Slug A Bug! Or Legitimate Ways to Hit Your Sibling

So when my sister and I were growing up we used to play this game.  The game was usually played while in the car.  The game commenced when one of us saw a white VW Beetle.  (The old classic style, of course, because the new one had not yet commenced its state of being.)  And yes, it had to be white.  (Them was the rules.)

Ye old putt putt car.  (While I was posting this picture, my daughter came
in to get my help with a craft project and nailed me.  Good thing she
doesn't know how to hit hard.)  (Dammit, she just did it again.) (And there's the third
time because I made the mistake of showing her the blog again.)

The lucky person to see the bug first got to smack the other one in the arm, shoulder, side, etc.  (I believe the accepted locale was the upper arm because Marquis of Queensberry rules did apply, especially when a parent was in the immediate vicinity.)  The winner got to hit the other one.  And parents couldn't complain.  (Well ours didn't.  It wasn't like we were punching each other in the face.)  So the object of the game was to be the one with the least amount of bruises on their arms at the end of a given trip.

Our mother, about to have an internal cranial implosion.
This was pretty much our entire trip to Disney Land in 1975.
All 800 miles of it.
And yes, that was actual smoke coming out of her head.

A few years ago, was it a few years?, VW starts with the commercials about Slug A Bug, but they didn't really call it that.

And isn't it funny that Stevie Wonder has the magical power to see the color of VW's?  But hey, they're not playing the game right.  They're hitting for EVERY single VW out there, every model.  That's a lot of VWs, ergo, that's a lot of hitting.  (I was trying to find the one where a guy thumped a baby but I didn't find that one.  Maybe VW was embarrassed even it if it was a teensy weensy little thump.)

So here are my Official rules for Slug a Bug.  (Modified for present day.)

1.  All VW Beetles count.  Old classic ones get two punches.  New Beetles get one.  Only classic or new Beetles.  No other VWs.  No Vanagons, Things, Jettas, etc, and especially no Routans.  (That's keeping the game pure.)

2.  Slug a Bug must be called when the hit is made.  (Cressy, our daughter, often will say, "Mommy, put your arm back here," while we're going about our daily business in a precursor to hitting me with a Slug a Bug.  She doesn't yet realize that she's warning me.  But she's getting better.  Last week when I reached back to Slug a Bug her, she quickly punched my arm first and yelled, "Slug a Bug!" getting the drop on me.  A true child of my loins.)

3.  No punch backs are allowed. 

4.  Only one punch per day per bug.  (That means that when we drive past the red one that lives around the corner it can only be used once in a 24 hour period.  Cressy doesn't always get this one because she'll forget that it was used before.  After all, she saw it first the second or third time we passed it in a day.  Power to the elementary school kid.)

5.  Any color of a Beetle is allowed.  Not just white ones.  (I seem to recall that there was also a game about white horses and involved pinching.  I believe my sister and I were vicious little beasts.)

6.  If a person is slugged and it is determined that a Beetle was not seen, the initial hitter gets twice hit back and harder.  (Vicious.  Little.  Beasts.  We.  Were.)

7.  VW Dealerships only count if they're accidental.  HIM has been known to deliberately drive by places he knows that there are Beetles.  (I don't want to think about the variation of the game that HIM and his sister played as children.  It was probably bloody and involved chainsaws and gas powered tools.  The Marquis of Queensberry rules were akin to a foreign language to them.)  (Upon consideration and decades of hearing stories about the road trips that HIM and his sister were dragged upon (HIM's exact phrase, 'dragged upon.') (Look parenthesis within parenthesis.  This could be bad.) I figure that there was an invisible shield in between the front seat of the family car and the back.  My FIL and MIL probably completely tuned HIM and HIM's sister out unless blood was being squirted over the backs of the seats.  I don't have photographs but HIM often complains about his sister breaking the camera at an early age.  Oh, what joyful times.)

My MIL and FIL on one of their infamous 'road trips.'
Apparently the back seat was where all the action
took place.

8.  If you own a Beetle then it can only be 'slug a bugged' once per 24 hour period by the first person who sees it and calls it.

9.  The driver of the car is not encouraged to play.  (Gee I wonder why.)  But stoplights are a free for all.

10.  Whining in the game is generally prohibited.  (Cressy compensates by saying, "Ah, man," in a saddened tone of voice as if she has just lost her best Barbie doll.)

11.  No knuckles.  (This is for HIM, who must have learned this particular torturous technique as a child.)  For everyone else, this means when slugging, you don't push out one of your knuckles in order to facilitate a better bruise.  (I know this makes HIM sound mean, but he really isn't.  Old habits die hard.)

12.  Only hands may be using for slugging.  No baseball bats, wrenches, iron skillets, or maces.  (There's a reason I'm adding this.  A very scary, sincere reason.)  Just in case someone gets any special ideas about Slug a Bug.

13.  No imaginary Beetles.  HIM knows what I'm talking about.  If HIM is the only one who sees the Beetle then there is a distinct possible that it wasn't really a Beetle.  (It was a 'ghost' Beetle.  Holy shades of What's Up, Doc? Batman.  That's only for Bogdanovich buffs.)

14.  Only actual, live, in person Beetles count.  Not pictures on say, a blog, or the TV, or in a magazine.

Here's the new New Beetle.  I think it looks like a squashed old New Beetle.
(Could have been a birth defect.)  Also if you're playing by Cressy's
rules you can now Slug a Bug someone.

Addendum (Cressy rules from her perspective):

1.  If I see it second, although you saw it first and called it, I shall say that I saw it first and Slug a Bug you.

2.  No one shall hit me harder although I have that option to tenderize your fleshly upper arm with impunity.

3.  If you see one, you shall ignore it and pretend you didn't see it first, so that I may see it and consequently call it on you or Daddy.  Mostly you, though.  (Apparently the fact that Daddy makes most of the money that buys my toys has rubbed off on me.)

4.  I can pretend that I didn't see that red one from around the corner for the third time today and use it again.  (The 24 hour rule only applies to you, Mommy.)

5.  I'm not really caring if you're driving when I see one, Mommy.  I want to Slug a Bug you and in an impertinent fashion.

6.  Whenever I see a Beetle, whether it's on TV, on the net, or say, on your blog, I'm going to Slug a Bug you.  Especially you Mommy.  Remember you started this game.

7.  I always win.  Sucker.

With that in mind, I think I'll go look on Amazon and see if they have 'What's Up, Doc?' on DVD.

The Dance of the Fireflies OR Implications of Making Assumptions

Where to start.  Our seven year old daughter, Cressy, has been running amok lately.

Doesn't that look amok to you?  Looks amok to me.
Wait.  I need to go look up the word, 'amok.'  It means in a
murderously frenzied manner or a violently raging
fashion.  Guess that really isn't Cressy, unless
she was on crack or maybe on pixy stix.  By the way, amok
is in between the word, 'amoebula,' and 'amoldering,' both
of which I have no idea what they mean.  Maybe
I should read the dictionary.  What I should certainly do is
stop writing on this caption, which is getting
ridiculous.  (BTW, she's not really unhappy to
be standing on some poor bastard's grave, she was
just saying that she really wanted ice cream instead.)

There was the firefly incident.  We came home after dark and there were fireflies in the yard.  So Cressy said, "I want to catch them!"  Mommy and Daddy said, "We're tired."  Cressy said, "But I want to catch them!"  So I folded like a cheap suit in a cheaper dry cleaning joint and said, "Okay, for five minutes.  Cressy said, "I need a glass jar for them."  When she said that what she really meant was, "Mother, you shall procure an item for me that I shall incarcerate said insects within so that I may gloat over their little imprisoned bodies for the next several days until they perish."

The exact moment of firefly realization.  (If you ask Cressy
the fireflies were 'asking' to be captured and imprisoned.  Maybe
it was the way they were dressed, the hussies.)

Well, I didn't have a glass jar.  I already knew that I didn't have a glass jar.  But I had disposable bowls with lids.  No problem.  I didn't think the kid would catch one anyway.  After all, she runs like a transvestite in his first set of stiletto heels.  (She does.  I was going to get out the camcorder to show people but then I decided it might be crossing the line.  I don't want to offend any transvestites, after all.)  I really, seriously thought, 'Kid doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of catching a firefly.'  Anyway, it took me 30 seconds to get the disposable plastic bowl with the lid and as I was going back outside, Cressy comes trotting up and said, "I got one."  She's got her hands clasped together and a smug look of triumph on her little face.  (She has kicked firefly butt and she knows it.)

I was like, "Naw, you didn't get one this quick."  (Unthinkable.  She can't catch a caterpillar, how was she going to catch a firefly with wings and a disposition for escape.)

Actual firefly security detail.
They're kind of like the Secret Service,
except without Obama.

It was THIRTY seconds, tops.  No exaggeration at all.  I was inside for a half a minute to get the container that I didn't really think I was going to use.  I had been thinking as I carried it back outside if I should put holes in the top and rapidly decided that since Cressy wasn't going to catch a firefly then I didn't need to put holes in the lid.  So I open the container up, thinking she got a mosquito or something equally icky in between her hands, and sure enough, it was a freaking FIREFLY.  She put it into the container.  (Actually it kind of fell into the container because when she had slapped her hands together, she hadn't left any space for the firefly.)

We both looked at it as it lay on the bottom of the container and I said, "Maybe we should let it go."  So the poor little smooshed thing could die in peace.  Poor little luminescent bastard.

Oh, it's time to steal lines from the classics.

Cressy looked at the sad, pitiful dying insect and I suspected that she knew that she had smooshed its little, green, glow-in-the-dark guts out.  She said, "Okay, Mommy," in a subdued sort of voice.  So we somberly let it out in the grass where it sat on a piece of grass and glowed for awhile.

Then Cressy went back into the yard to catch more.  She even called to the little fireflies like they were dogs.  "Here, firefly.  Here, firefly.  Come here, firefly."  She was getting annoyed that they wouldn't listen to her.  But I suspected that the word had gotten around.

You know what they say about gossip.

She came back a few minutes later, disgruntled because the fireflies weren't acting like friendly little puppies, and took a look in the grass for the one she'd smooshed.  "Oh, I can't see him anymore," she said blithely.  (The principle of 'Out of sight, out of mind' works well with her, except with Chuck E. Cheese, toy promises, and play dates with her BFF, Addie.)  "He must have flown away.  Bye!  Bye!  I'll see you tomorrow!"

Then we went inside because all of the fireflies had mysteriously vanished.

The moral of the story is: Don't make assumptions AND Don't squish fireflies.

OH NO! I May Be Ranting! Again! Don't Tell HIM or My Sister!

Here is a recent review from a satisfied reader  (You know, the reviews I'm not supposed to look at, comment on, even glance at, or rant about in a demeaning manner.  Those reviews, yes.)  (But this was a happy review.  C.L. Bevill = Good writer.  Yea!  C.L. Bevill!  This review makes me want to spin through an alpine meadow singing, 'The hills are alive with the sound of...music,' or something like that.  Maybe it makes me want to spin through an alpine meadow singing, 'You shook me all night long.'  Yes, that's more the picture I'm looking for.)  (And it reminds me that recently a mommy friend told me that her four year old daughter LOVES, LOVES, LOVES the movie, The Sound of Music, and has watched everyday for the last month.  Good movie but my brain would have rotted into mush.  When Cressy was that age we watched Wall-E for six weeks straight and my brains did turn into mush.  Seriously, even zombies weren't interested.)

I can totally picture Julie Andrews rocking out to AC/DC.

 Anyway, I think I was actually talking about a review.  So here it is:

I+really+enjoyed+this+story%21
No+book+is+ever+long+enough+on+free+downloads+but+this+was+quite+a+decent+length.+I+liked+the+characters+and+especially+Bubba%27s+basset+hound+dog+Precious.+Fun+plot+and+little+twists+in+this+book.+Read+it%21+%3A%29

So this is a good review.  This person liked Bubba and the Dead Woman and gave it five stars.  Thank you so much for the good words about Bubba!  (Yea!  Positive reviews rock!)  But what's with all the symbols?

HIM, the man to whom I am married, said it was because the person was using a Linux operating system and the translation was iffy.  (Funny story about the word, iffy, and the weather, but I'm digressing and in a very bad manner.  So I'll get back to that.)  (And a personal note to HIM, not everything in the world has to do with Linux operating systems and computer information systems.  Sorry, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, but it had to be said.)

Symbols.  Right.  Okay, this isn't the Da Vinci Code around here.  I'm not an alien.  (The last time I looked I still only had two boobies instead of an alien standard of three.  That's pretty conclusive, right?)  The NSA isn't parked down the street.  (Although that cleaning van has been here all week and what are those satellite dishes pointed in my direction?)

Okay here's another one for a novella I wrote:

Liked+it

It+was+a+good+novella%2C+i+would+have+loved+to+see+it+as+a+book%21++I+would+have+likes+to+know+more+background+on+all+if+the+main+players

Is this from a certain kind of phone?  Are people saying something to me that I'm not aware of?  I feel incredibly old all of a sudden.

But then I have to put this one on because I've gone off on a sudden tangent of gargantuan proportions and feel compelled.  (There were no symbols involved.)  (You know the reviews I'm not supposed to read anymore.  Shh.  Don't tell HIM or my sister.  I'll send you homemade brownies.):

Worthless drivel

Crude, not believable.

This one is in reference to The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  Granted this is probably the one book I've written where people seem to gravitate in a spectacularly polar manner.  They hate it.  Like him above, Mr. Worthless Drivel.  Or they love it.  But I felt compelled to talk about it because my work has never been called worthless drivel before.  Ever.  It's a first.  I feel like Sally Field at the Oscars.  ("You like me.  You really, really like me."  or in this case, "You hate me.  You really, really hate me.")

My initial reaction to 'worthless drivel.'

I'm honestly touched that someone felt so obligated by a free download that he had read to come back and write five words about it.  Five whole words.  Those words must have been torn from his tortured psyche.  So what did I do?  I went to all the digital platforms and added the following to the description of Bayou Billy.  Warning: May contain poopoo language for those who are easily offended.  There may be worthless drivel contained inside.  What can I say?  It's my description of my book.  I can write what I want about it.

So HIM just texted me and asked what I was doing.  I replied that I was writing worthless drivel and couldn't be interrupted.  HIM naturally interrupted with, 'Garbage?  Utter garbage or just worthless drivel?'  This, of course, prompts me to go off on yet another tangent.  God, I love those tangents.  They make life so darned interesting.

Shades of mediocrity.

There it is.  The big list of how to judge an author.

And by the way, does anyone know why there's symbols on the reviews?  Cause I'd like to know.

I'm Driving a Jet Plane OR Baby, How Stuff Has Changed

I was driving today, as I do, and while I was sitting at a stoplight, considering whether to flip the man off next to me for trying to cut me off or whether I should just look the other way in case he turns out to be a closet serial killer, it dawned on me that I drive a jet plane now.



Think about it.  I learned how to drive in a 1969 VW Beetle.  (My parents bought the car new for $1995 and doesn't that make you wince.  A few years later, I can vividly remember my mother complaining vehemently about the price of gas being an astounding .69 cents!  Horrors!)  Anyway, at the time I learned how to drive I was fourteen (This was legal in Oregon at the time because there were a lot of farmers who needed their children to drive and become free slave labor.  Fortunately I wasn't the daughter of a farmer and got to freeload off the law.) and things were pretty simple.

The interior of a VW Beetle.
Isn't it complicated?
Doesn't it look like years of training would
be required?  No, you wind up this sucker
like a rubber band plane and then let it rip.
This could be the longest caption ever.

While actually driving you could steer, honk, turn on the turn signal or turn it off, or you could shift gears and brake.  This car certainly wasn't confusing.  You pretty much could go or you could stop.  There wasn't an option for automatic.  Probably learning how to drive a manual clutch was the hardest part.  But I've never forgotten and I can go between my automatic car which I've driven for 10 years and HIM's New Beetle, which has a five speed, without even thinking about it.

But obviously cars evolved.  And so has everything else.  (When I go back and read books I wrote years ago, I laugh because I mention certain technology in them.  I remember one of my characters in a book being so amazed at a cellular phone that was about the size of a toaster.  Haha.  Lesson 56 in writing: Don't date yourself in books unless it's absolutely vital to the plot.  That way if it doesn't get published you can haul it out years later and epublish it.  Epublishing and free enterprise rock!)  (Lesson 13 in writing: For God's sake, read it RELIGIOUSLY for typos because there are people out there who will tear out your throat for even one solitary typo.  And never, ever misuse a word either.  I think there's a secret society of people out there who never forgive me for using Camero instead of Camaro.  Please forgive me.)

Back to cars.  So I'm looking at my car now and thinking there are buttons on this car that I don't know what they're for.  And it's a TEN YEAR OLD Ford Explorer.  (It's practically an antique.  And now I'm smiling at all the people who are thinking, 'Why is an author driving a ten year old Ford Explorer instead of a brand new Ferrari?' Hahaha.  Author is just another word for starving artist.  I'm lucky I have a car that works and a spouse who makes a much better living that I do.)  The auto makers had to make all the cars automatic because if they hadn't people would be killing themselves while trying to shift gears and push buttons at the same time.

Okay, here's the interior view of the 2002 Ford Explorer.

I look at this and make grunting sounds.  Fat Woman drive car.
Good.  Grunt.  Snort.  Snoggle.

You know, it occurs to me that one day I'm going to press a button and it's going to be a seat ejection unit.  I'm going to be launched out, just like Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2.  Oh, wait, I've been inspired to do an illustration for effect.

Man, it's eerie how much I resemble Bruce Willis flying
into the air after pressing an ejector button to
escape an exploding airplane.

So anyway, what I really want is a Dodge Charger.  It's sporty but not too sporty.  BC (that's Before Cressy for you neophytes.  Cressy being my 7 year old daughter.) I drove a 1975 Datsun 280Z.  Now that was a car.  One day I stopped at a light and some kid in a car pulled up beside me.  He looked over at the sporty car and then looked at me and I didn't need to be a psychic to read his mind.  He was thinking, 'Hot car.  Hopefully there's a hot babe driving.'

The moment before utter despair set in in a teenage boy's
heart.  Poor kid.

There was not a hot babe driving it.  There was a short, middle aged Fat Woman driving it.  His little teenage heart was immediately broken.  You could see it in his face.  He was well and truly crestfallen.  This was the moment in time when I realized that I shouldn't be driving an antique sports car anymore.  (That and the fact that every time it broke it needed a minimum of $100 to fix it.)

Does this look like the epitome of abject disappointment?
Why, yes, yes it does.



So I want that Charger next.  I drool over them every time someone drives by.  Screw economical gas mileage.  I want the cool car.  I want to rumble down the street.

Yeah, that's what I'm talking about.

Anyway, so I found an interior shot of the Dodge Charger.

Well, that wasn't the interior of a Dodge Charger.  WTFWIT?
This is just a typical night at the Bevill residence.
Zombies, witches, and the like.

Okay, here's the real interior of a Dodge Charger:

All right, it isn't really the interior shot of a Dodge Charger.
Can't fool you, can I?

Here it is.  Really.  With sarcastic comments attached even.





Maybe I need to go test drive it before I buy it?

Ya think?

I Have NOT Yet Finished With My Sister's Cat OR How I Continue To Taunt a Hapless (Hah!) Animal

Recently I ridiculed and mocked my sister's cat, Mellow.  (I was laughing with the cat.)  Although I did tell the truth about said animal, there was some underlying gratifying indulgence in illustrating the feline in funny poses and addlepated movies.  That being stated, I feel compelled, as I often do, to do some more!  Yea!  Illustration!

For those of you who aren't up to speed on the Harrowing Case of the Jeered Animal, read 'Things I CANNOT Blog About OR How I've Been Repressed,' and then 'The Dissing of My Sister's Cat OR How It Sounded Like a Challenge.'  Basically I'm having way too much fun at the expense of my sister's beloved antisocial pet.  Oh, so what the hell.

Mellow, who may just sue me if I continue.
You know I'll just blog about the lawsuit.

You know, when I called my sister last weekend she said my daughter wasn't going to want to do anything with me anymore unless I promised first not to blog about it.  Haha.  I guess I won't blog about my daughter this week.

Oh, where oh where shall I start?  With the obvious I think.

Too pithy?  Too bad.  It's my blog.  I'm feeling pithy.  What the
hell does pithy mean?  Sounds like bitchy could be
easily substituted for it.

All righty then.  Next up an old classic.  If you don't know it, then you should go watch your Vincent Price movies again.

You know, Mellow probably eats flies all the time.  Maybe
spiders too.  Some irony here.

Now a little more class stuff.  Say Sean Connery-ish.


See.  Mellow can be suave and debonair.
I'm going to have to work on the way I draw suits.
This looks like a kid about to go to a Catholic school,
not really Bond, James Bond.

But I've only scratched the surface.  (Get it?  Scratched?  Those of you without cats will have to turn to those of you with cats to understand.  Sorry.)

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, er, Mellow.

Okay, hitting a classic war film.  I wasn't sure if I should go with Sheen or Brando on this one so I went for the famous quote instead.

I hope the Coppola fans will forgive my transgressions.
I guarantee that HIM will be giggling at this one.
Man, does Martin Sheen look just like Charlie,
except without the crazy, paranoid ranting. 

Wait, there was an editorial change in the above.  HIM suggested the following and since it was funny, I couldn't not do it.

Wow.  Am I in trouble or what?

Oh, yes.  I have more.  Lots more.

Run, Mellow, Run!
Maybe that should be: Run, Fat Woman, Run!  Because
Mellow and my sister are coming to get me.

Could I possibly be going too far?  Possibly but I'm not caring!  So here goes...

Actually this was Dr. Zira about to lock lips with Taylor but
I couldn't find another profile of an ape so oh well.
I really liked The Planet of the Apes and Tim Burton had
a sucky redo, although otherwise he's a wonderful director.
(Planet of the Apes - First time I saw naked men's butts on film.  Obscure factoid.)

As long as I'm cruising down Classic Hollywood Lane, I might as well offend every Bogie fan out there alive.

Yes, I know that's not the real quote.  But it's the one everyone
hears.  If I put the real quote down, a significant proportion of
people would go, "Huh?"  So there it is.

Well, I think I have derided and provoked my sister's cat enough for this week.  It's possible I missed some very good quotes.  I haven't even started looking at famous political quotes yet.  ("Bitch set me up," - Marion Barry, "I'm not going to have some reporters pawing through our papers.  We are the President." - Hillary Clinton, and "The Internet is a great way to get on the net." - Bob Dole all come to mind.)

And of course, I'm open to suggestion.

The Attack of the Great, Huge, Glomping, Dripping, Drooling Personnals

So I was sitting around, drinking tea, contemplating how I was going to go back on the diet wagon tomorrow, how I should probably eat everything in the fridge today, and how I'm probably going to be horribly, wretchedly sick later on today.  And it occurs to me that I've got nothing much to blog about.  I could blog about my diet...for the 20,000,000th time.  (Yes, diet again.  Good luck.  Let's make a pool about how long this one lasts.  If she can get past 24 hours then she's doing pretty good.  Hahaha.  I paused to warn HIM, the man to whom I'm married, that I would be dieting tomorrow.  I said it would be kind of like PMS except I'm not actually having PMS, I'm having hunger pangs and also bad temper due to a drop in blood sugar.  I think I might be something like this.)

HIM deciding discretion is the better part of valor or suddenly
deciding that South America sounds like a dandy place
to visit on the spur of the moment

Of course, when Godzilla popped into my head, I thought of what a sad lonely life he must have.  After all, Godzilla's the biggest boy on the block.  Sure, he's radioactive and he's got flames shooting out of his body that have to be a problem area for him.  He must get teased.  He's kind of green or is it black?  He's got some dental issues.  (Do I have to mention the sulfur breath?)  Let's face it.  Godzilla must be hard up.  He's always attacking Tokyo and I'm thinking the Japanese must be tired of all those fires and giant footprints in the middle of their town.  He's just a big, misunderstood kind of goober.  And looky, looky, looky, I've suddenly gone on a wildly divergent tangent of monstrous proportions and I HAVE SOMETHING TO BLOG ABOUT!  LIFE IS GOOD AGAIN!  YEA!

The keys to understanding Godzilla

First, a make over for the big green colossus.

Stage 1: Finding one's perfect foils

There.  Big improvement.  What else?

Stage 2: Flirting with subtle changes in appearance.

All right.  It is an interesting look but maybe not the one we're shooting for.  I think we want confidence but not overconfidence.

Still on Stage 2.

Hmm.  Almost there.  Needs a little tweaking.

Still on Stage 2 and holding.  This might take some adjustment.

Okay.  Not quite right.  Let's try again.

Still tweaking Stage 2.

Or does the pony tail say, 'I'm a little sleazy and hey, dated to the fifties and/or sixties.'?  Maybe.

There ya go. 

Now, for the personal ad.

Finally, Stage 3: the dissemination of the availability
Yes, but does it really describe the essence of the overly large
monster in need of female companionship?

Okay.  I'm going to try again.

But does it really nail that which is truly Godzilla?

One last try.

Oh, if this doesn't do it for the big lizard face, I don't know what will.

But I've had a moment.  I felt compelled to add a video.  Who doesn't want to rock out with BOC singing to clips of Godzilla kicking butt?  (Someone should remind him not to act like this on his first date, but not me.)

Yeah.  That's it.  Remember live long and screeeeeeeeeechhhhhhhh!

The Dissing of My Sister's Cat OR How It Sounded Like a Challenge

So in a previous blog I dissed my sister's cat.  I even used photographs and my autodesk sketchbook program to have much fun.  I laughed.  Then my sister read the blog and she said that the cat was insulted.  And I thought, 'Well, hell, that wasn't an insult.  Just wait.'  (This is an insult, "Mellow, your mama was a Cocker Spaniel."  You have to be a cat to get it.)

And here we go.  Here's Mellow the cat.  She's an innocuous appearing large boned animal who prefers wet food and isn't really a cuddling type.  (When I threw a toy for her, she looked at me as if saying, 'Do you seriously think I'm going to chase after that when someone will open a can for me instead?  Fool.  And btw, I have plans to shred your underwear later.  Insolent peasant.')

Mellow in a nonthreatening moment OR the instant before she attacks
and eats your big toe.  Also your ear.  Maybe your pinkies, too.

Anyway, so considering the way my mind works, it sounded kind of like...a challenge.  ("Oh, no, you just didn't challenge me, did you?")  So, I'm back, with my autodesk sketchbook program and a vivid imagination and the not-inconsequential ability to insert artistically improved photos into my blog.

The Silence of the Pussies.

Haha.  I love Sir Anthony Hopkins.  I wonder if he ever regrets doing that particular role.  What he probably regrets is hearing the same comment about beans and wine every time he goes into public.

Well, I guess Mellow can't be a bad guy all the time.

Somewhere Judy Garland is rolling in her grave.

Speaking of graves, I might as well go for broke.  Sorry Bruce.

I couldn't find one where Bruce Willis wasn't bald or looking like he just
took down Hans in Die Hard.  Oh, well.  Mellow will just have
to understand my artistic mentality.

And that being said, I have to pay homage to my favorite movie of all time.

Roy Scheider!  Robert Shaw!  Where are you?

Oh, hell, no.  Not finished yet.  Mellow, you're going down.

Yeah, punk.  Do ya feel lucky?  Well, do ya?

Am I getting carried away?  Maybe.  But I ain't done yet.

Do you think Mellow needs an axe for this one to work?

There.  I feel my dissing work is thoroughly accomplished.  Mellow is either going to hide in Tibet and become a Buddhist monk or she's going to hire a hit man.  One or the other.

A final note: HIM has suggested that Mellow could have her own guest blog: Confessions of a Fat Cat, if she's feeling perky.  Bring it, bee-yotch.

Important Life Lessons OR What a 7 Year Old Can Teach YOU

Recently my 7 year old daughter came to me and said that everyone in her class hated her.  Try to follow along because it's an arduous journey of 7 year old reasoning here.  They hate her.  Therefore her name has to be changed.  Also there's a girl in her class who wants to be her friend but Cressy doesn't want to be her friend because you can only have one friend and the girl is ugly.  Of course, Cressy did say that she knew that was a mean thing to say but it had to be said.  Then there was something about one girl who told her that she couldn't be friends with any other girls.

Let's see.  How to wade through the quagmire?  First, I have to look up the meaning of the word 'quagmire.'  (It can mean swampy or it can mean a precarious position where disengagement is difficult.  Wow.  I like that.)  Back to the quagmire.

Okay, I have to say that whilst I was listening to my daughter, her father, HIM, the man to whom I am married and probably will always be married, was sitting in the background with a certain look on his face.  The best description of the look is akin to a wild animal who is crossing a road and suddenly realizes that a car is racing toward him and will most likely smoosh him into little bits of blood and guts.  The animal looks into the headlights and freezes because he doesn't know what else to do.  That's HIM.  Caught in the headlights.  But behind the big eyes was the fleeting thought, 'If I don't move or make any noise, they will forget I'm here.'

Note the expression of dismay.  Behind these eyes is an exotic, well-laid plan
of escaping to a third world country where HIM can live on the beach
and drink pina coladas.

The alternative, you see, would be the following:

Whoops.  Wrong picture.  I'm still laughing about that.  This is my sister's cat who got smeared in the last blog.  (Hint about the quote reference: for those of you under 40, it's a movie called Hellraiser.  Lots of gore, guts, stuff.  It's kind of like parenthood except you get to eat highly buttered popcorn while you're watching everything around you explode.)

Here we go.  This is what would happen if I hadn't been in the house when Cressy decided to offload childhood baggage:

HIM dispensing sage parental advice to our only child.

However, it was me who had to right wrongs, to balance her innate sense of unfairness, and to let her know that she was still okay.

Here's what I had to say.  1.  Your classmates don't hate you.  2.  Treat other people the way you want to be treated.  3.  Judging someone by the way they look is wrong.  4.  If someone doesn't want to be your friend then it's their loss.  5.  Other people don't have the right to tell you who you can and can't be friends with.  6.  If you want to change your name that's fine, but it's not going to change who you are.  (And I didn't even have to break out the rule book to spout these fine witticisms.)

All of these were taken with sincere aplomb.  "Good ideas, Mommy," Cressy said thoughtfully.  "I concur with your adept psychological and sociological adeptness at gauging the situation."  (Not really.  She just nodded a lot.)

Then came the killer statement that was not unlike a bomb being dropped on an Asian island in WWII.  She announced with unerring accuracy, "This is just like when people don't like Bubba, Mommy."  (My daughter is referring to one of the books I've written, Bubba and the Dead Woman, and my recent negative response to critical reviews, which apparently I've broadcasted a little too loudly.)

I looked up at HIM, but HIM was trying to count the bumps in the popcorn ceiling with amazing determinedness.  That ceiling certainly was awe-inspiring.

Only seven years old and she says that.  (What I was thinking was, 'How much was I talking about the reviews of Bubba?' and 'I thought she really wasn't listening.'  Both of which shows me, doesn't it?)

So what could I say?  "Yes, dear, this is like that.  Sticks and stones."

Cressy: "Sticks and stones?"

Me: "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but names can never hurt you."  (Unless you let them hurt you.)

Cressy, scoffing: "I wouldn't hit anyone with a stick or a stone."

Then she watched The Smurfs and life was pretty much okay again.  Interesting about life's little lessons, isn't it?