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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.



Monday, March 30, 2015

Writer's Block OR How to Motivate Myself

Nasty writer's block.  My muse has been mysteriously absent.  I have a laundry list of things to write and people are writing me to tell me to hurry the eff up and my brain was saying, "I don't think so."  I like my brain, but sometimes it rules and I drool.

Writer's block: "Writing about writer's block is better than not writing at all." - Charles Bukowski.  I like this definition.  It pretty much describes what I'm doing.  Kevetching about writer's block.  I'll do it larger:

WRITER'S BLOCK SUCKS THE BIG HAIRY FAT ONE!

There.  It had to be said.  And in blue, because writer's block gives me the blues.

Don't tell Splotch the rescue cat.  He thinks if I'm not actually working, I should be providing a lap for him to sit upon.  He also thinks that the keyboard is his newest bestest friend.  I had to buy a kitty castle so he could park his tuckus upon while I work.

I found another quote while looking for stuff about writer's block:

"I don't believe in writer's block.  Do doctors have 'doctors block?' Do plumbers have plumbers' block?' No. We all have days when we don't feel like working, but why do writers turn that into something so damn special by giving it a faintly romantic name?" - Larry Kahaner.  I'm pretty sure the answer to that question is that writers are prima donnas.  Pretty darn sure.

Where was I?  Ah, writer's block, and also making up stuff.  I have a magazine on my desk with an article about black holes.  I've read the article three times because I didn't understand the first two times.  There's a comment about "confounding general relativity" and "particle physics" which gives me a headache kind of like the kind I get when I've been skipping drinking tea.  I should probably take the magazine off my desk, but it gives me a little cheap thrill to say something about it.  (Scientific American, which is probably something most people like me buy because it helps them feel smarter.  It doesn't make me feel smarter to read the same article three times, but I'm persistent.  Also I like making the fonts smaller in some sentences, just to see if people are paying attention.)

Ideas on how to break my block!

1.  I brainstorm everything in five minutes, even the silliest storyline imaginable.  That one involved radioactive clowns and geomagnetic t-rexes starting a detective's agency in Phoenix, Arizona in an alternative time where aliens helped George Washington discover his feminine side while crossing the Delaware.  I bet no one ever did that one.

2.  I hit my head with a mallet until stars appear.  Or until I wake up in the hospital.  Hospitals are always good for inspiration.  It's the drugs or sometimes the time spent in the ER waiting room where you meet people you will never meet anywhere else ever.  (And they don't give a damn if I change the font size.)

3.  I take a break.  Unfortunately this break lasted two months, but it's better than not ever writing again.  (Harper Lee's got her second book coming out after fifty years, which is essentially something she wrote before To Kill a Mockingbird, which is a different version of the same book.  So she wrote one book.  That's it.  Do you think she ever gets tired of people asking her why she didn't write another damn book?)  I lurve Gregory Peck.

Okay, I'm done.  I just wanted to write, er, expel, er, vomit out, er, rant about my brain for a while.  I actually outlined a whole novella today and worked out the next two outlines on my schedule, so I'm fairly happy.

Hope you all are happy too.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Contemplations of a Fat Cat OR I am Blogging About the Cat Again

In case you're new to this blog, I'm a writer/author/storyteller who publishes independently.  I often blog about whatever strikes my fancy.  My daughter has two cats.  One is Megaroy, the moron cat, a Maine Coon mix with all of the IQ of a box of rocks.  The other one is Splotch, our adopted stray who is now an inside cat.  I often make fun of Megaroy, because I have to, and mostly because it's super easy.


 
Tell me.  Who wouldn't make fun of that?
I can't count how many times I've used
this picture.  He's totally asking for it.
Of course, there are others because I haz a smart phone with a cameraz.
I also haz a autosketch program where I can do
what I want with captions.  This makes for
much amusement.  (Another photo which is
well-used.  After all, it's LadderCat, with his
ears all sideways.  You know he knows I'm
making fun of him.)
And since I'm on a roll.
Yes, I took a photo of the moron cat playing in
the potty.  I couldn't help
myself.  (There was a bug fluttering around
in the water, in case you were
wondering.)
But now, there's Splotch.
Splotch is our rescue cat.  He was a stray we
fed for about a year until I could get him
to trust me, which was a problem for him
when I scooped him up and shoved him
in a cat carrier to take to the vet.  But
he forgave me eventually.
Splotch is what I would call well-nourished.  Since he was an outside cat, I believe that his reasoning is to eat everything because it might get swiped.  Meanwhile, Megaroy is looking on with a puzzled expression on his face and the obvious thought that went through his little pea brain, "Hey, why ya eating the whole bowl?  It's not going anywhere."  Consequently, Splotch has become fat.  16 pounds at the last vet visit.  That conversation sits on me just about as well as when I have to go to the regular doctor.

Example:
Doc: Did you know your cat is overweight?
Me: That explains the back pain I have when I pick him up.
Doc: That's not healthy for cats.  Do you give him table scraps?
Me: I eat the table scraps.
Doc: Haha.  Don't give the cat table scraps.
Me: I don't give him table scraps.  He eats his food and then he eats Megaroy's food.  I don't know why Megaroy hasn't lost weight.  (13 pounds and I got a lecture about that, too.)
Doc: We might have to put him on a kitty diet.
Me: He howls in the middle of the night.  Do you know why?
Doc: Why?
Me: The dry food bowl has run dry.

Of course, this isn't Splotch, but it looks a lot like him.
I thought I had such a fun time going to the regular doctor and discussing weight issues.  Well, it's twice as much fun discussing the cat's weight with the vet.  Why you might ask?  Because I'm getting looked at like I deliberately made the cat eat his food and Megaroy's too.

I have never owned a fat cat before.  Or dog for that matter.  Or goldfish, guppy, parakeet, etc.  We've always subscribed to the keep the-kibble-full theorem.  The animals knew it was there; they didn't stress out.  However, Splotch has food issues.  It's not an issue if he eats it all.

Here's Splotchy in his second favorite locale, enjoying
human leg warmth.  Does that look like a fat ass?
(Don't worry, I don't think he reads.)
And yes, that's an exercise ball in the background.
For some reason, the cats don't want to use it.
Here's my other issue.  If Splotch were any other cat, I would just chase him around the house every day for exercise.  Good for him, good for me.  Win/win.  Problem: he's scared of people.  He trusts me but not if I try to play with him.  It's too threatening.  I can chase Megaroy around all the live long day, and he likes it.  I chase Splotch for about a foot and he goes to hide under the bed for the rest of the day, which is good because he's not eating but bad because the poor thing is scared.
One of Splotch's favorite floor spots near the kitchen.
When Splotch runs his belly swings from
side to side.  I wonder if it hurts.
So I try to get him to play by using string or a cat toy.  I drag it around.  Splotch watches it, bats at it, then falls over, and bats it from a prone position.  I think the cat knows I won't make him work for it, which means he's about ten times smarter than Megaroy.

Consequently, we have a moron cat and a meatloaf cat.  Anyone who knows their Kliban will recognize that, but here's the cartoon for the reminder:
Now I know how to put the cat on a diet.  I have to put Megaroy's food on the table because Splotchy is too fat to jump up there.  (That's going to be a vicious cycle.  Splotchy will lose weight, jump on the table and eat Meg's food, get fat again, and then won't be able to jump on the table again.)

Okay.  Fat Woman out.