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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds good, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HIM said, "I hadn't noticed."

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

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

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

"Yes," I prompted, "and?"

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

"For five weeks," I said.

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

Pain in the Ass Man mumbled something under his breath.

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

So I put it away.

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

Random Stuff OR What the Hey-Hey, I'm Going to Write in a Meandering Fashion

Let's see.  I just finished my draft of a Bayou Moon sequel.  I actually wrote it right after Bayou Moon, so I had to update some of the references.  I try to avoid using references nowadays, but they seem to pop in regardless.  (If I mention the President or someone in the news recently or some event like the Gulf War, which is what I did in this book, then it really dates it, unless it needs to be dated, in which case it's called a historical novel, and mine aren't.  Mostly they aren't.)  Anyway, Crimson Bayou should be out in a few months or so.  So yeaness.  I need to write a trailer for it so I can post it on the website and etc.

Also, Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note is on track.  The proofreading/editing Goddess of the Universe is working out all of my errors or at least 98% of them.  Then when correcting my boo-boos I usually add in a booboo.  (I hit the m key instead of the comma key, so that looks a little strange, and I do that a lot.)

Veiled Eyes has been updated, so if you want the new, improved copy wait until Thanksgiving and prompt B&N or Amazon or Smashwords into giving you the new version.

I have been buzay.

The first three Bubbas are available on Amazon in paperback.  (I am not happy with the prices.  Createspace does not make it easy to make it a reasonable price.  I will apologize only once.)  If you can't live without Bubba in large (6x9) paperback, go here for Bubba and the Dead Woman.  Go here for Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas.  Go here for Bubba and the Missing Woman.  What a great Christmas gift for a Bubba-deserving individual.  A set of three.  Look for Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note in print soon after the ebook is released.

In other news, my back sucks.  I need muscle relaxers and the doctor said to take ibuprofen, which normally I would say, "Great!  Ibuprofen works wonders for that pesky time of the month, but wait, it's the pinched nerve in my back and not my period, dumbass."  But what I said was, "Okay," because medical doctors intimidate me and he'll only say something about how skinny people never have back problems.  Hahaha.  Skinny people have back problems.  Let me get off my high fat horse.  (I'm suddenly inspired to do a drawing.)

Tree house II is taking its toll.  It's got a roof with shingles.  Now we're doing the walls.  We cutting out the siding and painting it before it goes up.  (I know.  It sounds backasswards, but it's working for us.)  In the meantime our only child is mentally designing her girl cave.  (Her: "Mommy, it shall have a small round table.  Four chairs.  A hammock.  A toy box.  Posters on the wall."  Me: "Cressy, it's only four feet by four feet."  Her: "It will fit, Mommy.  Trust me."  Me: "Sure, baby.")

Note the shingles on the roof.
They were a shingley pain in the tuckus.
I now have compassion for roofers
everywhere.

Here is a picture of the walls we're painting.  Yes, the color is this plumish red.  Wait until you see the trim.  It's purple.  And I mean, it's frickin' PURPLE!  However the door will be pink.  Bright, Pepto-Bismol pink.  It's so pink that the astronuts in the International Space Station will be going, "Damn, that's pink."

When the neighbors peer through the brush
to see what we're doing, they won't be able
to miss it.

Off to soak in the bathtub and contemplate my latest literary masterpiece.

Post Halloween Depression, Tree House II Progress and Other Stuff!

Look, we even had a kid to pop out and go "BOO!"

I was severely disappointed by Halloween.  I mean we put out gravestones.  We put up 12 spiders with googly eyes.  We did purple Halloween lights along the walkway.  We had a fog machine.  Come on.  I had a boatload of candy.  (The good kind, too.  No generic crap.  No bubble gum.  Twix, Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, and Butterfingers were examples.  We didn't have candy.  None of that pussy candy from the Dollar Store.  We had CANDY!)

For all of this, we had one stinking set of trick or treaters.  (Technically there were four of them, but they were all together so I can say it was one group.  Haha.  I get to enhance my own bitching.  That's the whole reason I started blogging.)  (I should have dumped the whole bucket of treats in their bags.  As it was I gave them four candy bars each plus the little skull and spider rings, Cressy wanted to give out.  One of the little girls was quick to point out that she had not received a spider ring, which I rapidly corrected.)  ("Yo, bee-yotch.  I did not get a spider ring.  I desire a spider ring.  You will put a spider ring in my bag.  Now.")  (She didn't really say that, but she was thinking it.  I could tell.)

See.  Our candy was so cool it talked.

Upon HIM's return from taking our daughter trick or treating it was related the reason why no one was trick or treating in the loop.  (HIM was riding the wave of gleefulness from having scared the crud out of a four year old, who undoubtedly is still having nightmares about the thing with the glowing eyes.)

HIM is the one with the glowy eyes
not the secretary behind the two people
in costumes.

It was explained that all the houses at the beginning of our loop did not have their lights on.  Those stingy, non-Halloween-having twatwaffles.  (Twatwaffle is my latest swear word.  I am sworn to use it at least five times in a daily course.  I may be challenged but I am determined.)  Therefore no one was coming up the stupid hill.  (Also I'm thinking small children naturally will choose the downhill course.  You know the course of least resistance.)

Okay, does anyone remember sneaking a peek at Burt Reynolds' junk
when he posed nekkid in Cosmo a million years ago?
Am I comparing chocolate to Burt Reynolds?
No, but the pose was similar.
(I thought Burt would have a huge willie and
I was disappointed.  What did I know I was about eight
years old.)  (And btw, I just googled the date
on that Burt nekkid shot and he wasn't really
nekkid, so what was I thinking?  I was
thinking that his hand between his legs shouldn't
really cover his junk.  Upon what did my eight -year-old brain
base this?  I do not know.)

I suppose this is somewhat ironic.  Little children do not want to exercise to get their quota of chocolate booty.  Hell, adults don't want to get exercise to get their quota of booty.  (Try putting a bar at the top of a steep flight of steps and see how many customers you get.)

In other news Tree House II is making progress.  It has a roof.  The roof has been tar papered.  Tomorrow, shingles will be applied.  Then we're going with walls, a door, trim, and then painting it.  Then we'll get to the fence around the structure so Cressy doesn't fall off and break her little neck.

The blue thing is a tarp not the actual roof.

So far the neighbors have been doing an inordinate amount of wandering into their side yard to see what we're doing.  Peering through the bushes and just hanging out in an area they don't normally hang out in seems sort of obvious to me, but hey, they're curious and clearly want to know if they should call the city zoning department again.  They remind me of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.  They probably have a wide arrangement of telescopes, too.

So anyway, one day I might get along with my neighbors.