I Didn't Die OR the Blogging Shall Recommence

Warning!!!! Change of subjects may occur frequently.

Okay, I haven't really blogged lately.  I suppose there's a few factors involved.  I went through a round of writer's block, which has been resolved through diet, exercise, drugs from a deep Amazonian forest, and lots of imagination.  (In fact, I just finished Iron Moon: A Cat Clan Novella, which is in the editing process right now.  Yeaness!)

Iron Moon: A Cat Clan Novella will
be available soon!  Soon I say!  Sooooooon!

I suppose I didn't feel like my usual round of hyperbole.  My usual subjects (the cats, my husband, HIM, my only child, customer service, any old odd thing that happened to me) weren't calling my name and insisting that I rant about them.  Don't you readers get tired of me ranting about stuff?

Sometimes I feel like a comedian and I have to be careful what I blog about.  (Off limit items still include my mother-in-law, my sister, my sex life, anything that will potentially embarrass someone beyond belief.  That reminds me of the time my sister and I went to Tijuana and whoops...nevermind.)

So my daughter recently wanted to have...a pedicure.  I went with her and although I was somewhat embarrassed about my calloused tootsies, I had one, too.

I look at this meme and I don't necessarily see pedicure.
I see feet in concrete because his wife is PO'd.

It was probably a good thing that I didn't understand Vietnamese because the man who was doing my feet was saying stuff.  Since I didn't understand, I was all like, "I bet I know what you're saying."  I was going to do some neat illustrations with my toe nails prominent and various "translations" as interpreted by moi, but my bamboo pad decided to flip me the bird.  HIM has informed me that buying another one is a business expense, so it's on order.  Anyhoo, we're at the place and Cressy's sitting next to me getting hers done.  The guy doing her feet asks her how old she is, (11), and then proceeds to flirt with her.  I mean, OMFG, RIGHT NEXT TO ME!  I mean, her mother is SITTING RIGHT THERE!  I had a strong urge to smack him with my Zoom, which would have been bad for the Zoom and might involved the police coming to arrest me.  I told HIM about it and HIM said, "It's probably because he thought she was older."  To which I responded, "But HE ASKED HOW OLD SHE WAS!" in a voice that could probably be heard by neighboring states.  (The understated part was, "AND HE STILL FLIRTED WITH HER!  The perv!")

This is probably what the guy doing my feet was thinking of using.

I guess this is a mommy issue.  What mommy wants to know men are looking at her daughter like she's a woman?  (I had an entire issue with some snot nosed kid wanting to give her a "diamond" when she was in the first grade.  Blog material gold.)

We didn't get these toenail paint jobs for very happy demons, but
it's always an option for next time.  (How do you wear shoes with these?)

This is also the last week of school for the kid.  (I warned ya about subject changing abruptness!)  Sure she's going, but they're not actually doing anything.  Yesterday they had a "hygiene" class.  (Today is the day to "use" "these" "guys."  In my head I see someone doing the curved fingers and then myself slapping them.  The fingers, that is.)  So what hygiene class means is that they talk about female issues.  I don't know what they did in the boy class because I don't have a little spy to comes home to tell me all the details like I do for the girl class.  Pardon me, "girl" and "boy" class.  They sent home a little prep package for that wondrous first day that they might have a "period."  (I need to stop and remove the little keys that have the caption marks on them before I go too far.)

Well, I already had this talk with my daughter.  (About ten times so far and yes, my daughter is counting.)  And I got her all the stuff she needs.  And I got her the American Girl book.  And I feel like I'm on top of this issue.  And the school is not her mommy.  And I feel sorry for all the little girls whose mommies are not on top of this issue.  Actually my sister got her the American Girl book.  But I made sure she read the American Girl book that my sister got for her.  (My talk: My aunt got me a copy of Our Bodies; Ourselves, which was a freaking eye opener if you've never had the talk before that moment.  If you haven't read it, it had pictures of suggested sexual positions in it, as well as all the other necessary stuff.)  (I should probably just go step on a land mine right now.)


Okay, I probably shouldn't have included this one but what else can you
do when your only child has a major life event?
Why, make a cake!
They didn't include the after shot for this one.  That would
be the shot where the girl picks up the cake and throws it
at the cake maker.
For the record, I did not actually do this.
I would never do this.
I would probably get the kid some chocolate and midol,
but not this.

I would also never buy this t-shirt,
but I would put it in a blog.

So since I'm zipping off in a dozen different directions (makes you wonder how I actually finish a novel, doesn't it?) I finally bought a new car.  All I can say (not true because I can say a lot) is that it's red (red, red, reddity RED!) and has got more electronics on it than a 777 jumbo jet.  Every time I see a button that I have not previously identified, I have to stop the car, pull out the ten pound manual, and look it up.  Amazingly there's still a few buttons I have yet to identify.  (Like Willy Wonka's Wonkavator, I'm pretty sure.)  (Did you know that the kid from the original movie grew up to be a veterinarian?  This is the kind of weird shizz that goes through my head.)

Unfortunately the inside of my car doesn't really look like
a Wonkavator, which is a shame.  I loved Gene Wilder but
he was much better in Young Frankenstein.

Also in this blog's report, the two cats of the house (the moron cat and the fat cat) have recently decided to fight every night for total world domination.

One will just be sitting there minding his own feline biz when the other one comes strolling past.  Then the first one will whack the second one in the ass.  Then the second one takes offense (as most would) and turns around and whacks the first one in the head.  Then the first one gets up and jumps on the second one.  There are certainly variations on this scenario.  Sometimes the second one skips the whack on the head and proceeds directly to jumping on the first one.  Sometimes the cat's positions are reversed.  Occasionally one holds the throat of the other one until they stop moving (and not in a "dead" way.  Whoops.  I used those things again.) and surrender.

Am I the only wondering if the black and white cat is
actually still alive?

Voila.  Cat World War III or XIIM, if you read Roman numerals.  I'm pretty sure I've lost count.

So there it is in a nutshell.  My blogging might have slowed down, but I'm still alive.

Fat woman out.

Fat Woman Speaks OR How I Felt the Need to Blog

Not much happened in this blog.

Writer's Block OR How to Motivate Myself

Nasty writer's block.  My muse has been mysteriously absent.  I have a laundry list of things to write and people are writing me to tell me to hurry the eff up and my brain was saying, "I don't think so."  I like my brain, but sometimes it rules and I drool.

Writer's block: "Writing about writer's block is better than not writing at all." - Charles Bukowski.  I like this definition.  It pretty much describes what I'm doing.  Kevetching about writer's block.  I'll do it larger:

WRITER'S BLOCK SUCKS THE BIG HAIRY FAT ONE!

There.  It had to be said.  And in blue, because writer's block gives me the blues.

Don't tell Splotch the rescue cat.  He thinks if I'm not actually working, I should be providing a lap for him to sit upon.  He also thinks that the keyboard is his newest bestest friend.  I had to buy a kitty castle so he could park his tuckus upon while I work.

I found another quote while looking for stuff about writer's block:

"I don't believe in writer's block.  Do doctors have 'doctors block?' Do plumbers have plumbers' block?' No. We all have days when we don't feel like working, but why do writers turn that into something so damn special by giving it a faintly romantic name?" - Larry Kahaner.  I'm pretty sure the answer to that question is that writers are prima donnas.  Pretty darn sure.

Where was I?  Ah, writer's block, and also making up stuff.  I have a magazine on my desk with an article about black holes.  I've read the article three times because I didn't understand the first two times.  There's a comment about "confounding general relativity" and "particle physics" which gives me a headache kind of like the kind I get when I've been skipping drinking tea.  I should probably take the magazine off my desk, but it gives me a little cheap thrill to say something about it.  (Scientific American, which is probably something most people like me buy because it helps them feel smarter.  It doesn't make me feel smarter to read the same article three times, but I'm persistent.  Also I like making the fonts smaller in some sentences, just to see if people are paying attention.)

Ideas on how to break my block!

1.  I brainstorm everything in five minutes, even the silliest storyline imaginable.  That one involved radioactive clowns and geomagnetic t-rexes starting a detective's agency in Phoenix, Arizona in an alternative time where aliens helped George Washington discover his feminine side while crossing the Delaware.  I bet no one ever did that one.

2.  I hit my head with a mallet until stars appear.  Or until I wake up in the hospital.  Hospitals are always good for inspiration.  It's the drugs or sometimes the time spent in the ER waiting room where you meet people you will never meet anywhere else ever.  (And they don't give a damn if I change the font size.)

3.  I take a break.  Unfortunately this break lasted two months, but it's better than not ever writing again.  (Harper Lee's got her second book coming out after fifty years, which is essentially something she wrote before To Kill a Mockingbird, which is a different version of the same book.  So she wrote one book.  That's it.  Do you think she ever gets tired of people asking her why she didn't write another damn book?)  I lurve Gregory Peck.

Okay, I'm done.  I just wanted to write, er, expel, er, vomit out, er, rant about my brain for a while.  I actually outlined a whole novella today and worked out the next two outlines on my schedule, so I'm fairly happy.

Hope you all are happy too.

Contemplations of a Fat Cat OR I am Blogging About the Cat Again

In case you're new to this blog, I'm a writer/author/storyteller who publishes independently.  I often blog about whatever strikes my fancy.  My daughter has two cats.  One is Megaroy, the moron cat, a Maine Coon mix with all of the IQ of a box of rocks.  The other one is Splotch, our adopted stray who is now an inside cat.  I often make fun of Megaroy, because I have to, and mostly because it's super easy.


 

Tell me.  Who wouldn't make fun of that?
I can't count how many times I've used
this picture.  He's totally asking for it.

Of course, there are others because I haz a smart phone with a cameraz.

I also haz a autosketch program where I can do
what I want with captions.  This makes for
much amusement.  (Another photo which is
well-used.  After all, it's LadderCat, with his
ears all sideways.  You know he knows I'm
making fun of him.)

And since I'm on a roll.

Yes, I took a photo of the moron cat playing in
the potty.  I couldn't help
myself.  (There was a bug fluttering around
in the water, in case you were
wondering.)

But now, there's Splotch.

Splotch is our rescue cat.  He was a stray we
fed for about a year until I could get him
to trust me, which was a problem for him
when I scooped him up and shoved him
in a cat carrier to take to the vet.  But
he forgave me eventually.

Splotch is what I would call well-nourished.  Since he was an outside cat, I believe that his reasoning is to eat everything because it might get swiped.  Meanwhile, Megaroy is looking on with a puzzled expression on his face and the obvious thought that went through his little pea brain, "Hey, why ya eating the whole bowl?  It's not going anywhere."  Consequently, Splotch has become fat.  16 pounds at the last vet visit.  That conversation sits on me just about as well as when I have to go to the regular doctor.

Example:
Doc: Did you know your cat is overweight?
Me: That explains the back pain I have when I pick him up.
Doc: That's not healthy for cats.  Do you give him table scraps?
Me: I eat the table scraps.
Doc: Haha.  Don't give the cat table scraps.
Me: I don't give him table scraps.  He eats his food and then he eats Megaroy's food.  I don't know why Megaroy hasn't lost weight.  (13 pounds and I got a lecture about that, too.)
Doc: We might have to put him on a kitty diet.
Me: He howls in the middle of the night.  Do you know why?
Doc: Why?
Me: The dry food bowl has run dry.

Of course, this isn't Splotch, but it looks a lot like him.

I thought I had such a fun time going to the regular doctor and discussing weight issues.  Well, it's twice as much fun discussing the cat's weight with the vet.  Why you might ask?  Because I'm getting looked at like I deliberately made the cat eat his food and Megaroy's too.

I have never owned a fat cat before.  Or dog for that matter.  Or goldfish, guppy, parakeet, etc.  We've always subscribed to the keep the-kibble-full theorem.  The animals knew it was there; they didn't stress out.  However, Splotch has food issues.  It's not an issue if he eats it all.


Here's Splotchy in his second favorite locale, enjoying
human leg warmth.  Does that look like a fat ass?
(Don't worry, I don't think he reads.)
And yes, that's an exercise ball in the background.
For some reason, the cats don't want to use it.

Here's my other issue.  If Splotch were any other cat, I would just chase him around the house every day for exercise.  Good for him, good for me.  Win/win.  Problem: he's scared of people.  He trusts me but not if I try to play with him.  It's too threatening.  I can chase Megaroy around all the live long day, and he likes it.  I chase Splotch for about a foot and he goes to hide under the bed for the rest of the day, which is good because he's not eating but bad because the poor thing is scared.

One of Splotch's favorite floor spots near the kitchen.
When Splotch runs his belly swings from
side to side.  I wonder if it hurts.

So I try to get him to play by using string or a cat toy.  I drag it around.  Splotch watches it, bats at it, then falls over, and bats it from a prone position.  I think the cat knows I won't make him work for it, which means he's about ten times smarter than Megaroy.

Consequently, we have a moron cat and a meatloaf cat.  Anyone who knows their Kliban will recognize that, but here's the cartoon for the reminder:

Now I know how to put the cat on a diet.  I have to put Megaroy's food on the table because Splotchy is too fat to jump up there.  (That's going to be a vicious cycle.  Splotchy will lose weight, jump on the table and eat Meg's food, get fat again, and then won't be able to jump on the table again.)

Okay.  Fat Woman out.



How I Choose to Exercise the Freedom of Speech OR Really, Seriously, Really?

Recently a certain anonymous person made the following comment on one of my blogs:

This is literally the most stupid shit I've ever read. I wish I could take the 5 minutes and 20 seconds or whatever back that I just wasted of my life back. YOU pulled your calf muscle, probably because you're lazy as fuck and havent stretched it since middle school gym class.

Fat bitch complaining because she's an impatient, ignorant cunt.

This person felt compelled to share their opinion about my opinions on Pier 1 and about myself.  I now feel compelled to mention a lovely amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Isn't free speech a lovely right to have?  Isn't it nice to be able to say what you're thinking?  Isn't it wondrous to have that freedom because you live in a country that allows you to have that freedom?  And I only bring this up because the person who just insulted me seems to be under the misinterpretation that I have to just take it, that I don't get to respond, even when the person is...da...da...dah...anonymous, a person who is too cowardly and craven to acknowledge that he or she is the author of a cold, lowbrow insult of the poorest quality.  While I detest stooping to that person's level, I can't help thinking, Haha.

Why yes.  Yes, it is.

With that in mind, I can only say a few things to Mr. or Ms. Anonymous.  Are fat bitch and impatient, ignorant cunts the very best insults you could come up with?  Were those the limits of your woefully inadequate and limited intellect?  Did your brain explode from the knowledge that you had posted a comment and told the author a "thing or two"?  Were you pleased that you were able to actually spell "impatient" correctly?

Oh, the pity I feel for you at this moment.  Allow me to bend to your stunted, impotent, wretched level of doltishness and assist you with a few undaunted insults.  Possibly you could memorize the ones that you understand, if you can get past having to look up words in the dictionary.  (I'm certain you don't own a dictionary so use one online. http://www.merriam-webster.com/)  Of course, if you can manage to read all of the words in a tolerable amount of time not limited by your use of your index finger pointing out each of the words, as well as moving your lips to sound them out.  (Whoops, one slipped past me.  I couldn't help it.)  In any case, here's some help for you, so that you won't look quite so stupid when you post your paltry, sad insults on the next blog that vexes your imbecilic sensibilities.

1. I was hoping for a battle of wits but you appear to be grievously unarmed and horridly indefensible.

2.  When you spoke your mind, you obviously didn't have even a bit of anything left in it.

3.  It isn't that I'm not a people person, it's that I'm not a stupid people person.

4.  I just stepped in something that was smarter than you, and it smelled better, too.

5.  Come back and post a comment when your I.Q. exceeds your age.  Or possibly your bra size.

6.  Your village just called.  They're missing an idiot.

7.  Calling you stupid is actually an insult to stupid people.

8.  It's a good bet that your brain feels very good, seeing as how you've never actually used it.

9.  Walmart called for you.  They've run out of stupid.

10.  What's on your mind?  You'll have to forgive the overstatement.

Well, I feel better now.

And for my favorite insult of all time...

I'd like to see things from your point of view, but I can't get my head that far up my ass.  Good luck getting yours out of your ass without needing to see a proctologist.

Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies is OUT!

Bubba is in the midst of wedding planning, or rather, Bubba is the midst of evading the wedding planner, when trouble comes looking for him.  David Beathard AKA The Purple Singapore Sling AKA Bad Black Dog McGee AKA a whole new improved persona is afraid something awful is happening out at the mental institute.  David desperately needs Bubba’s help, seeing as how he’s been involved in solving a murder mystery or two, or three or was it four or five?  Even while avoiding all the wedding nonsense and coddling Willodean, Bubba feels the need to support a friend, be he a loony or not.  There’s folks disappearing, murder, and mayhem at the Dogley Institute for Mental Well-Being.  Armed with Precious, his faithful Bassett hound, and Ol’ Green, his faithful Chevy truck, Bubba aims to do what he does best, and amble on through the mystery before someone goes to jail, or worse, gets themselves murdered most foully.

Book 6 of the Bubba Mystery series.

Available at Amazon here.

Available at B&N here.

Available at Smashwords here.

Anatomy of a DIY Job OR The Kitchen From Heeeeellllll....

When we moved in three years ago, I knew I had to do something to the kitchen.  It had an antique microwave from the aulden times.  It had linoleum counters.  I think the only thing that had been done to it was that the floor had been tiled.  But hey, they tiled on top of tile on top of linoleum.  I don't know what they were thinking but the guy who came to replace the dishwasher (high tile on the floor in front of the old dishwasher) had plenty to say about it.  (I don't think he knew that I could hear him.)  He had to wiggle the old one out and then he mentioned something about using a jack to get the new one in.  (I believe this wasn't the first time someone had overtiled in front of a dishwasher for him.  Anyway he finally managed to install it.)

This is the before kitchen, but after we removed the sink.
Yucky linoleum countertop.
I saved on paper by using all the extra crappy
sheets I get when I print something out from
a website and it prints an extra twenty sheets,
causing a vein in my head to pop.

I should have written down the date I started just to see how long it would take.  All I remember is that I started with the island.  I did the top of the island by spraying it with hammered silver spray paint.  Then I took all the doors and hardware off the island and sanded the doors and the base.  Then I used a gel stain on it.  Originally I was supposed to do the gel stain like five times.  One looked good to me.  Then I used a rub on polyurethane on it.  Finally I put the hardware on it.  It turns out that the new hinges don't fit exactly like the old hinges.  Therefore a process involving HIM, one of my feet, two drills, and pushing until something threatened to pop and I put the hinges in a new location.

So I stared at it for a while.  I took pictures.  The old stain didn't look like it was different from the new stain in the photographs.  I didn't like the countertop.  I counted the doors that I had to remove.  I stopped counting after 40 because my head hurt.


This is the countertop spray painted with hammered silver,
which as it turned out, I didn't like.
Look, I've got lots of knives on my wall.
I chop a lot of vegetables.

Determined, I started on the cooking side of the kitchen.  I took all the doors and drawers off.  I numbered them with tape.  (Some of those doors were the same size and I wasn't going to take a chance.)  I started sanding.  I kevetched at HIM to help me sand because my shoulder started to hurt.  I taped off the counters.  I sanded some more.  I wiped.  I stained.  I poly-ed.  I did a system in the garage.  I systematically took every extra sock and rag in the entire house to use.  I finally made it though one side.  Then it took me three more days to do all the doors front and back.  Then hardware back on.  Then I had to grab HIM to help me put the doors back on and put the screws in a new location.  Finally one half was done.

This is the countertop after I decided to do weird
things with black paint and wadded up
plastic wrap.  (Officially that's called "faux."
Unofficially that's what I call "Oh, what the hell?")

I took a break for two weeks.  Then I went after the other side, which was smaller.  There were issues such as having to move the location of the new hinges on one of the doors above the refrigerator because it wouldn't butt up against the hinge from the door right next to it.  I invented new curse words.  It took me forever to do all the damn drawers and doors.  It took me forever and a half to cut the drawer pull's screws to the appropriate size because they came long and you had to just cut it where you needed.  Since I have about eighty-something pulls, not all of them were the same size.  The drawer's pulls were smaller than the doors.  The recycling drawer was also different.

This was my guinea pig island part.
We poured epoxy on it and then
used blow torches.  What fun.  After all
the cold this week I have learned
that blow torches can be used
for epoxy de-bubblifying
and unfreezing frozen faucets.

Finally, I finished the refinishing part of the kitchen and eyed the countertops with avarice.  I did not like the spray paint so I looked at faux finishes.  I found several to do and went to town with black and white paint.  Cressy insisted on helping.  I said, "What the hell," and let her.  Then we took the island into the garage and poured resin epoxy on it.  That sounds simple but involves mixing two parts together for three minutes, pouring it into another container, and mixing it for three more minutes, and then pouring it onto your top.  You also have to use something to spread it.  Then you have to use a blow torch to pop the bubbles in the epoxy.  Most important part is that you only have twenty minutes before it sets up.

Installing the kitchen sink.  Bottom left corner
is HIM, the man who has to put up with
such notions as "Let's redo the kitchen.  You
can help," and "Don't you think it would
look better if I did that instead?"  It's a sign
of undying love that he actually puts
up with it.

Supposedly you let it set up overnight for eight hours and then it needs to harden for 72 hours.  Okay, it looked good but it was gooey.  I got up in the middle of the night and it was still gooey.  In the morning after about ten hours I decided it was too damn cold in the garage and put heaters on it.  Then it set up.

There.  All done.  I know these pictures aren't in order
but the hell with it.  I forgot to take pictures
of the before and after of refinishing the cabinets.

It was then time to tape off the countertops and don't forget to put lots and lots and lots of plastic tarp on the floor.  We mixed a gallon of the resin epoxy and poured our little hearts out.  We spread and spread and used two blow torches and finally finished one side.  The next day we did the other.  Did I mention that we took out the sink and the garbage disposal for that side?  Well, HIM did that.  I watched and offered sarcastic commentary.  We went to see The Hobbit: Where 5 Armies Go to Kick Ass and Chew Bubblegum or whatever the name of it was, and then came back to pour the countertop.  That being done, HIM wanted to use the island but I was reluctant to put anything on the island since it had only been five days instead of 72 hours.  I think I was going for about ten days at that point because I couldn't figure out how it was going to work.  (Picture a fat woman with a fly swatter fending off HIM from putting anything on the countertop.)

I know this doesn't have anything to do with my DIY project but
I thought it was funny that someone tied in DIY with The Walking Dead.
I LURVE The Walking Dead.

After three days the countertops looked pretty good.  I helped put in the sink, which involved lots more sarcastic commentary.  HIM visited Home Depot no less than four times.  Home Depot people look at us weird now.  We send their children birthday cards.

Common sense DIY advice.

The new sink, new faucet, and hot water aerator were installed.  We had a sink again.  We had been using paper plates, plastic utensils, and washing everything else in the bathroom sink, which is inherently icky.

You know I don't have a nail gun...
But I have a blow torch.  Actually I have two.

I guarded the countertops until I deemed them safe to sit anything upon them, which was another couple of days before HIM slipped by my defenses.  I put the stovetop back in.

This picture doesn't do all that $%#@!!! work justice.
t looks a lot better in real life.
I have a fricking hot water aerator now.
I get instant boiling hot water.
I drink a lot of tea.  So that's good.

You'd think I was finished, but no, I wanted to paint.  I removed plug coverplates and the old curtains.  I washed and cleaned floorboards.  I discovered that I would have to cut in a lot of area because of the cabinets.  I wasn't sure if I was tall enough to do on top of the cabinets.  The ladder was tall enough.  I painted for days and days and days because the fricking paint needed three coats to cover everything up.  Sometimes it needed four coats.  HIM put in new plugs and switches.  I found and installed new switch covers.

Okay, who did all the DIY/Walking Dead memes?

I decided I wanted black, so guess what you can buy black outlets at Home Depot.  (Equal opportunity outlet provider, you know.)  Then I had to touch everything up.

I think I'm done with DIY for a few weeks.

My Personal Favs OR Not Writing a New One Today

Okay.  Here's a list of my favorite blogs from myself.  Go to the link and check them out:

The Mystery of the Funky Green Poop.

 

What can I say?  It was a good story and all mostly true.  Some people ask me if what I tell is really true, with the emphasis on really.  It is really twue.  Twue.  Twue.  Twue.  Of course, the sarcasm and hyperbole are all on me.  If I interpret the expression on the doctor's face, then there is a possibility it might not be what the doctor is actually thinking.  Ah, the writer's prerogative; a wondrous gift.

 

 

The Scintillating Saga of the Seven, er, Three Hotdog Samurai OR What Happens When I am Bored and My Daughter Has Input

 

I can't think of a better way to spend time with my daughter or with uncooked hotdogs, toothpicks, and cookie sprinkles.  Also a camera and a vivid imagination.  I got carried away with the ketchup but what the hell?

 

 

John Carter of Mars OR John Carter Does Mars OR Edgar Rice Burroughs is Rolling in his Grave!

 

I love doing movie reviews, especially when I can pan it.  As a matter of fact, there are very few movies I can go to that I can't pan.  (I should probably say won't pan.)  This one was a fav because I always lurved ERB.  (That's Edgar Rice Burroughs for you neophytes.)  When I was twelve I wanted to marry ERB.  Other girls wanted to marry Shaun Cassidy and Barry Manilow.  I wanted to marry a man who'd been dead long before I was born and when I found that out, I was devastated in the manner that only a twelve-year-old can be.  So how dare Hollywood eff up my hero?  Oh well.

 

 

Paranormal Activity OR Why Demons/Ghosts/Supernatural Thingymabobs Never Possess Fat Women

 

This is from another movie I reviewed.  (When I say reviewed, I mean in a general, snarky way that I do.  I should just put the little marks around it for those who are dense.  "Reviewed".  I "reviewed" it.  It was "good."  I was "snarky."  It has been "done.")  Anyway, I love paranormal movies like this one because you can just yank at plot holes all you want.  You can kick the holes.  You can throw a bus through the holes and people will still say stuff like, "Now I have to 'see' this movie."  I would totally watch this movie again so I can make fun of Katie and Micah.  (Which by the way, Micah has always been MI-kah, not Mee-kah.  What's up with that?)

 

 

Pain in the Ass Man Rides Again!

 

I frequently make fun of my husband, HIM, the man to whom I'm married, well, because I can.  Also because he does stuff that inherently lends itself to being made fun of.  I can't help myself.  He's asking for it.  Fortunately HIM does have a sense of humor and doesn't mind much.  (We're still married, right?)

 

There ya go.  My favs.  If you haven't read these, take a minute to shoot some peas/and/or milk out of your nostrils.

Back in the Olden Days OR How I Sound Like my Mother

 

Today I was making lunch for my daughter.  I asked if she wanted pudding in her lunch bag.  She said yes in a mumbling fashion because she was busy playing Mario Kart 8.  I said something like, "They didn't have these when I was your age."  She said, "They didn't have pudding?" because she really was listening.  I said, "No, they had pudding.  You had to make it yourself.  Then you could put it into a cup and eat it."  She said, "Oh," because she isn't really impressed with that.  I said, "They didn't have a lot of things you do when I was your age," which makes me feel like I'm 95 and about to hit someone with my walker.

(I decided my walker would have little sharp pointy things on it and maybe a sword blade I could pull out from one of the handles.  Picture an emo goth walker.  I may wear leather at that age.  When you're 95 you get to wear whatever you want.  It's the law.)

I was reminded of what my mother said when telling me to clean my plate.  "There are starving children in China," she would say, "who would love to eat that."  (Which led me to look for something on Bing and I found this website, which is funny: Starving Kids in China.  Really, it is funny.  I swear.)  I don't think I've ever said that to my daughter.  But I have said, "There are poor people with poor kids who don't even have one stuffed animal, much less bags and bags of plushes you don't even play with."  (Yesterday we were looking for Christmas lights and I found a box with bags of stuffed animals in it.  I'm not even going to look in the bags.  They're going straight to Goodwill.  In fact, I'm going to stop writing this and go put them in the Explorer.)

There.  I'm back.  It's two days later, but I'm back.  I still feel old.  I catch myself saying some of those mother phrases that I hated when I was young.

It makes me think of things Mom said:

1.  Always wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident.  (I would think that would be a moot point if I was in an accident because I'm pretty sure that the clean underwear would no longer be clean.)

2.  Did you flush?  (I have to say this at least twice a day.  That's irony.  Then I forget to flush and don't let Cressy find that out.)

3.  If it were a snake it would have bitten you.  (I wish it was a snake just for a change.)

4.  When I was your age... (I have said this five times in the last week.  After the second time I said I started keeping track.)

And finally,

5.  Bored?  I was never bored at your age.  (Because back in the old days there was only one TV channel, an old cardboard box, and sticks to play with.  I have to threaten Cressy with making her clean something or making her eat broccoli, which is going to backfire on me one day soon.)

Anyway, back in the old days...

Observations on Dieting OR OH NOES, NOT ANOTHER DIET BLOG!

So I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, which is usually rich material for blogging.  Last week I looked at the appointment on the calendar and then looked at my scale and thought, "I should go on a diet."  Then I looked at HIM, the man to whom I'm married, and said, "You should go on a diet, too."  HIM looked at me and said, "But why?  Why me?"  I said, "Because I have all the power."  HIM said, "I'm leaving you until you stop dieting."  (Most of that conversation was really in my head.)  In my head I yelled back, "AND I'M TAKING ALL THE HALLOWEEN CANDY!"  Then HIM screamed, "NOES!  Don't take all the Halloween candy!  Please!"  Then the whole imaginary conversation denigrated into what my version of Pulp Fiction should have really been about, because I went on a diet and my brain immediately broke.

Observations:

1.) Dieting sucks.  I walk by the Halloween candy every day.  My daughter, who got a ton of candy, doesn't really eat it much.  (So not my daughter.)  I'm not even talking about the yucky candy like the dum dums or the gummy bear package.  (I don't know which sick bastard gave her a package of pretzels but I hope he got TP'd.)  She's not eating the Snickers bars or the Three Muskateers bars, or, horrors of horrors, the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups.  I don't know who could not eat the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups, but they must be a zombie.  Therefore I've come to the conclusion that my daughter is a zombie because she won't eat the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups.  (Conversely I'm sort of proud of her.  When she wants something she gets it, but mostly it's good just when she feels like it.  There's no eat the candy until she pukes, unlike how I was when I was ten years old.)

2.) I'm sick of salads after seven days.  I'm not even eating them more than once a day.  This was the menu for the week.  Brekky muffin with poached egg.  Green leafy salad for lunch.  Yogurt snacky poo mid-afternoon.  Regular dinner with low carbs.  I've lost six pounds in one week but I hate it.  I want to barf if I look at a poached egg again.  I want to smother everything with cheese, lots of cheese, mounds of cheese.  Salads suck.

3.) HIM is a cheater.  Not the kind where he goes off and finds wild women, but the kind who cruises past the vending machines at his work.  (What I imagine he says to the vending machine: "Hey, baby, looking good with G4.  Give me that chocolate nougat yumminess.  I have a few extra quarters.")  I don't work there, you see, and he knows I don't work there.  Plus I can't tell the people he works with to watch him to make sure he's not diet-cheating.  (That should be shortened to di-eating.  Get it?)  But hey he eats his brekky muffin with the poached egg.  (I added spinach, mushrooms, and green onions to it, so it wasn't completely bland.)  Then he does his lunch.  By the time he gets home he's ravenous.  Then I go to bed and eats all the Cheezits in the house.  HIM sucks.

4.) The half gallon of vanilla ice cream in the freezer that's been there for about a month is calling my name like a diabolical fiend from the realm called Diets Will Fail!  "CAREN!" it calls.  "We need you to eat us!  We taste good!  We're vanilla-y good!  We will melt in your fat mouth!  Come to us!"  Leftover ice cream sucks.

5.)  Watching television is pure f**king torture because I've come to realize that those sponsors know exactly when to play the food commercials.  Arby's.  Hardee's.  Red Lobster.  All of them, criminals. This is what they say: "Look, here's our super ultra fatty food that you must eat, b*tches!  You want it!  And we have mounds of cheese, too!"  I bet they have a group of fat testers who tell them stuff.  "Put the commercial on right about 8 p.m. when all fat people are wavering dangerously.  Make sure the cheese is dripping and there's bacon on everything.  Play upbeat music.  Make eating fun, delicious, and sexy."  TV sucks as much as dieting.  (I tried sticking to the kid's channels for Cressy, but you know what, you can salivate over an Easy Bake oven commercial.)

6.) Exercise sucks.  Right now I'm doing walkies.  I walk for 30 minutes a day.  I walk my ass off.  So I get home, sit down, and then I can't get up.  What the he-ell?  And my hips hurt.  What do my hips have to do with walkies?  Is this some arcane sign of old age that no one filled me in on?  Walkies suck.  Old hipbones suck, too.

7.) I need to interject something about the cat we adopted recently.  Splotch was a free range cat, i.e., someone lost him or dumped him.  He was that way for years which is why he wants lots of love and LOTS OF FOOD.  I call him Hoover Cat.  Hoover Cat weighs 15 pounds now and the vet has told me that Hoover Cat needs to loose weight.  However Hoover Cat wants to eat...everything...now.  So I decided I have to hide the food from Hoover Cat.  One would think that Megaroy, the other moron cat, would have lost weight, but somehow Megaroy has gained a pound too.  I always think it's a big laugh when the vet tells me that my cat(s) are fat and need to loose weight.  It's not like I don't have to listen to that from my doctor because, oh, yes, I do.  Now I have to listen to it from the cats' doctor, too.  This sucks.

In conclusion, everything sucks.  I want a cheeseburger.