shouldn't have gotten eaten by the shark, really.  NO, REALLY!)  My personal favorite book that I've written is The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  Contrary to popular belief I do not blog about everything.  I mean, have you read the ones about the doctor and the dentist?  Do I think people want to hear about my visit to the gynecologist?  No, I don't think so.  I do draw a line.  (Occasionally, the line gets fuzzy and moves dramatically.)

HIM: This is the man to whom I'm married.  Early in the blog I thought I shouldn't write his name because I knew I was going to write stuff about HIM in all his infinite himiness.  (Now that's a good made up word.)  Now I suppose I could write his name, but writing HIM in capitol letters seems to be funnier.  Also who would recognize HIM if I called HIM by his real name?  HIM is my long-suffering spouse.  He's a year older than I am.  He likes all things rockety.  Seriously, he reads Rockets Monthly or is it Rockets Gone Wild?  Something like that.  I caught him with a model rocket in the bed the other day and he said he didn't know how it got there.  (Not really.  But HIM was probably thinking about model rockets while he was in bed.)  HIM is really good at technology crap.  He fixes the computer when I accidentally download malware.  He can fix the car's brakes.  He can even give a go at the dishwasher.  (But alas that boat has sailed.)  Also, he makes a helluva lot more money than I do, which means I can cavort and eff around with being a writer and that also means you don't get to miss out on my unique perspective.  Anyhoo, his favorite color is blue, no, green, no blue.  Turquoise.  Yeah.  He wears a size 9 1/2 shoe.  His favorite movie of all time is When Harry Met Sally.  (Oops.  HIM just slapped the back of my head.)  I meant, Saving Private Ryan or maybe it's The Big Red One.  Whatever.  HIM is the one I will most often taunt in my blog.  Probably because he's got mild OCD issues that tend to push all, no ALL, of my buttons.  Jeez, the toothpaste can't be squeezed in the middle, the toilet paper has to go over not under, the sheets on the bed can NOT be crooked.  Do I need to go on?  Probably better that I don't.

Cressy: She is our seven, nope, eight year old daughter.  We had her when we were fortyish and she was a 7 lb. 7 ounce surprise.  ("Look a baby!"  "How did that happen?"  "I don't know."  "It's a miracle!"  "No, it's basic human physiology!  Birds and bees were definitely involved!"  "We're both dumbasses!"  "I know, isn't it fun?")  She's full of spit and vinegar and tells very good stories.  Sometimes I steal her stories.  Zombies, time-travel, worlds with only the color purple in them.  It's all grist for my mill.  Plus she does some funny stuff.  One day I'm going to be legally instructed to restrain from blogging about her, but she hasn't gotten to a lawyer yet, so I'm good for now.

The cat: (Sometimes also referred to as "That little gray pain in the bleep," or "The gray hellbeast.") The cat is Cressy's Christmas present.  She wanted a cat.  She primed the pump for months.  She made sure every dandelion that went to seed got blown and wished upon for a cat.  If a star was seen shooting across the sky, then by golly-gee-whiz, the wish was for a cat.  (However, there were two instances where she forgot about the cat and wished to be able to fly, but that's neither here nor there.)  She even wrote a letter to Santa about the cat.  (All the other desired toys got honorable mentions.  The cat got four whole lines of dedicated input.)  His name is Megaroy, although it briefly changed to Riki-Tiki and Misty and something else I can't remember.  (I might have renamed it something like Poopforbrains, but poop isn't the word I used.)  It's my sincerest belief that he is the dumbest animal to walk the face of the earth.  And his poop smells like...well, poop, except worse.  I have an urge to spray Lysol on his little butt.  (But I did NOT!)  I would ask what the hell he's eating except I know exactly what he's eating.  He also steals the bed covers.  He thinks my side of the bed is his side of the bed and I'm a wicked interloper.  I could probably blog about him all the time but that would get old.

I swear this looks just like my sister.  Really.

My sister: She lives in Washington state and gets to listen to me bitch about various things about once a week.  Poor woman.  She's warned me not to blog about her, but I can't help myself.  It just pops out.  (Kind of like Megaroy's poop, except verbally, or maybe literarily.)  (Did I make up another word?  Oh, the hell with it.)  Her favorite color used to be orange when she was 14, and I don't know what it is now.  She works in a BOOK STORE, so she is my secret super hero, because she gets a big discount on books.  (She's like my connection for when I'm being a book junkie.)  Oh, yes, there was this time we- crap, can't talk about it.  Never mind.

My sister's cat, Mellow: The long story in short version.  (Which is very hard for me.)  (Really, really hard.  See what I mean?)  (I mean I can keep adding words and more words and they just keep tumbling out.)  I visited my sister.  I scared my sister's fat cat, Mellow, on purpose.  Mellow hates me and hissed at me for thirty minutes straight.  I blogged about it.  I keep blogging about it.  Mellow makes guest appearances in my blog because I think it's funny.  (It's really funny because I live on the East coast and Mellow is on the West coast.  So I'm pretty sure the cat can't get to me, although there may be secret communiques between Mellow and Megaroy.)

There ya go.  Now you're all up to date.