Ooohyeah
One more thing off the list: the Hyundai is sold. The people who wanted to look at it Saturday took it to a mechanic today, and in spite of some needed repairs ($1200 worth, but $700 of that is covered under a Hyundai recall) they bought it, and we got $200 more than we really expected to. Coolness. Now we can either buy plane tickets for the Boy and his Significantly Better Half, or prepay taxes, like Uncle Sam wants.
Money never lasts…
Tuesday
Monday
Shiver Me Timbers … Again
I was okay with the chilly temps today until the weatherman said the norms are in the low 70s this time of year. He said that when it was 52 degrees with a 46 degree wind chill. Dammit. We went out to lunch (Pizza!) and had to ride with the top up—because, frankly, I’m a wuss.
Keep your fingers crossed for us; we’re showing the car to someone tomorrow. They’ve already seen it, actually, but because the Lemon Lot was blocked off for construction, they couldn’t take it for a test drive. Tomorrow they want to take it to a mechanic, and have sad that if it checks out they’ll buy it.
I won’t hold my breath, but I’m hopeful.
Not only do we need to buy airplane tickets for the kids, but Uncle Sam wants us to prepay some of our taxes. Granted, that really is a good idea, so we don’t get killed come April 15th, but in order to prepay the taxes, we kinda have to have the money. Funny how it works out that way.
I still think I should follow that hoochie Karyn who got the world to pay off her credit card debt, and start a Get Thumper Out Of Debt drive. Paying off education and medical expenses isn’t as fun as someone credit cards, though, is it?
Maybe I should start a pr0n site. I bet I could get rich that way…
Ok, I went from complaining about the weather to pr0n.
I need a nap.
Or a drink.
I was okay with the chilly temps today until the weatherman said the norms are in the low 70s this time of year. He said that when it was 52 degrees with a 46 degree wind chill. Dammit. We went out to lunch (Pizza!) and had to ride with the top up—because, frankly, I’m a wuss.
Keep your fingers crossed for us; we’re showing the car to someone tomorrow. They’ve already seen it, actually, but because the Lemon Lot was blocked off for construction, they couldn’t take it for a test drive. Tomorrow they want to take it to a mechanic, and have sad that if it checks out they’ll buy it.
I won’t hold my breath, but I’m hopeful.
Not only do we need to buy airplane tickets for the kids, but Uncle Sam wants us to prepay some of our taxes. Granted, that really is a good idea, so we don’t get killed come April 15th, but in order to prepay the taxes, we kinda have to have the money. Funny how it works out that way.
I still think I should follow that hoochie Karyn who got the world to pay off her credit card debt, and start a Get Thumper Out Of Debt drive. Paying off education and medical expenses isn’t as fun as someone credit cards, though, is it?
Maybe I should start a pr0n site. I bet I could get rich that way…
Ok, I went from complaining about the weather to pr0n.
I need a nap.
Or a drink.
Saturday
Theft By Any Other Name…
I’m a writer. That’s no secret; I’ve been pimping my stuff (see the little book cover images to the left) for the last couple of years. I’ve put up sample chapters of each book online, a sort of virtual flip-through since you can’t hold the book in your hand and look through it. Soon there will be a third, and another sample chapter.
That was my choice.
You will note, however, that I did not place the entire text of either book online. Why not? Because as much as writing is not about the money (face it, there’s very little money to be made unless you get lucky), if you want to read the book, you either need to suck up to me in a major way, or buy it.
No, it’s really not about the money. But it takes roughly a year, sometimes a little longer, to take those books from idea to final manuscript, a year of work without pay. So sure, I want people to buy the book. It’s just the same as anyone else who works—getting paid for the effort is generally a nice thing.
I imagine it’s not much different for a musician. They work their collective asses off, create a product, put it out there for the public to hear, and hope that people buy it.
Buy it, folks. Not stick it online to share with a million other people.
“But it’s art. Art is not about the money!”
“I paid for the CD. I can do with it what I want.”
“What’s the difference between file sharing and just burning copies for my friends?”
Honestly, if you have to ask those questions, your momma didn’t raise you right.
Okay, you bought the CD. Paid full price even. So make yourself a copy, that’s fine. A copy is a good idea; stick the original away to keep it safe. I had a bunch of CDs stolen out of my car; most of them were copies, so I didn’t lose much. I understand that. Make a copy for a friend. I can live with that, too.
But when you place someone else’s work online, you’re potentially sharing that work with millions of other people. Literally millions. And they didn’t get a say in it.
You’re not hurting the music companies, or book publishers, or even the distributors, really. But you’re killing the people who rely on royalties.
Put it into perspective. When my first book, Charybdis, came out, the entire text wound up online. Every freaking word. Roughly 25,000 people downloaded it, and who knows how many sat there and just read it. Twenty five thousand downloads.
At royalty rates that equaled about $4.00 per book, had those been purchases, I would have earned enough money to get us out of debt, with a little left over.
Even if only half of those had been purchases, it would have literally changed my life. And I’ll never know how many of those downloads were then shared with other people.
While I’m partially thrilled that so many people have copies of my book, I’m still mad as hell that I was ripped off.
Yeah, I said it. You who placed my book online without my permission, and those of you who downloaded it ripped me off.
Every time you take someone else’s work, place it online and “share” it with others, without the express consent of the copyright owner, you are stealing.
I know next to nothing about the RIAA or DCMA or whoever they are, I don’t care who they are and what they do, I don’t care if you’re for them or against them, or feel like because of their policies you deserve to swap music and text files to which you don’t own copyright. I do care that no matter what, when you do it, you’re taking money out of the wallets and pockets of the people who created that work.
And really, if you don’t get that, there is something wrong with you.
And if you’re one of the people who d/l’d my book, you owe me $4.00.
I’m a writer. That’s no secret; I’ve been pimping my stuff (see the little book cover images to the left) for the last couple of years. I’ve put up sample chapters of each book online, a sort of virtual flip-through since you can’t hold the book in your hand and look through it. Soon there will be a third, and another sample chapter.
That was my choice.
You will note, however, that I did not place the entire text of either book online. Why not? Because as much as writing is not about the money (face it, there’s very little money to be made unless you get lucky), if you want to read the book, you either need to suck up to me in a major way, or buy it.
No, it’s really not about the money. But it takes roughly a year, sometimes a little longer, to take those books from idea to final manuscript, a year of work without pay. So sure, I want people to buy the book. It’s just the same as anyone else who works—getting paid for the effort is generally a nice thing.
I imagine it’s not much different for a musician. They work their collective asses off, create a product, put it out there for the public to hear, and hope that people buy it.
Buy it, folks. Not stick it online to share with a million other people.
“But it’s art. Art is not about the money!”
“I paid for the CD. I can do with it what I want.”
“What’s the difference between file sharing and just burning copies for my friends?”
Honestly, if you have to ask those questions, your momma didn’t raise you right.
Okay, you bought the CD. Paid full price even. So make yourself a copy, that’s fine. A copy is a good idea; stick the original away to keep it safe. I had a bunch of CDs stolen out of my car; most of them were copies, so I didn’t lose much. I understand that. Make a copy for a friend. I can live with that, too.
But when you place someone else’s work online, you’re potentially sharing that work with millions of other people. Literally millions. And they didn’t get a say in it.
You’re not hurting the music companies, or book publishers, or even the distributors, really. But you’re killing the people who rely on royalties.
Put it into perspective. When my first book, Charybdis, came out, the entire text wound up online. Every freaking word. Roughly 25,000 people downloaded it, and who knows how many sat there and just read it. Twenty five thousand downloads.
At royalty rates that equaled about $4.00 per book, had those been purchases, I would have earned enough money to get us out of debt, with a little left over.
Even if only half of those had been purchases, it would have literally changed my life. And I’ll never know how many of those downloads were then shared with other people.
While I’m partially thrilled that so many people have copies of my book, I’m still mad as hell that I was ripped off.
Yeah, I said it. You who placed my book online without my permission, and those of you who downloaded it ripped me off.
Every time you take someone else’s work, place it online and “share” it with others, without the express consent of the copyright owner, you are stealing.
I know next to nothing about the RIAA or DCMA or whoever they are, I don’t care who they are and what they do, I don’t care if you’re for them or against them, or feel like because of their policies you deserve to swap music and text files to which you don’t own copyright. I do care that no matter what, when you do it, you’re taking money out of the wallets and pockets of the people who created that work.
And really, if you don’t get that, there is something wrong with you.
And if you’re one of the people who d/l’d my book, you owe me $4.00.
Thursday
Wednesday
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Remember when you were a teenager? More than once you probably heard some older person snort something like, “Those damn kids. They have no respect.”
I know I heard it more than once. And I wish I knew then what I know now, so I could have patiently pointed out a glaring fact: Respect is a two way street. You get what you give.
A couple of days ago I had an IM conversation with a friend who’s been struggling with her weight for the last couple of years. We met online when I was surfing for information on pituitary tumors, and she was a well of information for me, as well as understanding. She’d been through it, knew what I was facing, and pointed me in the directions I needed to go online to get the right information.
We both have undeniable problems resulting from the tumors; I was thrown into very early menopause, have diabetes insipidus, my pituitary gland doesn’t make growth hormone, and probably a few things I’m not even aware of. She was left with some of the same problems, but she also lacks the hormone that prods the thyroid into functioning.
So, she’s gained weight. She hates it, but it’s there, an all too visible reminder of what she went through, and what she lost.
So the other day we were talking, and she brought up an encounter that she found a little startling, more than a little upsetting, and frankly, quite rude. An elderly woman sitting near her in a fast food restaurant leaned over and said, with a slight nod towards the food on the table, “Deary, you would be so pretty if you would lose some weight.”
Backhanded compliment? Hardly. The message was clear: don’t eat those fries, you’re fat enough already and you’re only making it worse, and I don’t want to look at you.
No concern over why she’s overweight, no thought to the idea that there might be a reason not obvious to the world that gets to live outside her body. Just a judgmental old woman who probably doesn’t care that she took what was a nice day, someone’s afternoon out with the kids, and deflated it in less than 5 seconds.
Now, I get looks. I know what being overweight in this world feels like, and it’s rarely a nice feeling. When you’re overweight you get looks, sometimes the occasional derisive snort. But can you imagine someone leaning over and saying that to you? Do you know what you would say back?
She had a good comeback. “Ma’am, if you would keep your opinions to yourself, you would be such a nice person.”
Better than the “Bitch” I would have spat.
I once belonged to a Body For Life support group online; I was giving the weight and nutrition program a try, hoping that it would work for me (it didn’t.) Most of the people on it were nice enough, but the underlying message to a very high percentage of the posts were the same: fat people are less deserving of respect than others. Fat people deserve the crap they get. It’s okay to sneer, frown, and make fun of fat people, including posting running commentaries on the contents of their shopping carts, because they are defective.
It’s not all right.
It’s rude.
It’s disrespectful.
So, I’ll say what fat people across the world think but rarely verbalize: unless you can look at a person and know, with 100% accuracy, what their story is, why they are the way they are, shut up. You don’t know, not really. You don’t know if that person shoves food in their mouth every ten minutes. You don’t know if they’re inherently lazy. You don’t know a thing about them, other than outward appearance.
Give the respect you want to get.
It’s as simple as that.
I think I wrote that book, actually…
Remember when you were a teenager? More than once you probably heard some older person snort something like, “Those damn kids. They have no respect.”
I know I heard it more than once. And I wish I knew then what I know now, so I could have patiently pointed out a glaring fact: Respect is a two way street. You get what you give.
A couple of days ago I had an IM conversation with a friend who’s been struggling with her weight for the last couple of years. We met online when I was surfing for information on pituitary tumors, and she was a well of information for me, as well as understanding. She’d been through it, knew what I was facing, and pointed me in the directions I needed to go online to get the right information.
We both have undeniable problems resulting from the tumors; I was thrown into very early menopause, have diabetes insipidus, my pituitary gland doesn’t make growth hormone, and probably a few things I’m not even aware of. She was left with some of the same problems, but she also lacks the hormone that prods the thyroid into functioning.
So, she’s gained weight. She hates it, but it’s there, an all too visible reminder of what she went through, and what she lost.
So the other day we were talking, and she brought up an encounter that she found a little startling, more than a little upsetting, and frankly, quite rude. An elderly woman sitting near her in a fast food restaurant leaned over and said, with a slight nod towards the food on the table, “Deary, you would be so pretty if you would lose some weight.”
Backhanded compliment? Hardly. The message was clear: don’t eat those fries, you’re fat enough already and you’re only making it worse, and I don’t want to look at you.
No concern over why she’s overweight, no thought to the idea that there might be a reason not obvious to the world that gets to live outside her body. Just a judgmental old woman who probably doesn’t care that she took what was a nice day, someone’s afternoon out with the kids, and deflated it in less than 5 seconds.
Now, I get looks. I know what being overweight in this world feels like, and it’s rarely a nice feeling. When you’re overweight you get looks, sometimes the occasional derisive snort. But can you imagine someone leaning over and saying that to you? Do you know what you would say back?
She had a good comeback. “Ma’am, if you would keep your opinions to yourself, you would be such a nice person.”
Better than the “Bitch” I would have spat.
I once belonged to a Body For Life support group online; I was giving the weight and nutrition program a try, hoping that it would work for me (it didn’t.) Most of the people on it were nice enough, but the underlying message to a very high percentage of the posts were the same: fat people are less deserving of respect than others. Fat people deserve the crap they get. It’s okay to sneer, frown, and make fun of fat people, including posting running commentaries on the contents of their shopping carts, because they are defective.
It’s not all right.
It’s rude.
It’s disrespectful.
So, I’ll say what fat people across the world think but rarely verbalize: unless you can look at a person and know, with 100% accuracy, what their story is, why they are the way they are, shut up. You don’t know, not really. You don’t know if that person shoves food in their mouth every ten minutes. You don’t know if they’re inherently lazy. You don’t know a thing about them, other than outward appearance.
Give the respect you want to get.
It’s as simple as that.
I think I wrote that book, actually…
Tuesday
Shiver Me Timbers
The weather here is starting to turn; the days reach a nice, comfortable mid-70’s, but the nights are cool and the mornings are pretty nippy, in the low 50’s. Fall is definitely bearing down on us, something I’m both looking forward to, and wishing it could be delayed another month or two.
Because of all the rain we’ve had over the last couple of months, when the leaves start to change it should be damn near spectacular. Last year was kind of a dud; the leaves changed—sort of—but fell off within a week or two. Or so it seemed. This year holds the promise of some sights to seriously behold, or at least stare at and ooze “Ooooh. Pretttttty.”
You know. The same way you’d ooze over bright, shiny, new jewelry. ;)
But, the thing is, cold weather means putting the top up on the convertible, and I haven’t had it long enough to be willing to do that. We had some things to do today and when we left the house it was still pretty chilly outside, but there was no way I was putting the top up. Nope, we ran the heat instead.
It works. Zooming down the Interstate at 65 m.p.h. with the wind whipping our collective hairs around and the heat blasting from the dashboard, it was comfy.
I don’t suppose that’ll work when it’s 15 degrees and snowing.
Not that I won’t try.
A month or two more of mid 70’s would be nice.
Arrange it for me, willya?
Thanks.
The weather here is starting to turn; the days reach a nice, comfortable mid-70’s, but the nights are cool and the mornings are pretty nippy, in the low 50’s. Fall is definitely bearing down on us, something I’m both looking forward to, and wishing it could be delayed another month or two.
Because of all the rain we’ve had over the last couple of months, when the leaves start to change it should be damn near spectacular. Last year was kind of a dud; the leaves changed—sort of—but fell off within a week or two. Or so it seemed. This year holds the promise of some sights to seriously behold, or at least stare at and ooze “Ooooh. Pretttttty.”
You know. The same way you’d ooze over bright, shiny, new jewelry. ;)
But, the thing is, cold weather means putting the top up on the convertible, and I haven’t had it long enough to be willing to do that. We had some things to do today and when we left the house it was still pretty chilly outside, but there was no way I was putting the top up. Nope, we ran the heat instead.
It works. Zooming down the Interstate at 65 m.p.h. with the wind whipping our collective hairs around and the heat blasting from the dashboard, it was comfy.
I don’t suppose that’ll work when it’s 15 degrees and snowing.
Not that I won’t try.
A month or two more of mid 70’s would be nice.
Arrange it for me, willya?
Thanks.
Saturday
Unappreciative Little Furball…
Ok, so I managed to do a couple things on my list. I went blonde—very blonde—and while I really didn’t like it at first, it’s growing on me. I’m not sure the cat likes it; I’ve woken up the past two mornings to him biting my head.
But, in spite of his gnawing on my head, I rearranged the office yesterday to accommodate his incredible need to stare out that particular window. I had to unplug everything from the computer, there were massive amounts of paper to be shuffled through (what the heck, while I was at it I cleaned the office up a bit, too) and I had to figure out where to stick the scanner since moving the desk meant losing wall space.
I got it all done (with a little muscle from the Spouse Thingy, who helped move the actual desk, which I couldn’t have done on my own. This sucker weights a lot) and then the little Psycho came downstairs.
Did he notice the now free window?
No, he jumped up on the desk, went behind the monitor, and stared at the freaking wall. And then turned to look at me with this “where’s the window?” look.
I went blonde and the cat lost IQ points.
Ok, so I managed to do a couple things on my list. I went blonde—very blonde—and while I really didn’t like it at first, it’s growing on me. I’m not sure the cat likes it; I’ve woken up the past two mornings to him biting my head.
But, in spite of his gnawing on my head, I rearranged the office yesterday to accommodate his incredible need to stare out that particular window. I had to unplug everything from the computer, there were massive amounts of paper to be shuffled through (what the heck, while I was at it I cleaned the office up a bit, too) and I had to figure out where to stick the scanner since moving the desk meant losing wall space.
I got it all done (with a little muscle from the Spouse Thingy, who helped move the actual desk, which I couldn’t have done on my own. This sucker weights a lot) and then the little Psycho came downstairs.
Did he notice the now free window?
No, he jumped up on the desk, went behind the monitor, and stared at the freaking wall. And then turned to look at me with this “where’s the window?” look.
I went blonde and the cat lost IQ points.
Thursday
List-O-Rama
Things I am going to do in the Very Near Future:
1. Rearrange my office so that my desk is not blocking the window. Having my desk where it is is causing PsychoKitty great distress, as he cannot get a clear view outside without jumping up on the desk and pushing his way behind the computer monitor (which, frankly, pisses me off sometimes.) He’s a good kitty most of the time, and deserves to be able to watch the kids play outside.
2. I’m going to dye my hair blonde. Very blonde.
3. Rearrange bedroom furniture to make room for a couple of bookcases that are in the spare bedroom. We need the space so that we can stick a queen sized bed in there—we figure the Boy might want a place to sleep when he visits (ahem, and his Significantly Better Half, but we’ll pretend that one of them is sleeping on the floor, yes we will.)
4. While I’m at it, I’ll strip down one of our old dressers and stain it. For the spare bedroom.
5. Sell the Hyundai. For megabucks. Like, $1500. And then spend it all on plane tickets. For the Boy and his SBH.
6. Did I mention, dye my hair blonde?
Things I am going to do in the Very Near Future:
1. Rearrange my office so that my desk is not blocking the window. Having my desk where it is is causing PsychoKitty great distress, as he cannot get a clear view outside without jumping up on the desk and pushing his way behind the computer monitor (which, frankly, pisses me off sometimes.) He’s a good kitty most of the time, and deserves to be able to watch the kids play outside.
2. I’m going to dye my hair blonde. Very blonde.
3. Rearrange bedroom furniture to make room for a couple of bookcases that are in the spare bedroom. We need the space so that we can stick a queen sized bed in there—we figure the Boy might want a place to sleep when he visits (ahem, and his Significantly Better Half, but we’ll pretend that one of them is sleeping on the floor, yes we will.)
4. While I’m at it, I’ll strip down one of our old dressers and stain it. For the spare bedroom.
5. Sell the Hyundai. For megabucks. Like, $1500. And then spend it all on plane tickets. For the Boy and his SBH.
6. Did I mention, dye my hair blonde?
Friday
No One Is Available To Take Your Call…
If your name and number don’t show up on Caller ID, that’s what you’re going to hear if you call our house. Yep, we screen calls. If you want to talk to one of us, don’t hang up, just start speaking after the tone. We are just so tired of all the telemarketers, and while the numbers of calls instantly decreased the day the National No-Call list went into effect, we’re still getting them. You know the calls—those unaffected by the list. Companies we’ve “previously done business with.” Like credit card companies who don’t accept “no” and “never call me again” as a legitimate reason to place us on their own Do No Call lists. So as an FYI, if you call and you’re unlisted, start talking. We might even pick up.
I was not at all surprised to get online this morning and read that Johnny Cash had died. After June Carter Cash died a couple of months ago, both the Spouse Thingy and I figured he would not be far behind. It was just a gut feeling; it’s not like either of us were huge Johnny Cash fans, though we both certainly respected his talent and really liked his last release, Hurt. I think we both just had that vibe that he’d rather be with June, and not here.
On the other hand, I was completely blown away by the death of John Ritter. He was too damned young to die and had everything to live for. I first noticed him when he played the minister on The Waltons. And like most of America at the time, I watched him on Three’s Company. I was blown away by his true acting talent in movies like Sling Blade. And I had that thought every once in a while, when I would see him on talk shows, that someday we’d all be watching him at the Emmy’s, an old man taking small old man steps, accepting his lifetime achievement award.
Instead, we’re robbed of a comedic talent far too many years too soon, his wife looses her other half, and his kids lose their father.
And damn it all, for the rest of her life, his little girl’s birthday will be the Day Daddy Died.
Another FYI: The new chicken strips at McDonald’s suck.
If your name and number don’t show up on Caller ID, that’s what you’re going to hear if you call our house. Yep, we screen calls. If you want to talk to one of us, don’t hang up, just start speaking after the tone. We are just so tired of all the telemarketers, and while the numbers of calls instantly decreased the day the National No-Call list went into effect, we’re still getting them. You know the calls—those unaffected by the list. Companies we’ve “previously done business with.” Like credit card companies who don’t accept “no” and “never call me again” as a legitimate reason to place us on their own Do No Call lists. So as an FYI, if you call and you’re unlisted, start talking. We might even pick up.
I was not at all surprised to get online this morning and read that Johnny Cash had died. After June Carter Cash died a couple of months ago, both the Spouse Thingy and I figured he would not be far behind. It was just a gut feeling; it’s not like either of us were huge Johnny Cash fans, though we both certainly respected his talent and really liked his last release, Hurt. I think we both just had that vibe that he’d rather be with June, and not here.
On the other hand, I was completely blown away by the death of John Ritter. He was too damned young to die and had everything to live for. I first noticed him when he played the minister on The Waltons. And like most of America at the time, I watched him on Three’s Company. I was blown away by his true acting talent in movies like Sling Blade. And I had that thought every once in a while, when I would see him on talk shows, that someday we’d all be watching him at the Emmy’s, an old man taking small old man steps, accepting his lifetime achievement award.
Instead, we’re robbed of a comedic talent far too many years too soon, his wife looses her other half, and his kids lose their father.
And damn it all, for the rest of her life, his little girl’s birthday will be the Day Daddy Died.
Another FYI: The new chicken strips at McDonald’s suck.
Thursday
Wednesday
Pimping My Wares
It’s not as pretty as the cover for Charybdis (on sale now at Amazon.com!), but it works. In any case, As Simple As That went to the printer and should be in the online bookstores in 2-3 weeks. I got a proof copy yesterday, and it looks a whole lot better in hand than this little .jpg image does; my only gripe is that after I approved the proof, I found a whopper of a mistake—towards then end there’s a line that should be in italics, but it’s also in bold. The bold type is very distracting … but I’m not pulling the whole book over one line. I can be cheap that way.
The third book, Finding Father Rabbit, is in the final editing stages. There are a couple of chapters I’m not happy with and I’m struggling to find a way to make them flow better, but I still think I’ll be done with it in the next couple of weeks. Overall, I think this book is the best of the three. The subject matter is a little more touchy than things I’ve written about in the past, and it might even offend a person or two out there.
‘Course, I don’t want to intentionally offend anyone, but being that I’m not Catholic and it does deal on some level with Catholic issues, I can see where I’m ripe for “What the hell do you know?” salvos. I can only point out that I had a lot of help from TK Scott, who was a priest until he was 40 years old. This is a guy who’s full of eye opening stories about his experiences over the years … he should write a book. I’d publish it.
Heck, you should write a book.
I’ll publish it.
For a fee.
It’s not as pretty as the cover for Charybdis (on sale now at Amazon.com!), but it works. In any case, As Simple As That went to the printer and should be in the online bookstores in 2-3 weeks. I got a proof copy yesterday, and it looks a whole lot better in hand than this little .jpg image does; my only gripe is that after I approved the proof, I found a whopper of a mistake—towards then end there’s a line that should be in italics, but it’s also in bold. The bold type is very distracting … but I’m not pulling the whole book over one line. I can be cheap that way.
The third book, Finding Father Rabbit, is in the final editing stages. There are a couple of chapters I’m not happy with and I’m struggling to find a way to make them flow better, but I still think I’ll be done with it in the next couple of weeks. Overall, I think this book is the best of the three. The subject matter is a little more touchy than things I’ve written about in the past, and it might even offend a person or two out there.
‘Course, I don’t want to intentionally offend anyone, but being that I’m not Catholic and it does deal on some level with Catholic issues, I can see where I’m ripe for “What the hell do you know?” salvos. I can only point out that I had a lot of help from TK Scott, who was a priest until he was 40 years old. This is a guy who’s full of eye opening stories about his experiences over the years … he should write a book. I’d publish it.
Heck, you should write a book.
I’ll publish it.
For a fee.
Saturday
Money Money Money
Six a.m. is like, well, early. I’m a nine a.m. kind of person, and even that’s reluctantly, dragging myself up to feed the PsychoKitty. But this morning I dragged myself up, slooowwwly put clothes on, and went outside to start dragging stuff out of the garage and onto the driveway for the neighborhood yard sale.
Spouse Thingy had to work, but he was home long enough to help me take most things out, and he got all the really heavy things. Not long after he left, people started coming; not as many as we expected, but enough. I managed to sell 80% of the crap I had sitting out there, including most of the big things we wanted to get rid of to make space in the garage.
We’ve had several sales over the years and it still amazes me the things people will haggle over. I had a paperback book out, in dang near new condition, priced at 50 cents—some woman wanted to give me a dime for it. Would I take twenty cents? No, fifty. Twenty five? No, fifty. She finally paid the fifty cents and went next door and started haggling over the price of a toaster oven. Now, I heard my neighbor tell her—very politely—that the prices on the appliances were firm because they were new, but damned if she didn’t try to talk her down regardless.
The funniest thing about everyone having sales on the same day was the kids. They bounced from one sale to the next, generating a wake of “I want” that just built as the day went on. They were all really good, though, and didn’t get grabby, they just drooled and wanted.
I know that feeling.
Now … since I ran the sale, I should get all the money. Right? Right. I’ll run out and spend it before Spouse Thingy gets home.
Yep. All on jelly beans.
Six a.m. is like, well, early. I’m a nine a.m. kind of person, and even that’s reluctantly, dragging myself up to feed the PsychoKitty. But this morning I dragged myself up, slooowwwly put clothes on, and went outside to start dragging stuff out of the garage and onto the driveway for the neighborhood yard sale.
Spouse Thingy had to work, but he was home long enough to help me take most things out, and he got all the really heavy things. Not long after he left, people started coming; not as many as we expected, but enough. I managed to sell 80% of the crap I had sitting out there, including most of the big things we wanted to get rid of to make space in the garage.
We’ve had several sales over the years and it still amazes me the things people will haggle over. I had a paperback book out, in dang near new condition, priced at 50 cents—some woman wanted to give me a dime for it. Would I take twenty cents? No, fifty. Twenty five? No, fifty. She finally paid the fifty cents and went next door and started haggling over the price of a toaster oven. Now, I heard my neighbor tell her—very politely—that the prices on the appliances were firm because they were new, but damned if she didn’t try to talk her down regardless.
The funniest thing about everyone having sales on the same day was the kids. They bounced from one sale to the next, generating a wake of “I want” that just built as the day went on. They were all really good, though, and didn’t get grabby, they just drooled and wanted.
I know that feeling.
Now … since I ran the sale, I should get all the money. Right? Right. I’ll run out and spend it before Spouse Thingy gets home.
Yep. All on jelly beans.
Thursday
It’s A Sunshine Day
So. We took the convertible into Midas today to have the brakes checked out, and were pretty sure that when all was said and done we’d be looking at $700 worth of work—pads and drums, maybe even lines.
They called an hour or so later to tell us the brakes are fine, but there were several other problems. The rear shocks were leaking, the rear bearings needed to be repacked, and it needed new front bearings. And a fan belt. Mike told them to go ahead and fix everything, probably because I kept saying the car felt a little bouncy when I drove it.
Three or four hours later we went to pick it up, and they showed us the parts. Ick. The shocks weren’t just leaky, one was seriously split. The front bearing looked like crap. And the new fan belt just looks pretty. Best yet, it didn’t cost as much as we feared, and the car feels so much better. He suggested we put new struts up front, and we’ll probably do that in a few weeks.
After that … we drove around topless. It was a beautiful day, no rain, lots of sun. And I even let the Spouse Thingy drive some. I mean, heck, he did buy the car for me. Tomorrow we’re having an alarm put in (kind of necessary, I think) and a CD player (thank you parental units and in-laws for the birthday checks!)
I’d like to go cruising around tomorrow after it’s done, but I still have that nasty dental appointment. Damn teeth.
So. We took the convertible into Midas today to have the brakes checked out, and were pretty sure that when all was said and done we’d be looking at $700 worth of work—pads and drums, maybe even lines.
They called an hour or so later to tell us the brakes are fine, but there were several other problems. The rear shocks were leaking, the rear bearings needed to be repacked, and it needed new front bearings. And a fan belt. Mike told them to go ahead and fix everything, probably because I kept saying the car felt a little bouncy when I drove it.
Three or four hours later we went to pick it up, and they showed us the parts. Ick. The shocks weren’t just leaky, one was seriously split. The front bearing looked like crap. And the new fan belt just looks pretty. Best yet, it didn’t cost as much as we feared, and the car feels so much better. He suggested we put new struts up front, and we’ll probably do that in a few weeks.
After that … we drove around topless. It was a beautiful day, no rain, lots of sun. And I even let the Spouse Thingy drive some. I mean, heck, he did buy the car for me. Tomorrow we’re having an alarm put in (kind of necessary, I think) and a CD player (thank you parental units and in-laws for the birthday checks!)
I’d like to go cruising around tomorrow after it’s done, but I still have that nasty dental appointment. Damn teeth.
Wednesday
I Wanna Go Zoom!
I know, I have no comments right now. I had them for about 15 seconds today, but they vanished again. According to the YACSS site, it’ll probably be September 8th before we have them again. That’s not a royal “we,” that’s all of us who use them for our comments.
It’s a shame, too, because I know everyone wanted to comment on my spiffy new red ragtop.
I’ve had it for almost a week, and for almost a week it has done nothing but rain. I’ve hardly had a chance to go cruising in it topless. The weather broke today and we had sunshine, so I took the chance to get a coat of wax on it (did I mention that on my actual birthday, Spouse Thingy gave me a bag filled with car care products, even though I didn’t actually have the car yet? He had high hopes for me!) Now it’s all shiny.
Tomorrow we should have nothing but sunshine—but we need to take it in and have the brakes checked out. We wanted to do that on Monday, but Midas had the nerve to be closed for the holiday.
Friday looks to be good, too, but I have a dental appointment and will probably spend the rest of the day drooling on myself. I suppose I could drive around and just let the drool fly into the car behind me…
I know, I have no comments right now. I had them for about 15 seconds today, but they vanished again. According to the YACSS site, it’ll probably be September 8th before we have them again. That’s not a royal “we,” that’s all of us who use them for our comments.
It’s a shame, too, because I know everyone wanted to comment on my spiffy new red ragtop.
I’ve had it for almost a week, and for almost a week it has done nothing but rain. I’ve hardly had a chance to go cruising in it topless. The weather broke today and we had sunshine, so I took the chance to get a coat of wax on it (did I mention that on my actual birthday, Spouse Thingy gave me a bag filled with car care products, even though I didn’t actually have the car yet? He had high hopes for me!) Now it’s all shiny.
Tomorrow we should have nothing but sunshine—but we need to take it in and have the brakes checked out. We wanted to do that on Monday, but Midas had the nerve to be closed for the holiday.
Friday looks to be good, too, but I have a dental appointment and will probably spend the rest of the day drooling on myself. I suppose I could drive around and just let the drool fly into the car behind me…
Friday
Baby You Can Drive My Car
And, of course, Thumper behind the wheel:
It’s not perfect: it’s a ’95 Lebaron but it has pretty low miles, and the brakes started squealing after we paid for it and were 25 miles away. =sigh= It figures. It didn’t make a single wayward sound when we test drove it, but as soon as I was a block from the house, as I turned a corner, the squeal started.
As long as it’s just the pads and not the drums, it shouldn’t be too much to fix.
But it’s pretty, and it’s MINE!
And, of course, Thumper behind the wheel:
It’s not perfect: it’s a ’95 Lebaron but it has pretty low miles, and the brakes started squealing after we paid for it and were 25 miles away. =sigh= It figures. It didn’t make a single wayward sound when we test drove it, but as soon as I was a block from the house, as I turned a corner, the squeal started.
As long as it’s just the pads and not the drums, it shouldn’t be too much to fix.
But it’s pretty, and it’s MINE!
Wednesday
Bleh
Last year I bought myself a nice comfy toilet seat for my birthday. This year I bought myself an adaptor for earphones—I had earphones with the mini-stereo plug but needed the older-style larger plug. We went to Best Buy and bought one for $2.99. The highlight of my day.
Well, I did get to eat at the mall food court. Chick-Fil-Et (sp, I’m sure) strips and a large Diet Coke.
After that, we sat around the house waiting. And waiting. And waiting. There were a couple of Lebarons advertised in the paper and we called about them, only no one was home. Spouse Thingy left messages on answering machines, but the calls were never returned. So I spent my birthday sitting here at my desk, playing computer Mahjong, one game after another, with sporadic internet surfing, until midnight.
The problem with car shopping seems to be that we have a far smaller budget than the market seems to demand. There aren’t many listed for sale to begin with, but the ones that are even worth looking at are so far over what we can afford it’s not funny. Cripes, people are selling ’89 Miatas with 120,000+ miles for $7000. A ’97 Sebring is going for $10,000. The two Lebarons we’ve test driven have been around $5,000 but had problems that would have been another couple of thousand to fix. I really don’t want to trade one problem car for another.
But it sucks, it really does. And it’s a little mind boggling. When I drooled over convertibles on the Lemon Lot at Travis AFB, they were 5-6 years old and the prices hovered around $5,000-$6,000. Same cars here are way more. Go figure.
Last year I bought myself a nice comfy toilet seat for my birthday. This year I bought myself an adaptor for earphones—I had earphones with the mini-stereo plug but needed the older-style larger plug. We went to Best Buy and bought one for $2.99. The highlight of my day.
Well, I did get to eat at the mall food court. Chick-Fil-Et (sp, I’m sure) strips and a large Diet Coke.
After that, we sat around the house waiting. And waiting. And waiting. There were a couple of Lebarons advertised in the paper and we called about them, only no one was home. Spouse Thingy left messages on answering machines, but the calls were never returned. So I spent my birthday sitting here at my desk, playing computer Mahjong, one game after another, with sporadic internet surfing, until midnight.
The problem with car shopping seems to be that we have a far smaller budget than the market seems to demand. There aren’t many listed for sale to begin with, but the ones that are even worth looking at are so far over what we can afford it’s not funny. Cripes, people are selling ’89 Miatas with 120,000+ miles for $7000. A ’97 Sebring is going for $10,000. The two Lebarons we’ve test driven have been around $5,000 but had problems that would have been another couple of thousand to fix. I really don’t want to trade one problem car for another.
But it sucks, it really does. And it’s a little mind boggling. When I drooled over convertibles on the Lemon Lot at Travis AFB, they were 5-6 years old and the prices hovered around $5,000-$6,000. Same cars here are way more. Go figure.
Saturday
No Go Zoom
My poor pretty little purple car is slowly dying L After putting new brakes and new front drums on it, a new sway bar, another stabilizer bar (not sure what it’s really called), the transmission is slipping and sounds like it’s about ready to just fall out of the car.
Anyone wanna buy a pretty little purple car??? It’s cheap.
So, we’re in the market for another used car. This time it has to be a convertible. We already test drove one (’94 LeBaron); it was marketed as “low miles mint leather.” Kind of made it sound like it was mint condition, but no, they meant mint leather. And it was, the inside of that car was absolutely perfect. The paint job was in need of some TLC, but I could live with that. The salesman fired it up, and it made an awful chirping sound—probably the alternator, but they would fix that before delivery. And it had a ding in the trunk, one of their guys backed it into a table, they would fix that too. So I had high hopes … but then we drove it, and the steering was a little loose. Not terribly, but I’m not so desperate I’d buy a car with loose steering.
There are other convertibles out there.
Hell, even Yugo made a convertible for 2 years. Heh. But no, I don’t want one of those. Just a nice ’94 or ’95 LeBaron, or a ’96 or ’97 Sebring. Or a Pontiac Sunfire ragtop.
I’m not picky.
Impatient.
Just not picky.
My poor pretty little purple car is slowly dying L After putting new brakes and new front drums on it, a new sway bar, another stabilizer bar (not sure what it’s really called), the transmission is slipping and sounds like it’s about ready to just fall out of the car.
Anyone wanna buy a pretty little purple car??? It’s cheap.
So, we’re in the market for another used car. This time it has to be a convertible. We already test drove one (’94 LeBaron); it was marketed as “low miles mint leather.” Kind of made it sound like it was mint condition, but no, they meant mint leather. And it was, the inside of that car was absolutely perfect. The paint job was in need of some TLC, but I could live with that. The salesman fired it up, and it made an awful chirping sound—probably the alternator, but they would fix that before delivery. And it had a ding in the trunk, one of their guys backed it into a table, they would fix that too. So I had high hopes … but then we drove it, and the steering was a little loose. Not terribly, but I’m not so desperate I’d buy a car with loose steering.
There are other convertibles out there.
Hell, even Yugo made a convertible for 2 years. Heh. But no, I don’t want one of those. Just a nice ’94 or ’95 LeBaron, or a ’96 or ’97 Sebring. Or a Pontiac Sunfire ragtop.
I’m not picky.
Impatient.
Just not picky.
Tuesday
:/
You would think, at my advanced age, that I would have learned a few basic things. One being if you have a cat, leaning an uncovered plate of sliced turkey on the counter is not the wisest thing to do.
My apologies to Spouse Thingy, who must now take a sandwich for his lunch tomorrow, because the PsychoKitty licked all the turkey…
You would think, at my advanced age, that I would have learned a few basic things. One being if you have a cat, leaning an uncovered plate of sliced turkey on the counter is not the wisest thing to do.
My apologies to Spouse Thingy, who must now take a sandwich for his lunch tomorrow, because the PsychoKitty licked all the turkey…
Saturday
How Stupid Do I Look?
I just checked my email and had something from a PayPal address with the subject header “Verify Your Account.”
Now, I knew before I opened it that it was a fraud; PayPal does not ask you to verify your accounts via email. But I opened the email anyway, just to see what it said. And this was it:
Dear Costumer,
This email was sent automatically by the PayPal server in response to verify your identity. This is done for your protection --- only you, the recipient of this email can take the next step in completing the Verify Your Identity form. To verify your identity and access your account, follow these steps:
1. Click on the link below. If nothing happens when you click on the link (or if you use AOL), copy and paste the link into the address bar of your web browser.
(link removed)
The link will take you to our Verify Your Identity page.
2. On the Verify Your Identity page, answer ONE of the questions, and click Submit.
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer.
Thanks for using PayPal!
Dear Costumer ??? =snort= #1
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer =snort= #2.
That’s a relief, to know that I can become a REAL verified costumer. I mean, that is my life’s ambition, to create odd clothing for people who perform on stage, or want to dress like it’s Halloween year ’round.
Sheesh, if you’re going to run a scam, at least get it right.
I just checked my email and had something from a PayPal address with the subject header “Verify Your Account.”
Now, I knew before I opened it that it was a fraud; PayPal does not ask you to verify your accounts via email. But I opened the email anyway, just to see what it said. And this was it:
Dear Costumer,
This email was sent automatically by the PayPal server in response to verify your identity. This is done for your protection --- only you, the recipient of this email can take the next step in completing the Verify Your Identity form. To verify your identity and access your account, follow these steps:
1. Click on the link below. If nothing happens when you click on the link (or if you use AOL), copy and paste the link into the address bar of your web browser.
(link removed)
The link will take you to our Verify Your Identity page.
2. On the Verify Your Identity page, answer ONE of the questions, and click Submit.
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer.
Thanks for using PayPal!
Dear Costumer ??? =snort= #1
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer =snort= #2.
That’s a relief, to know that I can become a REAL verified costumer. I mean, that is my life’s ambition, to create odd clothing for people who perform on stage, or want to dress like it’s Halloween year ’round.
Sheesh, if you’re going to run a scam, at least get it right.
No, I Do Not Care To Smell You
If I had my way, perfume and cologne would be banned. Along with smoking. It’s not so much that I wish to infringe on others’ personal choices to cover up their own body odor with alcohol-laden smelly things, or stop them from committing slow suicide; it’s just that I happen to enjoy breathing, something I cannot easily do while in the presence of someone wearing perfume, cologne, or who is smoking.
Yesterday the Spouse Thingy and I decided to go to an afternoon movie; we got there early, got the seats we wanted (heck, we were the first ones there), and the theater filled up fairly quickly. And all was well, until three people came in during the previews and sat directly in front of us. One of them was wearing perfume—and a lot of it.
I wound up watching the movie while breathing through folds of a sweatshirt. I tolerated it, but just barely.
There’s no escaping the stuff, really. Walk into a department store, and guess what’s right up there near the front door? The perfume counter, complete with testers that have been sprayed so many times the air is thick with it. And in some stores there are so many counters, and they’re so freaking long, that getting past them while holding one’s breath is damn near impossible.
And smoke… this is something I seriously miss about California. There I could go into any public place and know I’d be free from other peoples’ cigarette smoke. I’d be able to breath without the worry of suffering an instant, choking asthma attack within 2 minutes. Spouse Thingy I enjoy playing pool (badly) but we’ve yet to find a place here where we can play. The few places we’ve been into the smoke is just hanging there in the air, visibly even, and I can’t take it.
Now the mall, I like it because it’s smoke free. Not perfume free, but in a space that large I can get away from people wearing perfume easily and I can just not go into stores with large stinky displays up front. But other places loose my business—and that of lots of other people like me—because they allow smoking. And really, that’s too bad.
Face it, people can shop, and go to dinner, and play pool without smoking. I can’t do any of those things without breathing.
I just want to be able to breathe without fear, where ever I happen to be.
Is that too much to ask?
If I had my way, perfume and cologne would be banned. Along with smoking. It’s not so much that I wish to infringe on others’ personal choices to cover up their own body odor with alcohol-laden smelly things, or stop them from committing slow suicide; it’s just that I happen to enjoy breathing, something I cannot easily do while in the presence of someone wearing perfume, cologne, or who is smoking.
Yesterday the Spouse Thingy and I decided to go to an afternoon movie; we got there early, got the seats we wanted (heck, we were the first ones there), and the theater filled up fairly quickly. And all was well, until three people came in during the previews and sat directly in front of us. One of them was wearing perfume—and a lot of it.
I wound up watching the movie while breathing through folds of a sweatshirt. I tolerated it, but just barely.
There’s no escaping the stuff, really. Walk into a department store, and guess what’s right up there near the front door? The perfume counter, complete with testers that have been sprayed so many times the air is thick with it. And in some stores there are so many counters, and they’re so freaking long, that getting past them while holding one’s breath is damn near impossible.
And smoke… this is something I seriously miss about California. There I could go into any public place and know I’d be free from other peoples’ cigarette smoke. I’d be able to breath without the worry of suffering an instant, choking asthma attack within 2 minutes. Spouse Thingy I enjoy playing pool (badly) but we’ve yet to find a place here where we can play. The few places we’ve been into the smoke is just hanging there in the air, visibly even, and I can’t take it.
Now the mall, I like it because it’s smoke free. Not perfume free, but in a space that large I can get away from people wearing perfume easily and I can just not go into stores with large stinky displays up front. But other places loose my business—and that of lots of other people like me—because they allow smoking. And really, that’s too bad.
Face it, people can shop, and go to dinner, and play pool without smoking. I can’t do any of those things without breathing.
I just want to be able to breathe without fear, where ever I happen to be.
Is that too much to ask?
Thursday
Set The Night To Music
I can’t sing.
I used to be able to; not that I was ever in danger of becoming the next American Idol Old Farts winner, but I could carry a tune in a bucket without too many holes. I started singing in elementary school, was in the choir through 5th grade, and kept singing on my own—self-accompanied by the guitar—well into adulthood. I appeared in high school talent shows and did all right. No one laughed or booed me off the stage, in any case.
Then came Real Life and the amount of time I spent playing the guitar and singing along decreased dramatically. I had other things to do, and never gave it much thought.
Until a couple of days ago, when I bought a Roberta Flack CD.
And don’t ask “Who?” unless you want me to reach through the monitor and bitch slap your way-too-young face.
I seriously like this CD; it’s music from my youth, and I know all the words to most of the songs. I used to play a few of them on the guitar. So as I sat here at my desk, playing a computer game, I decided to sing along.
If PsychoKitty could howl, he would have. As it was, I got a “you should stop that” look. He jumped off my lap and left the room.
I’ve totally lost my singing voice.
I am now equal to That Kid from the American Idol tryouts—you know the one. He tried to sing “Like A Virgin,” complete with Madonnaesque body rubbing, and had no clue he was completely, painfully awful.
Really, it was that bad.
It’s not a total loss, however. When the Boy comes for the holidays, I now have a sure fire way of embarrassing him in front of his Significantly Better Half.
Life is good.
I can’t sing.
I used to be able to; not that I was ever in danger of becoming the next American Idol Old Farts winner, but I could carry a tune in a bucket without too many holes. I started singing in elementary school, was in the choir through 5th grade, and kept singing on my own—self-accompanied by the guitar—well into adulthood. I appeared in high school talent shows and did all right. No one laughed or booed me off the stage, in any case.
Then came Real Life and the amount of time I spent playing the guitar and singing along decreased dramatically. I had other things to do, and never gave it much thought.
Until a couple of days ago, when I bought a Roberta Flack CD.
And don’t ask “Who?” unless you want me to reach through the monitor and bitch slap your way-too-young face.
I seriously like this CD; it’s music from my youth, and I know all the words to most of the songs. I used to play a few of them on the guitar. So as I sat here at my desk, playing a computer game, I decided to sing along.
If PsychoKitty could howl, he would have. As it was, I got a “you should stop that” look. He jumped off my lap and left the room.
I’ve totally lost my singing voice.
I am now equal to That Kid from the American Idol tryouts—you know the one. He tried to sing “Like A Virgin,” complete with Madonnaesque body rubbing, and had no clue he was completely, painfully awful.
Really, it was that bad.
It’s not a total loss, however. When the Boy comes for the holidays, I now have a sure fire way of embarrassing him in front of his Significantly Better Half.
Life is good.
Tuesday
Here, Kitty, Kitty
Ok, so we decided the cat was too complacent in his life, and decided we’d dedicate the last couple of days to totally freaking him out.
Well, it just worked out that way. He has the tendency to get his fur in a wad when the furniture is moved (slinking into the living room after a nap you can see the “oh HELL no! Sonofabitch we MOVED again!” look) and over the last couple of days it’s been moved several times.
The urge to rearrange struck after realizing that we really only had seating for two, and the Boy and his Significantly Better Half are probably going to visit for the holidays. Our old sofa and loveseat were still in the garage, so why not move the love seat in? Sure, no problem—no problem other than the way this house was designed. The architect must have dedicated many waking hours to figuring out how to design a home with little actual usable space, both storage and furniture-wise.
We got the love seat in, and it worked, but everything was awfully jammed together. It was enough to really get the cat going, so we left it like that overnight, figuring we could move it around again the next day. Just when he relaxed, I started taking all the knick knacks off the entertainment center and put them on the table.
He was not happy. As I made my way from the table back to the entertainment center for a 4th or 5th time, he launched across the room and wrapped both paws around one of my legs, trying, I think, to stop me. Or trip me. Or rip my leg off. When that didn’t work, he crouched on a chair and watched as his little world was ripped apart. All the knick knacks were on the table. Pictures were taken off the walls. The rug was rolled up and moved. Then to add insult to injury, we moved the entertainment center across the room.
Pissed off kitty.
He began to relax as things were put back into place. It wasn’t as painful as he seemed to think it was going to be (but I am definitely checking the bed before I climb in tonight, just in case he left me a little present) and he seems positive that the love seat was brought in just for him—with the bonus that it still smells like the dog (could have something to do with all that dog hair embedded into the cushions…) The living room seemed much bigger once everything was where it should be, and there was more space for the kitty to play. Time to relax.
We couldn’t have a relaxed cat. Nope. So we put a battery in the uber-nice clock that my ultra talented father-in-law made for us and got it going … and sat back to watch what he’d do when it chimed. Every fifteen minutes.
Seriously pissed off kitty. Not as funny as the dog was the first time he heard it—he thought it was the doorbell and every fifteen minutes would run to the front door (hence, why the battery was removed. He was going nuts and the cat we had then had a heart condition, we were really afraid the chime was going to terrify her into keeling over and dying right there in the middle of the living room)—but PsychoKitty is going to sit on his loveseat and glare at the clock until it finally shuts the phck up.
Poor kitty.
It’s going to be a long night for him.
Heh.
Ok, so we decided the cat was too complacent in his life, and decided we’d dedicate the last couple of days to totally freaking him out.
Well, it just worked out that way. He has the tendency to get his fur in a wad when the furniture is moved (slinking into the living room after a nap you can see the “oh HELL no! Sonofabitch we MOVED again!” look) and over the last couple of days it’s been moved several times.
The urge to rearrange struck after realizing that we really only had seating for two, and the Boy and his Significantly Better Half are probably going to visit for the holidays. Our old sofa and loveseat were still in the garage, so why not move the love seat in? Sure, no problem—no problem other than the way this house was designed. The architect must have dedicated many waking hours to figuring out how to design a home with little actual usable space, both storage and furniture-wise.
We got the love seat in, and it worked, but everything was awfully jammed together. It was enough to really get the cat going, so we left it like that overnight, figuring we could move it around again the next day. Just when he relaxed, I started taking all the knick knacks off the entertainment center and put them on the table.
He was not happy. As I made my way from the table back to the entertainment center for a 4th or 5th time, he launched across the room and wrapped both paws around one of my legs, trying, I think, to stop me. Or trip me. Or rip my leg off. When that didn’t work, he crouched on a chair and watched as his little world was ripped apart. All the knick knacks were on the table. Pictures were taken off the walls. The rug was rolled up and moved. Then to add insult to injury, we moved the entertainment center across the room.
Pissed off kitty.
He began to relax as things were put back into place. It wasn’t as painful as he seemed to think it was going to be (but I am definitely checking the bed before I climb in tonight, just in case he left me a little present) and he seems positive that the love seat was brought in just for him—with the bonus that it still smells like the dog (could have something to do with all that dog hair embedded into the cushions…) The living room seemed much bigger once everything was where it should be, and there was more space for the kitty to play. Time to relax.
We couldn’t have a relaxed cat. Nope. So we put a battery in the uber-nice clock that my ultra talented father-in-law made for us and got it going … and sat back to watch what he’d do when it chimed. Every fifteen minutes.
Seriously pissed off kitty. Not as funny as the dog was the first time he heard it—he thought it was the doorbell and every fifteen minutes would run to the front door (hence, why the battery was removed. He was going nuts and the cat we had then had a heart condition, we were really afraid the chime was going to terrify her into keeling over and dying right there in the middle of the living room)—but PsychoKitty is going to sit on his loveseat and glare at the clock until it finally shuts the phck up.
Poor kitty.
It’s going to be a long night for him.
Heh.
Thursday
From The Plain Dealer:
Dog survives gas chamber with his tail wagging
08/07/03
Jim Suhr
Associated Press
St. Louis- Cast into a city gas chamber to be euthanized with other unwanted or unclaimed dogs, it appeared that the roughly year-old Basenji mix had simply run out of luck - and time.
But this canine had other ideas.
When the death chamber's door swung open Monday, the dog now dubbed Quentin - for California's forbidding San Quentin State Prison - stood very much alive, his tail and tongue wagging amid the carcasses of a half-dozen other dogs.
Animal-con trol supervisor Rosemary Ficken had never seen such a thing and didn't have the nerve to slam the door shut again on the dog and fire up the carbon monoxide.
This 30-pound, orangish ani mal, she be lieved, beat the odds and should live on, doggone it.
"She told me, Please, take him. I don't have the heart to put him back in there and re-gas him,' " said Randy Grim, founder and head of Stray Rescue of St. Louis, the charitable shelter that took in the dog before taking the animal's story public.
Quentin's ordeal was played and replayed yesterday on local television stations, drawing scads of people looking to adopt "such a sweet dog" that showed such dogged resilience.
The center euthanizes dogs nearly every morning - about 3,000 a year.
Quentin's fate appeared grim. Surrendered to the city by an owner no longer wanting the animal, the dog eluded adoption, landing him in the death chamber that he somehow managed to emerge from, groggy from the sedative but otherwise "pretty responsive," if not downright rambunctious.
"There was a reason for this dog not to go down," said Rich Stevson, program manager for the animal center. "Maybe this dog is a special dog of some kind."
The next morning, he said, "it was jumping up and down, wagging its tail."
Grim said yesterday that Quentin was a little malnourished but "in very good condition," being checked for heartworm and other maladies by a veterinarian.
"You can tell he's really digging it," Grim said of the dog. "He has a bed, love, food and water."
And that invaluable second chance.
Nuttin' else can be added to that.
Just... wow.
Dog survives gas chamber with his tail wagging
08/07/03
Jim Suhr
Associated Press
St. Louis- Cast into a city gas chamber to be euthanized with other unwanted or unclaimed dogs, it appeared that the roughly year-old Basenji mix had simply run out of luck - and time.
But this canine had other ideas.
When the death chamber's door swung open Monday, the dog now dubbed Quentin - for California's forbidding San Quentin State Prison - stood very much alive, his tail and tongue wagging amid the carcasses of a half-dozen other dogs.
Animal-con trol supervisor Rosemary Ficken had never seen such a thing and didn't have the nerve to slam the door shut again on the dog and fire up the carbon monoxide.
This 30-pound, orangish ani mal, she be lieved, beat the odds and should live on, doggone it.
"She told me, Please, take him. I don't have the heart to put him back in there and re-gas him,' " said Randy Grim, founder and head of Stray Rescue of St. Louis, the charitable shelter that took in the dog before taking the animal's story public.
Quentin's ordeal was played and replayed yesterday on local television stations, drawing scads of people looking to adopt "such a sweet dog" that showed such dogged resilience.
The center euthanizes dogs nearly every morning - about 3,000 a year.
Quentin's fate appeared grim. Surrendered to the city by an owner no longer wanting the animal, the dog eluded adoption, landing him in the death chamber that he somehow managed to emerge from, groggy from the sedative but otherwise "pretty responsive," if not downright rambunctious.
"There was a reason for this dog not to go down," said Rich Stevson, program manager for the animal center. "Maybe this dog is a special dog of some kind."
The next morning, he said, "it was jumping up and down, wagging its tail."
Grim said yesterday that Quentin was a little malnourished but "in very good condition," being checked for heartworm and other maladies by a veterinarian.
"You can tell he's really digging it," Grim said of the dog. "He has a bed, love, food and water."
And that invaluable second chance.
Nuttin' else can be added to that.
Just... wow.
Tuesday
Ack, Fooey, Furball
I woke up at 4:15 this morning.
I was spooning the cat.
Spooning.The.Cat.
:::shrugs:::
I was lying kind of half on my side, half on my back (bolstered by body pillows on either side) and at some point he stretched out next to me, set his head on my shoulder, and snuggled close. When he realized I was awake, he tilted his head back and rubbed it against my chin—either “Good Morning, how ya doin’?” or “Move and I’ll bite you”—and then settled back down.
Good thing I didn’t need to roll over. I scratched his little head for a minute and then went back to sleep, and he stayed there until Spouse Thingy got up for work at 5. PsychoKitty has his routines, and the Most Important Very Early Thing is to try to trip the Spouse Thingy on the stairs at 5:15 every morning. So when he heard Spouse Thingy get up, he launched off the bed (no, I didn’t need those boobs anymore, thank you) and let me sleep until after 9 a.m.
He has been extremely affectionate lately. If I’ve been out of the house for any length of time, he comes running, complete with an excited feline squeal, as soon as I’m through the door. He’s not pestering me to get up and feed him two hours early. He curls up on me while I watch TV, and he “helps” me type.
I’d like to believe he’s just maturing and enjoy my company, but I know better.
That cat is plotting something.
I am afraid. Truly afraid…
I woke up at 4:15 this morning.
I was spooning the cat.
Spooning.The.Cat.
:::shrugs:::
I was lying kind of half on my side, half on my back (bolstered by body pillows on either side) and at some point he stretched out next to me, set his head on my shoulder, and snuggled close. When he realized I was awake, he tilted his head back and rubbed it against my chin—either “Good Morning, how ya doin’?” or “Move and I’ll bite you”—and then settled back down.
Good thing I didn’t need to roll over. I scratched his little head for a minute and then went back to sleep, and he stayed there until Spouse Thingy got up for work at 5. PsychoKitty has his routines, and the Most Important Very Early Thing is to try to trip the Spouse Thingy on the stairs at 5:15 every morning. So when he heard Spouse Thingy get up, he launched off the bed (no, I didn’t need those boobs anymore, thank you) and let me sleep until after 9 a.m.
He has been extremely affectionate lately. If I’ve been out of the house for any length of time, he comes running, complete with an excited feline squeal, as soon as I’m through the door. He’s not pestering me to get up and feed him two hours early. He curls up on me while I watch TV, and he “helps” me type.
I’d like to believe he’s just maturing and enjoy my company, but I know better.
That cat is plotting something.
I am afraid. Truly afraid…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)