More on Having a Child OR Fat Woman Does Homework

Here's what I have learned upon becoming a mother.

1.) Never burp a baby without having a cloth over your shoulder.

2.) College funds do NOT create themselves magically.

3.) Kids will keep anything.  I mean, anything they get.  If you try to surreptitiously try to throw it away later, they will develop the ability to know what you've done and to the only toy/thing/item you've done it to.  (I also learned right now that I had to spell check surreptitiously three times.  My daughter just informed me that it has tit in the middle of it and then she giggled.)

4.) You get to re-learn math and English.  (I know a few moms and dads out there who only have little ones are going, "NOOOOOOOO!" right now, but it's true.  When you get that kid to the fourth grade, you'll be checking their homework or doing it with them, and you'll get to the part that says preposition and prepositional phrase and object of the preposition and you'll forget that you write books for a living and that you're supposed to know this stuff and how run-on sentences are poo-poo and that smart phones do have an Internet hook up so you can look this stuff up.

It was a good thing that the first paragraph of the homework sheet explained those terms to me.

Preposition: a word that connects a noun, pronoun, or phrase to other words.  In, of, over are examples of prepositions.  (They're also examples of words that Bill Clinton is still confused over.)

My definition of a preposition: A word that connects a noun, pronoun, or phrase to other words and drives me insane in the process.  It especially irks me when they ask the kid to identify TWO prepositions in the same sentence (because they put two in there) and then throw the kid in the water with the Great White Shark and absolutely no anti-shark spray.

Prepositional phrase: A phrase that begins with a preposition.  (This doesn't do you any good unless you know what a preposition is.)

My definition of a prepositional phrase: A phrase that begins with a preposition and makes the vein in your forehead pop.  (It's that throbbing vein that makes it so special.)  Examples include: to the store for Ben & Jerry's, to the asylum, and to the doctor for more valium.

Finally, we have the object of the preposition.  (Same problem.  If you don't know what a preposition is, you can't figure out what it's object is.  Or was.  Or has been.  That vein's starting to make Mount St. Helens look small.)

My definition of the object of the preposition: That thing that that other thing clarifies.  See?  Perfectly clear.  In the prepositional phrase to the store for Ben & Jerry's, it would be the store.  Crystally clear, right?  In to the asylum, the asylum would be the object, because that's where I'm going to need to go after helping my daughter with her homework.  And finally, the doctor to whom I must run for medicinal purposes is the object of the prepositional phrase.

Okay then.  English lesson is over. 

Fat Woman Watches a Movie OR There Will be HUGE HONKING SPOILERS!

Warning:  If you haven't seen The Conjuring and you want to see The Conjuring and you know that you will just die if you don't eventually see The Conjuring and you want to avoid knowing what happens in the movie and you want to avoid run-on sentences, then don't read any more of this blog.  YOU HAVE BEEN...WARNED...WARNED...WARNED...(You have to imagine it echoing in your head like you've just been to the mysterious gypsy in the wooden panel wagon and she just gave you some news about your family that you would rather keep to yourself.  Kind of like when the doctor tells you, you have genital warts except in a literary, obnoxious, know-it-all manner.  Yeah.  That.  Exactly.)

So recently I finished a novella and my burned out mind needed a break, so I sat down one day and perused the movies on the premium channels.  I like horror and sci-fi movies so I saw the listing for...dah...dah...dummmmmm....The Conjuring.

I mean, that's a horror movie, right?  Creepy farmhouse.  Creepy tree.  Creepy hangman's noose on the tree.  Creepy shadow on the ground that you don't notice until I point it out.  It's screaming that it's a horror movie.  SCREAMING!

Now here's the actual description from www.imdb.com : Paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren work to help a family terrorized by a dark presence in their farmhouse.

Pretty simple, right?

Let's now do my version: A family buys a creepy farmhouse and strange shizz starts happening.  Since they're basically stupid people, they don't get out, they stay and the shizz starts getting worse.  Also they play a hide and seek clapping game that is GUARANTEED, can you give me an amen, to come back later in a paranormal fashion in order to personify the phrase "cheap thrill."  Don't forget to wear your Depends.

My version is much better.  I even have a catchy tag phrase for the movie poster: You should have known better than to buy the evil farmhouse, dumbasses!

First we're introduced to Ed and Lorraine Warren who are investigating a possessed doll.  Two girl roommates had a doll which started moving around the apartment while they weren't there.  The girls found out that someone had died in the apartment and they told the spirit that it could stay in the doll.  The paranormal investigators, Ed and Lorraine, say, "What the he-ell?  Why did you do that, dumbasses?"

Poor Chucky.  He was really
just a psychopathic Pinocchio.
Right?  Except his nose didn't
grow and he didn't have a cricket bud.

It turns out that the doll is now inhabited by a demony thingy that likes to leave crayon messages all of the place.  This segment of film is designed to let us know that Ed and Lorraine are serious demon hunting badasses and know the difference when a possessed doll is just freaky and when it's got a demon in it.

What does this have to do with Ed and Lorraine?
Nothing but I thought it was funny.
I should write a horror movie set in
a Walmart.  All the employees disappear
from the checkout lanes and you're left
standing there with a full basket.
Wait, that's not made up.

So then we hop to the Perrons.  This is a family who buys a farmhouse.  The dad is played by Ron Livingston, which freaks me out because I know him mostly from Office Space and I can't see him without thinking of Gary Cole as the uber evil boss and Stephen Root as Milton.  (I had to stop to look for my stapler, and now I have to stop before I do a movie within a movie.)  Anyway, Ron Livingston is the dad and he's all like, "We bought a foreclosure and we don't know anything about it."  This statement is actually Hollywoodese for "We are now fucked."  (That makes me think of singing to the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands," except with my words "If you're fucked and you know it, clap your hands."  Get that tune out of your head now.  And these words are particularly apropos because of the hide and seek clapping game the kids play in the movie.)

Anyhoo.  The Perron family buys a farmhouse and their dog won't come in the door.  Another big freaking clue for the clueless.  If your formerly friendly, happy, good-to-go, best pet ever won't go into your new house, it's probably best if you don't go in, either.  Just sayin'.  It's like the rule.  Then of course, you have to know, as a random horror movie connoisseur that the dog just put a big target on his head.

The Perrons also has four daughters.  Four daughters.  I mean, that's like the ultimate formula is killing folks off.  One daughter in a horror movie = certain death.  Two daughters = one will probably die.  The other one will probably be the killer.  Three daughters = one will probably die.  The other one will probably be the killer.  The third one will be the one who trips and falls running from the killer.  Four daughters = bad shizz is coming.  Simple rule.  FFS, throw a boy in the mix so he can be possessed and twirl his head a la Linda Blair.

Then one of the daughters finds a creepy music box.  You know that it's creepy because when it plays the clown head pops up and down and we all know about clowns, don't we?

John Wayne Gacy pretty much spoiled
everything for all the other good little
clowns.  Stephen King might
have helped out in that respect, too.

And there was another horror movie rule blaring out at the audience.  If one of your daughters finds a creepy music box, it's not good and you should probably leave now.

Then the daughters are playing the hide and seek clapping game.  One daughter is blindfolded.  The others hide.  The blindfolded one gets the others to clap so she can be guided to them.  All bad news, of course.  This is the big plot device rule coming to play here.  The movie director and writer are saying, "Look at this cute game.  It's so cute.  Isn't it cutesy-wutsy-woo?  Not after we're done with it."

Of course before they get to that, the dog dies pretty much right away.

And those pesky Perrons are still ignoring the signs.

Two Perron daughters are in one room and something is tugging on their feet in the middle of the night, which is always bad news.  Here's the scene.  Two girls are in bed.  One gets her feet tugged on by something.  She looks around, blames her sister.  Her sister is all like "WTF?  No, I di-int."  Then it tugs the first sister really hard.  So what does she do?  She looks under the bed.  Of course, the audience is screaming "DON'T LOOK UNDER THE BED, DUMBASS!"  (Maybe that was just me.)  But it's not really under the bed.  (The director/writers fooled us.  Well, they fooled me.)  But the thing is standing behind the door.  The other sister, suspecting malfeasance on the part of the tugged sister, goes by the door where there is a huge black shadow, and the tugged sister sez, "It's standing right behind you."  Then the door slams, leaving complete blackness and screams commence.  Of course mumsy and dadsy come running and tugged sister says that something evil and ghostly is in the house.  (I didn't get the words exactly right.)  In my mind, I'd be thinking, "Who the eff is in the house and where the eff is my shotgun?"  I'm not sure how the two sisters jumped to the conclusion that something tugging on their feet and standing behind the door HAD to be evility.  But maybe the audience needed to be clued in.  (I di-int.)

We'll pause for a humorous LOL:

Of course, things go downhill.  The Warrens are called, because everyone knows that you have to call the Warrens when things be tugging on your feet in the middle of the night.  Seriously, they have the big ad in the Yellow Pages about nocturnal feet pulling.  It's really a big problem in some creepy, haunted farmhouses that stupid people move into.  (I never moved into a big creepy, haunted farmhouse that nocturnal feet pulling wasn't an issue.  Right up there with mice and spider webs.)

It turns out that the Warrens have a daughter too, and she's impacted long-distance by the creepy farmhouse ghost.  Also the doll from the first part comes into play.  Also some witch called Bathsheba was hanged at the Perron's tree in the front yard.  Some other kids were killed, too.  This is why you should always look into the history of a foreclosed house that you are desperate to buy and you happen to have four nubile young darlings who are ripe for demonization and/or foot tugging.

But the Perrons aren't done yet.  There's a scary game of hide and seek and clap, where the demon witch ghost thingymajig gets all involved.  Maybe the ghost just wanted to play but doesn't have the right social skills.  These movies/demon hunter/investigators are just SO judgmental.

Time for another LOL break:

Not only is this LOL slamming scary movies but Crocs, too.
Now I have to try and remember which horror movie had
the hockey mask guy.  (Thank God for Google and/or Bing.)

Then the mother of the Perrons gets all possessed and things go really south.  Of course, the Warrens come to the rescue and it's all about being good mothers because the ghost/demon thingy, Bathsheba, (I think she was really pissed off about her name) was not a good mother.  In fact, she was a very bad mother.

Problem fixed.  Ed Warren takes the creepy music box thing home to put in his display of things-that-should-not-be-in-normal-people's-houses, because we know that he'll take care of business if it goes all nuclearly demonic again.  (The room is blessed once a month by a priest AND more importantly, the door to the room is kept locked with a sign on it.)

In conclusion, I would say watch it but don't take it seriously.  Also eat some buttered popcorn and feel free to drink shots of tequila for every time you wonder if some scary shizz is about to happen.

Sometimes I wonder why I watch these kinds of movies.  I didn't even get a good nightmare out of it.  (But the hide and seek and clap thing wasn't too bad.)

Bonus question: how many times did Fat Woman actually use the word "creepy" not including this one?

Hunter's Moon is Out!

Now Available!

Hunter’s Moon: A Cat Clan Novella

By C.L. Bevill

It is a human world, but in the shadows lurk were creatures, witches, and dark magicks…

Claire Bennett has been captured and held prisoner by the Council, the sinister association that oversees the shifter population.  She is the wolf shifter daughter of Braydon Bennett, the Bloodletter, and the sworn enemy of the Council.

Shade is one of the Elite Guards of the Council and a werebear.  Once he believed in the righteousness of the Council; now he’s intent on bringing it down with the help of the Bloodletter.  Nevertheless, he’s just discovered that their latest prisoner is Claire, who just so happens to be his mate.

The question is what Shade will do in order to protect the female he’s fated to be with.  How much will he lie to himself?

This is a 42,000 word novella, approximately half the size of a full sized novel.  The order in which the Cat Clan Novellas should be read: Harvest Moon (Cat Clan Novella #1), Blood Moon (Cat Clan Novella #2), Crescent Moon (Cat Clan Novella #3), Hunter’s Moon (Cat Clan Novella #4)

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Stuff Happening

A tale of woe or the 10th birthday party.

It turns out that our daughter is turning 10 next week.  The big 1-0.  It doesn't sound as daunting as the big 5-0, but she's feeling the years.  Double digits.  A few months ago one of her friends turned 10 and her mama had a limo take them to the mall and then to Cici's Pizza.  (I'm thinking Cici's because they couldn't afford anything else after the limo.)  Anyway, I was praying that Cressy wouldn't say she wanted a limo.  (Jeez, a limo.  I haven't even ridden in a limo.  Life is so unfair.)

Anyhoo, she picked having a party at home.  Theme: the 60s.  I don't know why it was the 60s, but I went with it.  I broke out the lava lamp and went to Party City.  Party City will now be putting their kids through college courtesy of me.

That's what I think of the sixties, unless I mention that I missed out on the Summer of Love because I was in kindergarten.  Also for those of you playing the game, slug-a-bug.

So Cressy decided on birthday party at home.  We wanted something special, so she got it in her head that she wanted a henna artist for the party.  Henna tattooing is pretty cool but it is long-lasting (a week to a month).  I had to pre-warn parents.  (BEWARE!  Fancy-shmancy stuff happening here!  If you think your ten year old is too young, warn me!  We also have glittery ones that wash right off!  Party poopers.)

This is what I wanted all the kids to get.  But the next one is what we got.  Oh well, it's still pretty.

The girls were initially more interested in watching the henna artist than anything else, including pizza and cupcakes.  (OMG!)

We sent out invites.  I talked Cressy into a few extras.  I put a RSVP on it.  You know what?  One person called to RSVP.  ONE PERSON.  Then I got an email on the day of the party.  I was all, like, FFS.  If I got invited to a party I would be the one dopey person who called to RSVP.  (It means to tell the host whether or not you're coming to the party, so they know how much food to buy, dumbasses.)  So we ended up with 7 girls, one henna artist, two parents, and a moron cat hiding under the bed upstairs.  (Poor little dumb bastard, or possibly I should say smart little dumb bastard.)

Everything went well until the first cupcake hit the carpet.  Then the sugar high set in and it turns out that our house can be used as an indoor race track for multiple 10 year olds.  I think records might have been set.  I'm surprised that an ambulance didn't need to be called for someone.

Advice for the future: if you have toilets that have a push button on top (one on the left is for peepee, the one on the right is for poopoo) please inform your young guests before they freak out because they can't figure out how to use the toilet.

Anatomy of Training a Moron Cat

About two years ago, I was subjected to getting a cat.  My daughter wanted a kitten.  She cajoled, pleaded, agreed to do all the dirty work, and voila, a kitten was obtained after Christmas of 2012.  Incidentally, HIM, the man to whom I'm married and the instigator of the kitten incident, is the one who actually cleans up the litter box.


He wasn't really laughing at me.
I caught him mid-yawn, which
makes for good caption fodder.

The kid named the cat Megaroy, a fact I still don't comprehend the reasons why.  I consequently determined that the cat, which is some kind of Maine Coon mix, is stupid.  I've blogged about my reasoning and I won't repeat them.  See My Daughter's Cat is a Moron and My Daughter's Moron Cat.  (I actually had to write more than one blog about the cat, so go figure.)

Once we moved, the cat determined that he loves the enclosed porch and wants to go out there all the time.  Winter, summer, spring, fall.  (Not so much when it's raining.  It might get his dainty, wootsie footsies wet and that's icky poo.)  Being pushovers we leave the door cracked.


Looking out the cat door at the
cat lying on the porch.
This is pretty much his
every waking moment position,
except when he's pooping.
I try not to watch that part.

Then this winter, HIM has decided that it shall be no more.  HIM went to Petsmart, forked over some moolah, and purchased a pet door, replete with flaps.  HIM installed the door, not on the door itself, but in the wall in between the inside and outside.  He only had to cut part of a stud and engage in some bright new colorful language to get the job done.  There.  The pet door is there.

Here you can see where HIM had to cut
part of a stud.  Oh what fun, knowing
that a stud has been cut to allow
the poop-for-brains cat to go and
come as is his want from the porch.
You can pretty much deduce what
the cat is thinking at this moment.
"I can still get the humans to
open the door."

Before he bought the pet door I said, "The cat is too stupid to learn how to use it."

After the door was installed, I said, "See."

HIM decided to get determined.  He put food on the opposite side of the door.  Nothing.

HIM shoved the cat through.  Nada.

HIM pleaded with the cat.  No how.

Finally HIM took the flaps off the door.  The cat had a little, itty-bitty-itsy light bulb appear over his moronic head.  *PING!*  I can goz through to the porch!

Wait until HIM puts the flaps back on.

Okay I had to slam the poor skater girl with the wretched luck
to have a camera guy right in her face when she made
this face.

Went OVER 100 K!

Yep.  Right there.  Sometime in the middle of the night.  I wasn't sitting at the computer to watch it.  Maybe I should have been.

I say always stick a picture of Hannibal Lecter in
your blog whenever you can.  He is watching you.
Not my counter, but you and maybe Jodie
Foster, too.

What does it really mean?  There's a philosophical argument lurking here.  It means approximately 100,000 clicks on the website.  I know some people are clicking on it once or twice a day, eagerly waiting for a new blog.  (T-shirt idea: "I went to Fat Woman's Blog and all I got was a lousy t-shirt.")  My sister said to me, "How does it feel to know that 100,000 (she might have said 1,000,000 at the time because I was under the mistaken interpretation that I was about to top a million because basically I couldn't count) people have looked at your blog?"  I believe my response was: "Meh." because it wasn't really a million, or even 100,000.  It's probably like 30 people who've looked at my blog 3,333.3333 times.

So I was looking for funny eyes watching pictures
and I found this one, which reminds me of watching
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad in the 70s.
For those of you of a certain age, who actually
saw this stinker (the Ray Harryhausen special
effects were worth the whole movie), there
was a girl in there with a tattoo of an eye
on her palm.  What does this have to do
with anything?  Well, I always wanted a tattoo
of an eye on my palm so I could
hook up with Sinbad.  (I was like ten years
old.)  (The Kali statue gave me nightmares.)

Ah, the momentous occasion of 100,000 visitors.  I'm not sure if I thought I would get there.  I like to blog.  (I like to hear myself talk, or rant as the case may be.  Did I tell you about the water heater dying and the propane gas people forgetting to turn off the bleeder valve?  No?  Let's say it involved me, the BBB, the fire department, certified mail, and a lawsuit in the making.  I get carried away sometimes.  And the blog is my relief valve.)  I do like to blog.  I get to talk about whatever.  It's usually funny shizz or stuff that's happening in my life that's funny.  (Mostly it isn't funny until I blog about it and then it's funny, because that's the way my mind works.)

Haha.  Cross-eyed Siamese cat.  We had two
of these for years.  The lesson learned: I will
never again own a Siamese cat.  Loud,
bitchy cats who are high maintenance.
The moron cat, while he's learned how to
garner attention by using his claws on my butt while
I'm sitting in the office chair, is much less
maintenance.  (Although claws in the butt certainly
doesn't make it sound that way.)

And I suppose I should just put a standard warning at the top, saying I will meander.  Sometimes I probably won't make sense.  Occasionally I'll take a rabid detour of epic proportion.  (Kind of like I did just now.  And before.  And before.)

So now I'm onto the Police.
I have this cassette tape someplace.

Anyhoo, I think what I should really do, is thank all the people who read the blog, occasionally comment, and generally keep coming back for more, no matter how silly I get.

Thank you!  I really appreciate your support and am always glad to hear from you.  Thank you!

More on Being 50 OR Oh, Crappoes, Fat Woman Shall Now Commence the Rant AND Also Some Content About...GASP!...Exercise!

There's something about a t-rex chasing you to
get you to move on out.

Recently I turned 50, and readers shall probably read about it until I get used to it or it gets old.  (Get it?  Gets old?  No, just me?)

Consequently, I broke out the bucket list and read where I wanted to hike 50 miles at age 50 on the Appalachian Trail.  (I don't specifically remember writing that on there.  Must be me getting old.)  Then we moved and I'm pretty sure I couldn't drag HIM or the kid on a 50 mile hike, and let's face it, I don't know if I could do 50 miles on a single mountain hike.  (Doubt does arise.)  So I came up with 50 miles in 50 days.  It's reasonable and I won't be far away from an ambulance.  This I could drag HIM with me, and sometimes the kid on her scooter or her bike.

Needs several reps to really work.

So off we go.  A mile or so every day.  I'm doing a little more because I expect something to happen and I'll have to skip a few days and I really want to do 50 miles in 50 days at age 50, because if I don't I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror, plus I told my doctor I would do it and he giggled.  (Seriously, he giggled.  I should be offended, but for some odd reason I wasn't.)

What does this have to do with me being obnoxious while
walking?  Nothing, but it's my blog.

What's the funny part?

One day we're walking down the green way and it's a nice day, so lots of people are out and walking, biking, jogging, getting out while they can.  As we pass people I say, "Hi."  Half the time they don't say anything back.

Here's where I get strange.  I mean, is it that hard to say hi back?  No.  (I wasn't asking for their first born child or anything of that ilk.)  Half of these people are being obnoxious effs.  Then I stopped saying hi, so HIM felt compelled to fill in for me.  For HIM, they say hi.  More women do, anyway.  But strangely some men do it, too.  (Hmm.) 

Consequently the rant began.  I theorized that if I said, "Hi," and the person didn't say "Hi," back, then I could say, "I said, Hi, bitch!" and they would acknowledge me, thus validating that I was a person to whom one should say hi.  Or validating that I was a person who didn't really care if I ticked a total stranger off on a walking trail.  Either one.  Upon sharing my revelation with HIM, HIM decided that he should walk ahead of me and pretend that we weren't married.  I think I saw him surreptitiously putting the police on speed dial.  (I have consequently determined that exercise makes me mean.)  (I wonder how that would sound in a trial?)

I'd look like a complete ass if I ran like I stole something.
Then I'd fall over and die after 50 feet.

The next victim quickly approached and I said, "Hi."  To my utter disappointment they said, "Hi," back.  So I was robbed of an opportunity to validate myself with the calling of the licentious name.  And it was thusly until we reached the parking lot.  Every single one said, "Hi," back to me.  I felt robbed.

How did they know?

If you HAVE to exercise, then do it in the most imaginative manner
possible.

On Turning 50 OR I'll Kill the Next Person Who Says 50 Isn't So Bad

Well, there it was, a perfectly good Wednesday morning when I got woken up to "It's the End of the World as We Know It" by REM.  I can thank HIM, the man to whom I'm married and the man whose shallow grave is located in the woods out back, for that.  I got presents wrapped in black.  (A travel mug, two meat thermometers, and a subscription to The Week.  My sister sent me a pendant.  She doesn't get buried in the back yard.  The cat decided to ignore the whole thing, which was a wise decision on his part, or simply because he's a moron and didn't know any better.)



So what could I do?  I hid in the closet for the next two hours fondling my meat thermometers.  (One is digital and wireless.  I should go buy a turkey.  HIM isn't known for buying the best gifts.  I got him 50 black balloons on his birthday.  I sent them to work.  HIM has a cubicle.  I thought that was funny as hell.  My MIL mentioned this to me when I said I was less than happy about turning 50.  I said that it was funny when HIM was turning 50, not me.  The moron cat would have freaked at having 50 black balloons in the house anyway.)

I went looking for pissed off LOLs and found a lot with cats.  Apparently cats are pissed a lot.  Or they're perceived as being pissed off a lot.  I know if someone put an itty bitty hat on my head and took a picture I'd be pissed off, too.

I remember when I turned 30 and I was upset.  I don't remember 40, probably because I was 7 months pregnant and peeing every...five...minutes.  Seriously, a note to women who haven't yet had a child, you will pee every five minutes and you won't sleep more than an hour at a time and that's before you have the baby.  Just be prepared.

But 50.  Sheesh.  I depressed.  Sofa king depressed.  I will now endeavor to amuse myself.

 This looks like hairy hairless cat.  I like the message.

Look the tree is ticked.  I wouldn't cut that tree down, I'll tell you.

I suppose I should just accept it.  It's done.

And then the heat pump broke.  It wasn't 50.  I'm sure.  I hate 50.  50 sucks.  I want to be 49 for another year.

Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies

Sheesh, I can't believe I forgot to announce this on my blog!

It’s trouble as usual for Bubba.  His mother, Miz Demetrice, and her good friend, Miz Adelia, are up to no good with the DEA watching them for mysterious reasons.  In addition, Bubba’s also trying to get the beauteous sheriff’s deputy, Willodean, alone for some quality time, when zombies invade in a cinematic manner.  Further, the director of the movie is apparently murdered by persons unknown, and someone is pointing a finger directly at Bubba (again).  Zigzaggery zombies, fetid filmmakers, maternal madness, and cryptic casualties are all par for the course.  What’s a Bubba to do?

Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies is book 5 in the Bubba series.  Book 1 – Bubba and the Dead Woman.  Book 2- Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas.  Book 3 – Bubba and the Missing Woman.  Book 3.5 – Brownie and the Dame.  Book 4 – Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note.  Book 4.5 – The Ransom of Brownie.

Buy it on B&N here.

Buy it on Amazon here.

Buy it on Smashwords here.

And for hardcore Bubba fans, buy it in paperback here.

 

Fat Woman Cannot READ Numbers OR 100,000 Isn't the Same as 1,000,000

Okay, I'm closing in on 100,000, not 1,000,000.  I'm depressed because I couldn't tell the difference between almost 100,000 and almost 1,000,000.  Big difference.  Talk about wishful thinking.

I feel like this.

 

Phooey.