Random Acts Of Thinking

• Buddah’s birthday is tomorrow. One year old; we’ve had him for almost 9 months.
  
• Yes, he’s getting presents. And shrimp.
  
• We survived the commissary today.
  
• We were out of everything, so we spent 300 freaking dollars.
  
• The commissary isn’t always as cheap as we’d like.
  
• No, the commissary is not free.
  
• The Spouse Thingy was not amused when I then suggested we go out to dinner.
  
• He cooked. :)
  
• The state of Ohio sent us a notice saying we owe a school district tax from 2003.
  
• We lived on base; most places base housing residents do not pay school taxes of any kind.
  
• In Ohio, the courtesy evidently does not apply.
  
• They’re giving us two whole weeks to respond.
  
• If we don't file, they'll fine us $500.
  
• I don’t think we really owe anything, we just have to file.
  
• We hate Ohio. Again.
  
• We need a break in the rain longer than 12 hours.
  
• Our back yard is about a foot tall.
  
• I will not be the one mowing it.
  
• That is all. :)
  

It started with one email—“hey, we all seem to want the same thing, to lose some weight, so why not lean on each other”—and became an email ring. In the short time since it started it’s been more about just having people to talk to than about weight loss, but when the topic actually drifts to food and exercise, the support has been there. Ideas and suggestions flow freely and are welcomed, whether the advice is taken or not.

Well, it was like that until this weekend, when the group erupted into a “You’re not really fat so you don’t know what it’s really like so SHUT UP!” temper tantrum.

I’ve always been a little on the outside looking in (per my usual, it seems) with this group so I sat here at my desk, watching the emails fly fast and furious, not really sure what to say, or if I should say anything at all. I’d hoped it was just a hiccup, people having a bad day taking it out on each other, something that would blow over by the end of the day, but by the end of the day almost everyone had announced they were quitting this little group. The only ones left were me and one other person, both more or less outsiders.

I had a moment or two of What The Hell Just Happened, then moved onto something else. Blog hopping, I think, until I realized that Blogger had molasses running through its cyber-veins and I would have a lot more fun watching TV. Hey, Grey’s Anatomy was on and that required my full attention, anyway.

But as I checked my email one last time before going to bed, it started to bother me. The eruption began with someone having a hard time getting through a plateau; she’s frustrated and can’t figure out how to get the last ten pounds off. Someone else is frustrated because she has 100 pounds to lose and is tired of hearing all these skinny people moaning about their pitiful little 10 pounds. With those two emails, there was a giant =boom= and the fur started to fly.

Fat people, it seems, need to get off the Internet and into a gym.
Thin people, evidently, need to stop whining about body fat that hardly matters. Eat a cheeseburger and get over it.
Meow.

So I mused about it, and was glad I didn’t get into the thick of it, because I have the tendency to sound like I’m lecturing even when that’s not my intent. But the thing that was swirling around in the back of my mind, then stuck to the tip of my brain’s tongue, finally percolated into a Real Thought when I was munching on my Oatmeal Square this morning.

I weigh mumblemumble pounds. Two years ago I was 36 pounds heavier than I am now; since September I’ve lost 23 pounds, have been in a plateau since December, and have 50 more to go. Yep, 50. That won’t get me to my lowest weight ever, but it will get me to where I felt healthiest. Those 50 pounds are frustrating. I want them gone. I keep hoping that wishing will be enough and that the Fat Fairy* will bonk me over the head with her mighty wand, and the plateau will break; I’ll start dropping 2-3 pounds a week.

A girl can dream, eh?

The thing is, someone with “only” 10 pounds to lose and has hit a plateau is probably just as frustrated as I am with my 50. Because it’s less weight, that doesn’t make it less important. And I’m 5’8” – for someone who’s considerably shorter, 10 pounds would be like me fighting 20.

A person’s battle with weight and body image is their own, whether it’s losing 10 or losing 100; whether it’s gaining 15 or just holding onto a healthy percentage of body fat. Someone seeking support needs it regardless of the number on the scale. And judging someone…well, frankly, that just sucks.

I’ll miss the email group, but for once, it wasn’t my fault…

*The Fat Fairy seems to be of the opinion that I need to get my butt to the gym, and until I do she’s not gonna help me one iota. $itch.

Library Bob.

I don’t know if Bob is his real name, but I saw him again today, and that’s what popped into my head. He is Library Bob, and I’m not entirely sure he ever leaves the library. I am fairly sure he’s a voracious reader, since he never seems to have the same book in hand. It’s always a thick book, too, a Stephen King-sized tome.

I’ve decided I like Library Bob. Anyone who reads like that has to be okay. Right? I don’t even care that he’s reading all these books for free. One might argue that if he bought each of those books he’d be contributing 10.7 cents to the authors who wrote each of those books, but most writers don’t write for the royalties. They write to be read, and Library Bob is certainly doing his part to pad the read count of each of those books.

No, I don’t write for the money; as much as I pimp myself and get on my cyber knees to beg people to buy my chit, I don’t write for the money. Few people ever make a whole lot o’loot in the writing game. Yes, I was mightily ticked off when the entire text of Charybdis wound up online, and as far as the publisher could tell there had been 25,000 downloads, but money was only a tiny part of that anger (Ok, in this case more than a tiny bit, seeing as how royalties on that would have gotten us out of debt and set us up nicely...) The biggest factor to that anger was the idea that I spent so long working on that book, I chipped away at its layers until there was something of substance, then I chipped away more until there was something worth presenting to the public, then I read and re-read until my eyes bled, then my head exploded when I found incontinuities and had to re-write yet again, then...you get the picture.

If someone really wants to read my books, even for free, I’m all for it. But I don’t want to be ripped off. I don’t want anyone to assume it’s ok to throw my work—something that took years to grow from idea to birth—online and offer it to the masses without my consent.

But a library...they pay for the book. Sure, 20,000 people could check it out and read it, and they don’t have to pay a dime to do so, but that’s different. It’s not a deliberate act against the author. Instead of feeling ripped off that my book might reach so many people, I’d feel honored if it wormed its way into the library system where it has the potential to reach so many people.

Then people like Library Bob could sit there in the chair at the end of the aisle, glasses posed Just So on his nose, and visually inhale the wonder that is my brain.

No, I won’t introduce myself to Library Bob to find out his real name. Aside from breaking the Protocol Of Regulars--thou shalt acknowledge each other but not intrude--I can’t do that on even my best day. I can approach a total stranger who seems to be in some sort of need in the middle of Tarzhey Booteek, or someone looking confuzzled in the hallways of the base hospital, but I can’t just walk up to someone and start talking. I am a crappy friend because of this; there’s always that “...but what if they don’t want to talk to me? I’m in the way, aren’t I? What in the hell can I contribute to a conversation because I AM SO LAME.”

Yeah, my brain works like that.

Don’t even ask me to go someplace new by myself. It won’t happen.

No, I am not on medication.

But because I AM SO LAME, I will not be introducing myself to Library Bob. I would be most happy if he introduced himself to me, and I wouldn’t mind in the least if he needed to share my table for whatever reason, but Thumper just does not introduce herself, especially to strange men in the library.

So Library Bob he shall be.

The library is starting to remind me of the cafe in the Ohio Barnes & Noble; no coffee aroma, no baked goodies behind the counter, but lots of books, and Regulars.

I’ve been coming here at roughly the same time of day often enough to notice the same people are here most of the time. There’s a woman who is here with her daughter nearly every time I’m here; I’m pretty sure they home school, and this is as good a place as any to have access to books and a computer, where there’s no chance of sloughing off math to watch All My Children. There’s a group of older teens who occupy the same table towards the back of the library; they’re always very quiet and have stacks of books in front of them—some even open—so I’m pretty sure they’re studying. I haven’t figured out where they go to school; maybe the satellite campus to Solano Community College. Or maybe they all go to the main campus, but meet here to study because they all live in Vacaville (phfft, yes, these are the things that flit through my mind.)

And then there’s the old guy. Every place I frequent seems to have a resident old guy. At the Beavercreek YMCA it was Creepy Old Guy; he always seemed to be walking in the swimming pool lane next to me, and he always stared. Every time I’d come up for air, there he was, watching. At the Barnes & Noble cafe there was the Other Creepy Old Guy, who sat there with a cup of coffee—I’m not sure I ever actually saw him drink any—and watched the people coming and going. He wasn’t exactly creepy, but I’ve never come up with a better name for him. Observation Man? Quiet Old Dude? In the end, I kind of liked him, even though I never knew him.

And here...the old guy isn’t creepy. He sits in the same chair at the end of one of the book aisles, and reads. Logic says he could check those books out and take them home to read, but I get it. Why bother when there’s this fantastic place to sit and read, and to watch people in between chapters? I think he’s here for the same reason I am: home has distractions that prevent anything from really getting done. Here has distractions that seem atmospheric.

If I can write while sitting in the library, being entertained by the kids who dance up and down the aisle to tunes only they can hear, why can’t he be here, reading?

I like that he doesn’t stare. While I gradually came to realize that Creepy Old Guy at the pool was not staring out of perversion, but because he needed something to do to keep from dying of boredom while he walked his laps, and the Other Creepy Old Guy was just a people-watcher and I only noticed him because we were both there a lot, I don’t like being stared at.

Hell, I don’t much like being noticed, period. Yet I also wonder if any of them have clued into this regularness, if they realize we’re all here at the same times, but respecting each others’ need for privacy and space, or if I’m just the oddball who seems to notice these things.

Um, yeah, I fully realize it could be the latter. And I’m ok with that. There’s nothing wrong with being an oddball, as long as you don’t inflict your oddness on other people.

I think.
=twitch=

I need to come up with a name for the new Old Guy in my life. Not-So-Creepy Old Guy? Reader Man? Book Worm Guy?

I’d ask him what he wants to be known as in the empty hallways of my brain, but he’s got a very big book in his lap, and I’m afraid he might hit me with it.

In the interest of blowing my diet completely out of the water today, I have had both a bean burrito and a small pizza with onions and green peppers... and for some reason no one wants to be in the same room with me.

Yeah, I ate all that...If I couldnt have Schlotzsky's and a diet CF Mountain Dew, I was gonna have a freaking pizza. I really need a new gym membership now...

Since I'm still feeling like a whiny little brat about Schlotzsky's I might as well go ahead and whine about something else.

Like Diet Caffeine Free Mountain Dew.

Damn you, Mountain Dew people, for getting me hooked on this when we lived in Ohio, and then not selling it on this side of the U.S. You're missing out on incredible market potential. Think of all the people like me, who have 2-3 case a week habits, but cannot have too much caffeine lest our boobies turn rock hard and hurt like a mother. (TMI?)

Why do companies do this? Why do they torment the people who move from place to place?

I want my caffeine free diet Mountain Dew!

:::cries a little, then goes off to bake brownies to make herself feel better:::

Lately, I’ve felt this compulsion to go to Las Vegas. It’s not the first time; when the USAF decided we were entirely too comfortable in California and had to move somewhere new for the last 2.2 years the Spouse Thingy was active duty, we put Nellis AFB at the top of our list. We’d heard good things about the base and the area, and, well...Vegas, baby!

We were sent to Wright Patterson AFB in Ohio instead, where we lived amongst the Evil People and where we got Red Drink Stupid with them many, many times. Partway through our 2.2 years there we contemplated what would come post-retirement: back to CA, stay in OH, or maybe try Las Vegas.

I could take the heat in Las Vegas. It’s dry heat. I can do that. I think.

But the Boy came to visit and brought A Girl, whom we liked a whole lot, and we realized we’d already missed out on a couple years of his life, and there would only be so many more where our presence would not be too much of an intrusion, so we decided to go home.

But lately...I feel that pull to Las Vegas, a place I’ve only been in a couple of times, and that was when I was too young to gamble or do anything that might get me into trouble.

There has never been a logical explanation as to why I feel so compelled to go there. If it were just the gambling thing—heck, we have casinos here. And Reno is just a 3 hour drive away. I could gamble there AND see some friend-type people.

But Las Vegas keeps calling to me.
And today I learned why.
Las Vegas has Schlotzsky’s.

Northern CA does not have Schlotzsky’s. There was one not too far from where we resided amongst the Evil People and Drinkage in Ohio, just far enough that it wasn’t an every day temptation, but close enough we could go if we wanted. But there is none here, and I wants it.

My preciousssss...

Las Vegas has what I need. It has sunny days and cool nights. It has Stuff To Do. Topless driving weather. No state income tax. And it has Schlotzsky’s.

Either I need to go to Vegas—hell, just a few days there would do every few months, enough to eat there until I barf—or Schlotzsky’s really needs to open up in Vacaville, CA.

Do you hear me, Schlotzsky people?

I’m sitting here, longing for an Original Turkey, no black olives. I’m almost drooling at the thought. Save me from uprooting the Spouse Thingy. Open a Schlotzsky’s here.

I’ll even work for you. Minimum wage!

Please...?

Public Library Internet Access 101

“Excuse me,” the elderly woman sitting to my right said, “how do I get to the Internet?”

I pointed out the Internet Explorer Icon on her monitor and told her to double click on it. After a moment, during which she looked at me as if I had just said “Yeghzzzme ooolblah domadna krep,” I explained what I meant by ‘double click.’ She followed my directions, and when IE opened up, I proclaimed her to be on the Internet, and looked back to what I was working on.

“The Internet,” she said, looking at the empty browser window, “is a lot more boring than I was lead to believe...”

---

“No, Mom, I don’t think that’s right. It looks wrong.”
“It’s a possessive. It’s right.”
“But not every possessive has an apostrophe!”
“Yes, they do.”

I looked across the study table I had moved to after helping the little old lady navigate from a blank browser window to actual content; I’d been seated there for 5 minutes tops when they asked if they could share the table with me. It’s Saturday, the library was packed…I said yes. And I didn’t make burping and farting noises, because they asked nicely before invaded my public work space.

Mom was helping Junior Miss with her 6th grade English homework.

Junior Miss saw me looking and asked if I knew anything about English. A little, I admitted. Mom wanted to know how much. It was part of my major, I told her (politely, I think.)

“You majored in English? What can you actually do with that besides teach?”

Write books.

Junior Miss grinned. And then asked, “Do possessives ALWAYS have contractions?”

I asked for an example.

“In this sentence, ‘the dog scratched its head,’ is there an apostrophe between it and the ‘s’?”

No, I said. When the word ‘it’ is in play, you use an apostrophe when it’s a contraction. Suppose the dog was looking at a ball. The ball is ‘it.’ The dog knows where it is. The sentence might be ‘the dog knows where it’s at.’

(I did not point out I had just dangled my participle.)
(That might have sounded obscene.)

Wisely, Junior Miss did not sneer “I told you so” to her mother. And Mom was not pissed off. Mom did, however, ask me to look at the rest of the worksheet.

Twenty sentences requiring punctuation, completed with Mom’s help.

Eighteen of them were incorrect. To be fair, Mom has not taken an English class since her sophomore year of high school, which was, she assured me, one hundred and fifty years ago.

For the record, I should never be an English teacher. Thankfully I was not asked the difference between lie and lay, nor the whole who/whom thing.

---

Hours in the library: 2
Work accomplished: 0

There's always tomorow...

I write.

It’s what I do. It’s what I am. Whether I’m employed changing diapers for runny nosed little monsters in a gym’s drop off child care center or lopping sauce and cheese on raw pizza crusts, I am a writer. Whether I get paid for what literary regurgitations I manage or not, I am a writer.

Given enough virtual paper (though I am old enough to remember writing on REAL paper, using a noisy-assed typewriter and enough white-out to get the entire sophomore class high) I can cough up a story. Given enough time to rewrite and edit, it might even be worth reading. I can outline, conceive of getting characters from point A to point B with quite a few detours to points G, K, and Z along the way, create the narrative and the dialog, and tie it up in a neat little package before typing THE END.

But if you ask me what my book is about…well, my brain freezes. I can tell the story, I can write the whole danged book, but I can’t tell you what it’s about without wrapping my tongue around my teeth and nearly hyperventilating.

“Uh…it’s about this family…and what they go through…and stuff.”

Yeah.

That’s about the extent of my ability to convey the gist of the things about which I write.

I’ve been asked nearly 20 times in the last couple of weeks what my books are about. A few of those people wanted to know in what genre I write, and I have a hard time even coughing that up. I write mainstream fiction. No question about that. I personally consider all three novels to lean towards women’s mainstream fiction (but not chick lit, which I do find enjoyable, especially Jennifer Weiner) but then men who have read one or more books and enjoyed them get insulted.

And who knows? The first review I saw for Charybdis, couched in praise that made me all giddy with joy, said that it would appeal to “fans of Tom Clancy and Danielle Steele.”

Um. I think there was an ouch in there somewhere. And it didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but hey, someone compared me to two huge names, so who am I to question it?

Except I write nothing like Tom Clancy. Or Danielle Steele.

When I grow up, I want to write like Anne Tyler. And Pete Hamill.

For now, I write like me, and me is mainstream fiction.

So we’ve established genre. Mainstream might be women’s, definitely NOT romance, but men might like it too fiction.

As to what the books are about…?

Uh…it’s about this family…and what they go through…and stuff

Or

Boy meets girl. Boy gets girl but he can be an ass so he might not keep girl. Boy’s life is a convoluted mess of anger over having stupid parents. Boy used to have a death wish and almost married a hooker, but she up and croaked. Boy finds happiness with girl, but boy lets STUFF get in the way. Later, in the second book, boy has lost girl but really girl blows it and boy is just fed up; their offspring, being teens and all, have a way of making them finally talk. And then finally boy has girl, they are happy, but their youngest is going through something they can’t quite figure out; he’s home from the seminary and obviously not going back, and they’re worried they’re going to find him dead in his room one day… :::takes deep breath::: but boy meets girl, and, well…

I have to admit, of the three novels, I am most proud and most satisfied with Finding Father Rabbit. It was the most difficult to write, and anyone who knows me inside out knows why. But in my not so humble opinion, it’s the best of the three.

So. Yeah. I really do not do well at telling people what I write about.

I suppose, in the end, I write about people.

The Highlights of My Day So Far...

• Waking up 3 hours earlier than usual, with no one to blame for it
  
• Making a credit card cry as we paid for brake pads and rotors and a brake light switch thingy
  
• Knowing it was the Boy's car, so eventually he'll pay it back
  
• Chicken fajita pita and onion rings at lunch
  
• Ignoring the calorie count of lunch
  
• Noticing the mold on the buns after dinner was over
  
• Trying not to barf after finding the mold
  
• Realizing there is no chocolate in this house and I need chocolate right now.
  
• Needing chocolate
  
• Needing chocolate
  
• Needing chocolate
  

=sigh=
Yeah, I know, everyone should have it so rough...

Pimping the Kitty

My cat is more popular than I am.

‘Tis sad, but it’s true.

He has a bigger reader-base for his blog, plus he gets fan mail.

And he has a new book. Well, his newest will officially go into distribution in late May, but there are pre-publication copies to be had. In an effort to be cheap, I wanted to get a proof copy using Cafepress as the printer, and honestly, it looks better than what comes off the presses of my “real” printer. The text is better, and the pictures are crisper. (More crisp? Eh, they look better…)

He’s very excited about this book. Not only is it what one might expect from the PsychoKitty, but he’s sharing his poetry with the world, plus he answers his email. Questions from “How do I get my people to clean my litter box more often” to “If lemonade is made from lemons, and orangeade is made from oranges, what is Gatorade made out of?”

The PsychoKitty Speaks Out Page O’Psycho Books

Yep, it’ll be available retail this summer, but you can have it first… Either directly from Cafepress, or an autographed copy from His Snarkiness...

Dear People With The Ill-Tuned Diesel Who Live On My Court:

It's not that cold out. Really. When it's in the mid fifties you really don't need to run your truck for twenty minutes to let it warm up. Your kidlets will not freeze if they get in it while it's cold. I, however, might become freakishly manical if woken up one more time by the sound of your engine chugging away at the crack of It's Still Dark Outside Dammit in the morning. You should know that I'm already halfway there, and I'm pretty sure I can train the pigeons that congregate on our street to poop where I ask them to...

Signed,
Awake and Annoyed

My DDAVP punked out on me at 1:15 this afternoon; I realized, as I walked from the nether regions of the WalMart parking lot, in the rain, that I not only needed to pee like the proverbial racehorse (TMI?) but if I didn’t get massive amounts of liquid within 3 minutes, I was liable to sprint through the store, back to the pets area, and start sucking nasty fishy-scum water out of the aquariums.

That, my friends, is DI thirst. Almost anything wet is so appealing it’s just about irresistible. Lucky for me, this WalMart has a McDonald’s, where I can buy a small soda, sit there and watch people, and refill it until my stomach feels like it’s going to pop. And luckily for me, since my doc changed my DDAVP prescription from a nasal spray to pills, I always have some on me. So I headed straight for McD’s bought a drink, popped a pill, and sat down to watch the people pushing carts and strollers and wheelchairs through the store.

I was once asked why I watch people so much. Don’t I worry they’ll feel violated? Doesn’t it feel creepy?

I watch, because it’s difficult to write without having observed. I can’t create realistic characters unless I pay attention to real people, and people are at their most real when they’re doing everyday things and when they don’t feel like they’re being watched. No, I don’t worry they’ll feel violated; it’s not like I sit there and stare, and it’s not as if I were intruding into their home life. If you’re out in public, someone or something is watching you. If not me, then someone else. Or some camera is recording you. You have no Reasonable Expectations to privacy when you’re pushing your cart through WalMart. And it doesn’t feel creepy; creepy would be if I sat there and stared at some little kid, thinking things that no sane person should think. Creepy is the old guy at the YMCA who stares nonstop at the woman in the next lane.

I’m just watching. Soaking it in. Paying attention to how people move, how they talk, how they get frustrated with little things but can be very patient for big things.

A year or so ago I was in the same WalMart, shopping instead of watching. I kept winding up in the same aisle with this woman and her little boy; he kept asking for things and she kept saying no, until he finally asked one time too many and she lost it, and yelled at him over a packet of stickers. It was one of those parental melt down moments that anyone who has ever shopped with a child on a regular basis has had: you’ve told your kid ahead of time he’s not to ask for anything, but being a kid he does anyway, and repeatedly, and you finally explode with a “Do I need to yank your little butt out of here? Because if we have to go to the car, you KNOW what’s going to happen!”

She was super-pissed, and that just made him cry. But he put the stickers down.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later I went into the restroom and there’s Mom with her distraught kid; he’s had an accident, and it’s oozing down his pants legs, through the material, over his shoes. It’s a giant, stinky, horrendous thing to have to clean up. And he’s crying, embarrassed, and Mom is on her knees telling him “It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll get you cleaned up and then we can go home and take a bath, okay?”

Yeah, she lost it over the stickers, but when it counted, she was gentle and understanding with her kid. People are like that. People might cut you off in the parking lot, rush to get a parking space before you, but if slip and fall in the store, they’ll rush to try to help. Get your shirt caught on something and rip it wide open, and they’ll offer you the one off their own backs.

I like to sit there and see what people are really like. Most of the time it’s a good thing to see. Most of the time people try to be kind to each other. In the parking lot, in the anonymity of a car, maybe not so much, but when confronted with need, most people rise to occasion.

I sat in McD’s today, sucking my way through 4 refills, and watched. I heard Bill, the greeter, welcoming people with his loud, friendly voice. Teenager boys filtered in, walking with legs wide to keep their pants from falling down. A young girl practically danced past, as she squealed to her father “I can’t believe we’re really getting a kitty!”

And then there was the little guy who stopped almost directly in front of me; he reached out and grabbed a box of brownies off the sale rack and announced “I yikes dis!”

Mom said, no, we’re not buying that today, we’re here for a mop.

“I yikes dis!”

Not today. Put it down.

“BUT I YIKES DIS! I yikes dis, I yikes dis, I yikes dis!”

Mom gives him The Look. Everyone else in a twenty foot radius is trying not to laugh.

“I yikes dis! I want dis for Kissmas!”

“Christmas is a long time away, kiddo.” She took the box from him and put it back, and then reached for his hand. As she lead him away I heard his distraught little voice, “I yikes dis, I yikes dis!”

I’d finally had enough to drink, my DDAVP finally taking effect, and I as I got up, I head someone behind me mutter, “Well, dammit, now *I* want brownies.”

So do I, mister.
Brownies and snickerdoodles.
Maybe for Kissmas.

I sat in the library this afternoon—again—trying to dig down into the meat of a story I’ve had brewing in my head for almost a year. It’s fought hard against letting me pull it out and put it onto paper, but I think I’m winning. At the very least I got a good start on it and I know where I want it to go, and where I want it to end. That doesn’t mean it will go where I will it to or end the way I hope, but it’s a start. And stories all have to start somewhere.

As I sat there, wondering if what I had just written was on the spot or a bit too wooden, I spotted a little boy standing next to his father, who was looking something up on the computer. He had his finger in his nose, and when he pulled it out, he seemed genuinely surprised at what came out when he finally unplugged his left nostril.

He held his hand up towards his father, finger pointed almost accusingly. “Daddy!”

Daddy peered down, and with a smirk that said I dare you, he snickered, “Eat it!”

The little guy looked at his father, then at his finger, then back at his father as he said brightly “You eat it!”

Dad was saved from having to respond by an older lady at the table next to me, who interrupted the exchange with a horrified “Oh, I have a tissue!” as she dug into her purse.

I kind of wanted to see what Dad was going to do.

But dang, I love the library…

Picking Through The Cobwebs In My Brain…
click to biggify
Yeah.

My entire floor looks like that…No it’s not dirt, it’s catnip. Lots and lots of catnip. Buddah has discovered that if he rips a toy apart, they have plenty of fun to roll in and snack on. Max isn’t complaining about the nip, he’s complaining about being too big to fit inside their new toy.

And yes, I do feel sorry for him. It’s not his girth keeping him out, it’s his length. He could get through the hole, but he’s just too long to get in far enough to curl up and lie down.

I totally scored on an eBay auction last week. I thought I was bidding on cables for my spiffy little PDA/portable word processor thingy; what I got was not just the cables, but another PDA/word processor thingy. For a dirt cheap price. Really cheap. Better than eating expensive chocolate cheap. So now I have two. I just might put my other one up on eBay and make a nice little profit.

I want Snickerdoodles.
If I had a huge batch of Snickerdoodles, I would eat them for breakfast.
Hence, I will not be making any Snickerdoodles.

He fits inside the new toy.
He was too cute to not share.
Even though him being in there ticks Max off to no end.

I know, rationally, that it’s a good thing that smoke detectors make an obnoxious chirping sound when the battery is almost dead. Whoever came up with the idea was very smart and deserves a cookie or two for deep thinking. It forces those of us who have cheap batteries into replacing them more than once a year, and potentially saves our sorry butts.

However.

Whoever designed them so that the battery would always die in the middle of the night (and for me 4:45 a.m. is the middle of the night) needs to be taken out somewhere and beaten about the head and shoulders with a size 15 never-before-washed gym shoe of the skankiest teenager ever to grace a locker room.

And whoever then designed the smoke detector itself to be so difficult to open that it would take over an hour just to get to the dying battery…well, they should not only get whacked with the dirty gym shoe, but kicked in the shin as well.

And both should be locked in a room with Max, who decided that because I was awake, it MUST be time to for breakfast. And when Max decides it’s time for breakfast, Max does not shut up until he gets it. He will meow repeatedly, every 2.4 seconds, until he gets what he wants.

That’s annoying enough in the afternoon; at 6 a.m. it’s enough to make a person want to let the kitty go for a ride in the clothes dryer. Or at the very least, bonk him over the head with my Mighty Holy Pepsi…

I Bonk You On The Head With My Mighty Holy Pepsi

This morning, sometime between 7:40 a.m. and 10:15 a.m., I was ordained as a priest. I’m not exactly sure what type of priest, but I was running around hither and yon, anointing everyone I encountered, absolving them of their sins. Dressed all in black, I carried with me a Diet Pepsi can with the top ripped off, and apparently my beverage of choice was blessed by the unseen Bishop; I dipped my fingers into it just before popping people on the forehead with a “I anoint you and forgive your heathen ways!”

Then Buddah jumped on me, and I woke up. No, I have no idea what that dream was about, other than my subconscious telling me that I must feel superior to everyone else. But we all know how big my ego is, so it’s not like that should be a big surprise.

And no, I don’t normally sleep that late. Because the Spouse Thingy needed to sleep in today (makes working the night shift a tad easier) I dragged myself up at the crack of Way Too Early to function as a can opener for the cats, and once they were stuffed and happy and ignoring me, I crawled back into bed, thinking I would just curl up under the blankets and watch Good Morning America.

I saw something about Charlie Gibson’s brain, and was off to the seminary.

I wonder how high in the class I graduated…

This Post Brought To You By Work Avoidance

If you’re stuck someplace where it’s freaking cold, you probably hate me right now.

It’s February, it’s sunny, and it’s 54 degrees here.

You may throw snowballs if it’ll make you feel better. I was going to complain about how I feel cold and how I’m sitting here shivering, but I don’t think I’m going to get much sympathy. I mean, a couple days ago it was 20 degrees warmer and we were driving around with the top down on the car. Somehow I don’t think my current discomfort matters a whole lot to anyone other than me.

But I do have some goose bumps. I could get up and change from a my thing thermal shirt to a sweatshirt, but that would involve actually moving. I just survived the commissary; I don’t feel like moving.

(Ok, the commissary was not crowded at all and there were only 10 retiree couples blocking aisles with their sideways carts, but I think complaining about having to go to the commissary is, like, the law…)

While I sit here and shiver and not get up to put on a sweatshirt, I am going to start laying out a new manuscript. By my cat. Yep, Max has been at it again and instead of a furball he coughed up a new book.

Um, he did too write it himself.

Sheesh, such doubters out there.

All right…enough procrastinating. Since it’s not warm enough to run around town topless, I might as well be productive. Max will write the dang book, he just won’t sit here and format the manuscript.

Lazy kitty.

:::taps foot impatiently:::

Why is it every place we live, it's last on the UPS guy's route?

:::stares at door:::

Neither Here Nor There…

I’m cheating on my Priloesec.

Oh, I still take it every night as prescribed, but I’m sneaking the Maalox on the side.

Yes, I am a gastronomical slut. I will do just about anything to quell the ever-increasing dull ache in my gut, including chugging mint flavored milky-like wonder. I still like my Prilosec, yes I do, but I need more, and baby, Maalox delivers. I am in love with Maalox. It soothes me and makes my breath so kissable-fresh.

---

From the virtual mailbag:

Q: Why do you tell the whole world that you live in Vacaville CA? Don’t you worry about people knowing where you are?
A: I tell them that because I really live in Provo, Utah.

Q: Why not just stick a Paypal DONATE button up?
A: I’m a pimp, not a whore…

Q: My cat emailed your cat because she wants to be his special friend, so why hasn’t he answered?
A: Your cat frightens my cat, to be honest. He was interested until she mentioned something about ‘doing it’ and ‘dogs,’ and, well, hating all things canine, he just ran from the computer screaming something about rabies and fleas and catnip laced whipped cream…

Q: When is Max’s next book coming out?
A: Oh sure, ask for his book… Look for the new one early next month. Don’t worry, I’ll pimp for him, too. Yeah, I have no shame.

Q: I’ll pay money to see a naked Thumper!
A: Thumper lounging on the hood of the car with no clothes:



PAY UP!

---

Oh and what happened to Stuff On My Cat???? I need my fix of put-upon kitties!

---

I’m at the library again, trying to work (surprise! I really am WORKING for once!) and there’s a little kid, maybe 3, following his mother, whispering very loudly, “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” and she’s doing her best to ignore him. I watched as she went up one aisle and down another, keeping one eye on him as she tried hard to not throttle him (face it, we’ve all had those days with our kids; this appeared to be one of them.) Just as she was about to lose it—she took that deep sigh with her eyes closed, the one that says “Be quiet or I am going to sit on the floor and start crying because I cannot take another moment of your nonstop chatter and incessant demands even though I love you more than life itself please please please SHUT UP!”—he clasped his little hands to his chest and blurted out “if I don’t get to get a book today I AM GOING TO DIE!”

Well now, we can’t have a child just up and croaking in the Vacaville library now, can we?

And no, I did not help the situation any by laughing. But I think he got his book...

Thumper Goes To The Library

Dear Guy In The Blue Honda:
Get off your freaking cell phone and SLOW DOWN. You’re doing at least 30mph in a PARKING LOT. If the conversation is that important, pull into one of those nifty places bordered by the little white lines. Guess what! They’re meant for people to park their cars in! You can sit there and talk and not be terrorizing the people trying to get into and out of the library. Oh, and I’m also laughing at you, because when I pulled in there was a cop at the other end of the parking lot, and you, Mister I-Must-Get-To-The-Exit-In-1.2-Seconds, are headed right for him. I love the sound of a cop car going “whoop-whoop” after seeing an idiot headed its way.


Dear Lady With The 1 Year Old:
He’s not bothering me. Really, he’s not. Your kid is at the age where he loves the sound of his own voice and he’s just so freaking happy to be ALIVE. He’s not screaming, he’s not shouting, he’s not running around and knocking things over. He’s simply talking to the books and the tables and the carpet and he doesn’t really understand “library voice.” Sure, keep reminding him (using your own library voice) that he needs to quiet down, because over time he will learn to speak softly in the library, but don’t stress over it. The place is nearly empty, and there’s only one person in the Quiet Study Area, and that’s me. Everyone else is on the computers, surfing for porn and looking at Ebay. Kudos to you for bringing him here; hopefully he’ll learn to love this place and will think it’s the Best Treat Ever, and will devour book after book after book.


Dear Guy In The Library On The Cell Phone:
Now you, you are bothering me. You’re not only old enough to know what a library voice is, you should be old enough to realize that the whole world doesn’t want to listen in on your side of the conversation. Answer your phone; I don’t mind that anymore than I would mind if you were talking softly to a companion. But stop shouting, for cripes’s sake. Really, what is it about a cell phone that makes people talk 5 times louder than normal? I don’t want to know how much your brake job is going to cost and I’m not impressed that you bought your girlfriend a personalized license tag frame for Valentine’s Day. Hang up and go surf for porn.


Dear People Who Run The Library:
I freaking love this place. In spite of the guy on the cell phone and his many, many clones. This is seriously one of the best libraries I’ve ever been in, and I am going to write an entire book here. Now if you only sold Diet Coke, or would let people bring in Diet Coke, I’d be in writer heaven...

Sincerely,
Thumper

Yes, I’m still pimping.
But I had a request, so it’s worth annoying you yet again to post the pretty picture of my all 3 books in one, um, book.

A couple people wanted to be able to get autographed copies (because nothing says I’M SO COOL! like a signed book from a relatively unknown writer) but it seemed to be a bit of a hassle and an expense to expect people to buy a book, get it shipped to them, mail it to me, and then mailed back.

So I placed an order for 15 copies and should have them next week.

So here’s your chance for a little Wabbity Goodness. You know you want it. All three of my STELLAR novels wrapped into one pretty, shiny cover.

Oh and you, you sitting there at the 3rd computer from the left. I see you rolling your eyes and mumbling has she no shame? No, no I don’t. I have no shame. I must pimp myself in a manner befitting a shameless, furry, afraid-of-Uncle-Sam pimp.

The signed edition doesn’t cost any more than the unsigned edition. Because I’m nice that way. And realistic. Nice and realistic.

Thumper’s Autographed 3-books-in-1-Edition Extravaganza

coughcoughcough
=sneeze=
sniiiiiifffff

Don'tcha just love these winter's end/start of spring head colds?

Me either.

Every once in a while you meet someone who just fits. You can carry on a conversation with them right from the start and not feel uncomfortable, and you can’t help but smile a little every time you see them, even if you’re just waving at them from across the street as they go from their car into their house.

It’s a slice of good fortune to have people like that come into your life, even if it’s just for a short time.

Ann was one of those people; we met at a neighbor’s house a little over three years ago. She introduced herself and plopped down into the chair next to me, and began to talk. And as a total surprise to me—because I tend to be more than a little shy with people for a long time after I meet them—I was able to jump into the conversation and go with the flow. She made me feel worth talking to, that what I said mattered; she capture and offered attention, something of a rarity in people these days, I think.

Her health was always a bit on the frail side, but she was just spunky enough to rise above it. She joined in on the neighborhood barbeques; she was out there watching the kids play; she took classes at the University. She did more that I was doing at the time, for sure.

Ann passed away this past week. The things she leaves behind are good and wonderful, and for a legacy that’s not half bad. Her family is filled with kind and generous people, and her daughter is a testament to the kind of person Ann was. You just can’t raise someone that well if you don’t pour a whole lot of yourself into it.

Her family is going to miss her like crazy. I think the Evil People of the street and I will, too. Just knowing she’s not there any more puts a hole on the fabric of our lives.

There will be no pimping today.