I think I contractually obligated myself to hold onto my car for 12 more years. It’s a verbal contract, but possibly binding nonetheless.

Today is an awesome day; the temperature is pushing 60 degrees F, the sun is shining, and it was perfect for putting the top down on the car while I was out running errands (read: I was paying bills and realized the cable and electric bills are due today and mailing wouldn’t get them there in time.) I pulled into a parking space in front of the Comcast office and was greeted by a tiny voice, “Your car is pretty.”

On the sidewalk, clutching his mom’s hand, was a little boy, four years old. I thanked him and said I thought it was pretty, too. I didn’t mention it drives like crap right now. Aesthetically, it’s still fairly spiffy.

“I buy it?”

His mom started to stammer, and I tried not to laugh. “Do you have a driver’s license?”


“But if you buy it, you can’t drive it. Maybe when you’re sixteen you’ll get your driver’s license, and then you can buy it.”


He and his mom started to walk away, and as she guided him towards their minivan she laughed, “He’s going to find you in twelve years…”

I’m going to charge him for all the years of storage.


No More Night Time Snacks

Really. I’m not sure what I ate before going to bed last night, but it must have been something odd or unusual. That is what causes odd dreams, right? Didn’t everyone get told as a kid not to eat the burrito and pizza casserole just before bed because it would cause strange dreams?

Damn, now I want a burrito.
And pizza.

Sometime around 4 a.m., William Shatner was looking for me. I was on a campus of some sort, milling about, watching the thousands of other people milling about, when someone walked up to let me know that Mr. Shatner was looking for me. He was getting ready to leave, and he wanted to hug me and give me his football jersey.

Well, of course he did… :::clears throat:::

It seemed perfectly reasonable that Captain Kirk (or Denny Crane, take your pick) would want to hug me and give me his football jersey. But before he could, I needed to shower.

So I did.

And then I needed a potty break.
So I took one.

Whereupon I found myself stranded in this communal bathroom, on the john, trying to figure out why there was a roll of thin foil Christmas wrap instead of toilet paper. This would not do. I was going to sit there until someone brought me a roll of TP. Good TP. Northern 2-ply double roll TP.

People came in, reminding me that Mr. Shatner was waiting to give me a hug and football jersey. Well, Mr. Shatner could just wait. I needed TP.

And I never ASKED anyone to bring me some.
I just sat there.
And waited.

I wanted to hug Mr. Shatner, yes I did. And I wanted that football jersey. But I needed the toilet paper.

I don’t know if I ever got it, or the hug, or the jersey, because some psychotic cat decided 5 a.m. was a good time to stand in the hallway and holler his fool little head off.

For all I know William Shatner is standing near a hillside at a college campus far, far away, waiting with jersey in hand, arms ready to encompass me in a giant Shatner hug.


About ten minutes ago Max came stomping into the room, howling, which roughly translated from Feline to English as “Stop it, stop it, stop it! Leave things alone! I like them where they are! Put them back!”

He’s just a tiny bit upset that we’ve started rearranging furniture in the apartment; the day before yesterday I moved the big comfy chair from the bedroom to the living room, which garnered a few choice meows from him—until he realized that I moved to sofa in front of the patio door, affording him a much better view of other peoples’ balconies. Across the way there’s someone with a little rat terrier (or other equally non-canine type canine) that he likes to watch. Most of the time he meows softly when he watches, and I’m fairly sure he’s whispering, hopefully, “Fall…fall…fall..!”

Tonight he was not amused. The bed is in the wrong place, the TV is in the wrong place, and the dresser is in the bathroom. He complained loudly, so I followed to see what was the matter. He stomped on the bed, complaining. He stared at the TV, complaining.

The dresser he seemed to find interesting.

He jumped up and realized he was tall.
He could see into the mirror, and he was tall.
He could stand on his hind legs, paws on my shoulders, and he was really tall.

And he had access to the light switch.

While most people would be tickled and pleased when their three year old learns to do things by himself, this is something that thrills me not. Imagine…a mischievous three year old able to reach and operate the lights. A three year old who wanders the house all night, alone. A three year old who has no problem doing anything he can think of to wake his people up.

If he could laugh maniacally, I’m sure he would.

I think I’m doomed.

As soon as he realizes that the bathroom light will shine right into my face at 3 a.m., I am totally doomed.


Do you ever sit down at the computer and read through your own blog's archives, marveling at your shining wit and obvious literary brilliance?

Me neither.


I took the trash out this morning (Yes! All by myself! I did not leave it there for the Spouse Thingy to take out later. Well, not that bag, anyway…we won’t discuss the 3 that are sitting by the front door right now) and parked very close to the dumpster was a huge Mayflower moving van. They were hauling stuff out of a garage, so my initial thought was, “Hot damn, if we’re number one on the waiting list, that puppy will be ours…”

Because I am selfish that way.
I want the garage.

The thing is, the van was completely blocking the parking lot. And a guy in a pickup truck realized the same thing as he drove up… he had this confused look on his face, opened his window, and said to no one in particular, “My parking space is over there!”

As I walked by I pointed in the direction he had come from and reminded him he could turn around and get to it from the other side.

Judging from the surprised look that he gave me, I don’t think the fact that our parking lots is approachable from several sides ever occurred to him.

But he never got ticked off.
He didn’t shout swear words or honk his horn.

When reminded he could go around, after the initial look of confusion, he said “Oh. Thanks.” And he turned his truck around and left.

Now me, I probably would have at least muttered not so nice things under my breath at the moving van, and then I would have been mortified and/or deeply embarrassed by forgetting something so simple as there’s more than one way to my assigned parking space.

Which tells me I’m not always such a nice person.
But…I did remind him.
So that makes me helpful?

I am very good at telling people where to go.

In other news, Thumper is bored but trying to find all kinds of ways to avoid doing any actual work. Like, talking about a moving van and a guy in a truck…


The Horror

Things you do not want to over hear an couple in their 80s squealing about:

You got the Viagra!




Do you live in an upstairs apartment?
Do you?

Do you have downstairs neighbors?
Do you?

Musings from a downstairs neighbor:

Remember, always, that The People Downstairs can hear you. Doing everything. Yes, EVERYTHING. When you do laundry at 3 a.m., the people below can hear, and they do not appreciate it. When you run your dishwasher at midnight, they can hear it, and they do not appreciate it. When you vacuum at 7 a.m., they can hear and do not appreciate it. And when you have sex on a squeaky, squeaky bed, they really do not appreciate it.

They’re timing you, you know.
And laughing at you.

And if you don’t stop cleaning your apartment in the middle of the night, running the vacuum at Way Too Early, doing laundry when the rest of the world is asleep, your downstairs neighbors are going to tape the sounds of that squeaky, squeaky bed, install a stereo that plays on a loop (leaving ample silence in between playbacks), and play the tape for the entire apartment complex to hear, making sure they know from whose apartment those sounds emit. And just how long it doesn’t take for you to make those sounds.



Today, evidently, was Old People Day at the local theater. At the 1:10 p.m. showing of The Aviator the Spouse Thingy and I were (by far) the youngest in attendance. We had the fewest wrinkles and the least amount of gray hair, though one old fart managed to make me feel bad when he pretty much hurdled over the first row of seats to get to the second row, where his wife (or better half or sister…who knows) was sitting.

And you know what?

Certain old people need to be taken out to the lobby and have some manners spanked into them. We suffered entire groups of them, huddled close, talking through the entire three hours. Not just whispers—they were talking. Clearly. Loudly. And I wanted to get up and slap them all silly.

Or at the very least stand up and scream “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I paid good money to see this movie, not listen to you narrate!”

Ok, that’s a little strong.
I didn’t necessarily want to scream expletives at anyone.
But if I’d had popcorn, I might have started throwing it at them.

It’s a little odd, the times when I’ve been the most ticked off by talkers in the theater it hasn’t been because of kids. It’s always been because of older people who should know better. People who would probably otherwise be moaning about “those damn kids, they have no manners these days.” I very rarely hear kids talking in the theater, and if I do, it’s very young children who are just whispering a little too loud for the circumstances—they’re just not old enough to know better. Once you’ve hit your 80’s, you should know better. And you should care.

But thank God none of them squealed with delight when DeCaprio had his shirt off.
That would have been disturbing.
And wrong…so very, very…wrong.


Evil evil evil evil.

I used to play there a lot and sort of forgot about it until yesterday when I saw someone else mention it on their blog... and dammit, I went back and got hooked all over again.

Evil evil evil.


Verbosity In Motion

Ok. If you’ve seen Phantom Of The Opera (the new movie version) and you liked it, you have to go back and see it again. Then you’ll love it. I swear. It’s even better the second time around. Stock up on Motrin, though, because you’ll need it later, after you’ve been banging your head on your desk to get the music to quit pinging around your brain.

Found on Michele Agnew’s blog:

The you-sexy-thing game. It’s based on this formula:

The name of your first pet.
The name of the street you lived when you were a baby (or the first street name you recall from your childhood)

Now, based on the first pet I remember, and the first street name I can recall, my you-sexy-thing name is Ataturk North Venice.

No, wait. Ataturk Leifstrasse

Ooh, yeah. Take your pick, they’re both awesomely drop dead sexy. I feel more feminine already. And special. And maybe a little not-so-fresh.

I’m still pimping my cat

It’s no secret that I’ve had back problems for years. A few years ago a new back problem raised its ugly head—a sharp crunchy pain in my lower back (yes…crunchy…like rice krispies, only not)—and last year my hip decided to join in on all the fun, so I finally went to the doctor yesterday.

TriCare Appointments, in all their infinite wisdom, scheduled this appointment for a grand total of 10 minutes. Yes, ten whole minutes to relate to the doctor my pain, where it is, what’s it’s not (not an injury), how long I’ve had it, etc. ad nauseum. Ten minutes was long enough for her to determine that a peek inside my back and pelvis were called for.

So off to x-ray I went. It was already creeping up on 4:15 p.m., and the waiting room was nearly vacant. In fact, it was so vacant I only had to wait there about 10 minutes before being called back. I had to pee in a major way, but I figured, “What the hell, this will take five, maybe ten minutes tops.”

Here’s a lesson for you: if you have to pee, don’t assume anything. Go pee. They can wait. Because if you don’t go, during the x-ray session they will have need to poke your lower belly in search of your pubic bone and will hit your bladder every freaking time. And the “five, ten minutes tops” will become one hour and ten minutes, because the tech is new and keeps clipping off part of your hip on the image, plus it’s difficult to get a clear shot of the lower spine and the hip.

The hip part was painful, the spine part…well, let’s just say I thought I should have been paid for that. I don’t think porn stars are contorted into positions like that. My hips were pushed one way, my shoulders another way, until my back was arched and on film I surely looked like I was thinking “C’mere big boy…” In truth I was thinking “Oh holy crud, if I don’t get to pee in the next two minutes, there will be urine dripping off the ceiling.”

Forty five minutes into my contortions, when a new tech came into the room and said they needed “just one more set,” I sat up and informed him I was about to send him to the next floor in a giant flood of pee…he let me up and let me go. Well, not right there. Though much longer and it would have been.

Four more sets of images—I’m pretty sure I was glowing in the dark by then—they let me leave. I put my clothes back on and headed for the hospital entrance…and it was dark. Well, almost dark. Twilight.

Have I mentioned before that I’m night blind?

Have I mentioned before that me behind the wheel after twilight is a really bad idea?

So I whipped out my cell phone, called home and left a message on the answering machine for the Spouse Thingy—when you get home from work, you have to immediately turn around and drive out to pick up your pathetically night challenged better half—and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait.

For an hour.
In a very cold foyer.
With nothing to read.
No TV to watch.
And creepy old men wandering in and out.

And the best part of all? All that contorting hurt like hell, and I won’t even get to go back and find out what’s wrong until the middle of February.


I want my porn paycheck… I earned that sucker.

oh and still pimping…


Pimping The Cat


We have a book.

Or, more specifically, my psychotic cat has a book. We got the proof copy today, and it looks great. The cover is tres chic, and the inside looks pretty spiffy, too. I’m going to order 25 copies either tonight or tomorrow, and hopefully I’ll have them in hand within a week.

We did the math (this would be the royal “we” since Max isn’t all that interested in the calculator) and figured out if we can manage direct sales of 10,000 to 15,000 copies, we’ll be debt free. Presuming we can pry the money out of the cat’s paw, that is. Granted, I’ve never come close to those kind of numbers on any other book, but this one is different.

This one is special.
Yes. Special.

It’ll be up on and B& within 2-3 weeks, but I’m taking pre-orders for direct sales now (website is HERE.) And Max will get a hell of a lot more per copy through direct sales than distributor driven sales. Think of all the kitty crack he could buy. Well, after he pays all my bills.

You want this book.
All the cool kids are getting one.


This One’s Not About The Cat…

Yes, those wonderful, multicolored, candy coated chocolates.
They now come in a reseal-able bag.


Has there every been, in the history of M&Ms, anyone who let a bag sit around long enough that the M&Ms got stale? Is that humanly possible? Does there exist someone who can let a one pound bag of M&Ms last more than a week? Do other people not hear the M&Ms calling their name in the middle of the night, beckoning them to get up and sneak into the kitchen to indulge?

If you have need of a reseal-able M&M bag, well…I don’t want to know about it. They would just be…be…wrong. Blasphemous, I think. If you can let a bag sit around long enough that the M&Ms could get stale then you don’t deserve them.

Send them to me.
I so totally deserve them.


Another One About The Cat =or= We're Whipped, We're Really Whipped

Yes. We spoil the cat. I admit that up front and I’m not ashamed of it. If I even think he wants something, he gets it (other than an endless supply of wet food, mostly because I don’t want him to weigh 50 pounds and be dead before his 5th birthday.) As part of his ongoing spoilage, a couple of years ago we bought him a water fountain. One reason was that our water tasted like ass and this was a way to give him filtered drinking water; another was that cats just like running water.

They might not want to get in water, but they seem to like drinking from and playing with it when it’s dribbling from the faucet.

So we bought it. And he loved it. He took to it with no problem; he drank from it right away, and he played with it right away, sometimes stalking it from across the room.

Yesterday, it stopped working.

It made a few funky noises, prompting me to think it just needed to be cleaned. So I scrubbed it inside and out, put in a new filter, added water, and plugged it back in.

No pump noise.
No water coming out the spigot.

The fountain was dead.

Max glared at it off and on through the rest of the day, waiting for it to start spitting forth. He sat in front of it, staring, willing it to begin working.

At 3:30 this morning, he decided it was time to complain. I could hear him in the kitchen, howling his freaky little head off. At 4:30 when the Spouse Thingy got up to use the restroom, Max tried to lure him into the kitchen, where I’m sure he thought his fountain would be immediately repaired. At 7:15 I got fed up with his yammering, so I locked him in the bedroom with me, because normally that shuts him up.

He complained after breakfast.
He complained while I got dressed.
He complained while he was looking out my office window.

So today we’re going in search of another water fountain.
Yes, he’s spoiled.
Yes, he’s got us right where he wants us.

If he were our human child, I’d have snapped “enough already!” and sent him to his room for the rest of the day. But nope, he’s our feline child, so we’re off to find the fountain.

Stop rolling your eyes.
You’d do it, too…


I still haven’t figured out how the cat understands that when waking a sleeping person, it’s best to start out with a whisper. And I haven’t figured out how he manages to meow at a level best described as a feline whisper, but he has it down to an art form. He’s learned to vocalize at a level somewhere in between exhaling a breath and sounding like a brand new kitty.

And this is how he wakes me on the mornings when he’s too hungry to wait but doesn’t seem to want to annoy me. Cat nose a hair’s breadth away from mine, and a tiny “meow?” that suggests he’s asking, “Hey, are you in there?” He’ll poke softly at my face with his paw and repeat. “Hellllloooo?”

Granted, most mornings he just wants me up, so he stands where he can’t get hit by the jettison from the squirt bottle and hollers his little fool head off, but once in a while (days when the Spouse Thingy has left for work, so Max doesn’t feel compelled to let the whole world know that he thinks the Man overslept…) he tries the gentle approach.

“Are you in there? If you are, I’m awfully hungry. I know it’s still half an hour until breakfast, but I think my tummy is turning inside out, and if I don’t get to eat soon, I’ll be forced to resort to munching on that dry stuff, so would you please please please wake up? I’ll love you forever if you get up right now and feed me.”

If I don’t open my eyes, he’ll keep this up until it really is time to get up and feed him. Nonstop, under the breath, meowing. And poking.

If I so much as twitch, try to squint without really opening my eyes to see him, or if I even just roll over, I’m fair game. There’s no longer the pretense of kitty kindness; The Woman is OBVIOUSLY awake, so the dragging her out of bed shall commence.

I made that mistake this morning.
I moved.
I only moved my arm, but that was enough.

There was 14 pounds of excited feline crawling all over me, pouncing on my head, his meowing escalating to levels of “Oh joy! She’s awake! She’s going to get up and feed me!”

It’s the Kitty Hallelujah Chorus, complete with dancing in ecstasy, his little paws jamming into my boobs and tummy, his head butting up against mine. It’s Kitty Christmas, only I’m Santa and I’m offering him the use of my opposable thumbs to get that can open. For all I know it’s Kitty Sex, the closest he’ll ever get, since we had him neutered.

I dragged myself up, shuffled to the kitchen to feed him, then shuffled back to bed, thinking I would lie in bed and watch some news while I took more time to wake up. Less than a minute later, he was back, licking his chops, smelling of ground up fish and shrimp. He jumped up on the bed and meowed again—not so quietly this time—which I initially interpreted as, “It took you freaking long enough to get up.”

But then he walked up the aide of the bed and plopped down, snuggling up to me.
Kitty Spooning.
He started purring, his head on my shoulder, paws pulling my arm in close to him.

Some mornings he irritates the crap out of me with the nonstop hollering, the jumping up and down on me, the head butting and deliberate attempts to get me out of bed Right Then And There. But then there are these mornings, when he’s been quiet all night and just wants someone to get up because he’s hungry and can’t open the can himself; the mornings when he’s cute and seemingly appreciative.

Those are the mornings when I think to myself, “Yeah, I’ll let him live one more day…”

We’ll see about tomorrow.


We've been here 3 months, and we haven't taken the Jelly Belly Factory Tour.
We never made it the last time we lived here.
Dangit, I want to go see the Jelly Belly Jelly Beans being made!
And I want free samples.
Lots of free samples.
Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm =or= The Wabbit Is Going To Hell =or= Religion 101 =or= Is She Smoking Crack Tonight? Is She Trying To Offend EVERYONE? And Why Is She So Long Winded?

Some people are so religious they stop being Christian, and I didn’t want to be one of those people.*

Thus, I quoteth myself.

And the quote sprangeth to mind during an IM conversation with Murf, aka Undr, aka the guy who seems to have forgotten that he has a blog. I-Forget-To-Blog-Murf does not understand why I don’t attend church; I remind him often(…ok, once in a while…maybe every 5 years) that I used to, but I came to understand that I did not share enough fundamental beliefs with the church with which I was associated (yeah, I think I mangled the grammar there) to be comfortable, so I stopped going. And there was that incident with the Relief Society Visiting Teacher who screeched into the phone at me, “I am responsible for your soul!” That kinda turned me off. As did the alcoholic Bishop’s wife (she was an alcoholic; I don’t know about him.) And the fact that I am too self absorbed to pass up the Sacrament (communion in most churches) when I know I have all these theological differences with the church as a whole, and I am not comfortable with accepting the sacrament when I feel that way (um, yeah…those of you who celebrate it as “sacrament” instead of “communion” and have a “relief society” and “visiting teachers” now know what religion the Wabbit walked away from so many years ago.)

I’m not going back, so if you’re so inclined, save your breath.

The conversations with Murf inevitably turn to two things: one, when you’ve realized that your religion is not the right religion for you, how do you pick a new one? No one teaches Pick A New Church 101. There is no list that says “if you believe this and this and this, get in line A. But if you don’t believe this, get in line B. If you believe everything in the first list AND you believe in the ordination of women and homosexuals, get in line C. If you qualify for line C but also have issues with the erosion of individual rights, form line D and register to vote.”

Two, with few exceptions (and those exceptions are bright lights and awesome people) the "Christians" I meet (that’s the key here…people I meet…that doesn’t mean I group ALL Christians together. I don’t…) are incredibly judgmental and don’t have room in their little worlds for others who don’t share their vision of what is Right and what is Wrong and what constitutes Moral Aberration. They expect everyone else to bend to their vision of a Moral America (or world) and condemn anyone else’s vision.

Here’s the thing. I find those people—-people who tout themselves as Christian but who don’t make room for anyone else’s credo—-to be very non-Christian. They (being ones I have mostly noticed) have entered into the realm of being so religious that they are no longer Christian, not really. They often wear WWJD bracelets and act as if they know what Jesus would do or say or think (“Tsk. Do you think Jesus would drink that wine?” Why, yes I do, considering what he once did to water. Thank you very much for asking.) They look at someone gay and screw up their noses as if having smelled something really bad, and mutter the word “queer,” absolutely sure “those people” are headed straight for hell. They espouse the sanctity of heterosexual marriage while refusing to acknowledge that as long as husbands are beating wives, people are getting married 4 and 5 and 6 times, Britney Spears can turn herself into the poster child for “it was just a joke,” straight people have pretty much blown the ideal of the sanctity of “straight” marriage right out of the water. And really, are you any less married if the two guys down the street enter into a legally binding marriage? Nobody said it had to be a religious marriage ceremony.

Murf is Catholic. He can’t imagine being anything but Catholic, and he can’t picture raising his kids any other way. I admire that. And we agree on so many things: it’s none of our business what the two guys down the street are doing, and it’s seems very wrong for the government to throw a wall up forbidding them to enjoy the rights the rest of us have simply by virtue of our hardwiring. We also agree that no church should ever be compelled to marry anyone, gay, straight, or indifferent. We both tend to think that, being made of God and by God, each and everyone, that there’s a purpose to our lives—-and nothing made of God and by God could ever be “queer.” We seem to be on the same page when we talk about the mixing of politics and religion, that they should not mix and that the politicians need to stop running on religious agendas and focus on the needs and wants of their entire constituency: a government of and by the People, not of and by the Church At Which The Congressman Has Membership. Neither of us is in favor of organized prayer in schools; we both believe that kids who want to pray should be allowed to.

He has many of the same conflicts of religion that I have, yet he’s entirely comfortable with his church. He attends Mass weekly. His best friend was a priest who walked away from it all, and he understands and agrees with the reasons, but there’s not much that can shake him away from his church.

I walked away from mine.

That isn’t the same as walking away from my faith. I did not do that; I carry it with me because it is mostly who I am. I don’t just believe in God. I don’t just believe in Christ. I know these things. And honestly, if you put my feet to the fire, I can’t tell you why I know these things. Unlike Murf, I didn’t grow up with the routine of church every Sunday. I didn’t go to Sunday School, didn’t have Bible study or catechism classes. It’s just in me.

But in spite of that, in spite of knowing what I believe and think and feel, and for the most part why (whether based on experience or naivety, I don’t know) I don’t have a clue how to go about choosing a church. I am wary of most of them for no other reason than the aforementioned “Christians.” I don’t ever want to be so religious that I stop being Christian. I don’t want to be one of “those” people.

Sound hypocritical?
Of course it is.
We’re all hypocrites of one form or another.

Faith is not a straight and narrow path, even when being “good” is associated with “being on the straight and narrow.” The pathway of Faith has twists and turns and odd side streets that take us places we might never imagine we’d go. It’s what makes life a journey…and I cannot imagine forcing anyone to walk the same path I am on, taking my journey instead of taking their own.

I don’t have to impinge on anyone else’s personal freedoms in order to embrace my own faith. I do think I have to respect his beliefs, even if I don’t agree with them.

I don’t have to take some square peg and bang him into my round hole. I do think I have to mold space around myself to make room for the things that don’t necessarily fit.

I don’t have to hold someone up to the light by which I find my way and deem him to be unworthy just because he doesn’t share my beliefs. I do think that if my way is truly the right way, leading by example is the best thing I can do.

I don’t think it is my place to hold judgment. Someone Else has that right and power.

I don’t think the purpose to life is to find happiness. I think it’s to develop righteousness. Those aren’t mutually exclusive of each other.

If I could find a church that has those things I deeply believe as its foundation, I’d probably be there. It would be the Church Of God Loves You—Period. Not “God Loves You As Long as You’re Hereto.” Not “God Loves You Unless You Cast A Legislative Vote Against Prayer In School.” Not “God Loves You, But If You Take A Drink, Light A Cigarette, Or Have Naught Naughty Sex, He Will Cast You Down To Hell.”

Technically, I could start my own church.
Technically, I am ordained.

There’s nothing technical about God, and faith, and finding in what one believes. Yet it all seems very technical when it comes to finding the right place to worship. I’d like to find that ideal church.

I’d like the sign out front to read just what I’d imagine the message to be.
God Loves YOU. Period.

*Finding Father Rabbit, page 23, if you haven’t read it, you really should buy a copy or 20...


Oddz N Endz Part 3586 x 5

The Boy is now a certified Bartender. We are very proud. Hey, don’t snort. We are totally serious…we are Very Proud. He busted his behind over Christmas break to take this course and finish it; he wanted to be qualified to do something he can truly support himself with while he pursues his Bigger Dream.

The cat is getting very impatient regarding the proof copy of his book; the materials are still stuck in Premedia with the printer; with the exception of Inkblot Books’ very first title, all our books have cleared Premedia in a day or two and we’ve had the proof copy within 5 days. Since Max’s books went to the printer on Monday, and here it if Friday and it’s still hovering there, he is very disappointed. And the head of Inkblot Books is wondering at what point one pokes at the printer and asks what the holdup is. It could be timing—the book might be stuck at the back of a long line of other books—or it could be there’s something wrong and we just don’t know about it.

Um, yeah, sometimes I speak in royal “we” terms.

I have this whole religious-themed post rolling around in my head, but I’m trying to write it in a way I won’t offend anyone. Well, I always offend someone, but I don’t want to OFFEND anyone. Once I get it coughed up and smoothed out, I’ll post it.

Something for you to look forward to.

We saw Elektra today. Not a bad movie, but not great, either. It’s one of those if you’re a fan of the genre or Jennifer Garner you’ll want to see, but it can wait for DVD.

Then we had a late lunch out. Burger City. I am totally stuffed. And we can’t go back there for a while because they recognize us already. You know you’ve gone somewhere too often when they recognize you. We realized we’d gong to Pizza Hut in OH too often when the waitress not only recognized us, she could tell us what we were going to order. It’s not like we eat out every night. We just tend to favor the same places…



Why don’t you title anything anymore?

I was running out of title ideas. I’m not half as clever as some people are when it comes to naming their work. But I might, once in a while, if something strikes me as a)clever, b)funny, or c)intelligent beyond all comprehensible means.

You’ll note, I did title this one. And it meets none of the aforementioned criteria.

Do you really care if people get bent over your language?

I do care if I genuinely offend someone.

I don't appreciate it if someone gets all righteous and pokes the You’re-Going-To-Hell finger in my virtual face. There are some words that are a part of my vocabulary; I’m not necessarily proud of that, but I’m also not ashamed of it. Words only carry the weight of intention, but That Finger carries the weight of Judgement…

Who really wrote your cat’s book, and when can I buy it?

He did!
Here’s a picture of him asking, sweetly, permission to use the laptop. And here is a picture of him working on the cover to his book. What more proof do you need?

You’ll probably be able to buy a copy directly from him in a week or so; 2-3 more weeks for Amazon. He thought he’d have a proof copy by now, but so far the UPS man hasn’t brought a thing.

Are you still socially unacceptable? You know, from the oatmeal.

Come closer, and you’ll see…

Will you publish me?

Well, maybe.
Can you write?
Got cash?

wIlL u PbLsH mE?


How can I get an autographed copy of one of your books?

Send $49.95 to…
Now it's not pink.
And not two, but THREE columns.
I be stylin' now...

If you hate it, you can say so...
And yes, I need to edit the Spouse Thingy's icon. He's kinda...burnt looking.


I'm already getting tired of pink...
I'm either going to change the colors soon, or find a new skin.
Love the skin, but the pink is starting to burn into my retinas...
Most mornings, unless the Spouse Thingy is home and asleep, the cat waits patiently for me to wake up; once 8 a.m. rolls around he feels like I’m fair game, and begins the process of getting my ass out of bed. If the Spouse Thingy is home, he stands in the hallway at 4:30 and hollers his little head off.

He’s like this walking furry alarm clock, and his timing is very precise.


If I’ve had a hard time falling asleep the night before—last night I was still awake at 3 a.m., the result of stupidly allowing myself a short 45 minute nap yesterday—he will decide that I have to get up early. This morning he started in on me at 7:15, and I was not happy.

He meowed and crawled all over me, trying to get me to open my eyes; I grumbled and told him to go away. He meowed louder and head-butted me; I pulled a pillow over my head. He howled and stuck his head under the pillow; I reached for the water bottle and threatened to squirt him.

He ran.

But not a minute later, I felt his weight on the far side of the bed, and he crept very slowly towards me, and I prepared to aim and squirt. I was just ticked enough to not have a problem with getting him right in the face. If it had been half an hour later, I might have relented, gotten up to feed him, and then climbed back into bed. But there was no way I was losing this one.

He crept over the pillow—which was still on my head, thank you very much—and bolted for the squirt bottle, batting it out of my hand and onto the floor where I couldn’t reach it without getting up.

He then proceeded to celebrate by stomping victoriously across my chest and stomach, meowing happily, and I’m sure he was chanting “I win, you hafta get up. I win, you hafta get up…”

I got up.
I fed him.
I went back to bed.

Two minutes later he was back, standing on my chest, breathing the foul odor of whatever type of wet food I’d given him in my face. I opened one eye and told him he was lucky to be alive at the moment. He cocked his little head and meowed again, this time quietly, gloating, and I’m sure he was saying “You are so totally my bitch.”


According to the weather guy (or maybe he’s the anchor, I dunno…I don’t usually watch this channel) on channel 13, Vacaville had a tornado touch down twice this morning. It blew a bunch a crap around in a couple of back yards and knocked some roof tiles loose, but I think that’s it. No one was injured.

He said it was an F-0 tornado.
He probably should have just said, “Vacaville farted today.”
Or perhaps belched.

In any case, while this tornado was blowing crap around peoples’ back yards, I was probably sitting right here where I am now, staring numbly at the computer screen, wondering why I was so freaking sleepy. I didn’t even know the weather was less than desirable—I had opened the blinds in my office for the cat, but I never noticed anything. Except for some candy wrapper bouncing around on the ground outside. That could have been a clue. At the time all I thought was “damn kids.”

When I went to check the mail, it was nice out. Bright and sunny and probably 50 degrees.

(I point that out so that those of you who are shivering in the cold and have been shoveling snow all day can sneer and call me names, maybe even flip off your monitor.)

At some point I wandered into the spare room and flopped down on the bed in there. I hadn’t intended to take a nap, but I was walking by the room, and…well…I woke up an hour later. My presence in that room distressed the cat, who jumped up onto the bed and looked at me like “This isn’t your bed. Go to your own room. I want to sleep here right now.”

So I took the nap I didn’t intend to, and now, when I should just begin feeling sleepy, I’m wide awake.

Which leaves me time and brain power to ponder the might fart that Vacaville let loose, wondering if all the crappy weather of late is a result of the tsunami from December 26.

If a butterfly flaps its wings, and all that…

In other news…we watched the “final” of The Biggest Loser tonight. The guy I was rooting for didn’t win, but it doesn’t matter. I was just amazed by how much weight the participants all lost and how good they looked. During the first episode I told the Spouse Thingy that I could so totally do that show (surprising myself because I’ve never felt the urge to even contemplate doing a reality show) and after watching the last, I still want to do it.

I could do it.
I certainly weigh enough to qualify.
I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the deadlines to apply for the second season…but damn. I think I was born to be a big loser.

In the nicest way, of course.
I don’t even necessarily want to win (though the money would be nice.)
I’ve just always wanted to go to fat camp for grownups.

Kids have fat camp and it looks like fun.

Grownups do too, but it’s like $10,000 to go.

Yeah. If I had 10 grand to blow, I would probably have a whole lot of disposable income and could hire someone to cook for me and hold a shotgun to my back to make sure I work out more.

If I did that, whomever was behind me doing the .22 motivational training would probably be subjected to my own personal imitation of Vacaville this morning.

I’m rambling.
Still tired, but there’s no way I can sleep.


With any luck, in about two weeks Max will begin scratching his way to fame and fortune.

And if he strikes it rich, he might be willing to spread the wealth. After all, I did feed him during his stretch as a writer. Not only that, I let him use my computer. And I didn’t censor his blog, where he has the tendency to poke fun at me. I’m going to draw the line at serving him caviar if he hits big, though…

The proof copy should be here by the end of the week. Something to look forward to!


It’s the strangest dream. And I keep having it.

My back has been bothering me a lot lately—I wake up 3 or 4 times a night trying to find a decent position and a spot on the bed that doesn’t make it hurt worse—and it’s filtering into my dreams. Mainly, I finally go see a doc about the back pain, and he orders an x-ray. And it’s a spiffy new type of x-ray—animated. Yep, they take the picture, and when they put the film on that nice box with the bright light to look at it, I can see that my spine is shattering.

Pieces flying everywhere.

And it’s made up of macaroni noodles.

Stop laughing. It is. I’m sitting there in the doctor’s office, watching my macaroni-noodle spine exploding, and it doesn’t seem the least bit odd.

That would certainly explain the pain, all those bits and pieces of pasta shifting and spinning and collapsing right there in my lower back. It makes perfect sense.

What felt out of place the last time I had this dream (sometime in the wee early hours this morning, between telling Max to be quiet and throwing a pillow at him) was the Spouse Thingy’s insistence on making a side trip to Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way to the hospital. He was going to die if he didn’t get a take out container of popcorn shrimp. Yet it didn’t seem strange that he came out of KFC with a 6 foot long sub sandwich instead. Or that he refused to share it with me.

“It has fish on it,” he says, taking a bite.

I hate fish, of course I’m not going to want any.

Fish doesn’t go with macaroni, especially when it’s spinning and popping and falling apart.

Yeah…I either need to see a doc for real, or stop drinking hot chocolate before going to bed.


Now, see, I wore my crown all day yesterday (well, except for the 20 minutes I was out of the apartment at the grocery store. It just didn’t match my jacket) and I not only finished the manuscript, I got it laid out and generated a PDF proof for the printer.

So I’m wearing it again today, hoping it will aid the creation of a cover for the book, but so far I’m sucking in a major way. I’m having loads of fun with Photoshop, but I don’t know what the bejeebers I’m doing, so nothing is exactly print-worthy.

I’ve even learned a few things the last couple of days:

  • Having oatmeal for breakfast every day will, after a few days, make you socially unacceptable.

  • Rain will hold off until the precise moment you have to go to the apartment’s office to deal with someone else’s mistake.

  • Keeping your utility statements can prove the mistake was someone else’s.

  • Jelly Beans can make you nauseous if you eat them on an empty stomach.

  • The cat doesn’t want to eat Jelly Beans, but they do make a might fine toy


This is why I got no work done yesterday.
This is why I found other things to do instead.
I was not wearing my Burger King crown.
This is my business attire; with it on my head I can contain my thoughts.
Yes, I must feel regal in order to write.
Laugh if you must…but I bet I get lots done today.

Oh...and ya think I might need to shave? I feel like a 15 year old boy...without the winky.


Having gotten up So Freaking Early today, and not having gone anywhere except a 3 minute walk to check the mail, one might think I would use all that time to actually work. I mean, I was at the computer all day. And I’m 97.379% done with a manuscript. So it would make sense that I would use the time to get Real Work Done.

It would make sense.
With this much free time, I could edit the rest of the manuscript.
Write 2000 new words.
Balance the nation budget and bring about world peace.
That doesn’t mean I did it.

I thought about it. In fact, at one point I even opened Word and opened the manuscript file. But then I decided I needed music, so I had to find the perfect CD To Work By. And then it occurred to me that I was expecting a specific email, so I better check that before I got engrossed in work. And while I was checking email, why, I might as well surf through a few blogs to see what people had to say. You know, for inspiration.

While checking email I found that someone wanted to join Fibro Files so that needed to be finished before I could get back to work. And then I discovered I’d given a mass of people the wrong link to my blog, so I had to return to that newsgroup and correct the matter (because I am, after all, a Certified Attention Whore—I even have a tiara for it—and needed to make sure everyone on that newsgroup would come here and not the Bible Site the typo took them to.)

By then it was lunch time.
And after that I needed new music.
And, well, the news was on and I needed to see what was going on outside the apartment.
And the cat needed attention.
And there was this diversion with a game of BeSpelled

Next thing I know the Spouse Thingy is home from work, and I’ve gotten zilch done.

But tomorrow… tomorrow I shall find new and inventive ways of avoiding work.
There needs to be a law for people who live in upstairs apartments: No dropping things at 6:30 in the freaking morning.

There was this loud =bang= right at 6:30 this morning and I woke up, thinking the cat had knocked something over in the living room or kitchen. I reached for my glasses and muttered, “Max, what did you do?”

He answered me from the other side of the bed. “Meow?” which I believe roughly translated into, “That wasn’t me, dammit, get out of bed and go see who’s trying to kick the front door in!”

Big brave kitty, instead of following me into the living room as my backup, burrowed under the blankets and waited. I flipped lights on, looked out the peephole…nothing. Then I head the people upstairs scurrying around and realized it had to be them. Someone must have dropped something.

And if you think about it, if someone had been trying to break into the house, there’s not a whole lot I could do about it, half dressed and mostly still asleep. I’d like to think I still have a righteous front kick that could knock someone into the next country, but the reality is that I’d probably stand there frozen, peeing my pajama pants. And the cat would be no help, hiding under the bed blankets, waiting for me to come tell him everything is all right.

He came out once I crawled back into bed, and immediately began the Dance Of The Hungry. He spent the next hour jumping on me, crawling over me, head butting me, and hollering at me. But be my toothy little backup to a Big Bad Intruder?


I got up 3 hours ago, and you’d think I would have gotten an early start on my day.
You’d think.


I love a good bargain. PsychoKitty’s bed cushion was getting a wee bit flattened by his 14 pounds of (as he would say) sleek black and white glory, and since he’s started using the bed an awful lot since I moved it to a spot next to my desk, I thought it was a good time to replace it. You know, before it starts to stink.

Since this entailed making the Spouse Thingy go hither and yon to different places to compare and price different cushions, it had the possibilities of becoming a Fun Thing.

Who doesn’t like torturing their Spouse Thingy with shopping they could surely do on their own? (but don’t feel sorry for him. He got to buy himself 10 feet of Ethernet cable…)

What blew me away was how much floppy little bed cushions can cost. We hit one place that had the perfect sized cushion in a spiffy animal print, but they wanted $25. For a CAT BED cushion. A cushion that’s only about 20 inches across and 3 inches deep. I love the cat, but I don’t think so.

So we went to WalMart. And found a soft fleece covered people-type pillow that looked to be just about right. But no price tag. And none of their various Price It Here machines seemed to be working. This is when having the Spouse Thingy along pays off…he took the pillow and found a Real Live Human Being to scan it. I told him I didn’t want to pay more than $8 or so; he snorted and said it would be more than that.

Five bucks.

It’s a really nice pillow, and it was only $5. As soon as we got home I put it in the cat’s bed, threw the pad he sleeps on over it, and showed it to him.

He sniffed, burrowed under the pad, and curled up for a good 3 hours, until a bad dream (I think) woke him up. He made a godawful chittering sound, and exploded out from under the pad, his fur standing on end.

He went back to bed after dinner, and has mostly been there since.

Well worth the $5 I think. Unless, of course, that means he’ll be up all night bouncing off my butt and singing at the top of his lungs.


Here’s my discovery for today:

When you’re in a bad, bad, bad mood, so bad that even the cat is sucking up to you, and you’re out running errands you don’t want to run (read: was sitting here and realized HOLY CRAP! The PG&E bill is due TODAY and so is the storage rental) and it’s cold and rainy and your car is sputtering like a nun who’s just wandered into a porn store and you just want to find someone deserving and scream at them until the little vein in the middle of your forehead actually pops, a hot cup of Wendy’s chili and a Diet Coke can be a very soothing thing.

Just so you know.
You know what would help a military retiree in a major way?
If their retirement pay was actually deposited!

So far this year is shaping up to suck in a major way.

Edit later to revise: It would help if the pay was the correct amount, deposited into the right account... It's now there, just not it should be, and we can't touch it until the Spouse Thingy gets all this sorted out.

But yeah. I have a short fuse these days, I've noticed.
Can ya tell???


Apparently, I’ve managed to tick off a whole lot of people with my language yesterday. One commented anonymously, the rest emailed. Anonymously. Yes, Internet Bravery at its finest.

Look, I dropped the F-bomb. Repeatedly. I was seriously ticked off, and understandably so. I apologize for offending anyone, but that doesn’t also mean that I am sorry.

I’m not.

I swear sometimes.

So do a lot of people. They’re just words. If I’d called the thief a “dootyhead” it would have carried the same weight and merit as calling him an assmunch. It’s the intent, not the word. And my intent was not to be sweetness and light. It was to demonstrate that I am really, really upset, and more than a little bit frustrated. Actually, I’m on the edge of feeling violently angry. Violently. I don’t say that lightly.

Yet I’m not surprised that every single complaint has been anonymous.

I took flack a couple of years ago for saying the word “shitload” in a post. The world did not end, and the Internet did not implode. I will drop the F-bomb again in the future, and little children will not suddenly become possessed by Satan, nor will the entire tea-totaling squeakiness of Good crumble into the depths of depravity. Your local nun will not go Goth and get tons of tattoos.

That said…

After we discovered the car had been broken into and the stereo ripped out of the dashboard, we went inside and the Spouse Thingy called the police. He was told someone would be out soon to get a report—would someone be home? Sure, of course. We waited. And waited. And waited. We blew off doing anything for New Years Eve, and the cops never came. We waited a good part of this morning, and the cops never came. If they wanted us to go down to the station, they shoulda said. We would have.

Since we’re not filing an insurance claim—why bother—we don’t need a police report. We called because it was the Right Thing To Do. Or so we assumed.

I doubt I’ll replace the stereo.
I doubt now that I’ll get the struts fixed.
In fact, I don’t even want the car anymore. It’s been nothing but grief from the get go.

Yep, you can want something your entire life, and then have it suck mightily when you finally get it.

So. Yeah. I’m not honestly sorry I spewed forth with offensive language yesterday. I am sorry if anyone was genuinely upset by it. I can assure you, it’ll happen again.