Total Pageviews

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Iron Moon: A Cat Clan Novella is Out!

Iron Moon: A Cat Clan Novella is now available!

Lena is a werecat from the Los Angeles Clan and is on the trail of Martinez, an evil shifter responsible for the kidnappings and deaths of other weres.  Lena travels a precarious path through the shadow realms of South America as she searches to bring Martinez to justice.  Yves, a wolf shifter, is also on the trail of something equally important.  The elusive scent of his mate has brought him to Peru, just in time to see Lena taken away into a dark pit of a world where females are a commodity and no one is really safe.  Together they will face their burgeoning attraction and the untold dangers of Ukhu Pacha, the underworld of ancient Inca gods.

A novella of about 36,000 words.
 
 


Sunday, June 7, 2015

Blogging on Cold Meds OR How I Should Hide in a Closet While I'm Sick

Sick again.  Sinusitis for those of you who have to know.  The actual definition for sinusitis is: Your entire face feels like it will simultaneously blow up and fall off and implode all at the same time plus lots of mucus.
Therefore...wait for it...I decided to voluntarily go to the doctor.  Since it's Sunday, it's urgent care for me.  Whee.  That should be a song.  Sing it, baby.  It's urgent care for me.  It's where I want to be.  It's the only one for me.  Me and the doctor, so happy together.  (They've been playing Happy Together in some commercial a lot and it's really stuck in my brain but good.  Yeah, baby, the Turtles, back in the sixties.  God, I'm old.)

Okay, I know I have a sinus infection.  I tell the nurse that.  I tell the doctor that.  But here comes the problem.  Before I can list my symptoms, the doctor wants to make a commentary on The Walking Dead shirt I'm wearing.  In other words, the doctor has just decided to tell me what he thinks of people who like to watch, quoting here, "Those zombie shows."  Although I'm sick, running a fever, and my head feels like it's just going to fall off while I'm sitting on the examination table, I'm still polite enough to not say anything.  Also it occurs to me that the doctor from the urgent care center thinks that all his patients are morons.  Dr. Don'tgiveashizz says, "It's my theory that people who watch zombie shows are able to get into that violence and gore through the show."  Let me explain this.  Dr. Don't thinks that I'm secretly into violence and gore AND I'm too stupid to realize what he's just implied about me.
 I want to say, "Shut up and give me a script for antibiotics."  Instead I say, "The Walking Dead isn't about violence and gore."  Dr. Don't gives me the high eyebrow raise which I take to mean, "Shut the front door."  It's then that I realize that this poor man has never watched The Walking Dead, and has probably never seen any zombie movie, ever.  We should feel sorry for this poor, stupid bastard.
Well, then Dr. Don't moves along to the sinusitis part of the equation.  He wants to know if I'm diabetic because I take meds for pre-diabetes.  Once this has been confirmed/denied, he plows into the obligatory WEIGHT issue.  Dr. Don't says, "Have you tried to lose weight?"

I

HATE

DOCTORS.

I hate doctors.  I hate doctors.  I hate doctors.  I...HATE...DOCTORS.  I hate doctors.

Dr. Don't has instantly transformed himself into Dr. Dumbass in my head.  He proceeds to make it worse by saying, "You should try eating on smaller plates."  My first instinct was act stupid, pour on the redneck accent, and say, "Smaller plates.  Gall dang.  I ain't never thought of that.  You've saved me, Oh Mystical Doctor of Epic Proportion (this part wanders out of the poor yokel response, but the hell with it), you and this wondrous Urgent Care Center.  Kin I get that antibiotic now?"

But I didn't say that.  What I said was, "Oh, I don't know, you can fit a whole lot of food on a small plate."

Then Dr. Dumbass looked just like this:
He had perceived the irony, and was obligated to make a I-just-ate-a-sour-lemon look of disapproval because I must be put in my place.

Anyway, sinus infection it is.  Dr. Dumbass sent a nurse in to give me a shot in the ass, just because I said that about small plates.  (Well, that's what I think.)
And I swear I got the sinus infection germs from the collision place where I went last went to look at our wrecked car.  (Yes, our new car, only five weeks in our driveway, was rear ended by not one, but two morons who couldn't stop on a clear day with no turns in the road.  These are morons, by the way, who would probably believe Dr. Dumbass about the small plates and The Walking Dead.  That's a blog in progress since I'm still ranting about, er, discussing doctors and sinus infections.)
I love Gary Cole.  Do you think people come up to him
in the street and do Office Space impersonations?
Probably.  I'm sure he's sick of it.
The best news of all is that Dr. Dumbass did prescribe enough drugs that I feel well enough to blog.  I should probably cut him a break.  Probably.  I'd have to find a small plate to put it on, though.

Bwahaha.  Off to see how many pain pills I can morally take today.  Maybe they have small plates for small pills, or was that too much?









Wednesday, May 20, 2015

I Didn't Die OR the Blogging Shall Recommence

Warning!!!! Change of subjects may occur frequently.

Okay, I haven't really blogged lately.  I suppose there's a few factors involved.  I went through a round of writer's block, which has been resolved through diet, exercise, drugs from a deep Amazonian forest, and lots of imagination.  (In fact, I just finished Iron Moon: A Cat Clan Novella, which is in the editing process right now.  Yeaness!)
Iron Moon: A Cat Clan Novella will
be available soon!  Soon I say!  Sooooooon!
I suppose I didn't feel like my usual round of hyperbole.  My usual subjects (the cats, my husband, HIM, my only child, customer service, any old odd thing that happened to me) weren't calling my name and insisting that I rant about them.  Don't you readers get tired of me ranting about stuff?

Sometimes I feel like a comedian and I have to be careful what I blog about.  (Off limit items still include my mother-in-law, my sister, my sex life, anything that will potentially embarrass someone beyond belief.  That reminds me of the time my sister and I went to Tijuana and whoops...nevermind.)

So my daughter recently wanted to have...a pedicure.  I went with her and although I was somewhat embarrassed about my calloused tootsies, I had one, too.
I look at this meme and I don't necessarily see pedicure.
I see feet in concrete because his wife is PO'd.
It was probably a good thing that I didn't understand Vietnamese because the man who was doing my feet was saying stuff.  Since I didn't understand, I was all like, "I bet I know what you're saying."  I was going to do some neat illustrations with my toe nails prominent and various "translations" as interpreted by moi, but my bamboo pad decided to flip me the bird.  HIM has informed me that buying another one is a business expense, so it's on order.  Anyhoo, we're at the place and Cressy's sitting next to me getting hers done.  The guy doing her feet asks her how old she is, (11), and then proceeds to flirt with her.  I mean, OMFG, RIGHT NEXT TO ME!  I mean, her mother is SITTING RIGHT THERE!  I had a strong urge to smack him with my Zoom, which would have been bad for the Zoom and might involved the police coming to arrest me.  I told HIM about it and HIM said, "It's probably because he thought she was older."  To which I responded, "But HE ASKED HOW OLD SHE WAS!" in a voice that could probably be heard by neighboring states.  (The understated part was, "AND HE STILL FLIRTED WITH HER!  The perv!")
This is probably what the guy doing my feet was thinking of using.
I guess this is a mommy issue.  What mommy wants to know men are looking at her daughter like she's a woman?  (I had an entire issue with some snot nosed kid wanting to give her a "diamond" when she was in the first grade.  Blog material gold.)
We didn't get these toenail paint jobs for very happy demons, but
it's always an option for next time.  (How do you wear shoes with these?)
This is also the last week of school for the kid.  (I warned ya about subject changing abruptness!)  Sure she's going, but they're not actually doing anything.  Yesterday they had a "hygiene" class.  (Today is the day to "use" "these" "guys."  In my head I see someone doing the curved fingers and then myself slapping them.  The fingers, that is.)  So what hygiene class means is that they talk about female issues.  I don't know what they did in the boy class because I don't have a little spy to comes home to tell me all the details like I do for the girl class.  Pardon me, "girl" and "boy" class.  They sent home a little prep package for that wondrous first day that they might have a "period."  (I need to stop and remove the little keys that have the caption marks on them before I go too far.)

Well, I already had this talk with my daughter.  (About ten times so far and yes, my daughter is counting.)  And I got her all the stuff she needs.  And I got her the American Girl book.  And I feel like I'm on top of this issue.  And the school is not her mommy.  And I feel sorry for all the little girls whose mommies are not on top of this issue.  Actually my sister got her the American Girl book.  But I made sure she read the American Girl book that my sister got for her.  (My talk: My aunt got me a copy of Our Bodies; Ourselves, which was a freaking eye opener if you've never had the talk before that moment.  If you haven't read it, it had pictures of suggested sexual positions in it, as well as all the other necessary stuff.)  (I should probably just go step on a land mine right now.)

Okay, I probably shouldn't have included this one but what else can you
do when your only child has a major life event?
Why, make a cake!
They didn't include the after shot for this one.  That would
be the shot where the girl picks up the cake and throws it
at the cake maker.
For the record, I did not actually do this.
I would never do this.
I would probably get the kid some chocolate and midol,
but not this.
I would also never buy this t-shirt,
but I would put it in a blog.
So since I'm zipping off in a dozen different directions (makes you wonder how I actually finish a novel, doesn't it?) I finally bought a new car.  All I can say (not true because I can say a lot) is that it's red (red, red, reddity RED!) and has got more electronics on it than a 777 jumbo jet.  Every time I see a button that I have not previously identified, I have to stop the car, pull out the ten pound manual, and look it up.  Amazingly there's still a few buttons I have yet to identify.  (Like Willy Wonka's Wonkavator, I'm pretty sure.)  (Did you know that the kid from the original movie grew up to be a veterinarian?  This is the kind of weird shizz that goes through my head.)
Unfortunately the inside of my car doesn't really look like
a Wonkavator, which is a shame.  I loved Gene Wilder but
he was much better in Young Frankenstein.
Also in this blog's report, the two cats of the house (the moron cat and the fat cat) have recently decided to fight every night for total world domination.

One will just be sitting there minding his own feline biz when the other one comes strolling past.  Then the first one will whack the second one in the ass.  Then the second one takes offense (as most would) and turns around and whacks the first one in the head.  Then the first one gets up and jumps on the second one.  There are certainly variations on this scenario.  Sometimes the second one skips the whack on the head and proceeds directly to jumping on the first one.  Sometimes the cat's positions are reversed.  Occasionally one holds the throat of the other one until they stop moving (and not in a "dead" way.  Whoops.  I used those things again.) and surrender.
Am I the only wondering if the black and white cat is
actually still alive?
Voila.  Cat World War III or XIIM, if you read Roman numerals.  I'm pretty sure I've lost count.

So there it is in a nutshell.  My blogging might have slowed down, but I'm still alive.

Fat woman out.