X-Rated Stuff OR How the Title May Effect Hits

Recently my writing bud, R. Mac Wheeler, guest blogged on my blog.  Naked Pictures and Wild Life.  Check it out.  So he got a ton more hits on his blog than I typically do on mine.  Why?  Good photographs?  Yes.  But I think it was the title.  I was thinking if I had an X-rated title, I would get more hits.  So I'm experimenting.  The actual title should be something like "How I'm Planning to Snark for the Remainder of this Blog or So Ya'll Want Something More Racy, Huh?"  Oh, shitaki mushrooms.  (Writers are jealous people.  It's in our nature.  We're always looking at other people's works and saying, "I could have done that.")

This is one of Mac's photographs, which I like a lot.  He does something
neat with the colors and it's kew-el.  However, it's not going to
stop me from making fun of the fact that his blog outstripped mine.

Other subjects that make me sound less snarky, but not much less.  HOME FRICKIN' IMPROVEMENT.  As I've previously stated, HIM, the man to whom I'm married, said I'm like a dysfunctional cat trying to mark the entire house instantaneously.  (That's a lot of cat pee, let me tell you.)  Moaning Myrtle is no more.  Instead I've got a new potty with buttons.  BUTTONS!  I love the buttons.  One button is for peepee.  The other button is for poopoo and probably other stuff, too.  I had to explain that to my daughter who is eight and used to a potty with a handle.

Which brings me to another subject.  The downstairs half-bath was the recipient of the first new potty and it had all of us fighting over who got to use it first.  (Doesn't that sound sick and wrong?)  I just wanted to press the buttons.  My sister wanted to know if it was a bidet, too, but it isn't.  Too bad.  I don't really want a bidet but I would like to go to a hotel that has a bidet so I can see how it works.  (Home Depot does not sell bidets.  Neither does Lowes.  The people at Home Depot and Lowes now know us personally.  They asked about my rash.  They also started sending me coupons and I can't remember giving them my home address.  Big Brother is watching us.  I didn't rip the tag off the mattress in 1978.)

Where was I?  Meandering.  Again.  It's a hopeless flaw.  Sometimes I have a point and I completely forget what it was.  Like now.  Oh, yes.  The bathroom.  Well, we moved to a new town and a new state and I'm having to get used to everything.  Including the local fauna.  This house has its own fauna.  There are spiders everywhere.  I think they're some kind of Daddy Long Legs.  The one in the downstairs bathroom (see, I got back on track eventually) is called Bob.  Bob hangs out in the corner where I couldn't reach him if I wanted to reach him.  I was okay with it as long as Bob stayed up there.  Live and let live as long as Bob didn't trespass in my private area whilst I was pressing potty buttons or doing something else.

HOWEVER, Bob done messed up.  Yesterday, our daughter went into the downstairs potty and then immediately came back out in a marked hurry.  Turns out that Bob had come down from the ceiling.  Alas Bob met his maker.  It was very sad.  But today my daughter came out of the same bathroom.  (We use bathrooms a lot don't we?)  She said, "There's another Bob in the bathroom."  Haha.  Bob Jr. took up residence.  They must have a waiting list.  (I wonder if they're related to the Daddy Long Legs in Arkansas.  I sure hope not.  They might have sent each a memo about me.  Check out On Camping OR OMG I'm Going Camping Again.  There are illustrations.)

Did I misspell the a-word?  Too bad.  My blog.

Also we have chipmunks in the front yard.  I spent about thirty minutes on the Internet trying to figure out what kind of chipmunks they are.  I couldn't find out.  I know that they're not related to Alvin or Chip and Dale.  Also I learned that chipmunks are not spelled chipmonks.  I've been misspelling that my entire life.  Color me embarrassed.

But wait there's other kinds of wildlife abounding.  I went out front to look at the rain and almost stepped on what I thought was a lizard.  It was a lizard but it's a lizard I've never heard of before.  It's called a ground skink.  It was about four inches long and black.  I thought I was going to levitate.  (I did levitate.  Fat Women can levitate in dire circumstances.  A tiny black thing with a wiggling tail lasciviously eying my foot is almost certainly a dire circumstance.)  And most importantly, it was a NAKED ground skink!  It was completely unclothed on my front porch!  Who says that living in Alabama isn't exciting?

There it is.  The X-rating.  A naked ground skink.
I've sunk to a new low.

Brownie and the Dame Now Available OR How I Published Another Novella!

Finally, another advent into Bubba's world with Brownie and the Dame.

Brownie Snoddy is visiting the Snoddy Mansion for Spring Break!  Where Brownie goes, mayhem is sure to follow.  Possibly destruction, terro, pandemonium, and anarchy might follow, too!  He's got his hands on a fedora, a stack of hardboiled mystery novels, and is ready to squirt metal at the nearest evil perpetrator, even though his reliable stun gun has been appropriated.  When Janie, the niece of Willodean Gray, the beauteous sheriff's deputy, shows up to participate, all heck breaks loose.  There's mysteriously missing stuff!  There's galvanized goings-on!  There's things a ten-year-old boy and an eight-year-old girl with a penchant for all things police, want to get in on.  Even Bubba and Miz Demetrice can't stop the serious sleuthing of Brownie and the dame!

This is a novella of about 34,000 words.

Get it at Amazon.

Get it at B&N.

Get it at Smashwords.

Happy reading ya'll!

Rambling Notes from an Eccentric Airbrain

Warning: hopeless meandering may take place in this blog.  Also there might be rambling, roaming, hornswaggling, and wait, my new word from Hampton Roads Writers, hooptadoodling.  (The word is actually hooptadoodle, but I did a literary license thing and made it into a verb.  I'm bad.  Someone must punish me.)

I think the move broke me.  Maybe it was the heat.  All I know is that I don't go outside voluntarily between the hours of 10 AM and 8 PM.  Then I prowl the neighborhood looking at other people's houses and thinking, "I could do that to my house."  "Oh, my, look what they did with their shutters."  "Hey, they've got a waterfall.  We could have a waterfall."  Then I think about how much that would cost and my brain shuts down again.  (I'm caught in a kind of DIY/Home Improvement mind loop that happens to me every time we move.  HIM says it's like I'm trying to pee in every corner of the house, except I'm not using pee.  HIM is so droll.)

While the new house is a very nice house and not necessarily a new house, it is a house in need of TLC.  This, that and the other is broken.  Or it's about to break.  Or it's screaming with agony.  For example, we have a toilet that I have not-so-endearingly nicknamed "Moaning Myrtle."  Moaning Myrtle, for those of you non-Harry-Potter fans, is a ghost who haunts a bathroom at Hogwarts Castle.  She does moan a lot and not in a good way.  So does the toilet upstairs.  In fact, it moans and shakes.  It makes me think it's about to become a first floor toilet, and also not in a good way.  So hey, we bought a new toilet.  The new toilet has buttons on it.  (I'm impressed.)  One button is for peepee and the other button is for poopoo.  Imagine trying to explain that to your eight-year-old daughter.  It was great fun.  ("Why?" "Because peepee needs less water."  "Why?"  "Because peepee is mostly water."  "Why?" "Hey, let's get ice cream."  "Why?")

Installation of new toilets means you must first take out the old toilet.  In a house that is older than 10 years, that means that you must take a hack saw and saw off the bolts at the bottom because they're probably rusted solid.  (It said so in the instructions that came with the new toilet.  They know.  They know.)  Also you have to scrape out the old wax ring, which is really icky.  Also you need some towels and bowls in case you didn't get all the water out of the toilet.  (Interesting factoid.  If you pour a bucket of water into a toilet, it will flush by itself.  WOW!  Something you wanted to know, right?  Go try it.  It empties out the bowl.  Of course, you have to turn off the water valve to the toilet first.) (Don't forget to wash your hands before coming back to the computer and using the keyboard.)


So this course of thinking got me to wondering what a toilet
would say, if a toilet could speak, which results in
much blog hilarity.  Of course.

So you'd think we did Moaning Myrtle first?  No, we opted for the half-bath downstairs, partly because that's the one everyone is using and partly (mainly) because neither one of us wanted to heft the really, really really heavy box with the new toilet in it up the stairs.  I like my back in a non-hurting state.  So does HIM.  So next weekend, it's Moaning Myrtle's turn.  HIM tried to make Moaning Myrtle work by adjusting the flapper valve inside the tank, but what that did was to make her moan longer and longer.  Haha.  She went on for about five minutes before I said, "Make it stop."  Then HIM said, "It'll go off in a minute."  I said, "It's not going off."  Then about a minute later, as the toilet was still wailing like the damned, I waggled my eyebrows at HIM in a meaningful fashion.  (Not the happy-happy joy-joy meaningful fashion way, but rather in an oh-for-the-love-of-Merciful-Pete-are-you-going-to-do-something-now? fashion.)  So HIM went and turned Myrtle off.


I don't think the toilets in the Y have fun.  But then
the toilets at all the public schools don't have
fun either or the bus stations or the airports.
Toilets are very sad.  We need to draw happy faces on
them.

Meanwhile, in the old house we have rented out to strange people who said they liked my bell ringer, there was damage to the storm door from the humdinger of a storm that whizzed through last week.  I have to figure out how to get someone to measure the storm door opening and get a new storm door and get someone to actually take out the old one and put in the new one.  All without writing a million dollar check.  Landlord = having to keep things up.  Bad landlord = wanting to say, "Oh, it's not bent, it's modern."

The cat and the kid have adjusted to the new house.  I haven't seen a ghost yet although closet doors keep opening by themselves.  The stove is frickin' electric and I hate cooking on electric.  (Apparently every house HIM looked at in the area is all electric because there's a nearby nuclear plant.  Nu-cle-ar.  Did anyone see Madagascar 3 yet?)

I'm going to melt into a pile of fat woman goo.

There.  Doesn't a little mascara and lipstick and a comedic demeanor
make that toilet seem happier?
For the person who just said, "But she's crying on the inside,"
I say, "Pfft." 

The Ninth Level of Hell OR the DMV

With moving comes great responsibility.  No wait, isn't that, with great powers comes great responsibility?  Or with great cupcakes comes great rolls of belly fat?  Or is it with great moron cats comes litter box scooping responsibility?  Oh hell, I'm meandering again.  Anyway, the short point is that I had to get a new driver's license.

These are all the people who didn't get to go in the sacred "BACK ROOM/AREA"
You can't tell from the back, but these people are very unhappy.
There was lots of grumbling.  Plus they didn't like the chairs very much.

HIM warned me that the wait at the local DMV (This stand for the Department of Motor Vehicles who actually owns our souls in the USA) was somewhat lengthy.  Let's say the word so that it shall be remembered forever.  Lengthy.  Let's also stretch the word out so that it sounds important and pious.  Leeeeeeennnnnnnnnngggggggtttttthhhhhhyyyyyy.  There, isn't that funnier?

I thought I'll go on a Tuesday, I'll go early, in fact, I'll get there really early, and I'll get in and out.  Hahaha.  My internal reasoning was thusly.  I am smarter than the DMV, I'm smarter than the state troopers, and I'm smarter than the governor of Alabama.  Hahahahaha.

Oh, how the mighty will fall.

The DMV opened at 8 AM.  I left at 7:15 AM and I thought I'd be first in line.  I was actually second in line.  Furthermore, there were a bunch of people who were still in their cars staring at me while I broiled in the sun at 7:25 AM.  (It's Alabama in June.  It's frickin' hot at 7:25 AM and the DMV obviously designed the building so that NO ONE will have any shade to stand in while they're waiting in line.)  (If someone succombs to sun stroke, the DMV does not have to give them a driver's license.)

This isn't what really happened in the DMV line, but it was a distinct possibility.

So other people got in line.  About 5 minutes until 8, the people in the cars got out and congregated around the front door.  I was all like, "OH, no you don't cut in line, you pansy-hiding-in-cars-nurfherders."  On the inside.  The lady who was in line three places behind me was somewhat more vocal.  She said loudly, and with explicit hand gestures, "Where they think they going?  The line starts back there!"  She repeated it three times in case the people in front didn't miss it.  I think she had a bull horn.

At 8 AM sharp the door was opened by a sixty-something female trooper wearing one blue slipper.  (I don't have to make stuff up.  Her other shoe was a brown loafer.  I think she had a foot booboo or she has early Alzheimers, one or the other.)  She announced that all the people who had appointments would go first.  (The pansy people hiding in cars had the appointments.)  I wanted to make an appointment but the slipper wearing trooper said that was only for people who were going to have a road test.  I was all like, "I'll take a road test if it means I get to go first."  You see, it turns out that there were 22 people having road tests at 8 AM that morning and they GOT TO GO FIRST!  (I would have given my left boobie if I meant to go first.  Not really, but it sounds good in print.)

We got to go in after the 22 other people got to go in.  (Those were all the people who didn't have sun stroke and third degree burns.  I'm going to get sun block after I finish this blog.)  So by the time I talked to the lady with the slipper and she examined my documents.  (I had to show her my old driver's license, my social security card, my passport, a signed contract from Satan, and a form giving over my first born child to the state before I got my number.)  I was number 24.  That doesn't sound so bad, right?  Hahahaha.  (I'm doing a lot of laughing in this blog, but it really isn't funny haha laughing.  It's if-I-don't-laugh-I'll-cry laughing.)

I took this picture because the sign above the television
says "Absolutely no firearms allowed."
Hmm.  I wonder why.  I think the DMV might
have had experience with this issue before.

So I sat down to wait.  But Trooper Slipper did say I should probably get a cup of coffee because it would be 30 minutes until a number was called.  It was actually one hour and ten minutes before a number was called.  Then it was number 22 and 23.  NOT frickin' 24.  During the hour and ten minutes I had to listen to an elongated diatribe from a young woman who had to be at work at 10:30 AM.  (It was about 10 at that time.)  I couldn't believe it but she was angrier than I was.  Steam started to flow from her ears.  (She was number 32.)  All she wanted to do was get an Alabama driver's license because she moved from Tennenesse.  She left about 10 minutes later, just as they finally called my number.  I felt like the angels had trumpeted my name.

I took this picture because of the 80s boof
and also because the number thingy at the
top DID NOT change for three frickin'
hours.  Then it finally went to 23.  I think
people thought they were trapped in a psychotic
episode.

Doing a little happy dance, I went into the other section where all the other people had gone and what did I find?  I had to wait in ANOTHER frickin' line.  And in this line you couldn't talk, use your cell phone, or fart.  (People were being tested nearby and they might loose their concentration.)  (Cressy went with me and shushed me when I tried to say something.  Also she tapped my hand when I took out the cell phone to take a picture and pointed to the no cell phones sign.  My OWN daughter ratting me out to the law.)

I sat there so long that I was beginning to think that my butt was going to have to be surgically removed from the seat.  Cressy and I couldn't talk so we made more and more elaborate funny faces at each other.  At one point in time I looked up and we had an audience of somewhat-amused fellow detainees who were watching our antics because they had nothing better to do.  (So glad I could lessen their waiting pain for a few moments.  I think Cressy beat me in the cross-eyed face making department.  Obviously that's what she learned in school last year.)

Finally, a genuine boofed trooper (stuck in the seventies or eighties I think, circa Dallas or Mary Tyler Moore) called me up.  I was daydreaming about escaping and almost missed it.  Then she wanted my documents again.  Sigh.  I did the eye test.  She wanted to know why I was wearing glasses if I didn't need them during the eye test.  I was grilled about my momentary vanity.  Then she asked me if I had driver's licenses in other states.  (That's a list.  I even forgot three that HIM reminded me about later.  I wonder if they'll come and take my license away because I didn't own up to a learner's permit in Oregon, a brief stint in New Mexico, and an USAEUR license I had when I was stationed in Germany.)  (And also Woody reminded me I had a brief license in Louisiana in between moves and I also had an Army license.  Hell, I'm getting old.  I don't remember half of what I actually had.)


This was a suggestion from the peanut gallery.
The trooper's identity has been
concealed to protect her boofiness.



On a bizarre side note that haunts me, Trooper Boof asked me my hair color, even though I was sitting in front of her and she was obviously not blind.  I said brown.  She eyed me carefully and said, "I don't think you can pull brown off, honey."  (She tried to downplay the insult by drawling the word, "Honey.")  Well, I wanted to go with brown.  She thought I should go with gray.  Since she had the uniform on and the computer on her side, she won.  That rotten bitch.

When I was done I walked out into the exterior area I embarrased my only daughter by whooping with joy.  Made everyone look up and then I checked out the number on the wall.  It was on 27.  Some of those people are probably still waiting there.

Naked Pictures and Wild Life

This week, my guest, Mac, takes over the blog.  He's taking pity on me because of the moving debacle.  I enjoy his photos and his writings, so hopefully will you.

Guest blogger R. Mac Wheeler

If you're an avid reader, you may care that I’m an author of character-driven SF/F/paranormals filled with quirky sorts who lug a lot of baggage, in worlds that aren’t that far out.

If you love nature, or photography in general, you may care that I have the photo addiction, and weekly post pictures I take during my outings. CL has generously invited me to share some of my favorites today. Stop by my blogs on Sunday evenings…I almost always have a new set. Please visit, leave a note. I love the company…I don't get out much.

There you'll find pix like these, in and around Tampa, Tampa Bay, Hillsborough Bay, the Hillsborough River, University of South Florida, and Tampa University: 

 (hint: if you are not in a news-reader...click on a picture to drop into a higher resolution Lightbox of the galley)

-R. Mac Wheeler
Home Page…Facebook…Contact me …On Kindle…On Nook

I Have Mooooooved OR My Brain Has Left the Building OR I'm Writing a Blog to Make Mysefl Feel Better

Well, I don't have my bamboo pad to do wondrous illustrations to offset my sarcastic sniping.  I think the bamboo pad is somewhere in the southern United States in the back of a big truck, along with the rest of our stuff.  In other words, there won't be quaint and gut-splitting drawings.  So I'll stick something in that I already did.

I think it's apt to malign HIM again.

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Moving.  Well, it's a horrid, wretched story.  The cat went into his kitty carrier and stayed there for 12 hours straight.  I had to force him to drink water and that wasn't pretty.  On the other hand, the pharmacy in Bristol, Virginia is a happening cool place because they gave me a free syringe.  (Those of you without pets will have to ask those of you with pets about this process.  I have to take a break to change the bandages on my arms.)

The battery of the car died right at the beginning of the trip, causing HIM's vein in his forehead to pop out ominously.  Fortunately the good neighbor was home (HIM said he would rather be dragged through poison ivy and poison sumac and poison oak before asking the bad neighbor for a jump.  Also he would take a cab to the auto place first, but we dodged that bullet) and gave us a jump.  Our first stop in our 12 hour extravaganza was at Auto Zone where we purchased a new battery for $155.  I'm told by HIM that one does NOT skimp on car batteries.  (I assume HIM is right but what do I know?)

But we were in such a hurry that HIM stuck the new battery in the back of the Explorer and decided just not to turn the car off for 12 hours and/or 600-ish miles.  That was loads of fun.  We only stopped to go to the bathroom, get food, force water down the cat, and fix the straps on the doohickey we bought to put on the top of the car.  (I said something about stopping to pee and HIM glared at me.)

Incidentally, it turns out that Uhaul won't rent trailers to people with Ford Explorers.  Uhaul sucks.  They said it was an insurance issue.  (Ford Explorers = Lawsuit badness)  We saw a mini-truck that had been chopped, slammed, and dropped and IT was towing a Uhaul trailer.  The connection nearly dragged on the asphalt and the back doors of the trailer were held together with a bungee cord, but hey it wasn't a Ford Explorer so I guess they didn't have an insurance issue.  Silly me.  (Seriously, chopped, slammed, AND dropped AND hauling a Uhaul trailer.  I'm not making it up.)

So we bought a thing that gets attached to the roof.  It's a thing.  You know, a technical term.  A thing.  You attach it to the beams on top and put stuff in it.  The whole way I was afraid it was going to blow off and kill the poor, unfortunate souls in the vehicle unlucky enough to be directly behind us at the time it decided to attempt its great escape.  (Cue Steve McQueen with a baseball and glove here.)  HIM put a strap on it because it was advised in the consumer reviews.  (Learn from some other poor bastards mistakes, I always say.)  The strap made noise.  It made a weird noise.  In fact, it made lots of weird noises.  In the first three hours of the trip we stopped four times to adjust the strap and beat my head on the tree on the side of the road.  This reminds me of advice I gave to HIM about keeping me happy.

Unhappy Fat Woman

Another old illustration because I don't have my bamboo pad which is driving around the countryside even as I type.

Happy Fat Woman.  (Birds singing here.)

There was some other madness involved.  My stomach rebelled about hour 11 and I decimated the rest stop at the Tennessee/Alabama state line.  (I think they took a photo of our license plate as we left so we would be banned from there for ever more.)

I was going to do a three parter on the moving thing, but I find myself getting tired of even repeating it.  So today they called to say the antique truck might be delivered today but the 60 odd year old fuel hose went buy-bye.  He might not be able to get it off the truck.  Hahaha.  I'm going for the alcohol in the fridge.  Maybe I'll take pictures.  The house stuff is supposed to be delivered on Monday.  I think I need a trip to the liquor store.

Anyway, the moron cat is okay now and exploring his new house.  The kid's okay, too.  She took the trip better than anyone else.  She got to watch Tron and Peter Pan.  She was rooting for the crocodile.

Hey YOU! Yes YOU! Feed My Stinking Fish!

I know.  I'm in the no-blog zone.  But my fish need feeding.  My sister tells me that's the main reason she comes to look at my blog, to feed my fish.  Apparently the little fishies amuse her in a way that my sarcastic, literary style does not.  Also my MIL told me she reads my blog nowadays but she does not feed my fish.  I need to put a new gadget up.

Also a reminder.  I'm in the middle of moving.  My brain has pretty much packed itself up and went buh-bye.  I think it said something about the Bahamas and a drink called a Screaming Red Zombie.  (That's not related to a Screaming Blue Viking and you have to yell, "Brains!" when you drink it.  Believe it or not, Red Robin (YUM!) introduced me to the Screaming Red Zombie after I was forced to sit through a 3 hour dance recital in which our only daughter was on stage for a maximum of four minutes.  I think my butt is still stuck to that seat in the auditorium.)

Although I'm non-blogging, I seem to be blogging.  It's very strange.  I can't stop.

Anyhoo, my house is a disaster area, money is flowing out in a disproportional rate, and I can't find anything.  As I've said before, moving sucks.  The packers are coming tomorrow to do twisted things to our belongings.  I had to hide all the good stuff.

This is what I picture happening when they load up all of our crap.
Picture by Drew Francis.  See here.

That's all I've got for now.  I must go and chase down my daughter's moron cat and put his collar on him so that he'll be used to it for the long drive down there.  Wow.  What fun.  Me, HIM, my daughter, and the moron cat in an explorer for 12 to 14 hours.  Hahaha.  Wonder if I can stock up on straight-jackets early.

More Amazing Blogs You Might Have Missed OR Look, I'm Not Really Blogging, But I AM!

In my last unblog (that's sort of like an unbirthday, thank you Lewis Carrol) I mentioned some of my favorite blogs.  But also there's more!  More!  More!  More!

In The Stupidest Man Ever I systematically rip through a stranger's psyche for being too stupid to know where ham and bacon come from.  You might not believe it but this man was that dumb.  He's dumber than my daughter's moron cat.  I swear the cat just meowed at me in protest.  Perhaps he's not that stupid.  Naw.

But wait, I felt like maligning my daughter's pediatrician in The Mystery of the Funky Green Poop.  Well, the doctor did ask for it, so did the nurse for that matter.  But who can resist the title?  It's a mystery AND it's funky and green.  How can you go wrong with that?

And who can resist The Underwire Bra - Wonder or Horrific Implement of a Vindictive Man?  I don't care for the illustrations in this earlier (think stone age) blog, but the story is hilarious.  One day someone is going to die by underwire bra in one of my novels and you'll know exactly how I came up with the idea!

Finally, for your reading hilarity there's SUPER Deodorant Power! Or How Advertising Has Attained the Level of Ludicrosity!  I probably made up a word, but hell I make up all kinds of things so making up a word seems insignificant in comparison.

So while all you wonderful people are reading, or rereading as the case may be, these older blogs, and giggling your collective tushies off, I will be huddled in a corner sucking my thumb because my brain has imploded on account of the whole horrendous moving process.  (Wow.  Run on sentence and I wasn't even trying.)  Have fun!

Blogs You Might of Missed OR Hey, Read This!

I was thinking, which usually gets me arrested, in trouble, or shunned, and it occurs to me that I've got tons of blogs and many of you might not have read some of them.  (Gasp!  How could you?)  Allow me to recommend my absolute favs, in no particular order.

Rats!  No, Really Rats! Or How I Will Always Hold it Against the Pest Control Guy.  Hey, the title speaks for itself.  We had rats.  We had cats.  We did not have Dr. Seuss or bats.  Hilarity ensued.

On Having a Daughter Or Don't Stare Luridly at My Child OR I Might be Oversensitive on This Issue.  What happens to my brain when some little male pipsqueak chats up my daughter with an offer of a "diamond."  Sarcastic hilarity (after the fact) ensued.

Him Had Surgery OR How This Day Got Progressively Weirder!  The adventures of Fat Woman and Pain in the Ass Man as they explore the wide wonderful world of surgery at a VA hospital.  After dealing with a GPS unit with a New Zealand accent and Washington DC traffic, the people at the VA seem really normal.  Not.  Hilarity ensued well after I got HIM home and had a drink.  (It might have been two drinks.)

The Origin of Zombies OR How We Must Never Drive Past Graveyards at Night.  Never let it be said that I don't listen to my daughter's stories about zombies.  Not only do I listen to them but I steal them for blog material, with proper acknowledgement, of course.

There.  That should keep you busy for about twenty minutes.

New Book Out! OR Look I Published Arcanorum!

Okay.  I know I said I wouldn't blog, but I did need to get the word out, after writing for a few months, having the proofreader/editor work on it, and finding a new formatting person, here it is:

Here's the description:

Jane is a woman without a past.  She wakes up in the back of a car with handcuffs on her wrists, with a man intent on doing her harm.  She escapes, but into the murky underworld of New Orleans.  A mysterious man shadows her and strange memories tantalize her.  People want to hurt her and an unearthly creature stalks the night.  Insanity might be a possibility but everything is horrifyingly real.

This sultry world is anything but ordinary.  Instead it is full of black magics and curious beasts and the thoughts of a man who can read Jane’s mind.

Jane must solve the mystery of who she is or be forever lost.

Book 3 of the Lake People series.

Find it here on Amazon.

Find it here on B&N.

Find it here on Smashwords.

Don't forget you can gift ebooks on Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords.

Happy reading, ya'll!

Confessions of a Highly Manic Fat Woman's Moving Experiences

To anyone who reads the blog, it comes as no surprise that I'm in the middle of moving lock, stock, and barrel to Alabama, where I will be reanimated as Super Fat Woman.  No, wait, make that *SUPER FAT WOMAN!!!*  (Wait, already on a tangent.  Imagining myself as completely rejuvenated after my move and eventual unpacking.  Probably not going to happen.)

So consequently in an effort to maintain my sanity, I'm taking a blog break for a few weeks.  Not sure when the computer will go offline, probably on the 15th and won't come back on until the next week.

I will, however, try to post when Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel comes up at the end of next week.  (Knock on wood.  Hell, find a forest and start hitting each tree.  I'm going to need the luck.)

I will still answer email and Facebook so I won't be completely off the grid.

In the immortal words of Ahh-norld, "I will be back."