Last year I did not Nano. I wanted to, but we were smack dab in the middle of moving and I had neither the time nor the energy to st down and mentally barf out 2000 words a day. I had an idea for what I thought would be a good story, but decided I would just work on it over the following months instead of trying to cram it all into 30 days.

That idea is still banging around in my head. I've got copious notes, a rough outline, and idea of where I want to go with it, but I haven't gotten around to the actual writing of it.

Wednesday (Happy Birthday to my Mommy that day!) is Day One of the 2006 NaNoWriMo competition.

I signed up for it this year; it's time for The Story to get out of my head and onto paper. Ok, into the computer. Virtual paper. I have no illusions about writing The Great American Novel in 30 days, but I'm confident I can get a really good rough draft in one month.

Fifty thousand words sounds like a lot, but it's not.

It's 1,667 words a day.

A couple hours, if you sit down and actually write without allowing your brain to begin pondering the deeper meanings of life, such as "Do fried Snickers Bars really taste good?" and "Whose idea was it to fund a study on whether or not eating boogers boosts one's immune system?"

Somewhere around November 7th, there will be a mass of frustrated writers who will sit back, mutter a string of expletives, toss something across the room, and declare that they are quitting. It's too hard. Too many words per day. What they're writing sucks.

That's ok. 50,000 words in one month probably does bear a certain amount of suckage, but that doesn't matter. Go ahead and keep writing, and revel in your massive suckitude. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be.

You can go back later and edit.

You can go back later and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite.

But don't quit. If that manuscript doesn't have 50,000 words at the end of the month, oh well. At least you'll have written something, and you can keep working on it.

Join me in Potential Literary Suckitude.

It'll be fun!



It's noon.

Buddah has been curled up by that door since 8:45 (or maybe earlier; that's when I first noticed him) and he's barely moved. The Spouse Thingy is behind that door, sound asleep (he's not lazy, he's working tonight), and all Buddah wants is to get in there with him.

I have a feeling he'll wait as long as it takes.

Poor baby ;)


Thumpa Goes To The Base Hospital...

  • Doc did not yell because I was only 6 months late seeing him.
  • Doc is obviously very overworked and getting a bit scattered; it only took him 3 tries, a specific reqeuest from the pharmacy, and 90 minutes to get my scrip into the computer. He had to be reminded twice who I was.
  • He is a very good doc, very good, but is so stretched out being the only endocrinologist, that I think he's feeling it.
  • I think for my next routine endo appointment, I am going to see a civilian.
  • Big, brave Army guys can be very scared of a little blood test.
  • I did not laugh at the big brave army guy. He was about 6'7" and looked like one of those guys who if he said "Jump" you would do it and not ask how high.
  • He looked like he wanted to cry when he got stuck, but he did not whine.
  • Older lady in chair next to me whined more than a 6 year old, and after asking a dozen times "Will it hurt?" she left without letting them poke her even once.
  • When you go into the lab they ask you to tell them your first name and birthdate; they compare it to the lab slip. As I sat there an old guy shuffled in and the tech asked his name and when he was born: "Sam. And I'm 90, son, you do the math..."
  • I love spunky old people.
  • It took them 30 minutes to find a vein they could use in me. It was deep and lying on a tendon, and it hurt. I am not used to it hurting.
  • I am used to it taking a very long time to find a vein.
  • Tomorrow is Buddah's turn to have a heckup. I hope he's more brave than Max is. I don't need another Power Pooper Feline...


The Fortune I Got With My Lunch Today (Ok, it's a facsimilie...I am currently without a scanner)

I just hope it's not the dream about the kitty...


Because My Friends Send Me The Weirdest Chit In Email, I Present To You:
Things I Will Not Do On My Bike...

click picture to biggify...



[ loud announcer voice ] PEOPLE OF THE BLOGOSPHERE! [ /loud announcer voice ]

A few days ago, perhaps a week, I was blog surfing and landed at The Last Girl On Earth. You should visit, her blog is a fun place.

She mentioned that her CD popped up on iTunes, and being a music whore, I had to go see for myself and then give it a listen.

Oh man.

You should, too. It's my new favorite.

Go visit her blog and then go buy her CDs. Her music is fun, has a great beat, and you can dance to it, Bob!


From the What The Heck Does That MEAN??? Files

Let me preface this by stating This was only a dream. This did not really happen.

Alrighty then.

It's a beautiful day, and I'm out riding my little baby motorcycle, the one that wants to be a Harley when it grows up. I've done a few laps around the neighborgood streets and have headed out to where I can pick up a little more speed because fast, after all, is the whole point.

Fast being all of 40 mph.

As I lean into a curve I spot something in the road up ahead, so I right the bike up and slow down, because alarms are going off in my head. What is that and why is it in the road? Will it bite?

It's a kitten, looking quite like a tiny little PsychoKitty clone, and it's sitting dead center between the two opposing lanes of traffic.

It's mewing its tiny little head off; I can hear it even over the sound of my engine and with my helmet on. It's not that annoying "Oh stop already!" mewing, but "I want my mommy!" mewing.

So I stop. I cut the engine and get off, wonering why the kitty is not running away.

I take my helmet and gloves off, set them on the ground, and walk carefully towards the terrified kitty, but it's still not running away. My heart is pounding in my chest, because this kitty should have taken off ike a shot, and I don't understand why it didn't.

When I reach out to pet its little head, it stops crying and looks up at me with these huge eyes that, if it were a little kid, would be filled with tears. So I think it wants someone, and try to pick it up.

But it's stuck to the pavement.

Its little feet and backside are stuck flat to the pavement.

I lie down and pry a finger under one of its back feet and realize, with horror, that someone has Superglued this kitty to the street.

Superglued. A kitty. To the street.

And then I woke up. I have no idea if I got the kitty off the street or not, but there was no going back to sleep after that. No idea where that dream came from, or what it means. But dammit, in the back of my head, I'm worried about a tiny little kitty that doesn't even exist...


Seeing as how both cancer and diabetes has touched the lives of many people I've loved and cared for, this woman is my new hero.

Link was found at FARK, where submitter appropriately noted: Woman lived below her means, so that she could leave $35.6 million to charity. St Peter seen opening velvet rope so she can cut line.

I think I have an actual lump in my wabbity little throat...


Am I the only one who doesn't give a flying fig about Oprah and Gail's cross country adventure...?


Don’t laugh, but truly I am filled with a weird sort of excitement right now. I felt pulled to the library again today, intent upon working, so I loaded up my backpack, tossed it in the trunk of the car, and to the library I went.

The usual tables were already filled with students studying (or pretending to study as thoughts of "Oh! He's so cute, I wonder if he likes me..." or "Did Han really shoot first?" tiptoe through their brains) so I wandered past the shelves loaded with books to see if there were any of the individual someone-should-be-taking-a-test-here tables were open.

And there he was.

Library Bob.

He was lounging in a chair by a window, thick tome resting comfortably on his lap. It occurred to me that I may have walked right by him many times lately, but I just didn't recognize him without his black leather wanna-be-a-cowboy hat. And since he wasn't in his usual chair...well, I have trouble sometimes recognizing people when they aren't where they're supposed to be. I could walk right by the Spouse Thingy in a grocery store if I wasn't expecting him to be standing in front of the yogurt display.

So now all is right with my little library world, and to work I must go. Well, I'm not really GOING anywhere, I'm still going to sit here looking like I'm ready to take my final exam in post modern English literature, what with the little barriers between my work space and the empty works space next to me, but I'm still going to work. So to speak.

Bah. I understand me.


Sharing Of The Email

Hey Thumper, my mom said if I write a lot my typing will get a whole lot better. Is that true?

I think that if you type alot your typing gets better; if you write alot hopefully your writing gets better. I am a horrible typist and to rpove my point I'm not even going to to correct the typos I'm sure to make in my reply. And they're all real typos, not created for effect. Sometimes my fingers st goe where they want and I have to go back later and see if I can figure out what I intedned to say...and trust me, sometimes it's like trying to decipher an ancinet lanugage. I have a lot of "what the f...? what did I MEAN?" moments, on a pretty much daily basis.

Your cat still won't reply to my cat's email...

Your cat still freaks my cat out. He's neutered, for God's sake. Don't torment him with all those suggestions!

I want to get a motorcycle, too, but my parents freak out every time I mention it. I'm 17. I'm a safe driver and I don't want a crotch rocket, I just want a cruiser to learn on. Help me convince them it's safe.

But it's not safe. It's risky. Granted, so is driving a car and so is getting out of bed every day, but riding a motorcycle is inherently risky. You can be the safest driver in the world, but when you're behind the wheel of a car you have lots of metal protecting you. When you're riding a motorcycle, the only thing between you and asphalt is whatever clothing you're wearing.

I can't convince your parents. That's up to you. But if it's something you really want, prove you're serious about approaching it as safely as you can. Take the MSF Basic Rider's Course--and pay for it yourself. Read everything you can about motorcycles, smart riding, and safety. Proficient Motorcycling by David Hough. Get the MSF Guide To Motorcycling Excellence. Pat Hahn's book How To Ride A Motorcycle. Demonstrate a willingness to wear all the proper gear, even if it's hot: full face helmet, leather or mesh armored jacket, chaps, boots, gloves...

Do all that, and then be very patient about it. Motorcycles will still be there when you're old enough to buy your own, insure it on your own, and maintain it on your own. If you just can't wait until then...then I agree with your parents. It's not safe for you to ride.

So how's Library Bob?

I think he read all their books...I haven't seen him there in a while. Maybe it's the nice weather; hopfully he's doing outside stuff and having fun. Or maybe he got tired of seeing me there and found a new place to hang out. If you want, I'll go riding around town to look...

Can I send Max a present?

Only if you send Buddah one, too...


Picture me going 55 mph.

On my bike.

Imagine a guy tailgating me, wayyyy too close. If I sneeze, he's going to bump my back wheel, and that would be a bad thing.

Visualize a pickup truck ahead, its bed loaded with 52 tons of crap.

A little voice in the back of my head said, "That truck doesn't look like its crap is tied down very well..." so I created a bit of distance between it and me. Car driver behind me was not amused and obviously wanted me to go faster; I thought 55 was fast enough.

We all approach a slight curve in the road...halfway through it a big blue wooden case of some sort flew off the back of the pickup. I swerved (yay for the motorcycle safety class where I learned a nifty quick swerve) and the case hit the ground; its pieces bounced to the side of the road.

No Wabbits were injured in the development of this scenario.

I think the guy behind me, though, wet himself...and for some reason thereafter he gave me a whole lot of space...

3 months ago that would have freaked me out. I would have been a hyperventilating mass of quivering fur.

Today, it was like "eh, I expected it. No harm, no foul."

Yay me :)

This should be filed under No Big Deal, other than I'm kinda proud of myself... Hopefully in this case pride does not goeth before a fall, because I might ride again tomorrow, and I have no desire to become a splotch on the landscape of life road.


While I waited in the Get Yer Refill Here line at the base pharmacy today, an older woman went up to the New Scrips Here window, presumably to drop off a prescription. She was told (politely, I would assume) that she needed to take a number (just like everyone else has done from the moment Military Medicine Time began) and the ticket dispenser was just outside the door.

She exited...and then pulled the fire alarm.

From time to time I've wondered what happens when the fire alarm is pulled; now I know, at least I know what happens in the base mini-mall, where the refill pharmacy is located. What happens is that bright lights flash, a bleating horn goes off, repeating itself ever 1.25 seconds, and everyone working in an official capacity--from the pharmacy techs to the guys working at the GNC and the Post Office--closes their windows, push people out the doors, which they then lock. Someone also wanders around urging, in a tired voice, Please Leave Using The Nearest Exit.

Then everyone congregates outside, some bemoaning the fact that they were next up at the pharmacy window, some muttering about not having time for this shit, others gossiping about what had just happened. "Can you believe it? She just pulled the damn thing! I wonder of she did it on purpose, or if she was confused?"

Thumper, in her infinite wisdom, knowing there's no fire, perches on the curb, thinking to herself, "If I get to that door fast enough when they give the all-clear, I can be at the front of the line!"

Momentarily, she is distracted by the guy who runs the candy shoppe, who is passing out free samples to everyone. Free chocolate!

Then everyone waits for the fire department to show up, then for the firemen to wander through the building, and 15 minutes later they pronounce You Can Come Back In, and Thumper bounces to the door, thinking "Yay! I'm not at the back! I can outpace all these old people!" Just barely...

But then...then as she turns the corner Thumper realizes there was another door, and dammit those people were let back in first. And now the line is longer than before. And it's filled with people wearing perfume and cologne, in amounts that make Thumper think they bathed in the damned stuff, and leave her wanting for air.

I have no idea what happened to the Woman who pulled the alarm lever, whether she disappeared into the crowd or was arrested. I'd like to think she made a mistake and thought she was tugging on some magical lever that would dispense the required number ticket, but there's always the possibility that she did it thinking that if she couldn't just drop her prescription off, then everyone else would be screwed, too.

But at least now I know what happens when the fire alarm is pulled. You get free chocolate, and then damn near have an asthma attack.


Mad Skillz

Seriously...this kid plays Pachebel's Canon on the guitar, and it's amazing...

My fingers hurt just watching it...


One of the things I like about where we live is that it's a growing, thriving community with a small-town feeling about it. It's not so small that everyone knows everyone else, but not so big that you can get lost trying to find the grocery store. It has terrific shopping, nice places to go out to eat, but when giving directions you can tell someone, "well, turn right at the next high school you see, and you'll be there."

And what amuses me about this thriving, small town attitude city?

This place is just small enough that the newspaper warns parents when report cards are coming out.


Kids, you can run to the Factory Outlet Stores, but ya can't hide...


It didn't take long for Buddah to find these cutouts in the wall.

He found them the first night here, after he stopped being so scared and was pulled out of the recliner.

Since then, he spends quite a bt of time hovering above the rest of the room, watching, planning. It was also evident that what he wanted most was to figure out a way to get to that highest part of the wall, where it divides the family room from the living room, with no annoying stops along the way.

Buddah is a fairly smart kitty. Scary smart most of the time; you can see his little brain work as he looks at something and puzzles out how to manage what he wants to do.

He found a way up there. It occured to him that he could walk between the rails by the stairs, balance there, and jump up to that uppermost place he coveted.

The only problem was there was no safeway down that he could see. Balancing on that delicate 2 inch rail was one thing, jumping onto it was another.

On one side of the wall there were bookcases, but they were too far away to feel safe. On the other side there's the entertainment center, but that was a more distant jump than the bookcases.

He paced, and finally walked to the spot he had first landed on, and pretty much asked for help. One short little meow? and the Spouse Thingy reached over the bannister and lifted him to sure footing.

We knew, without a doubt, he would jump back up there, and he would need a way down. So we placed an 8-foot tall bookcase by the stairs, thinking he would just jump onto it, then onto the next bookcase, then the next, and down to the floor.

However...the top of the bookcase is the same color as the floor. So Buddah peered down from his high perch, and could not tell that the bookcase was at a level he could manage. He paced back and forth--and I waited a full hour before helping him, thinking he was just being stubborn--and in the end he had to be rescued.

But this...this shows how much we cater to the kitties:

We covered the top with a nonskid black piece of rubber.

Now Buddah can jump down.'s still a longer jump than looks safe, and he's not terribly comfortable with it. I might even hurt a bit.

Logic says let him deal with it. If he wants up there that bad, he can handle the jump down.

But no...We have several kitty perches we no longer need for windows, so one will go up between the bookcase and the beam, attached right there at the top of the stairs.

We are so owned...


Dear Lady In The Hometown Buffet Restroom,

When at a buffet place, or any other place for that matter, do not take your crying 3 year old into the bathroom and seethe "Stop crying or I'll spank you."

Really, don't. All it does is make your kid cry harder. And then if that 3 year old chokes out, "But I just wanted bread," don't compound things by snapping "I said you couldn't have stop crying or I'll spank you!"

And then if your kid says she has to use the bathroom, don't be a bitch and tell her she can't pee until she stops crying.

Don't tell your kid over and over that you're going to hit her if she doesn't stop crying.

Because if you do all that, the Thumper on the other side of the stall door will say "Oh holy shit," and then she'll mutter something unintelligible under her breath, but it will be enough to make you understand that there is someone else in that room, and that someone else finds your behavior unacceptable.

And no, I don't care what kind of day you had. If you want to be a bitch, be a bitch with someone old enough to take it, mature enough to understand the why of it. But your kid? She doesn't deserve that. She doesn't understand it. All she knows is that she wanted bread, couldn't have it, and when she expressed her upset in the way all 3 year olds do, the one person who should be the caretaker of her emotional safety zone threatened to hit her if she couldn't stop crying.

How special.

How very, very special.



Remember this?

and this?

The surface nastiness of those appliances hid the real shame...they didn't work. The Boy tried to heat up pizza in the oven, and it never even got warm. Then just to see if it worked I tried the microwave, and it zapped and sparked at me.

But now, behold:

I did not have to clean them. House Owner Guy bought new appliances for us. Property Manager Guy told him they needed to be repaired (they weren't just icky, they didn't work) ASAP and the next day Owner Guy showed up with new stuff. No talk of waiting to see if they could be repaired, he just bought new ones, and was very apologetic about the condition that the former tenant (a relative) had left them in.

So, yay!

Now I have to cook...


For some reason I cannot fathom, it disturbs me that there is no word in the English language that rhymes with "month."