My Internet Has Fallen and It Can't Get Up!

bedlam
Definition: (noun) A place or situation of noisy uproar and confusion. (Like my desk today.)


Ok, I'll bite on the idea that heat wrecks computers. And I believe it only because both my friend's computers crashed today, another said hers acted like it might, and mine nearly did.

I think the AOL Virus and Protection Software Thingie lost its mind this morning and if the heat factor is what started up the AOL crankiness, I think this is what happened:

The Cranky Virus Protection Thingie (CAOLVPT) probably was not happy to begin with because it had to compete with AVG Virus Protection (AVGVP). AVGVP is very hot (as everyone knows), so I'm sure that jealousy is to blame. You know how jealousy works. You can't stand to see anyone else do well, so you plot your revenge in dainty little steps, as you plan on completely destroying your enemy. I'm sure that the CAOLVPT worked itself into a lather and then cast its venom upon my computer like a drunk throwing up a gallon jug of MD 20/20. It disabled AVGVP (mwahahaha) on the first wave of nausea. That had to have felt really, really good (and you know how it feels to get rid of some really bad hooch). I mean, how can CAOLVPT compete with a high class program like AVGVP? And now it was knocked on it's ass.

When it saw that it could get away with that, the second wave came, only this one was worse. It began an insidious and relentless attack upon the poor, pitiful components of my computer. First it disabled my CD drive, then my Control Panel, and finally Internet Explorer. Was that enough? NO, it wasn't. There were yet more waves to come. The last had empowered it to continued it's rein of terror (spewing of puke) by disabling YahooIM, my Start Taskbar, my Windows Media Player and my Dancer. (Can't tell you how much I missed that one.) You wouldn't have wanted to see my computer at this point, so I won't describe it.

But then, as it always is with revenge, the CAOLVPT began to turn its wrath upon itself, completely taking out the AOL program in one last bolt, sending sparks flying in every direction. Smoke bellowed from the box. Moans were heard. And then it died.

But I was not defeated. No, not I. At that very moment, God was looking down on me and parting the clouds as I busily worked away on my machine and I think I heard the sound of harps and a heavenly choir. It was one of those moments when you realize that life is worth living and you must press on, no matter what the cost! I uninstalled, I reinstalled, I pleaded, I begged, I promised. I lay prostrate on the floor and then I got up because I knew that my answer had come (belief is a powerful thing, you know).

Let's just say that I cleaned it all up in one felled swoop and managed to get everything running really well. The room became brighter and for a moment, I nearly felt divine. But when I got on AOL, all my saved mail was gone, as were all my links and my address book. I was able to import the mail and the links, but the address book is yet to be seen. AOL tells me that its server will find it and send it to me, but as of yet, it hasn't returned.

I will wait, though. I love my address book. It was the only casualty of this war (see the Crow War posts) but I am taking it hard. I will stand at my computer (OK, sit) and wait for it to pop its pretty little face upon my screen and then I will know that I have lived to fight another day.

As the Heatwave Subsides

Subsides is a misleading word. What the headwave is doing is holding on by its teeth as it's being ripped out of the atmosphere by some other front that's coming in behind it. And that means that today it's hotter than hell again, but it will probably be gone tomorrow.

Probably is a misleading word. In the world of Seattle weather forecasts, nothing is a given. They can say sun and it will rain. They can say cool and it can be hot. They can say snow and we'll get a 60 degree day. Of course, from September to June you can say rain and it probably will rain during some point of that day. Ah, the power of cheese! (I mean prediction.)

So, as the heatwave holds on for dear life, I continue my search for an agent. I'm a tad perkier today because it's not 90 in my house today. It's only a chilling 86, but that four degrees is enough to take my mind out of a fog and put the synapses back in place. Yes, I can think again. I'm burning up but the brain is working. And the agent search is on.

So, as I await word from someone in New York City (Hello, I'm over here!), I will get back to my MG novel and try to be good. The heat has taken all the feistiness out of me. And my recent computer problems have exhausted me, thank you AOL.

On to Day Two of the Heat Wave

Quotation of the Day
You may deceive all the people part of the time, and part of the people all the time, but not all the people all the time.
Abraham Lincoln
(1809-1865)

I don't know how that will affect my day, but maybe it will.

Well, day two of our heatwave is upon us. It's looking kind of cloudy out there and I can only hope that a huge thunderhead rolls in and ends this misery. I tried to write yesterday but my brain cells were percolating instead of making synapse connections, so I gave that up. Besides, who can write when it's 91 degrees in your house? Not I!

Besides, moderate temperatures are why I moved to Seattle. Well, that's a lie. I moved here for some guy, if the truth be told, and then he dumped me I ended up living in this mansion/boarding house with a selection of odd characters and weirdos. There was the guy who claimed to be hiding out from some good old boys in the deep south. The transexual who was half way through the sex change process. The longshoreman I eventually married and then quickly divorced when he decided that I should support him. There was the ballerina who didn't dance and the school teacher who also eventually got married. My favorite was the guy with the Harley who took me for rides all over Seattle on his bike. We also had an engineer, a freelance writer for Time Magazine who went to Central America for some coup and ended up stabbed in the chest. There was the aloe salesman who had everyone drinking aloe juice, and really, I forget the rest. Oh, and of course, there was the landlady who often ended up getting beat to a pulp by guys who worked for her when she stopped payment on their checks. No end of fun in that place!

It was also the place where I was electrocuted. I was living in the sunroom. Everyone there had space heaters and you ran them day and night because the landlady refused to turn on the heat. Anyway, mine had been going for a long time and one day I accidentally picked up the cord (which had frayed) and got a zap so big it sent me flying through the French doors. And all the while I am thinking that this was a pretty silly way to die. You know how your life flashes before you when you're dying? Well, the only thing that flashed before me was this: so this is how it all ends!

As you know, I lived. I did have electrical burns all down my arm and I've really not been quite the same since. I should write about living in the Pink Palace, as we called it. But mostly I'm trying to forget.

So, what does this have to do with our heatwave? Nothing, really. Nothing at all.

Something New to Worry About

Be on guard against men who can strike from a distance.
Aesop
(620 BC-560 BC)

How far is a distance? A few feet? A couple hundred yards? A mile? Maybe 2000 miles? Perhaps the next blog in Blogspot's list of ramblers like myself?

This is just what I need today. It's not like I don't have enough to worry about and now I have to think about what could be coming out of nowhere, at any time, and without warning.

On to the Head Shot

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.
Joseph Conrad
(1857-1924)

No, Joseph, you're wrong. The great foe of reality is a picture.

Ok, take two of the head shot is approaching. This is becoming a very expensive endeavor as the last one cost me $150 and I looked like a doberman on speed. It was right around the time I was leaving my job after a few months (ok, a year) of intense stress and if you looked at those pictures you'd think that someone had stuck a poker of some sort up my butt.

So, take two.

This better be good. It's being done by a talent photographer in Seattle (just saying the word talent gives me shivers) and I was advised to hire a makeup artist. A makeup artist? Yeah, you heard me right.

Let's just pretend for a moment that they'd actually seen me before they made that suggestion. I'm not the young chicken I used to be. My eyelids swell. Sometimes a lot, thank you processed wheat. I do have a very fleshy neck (nothing a little surgery couldn't fix right up) and I tend to look tired. I won't tell you what that's about because telling you about my wheat allergy put me way out of my comfort zone, but just imagine for a moment a middle aged woman (as my children starting calling me when I reached 35) with puffy eyes. Can a makeup artist fix THAT?

Probably not. But thanks to airbrushing, I can wipe at least ten years off my face. That, a bottle of Miss Clairol, the new moisturizing I'm test driving for a friend, a haircut, and a good night's sleep might make me photogenic.

Or, it could be a disaster. When I think of photo disasters, I think of my husband. Whenever we have a family portrait done, he manages to somehow be looking at the ceiling, the fat lady in the corner of the room, or at the floor. He has shifty eyes, they're always looking somewhere else, but certainly not in the camera. No, that would be too easy.

I don't want to look like him. But I have these lips that turn down. It's a family trait. We look mad if we don't have a big smile on our faces. We are the maddest looking bunch of people you ever met and if you didn't know me, you would probably think I was very stern.

I'm not looking forward to this.

EVIL EDITOR

EVIL EDITOR

Ok, the Evil Editor is at it again. I'm perplexed at how much these queries read like a synopsis. Am I missing something here?

Quote of the Day

I really like this one:

One can know a man from his laugh, and if you like a man's laugh before you know anything of him, you may confidently say that he is a good man.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
(1821-1881)

Do you think?

Well, nothing to report today. As I said yesterday, the crows are gone and life is back to normal. It really was back to normal yesterday, but I killed the whole day on the net doing a whole lot of nothing. And since this blog is about a whole lot of nothing, I suppose that I fulfilled my mission for that twenty-four hours.

So, I am on to other things, whatever that might be.

And remember, at the bottom of this page are lots of nuggets of insignificant trivia for your reading pleasure.

New Features!

Quote of the day:

It is essential to seek out enemy agents who have come to conduct espionage against you and to bribe them to serve you. Give them instructions and care for them. Thus doubled agents are recruited and used.
Sun Tzu
(544 BC-496 BC)

I wonder if this applies to writing.

Oh, boy, we're going big time now. If you scroll down to the very bottom, you will find the Word of the Day, the Quotation of the Day, Hangman, and This Day in History. I know, this is important stuff.

Remember, today is the day that Disneyland opened.

The Crow War Has Ended

Yep, the crows have gone home, helpless and defeated by my superior intellect. It probably helps that I have six inch walls to protect me from their nasty little beaks.

Here's the casualty count:

Crows:

1 dead
1 wounded

Humans:

0 dead
0 wounded

Cats

0 dead
0 wounded
1 initimidated

Dogs:

0 dead
0 wounded
1 intimidated

Now that this is over, I suppose I should go back to working on my humor novel. This ate up two whole days, but it was fun.

The First Casualty of the Crow War

If you've been following my crow thread (The Crow Has Landed, see below) you'll want to know that there has been a death. But, such is war, I guess.

This is how it went down. When the crows realized they were losing the war, they sent for reinforcements. Unfortunately, there were none, as most crows are off bothering the folks over on the next block this time of day. So, they called for volunteers within their own ranks. The only one was another baby crow, sans all his flying feathers, who apparently felt it was his duty to come to the rescue of his young sibling.

I'm sure the conversation went something like this:

"Ok, who's going?" said the big crow.

"Pick me! I'll go." (That's Junior, the little crow.)

"You're too young, Junior. Sit back down in that nest and eat that shiny quarter I gave you."

"You always say that. It's not fair!" (At this point, the young bird throws a tantrum.)

"Cut it out! I can't stand it when you whine."

"I'm not whining."

Isn't that the way it is with kids?

Well, apparently they let him go. He stood on the branch of the cedar tree and took his solo flight into the air, over my backyard, and landed right in the ivy.

Unfortunately, before I could save him, the cat ran in and dragged him off, never to be found.

Well, if you think that the crows were pissed before, you have no clue how mad they are now. I am awaiting reinforcements which I believe will arrive around dusk. Meanwhile, the cat is in hiding, the dog won't go out and I managed to escape and make a run for Round Table Pizza.

A really cool obit

I love obits and this is one of the funnier ones.

http://www.legacy.com/TimesDispatch/DeathNotices.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=18382676

The Strategy of Crows

Ok, I'm getting the hang of this now. What crows do is set up sentries at strategic points around your property. There's one on the cedar tree in the front. One on the birch in the back. One at the other end of the property to the south. The picture above shows the one in my back yard.

Then they go dead silent. Pretend they're not there.

So, you send the cat out and they go crazy. My cat is now cowering under a branch, on top of the fence next to my bedroom. He doesn't dare move.

This is getting interesting. Wonder what they'll do if I send the dog out? Or my husband?

An Update on the Mutant Flies

Well, it's not looking good. I have a total of three (out of what, maybe a hundred) flies on my fly paper. What's weirder is that usually the flies buzz around the house and create havoc by landing in your food, on your face, or on your nose while you're sleeping.

No, not these flies. They all flew to the window sills and died. The whole bunch of them.

Makes you wonder what's going on in the environment.

Now to clean out the windows.

The Crow Has Landed

You have to wonder what kind of impact a mother has on her children. I am wondering that very thing myself, because an odd thing happened tonight that made me realize that my Mom had more influence on my thoughts than I ever thought.

So, anyway, she was raised Christian Science and was very superstitious. I don't know if those things go together. Might be that someone in her family was superstitious, or maybe just she was. But, she got in a fight with her Mom when she was nine, and that night her mother was killed. It devastated her for the rest of her life. She was orphaned and at sixteen went to live with an aunt. The poor woman had a horrible childhood.

But, anyway, she used to have these silly superstitions about things that really creeped me out as a kid and tonight one of them kicked in.

I was sitting at my computer reading email when my husband hollers out that a crow has flown into our house and is now residing in the living room. Most people would think of rescuing the crow, but my first thought was to call both my daughters.

Why you ask? Because my mom always said that if a bird flew into the house that someone in that house would die very soon. Ok, it's superstition, but I'm sitting at my computer in a panic. A bird once flew into our house when I was a kid, and that night one of my sister's friends was in a horrible car accident and got quite mangled up.

So, I was thinking of calling my oldest, who is away at college because any self-respecting mother would warn her children. Right? The conversation would have gone something like this.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. What's up?"

"Well, don't go out tonight. Don't drive anywhere. Don't get near a street."

"WHY?"

"Well, this bird flew in the house and..."

"Mom, you been drinking again?"

"How can you say that. I don't drink."

"Sure, Mom. Uh, so, you have finally gone over the deep end? You know, I worry about you and I always thought this would happen."

"No, I have not gone over the deep end! And I don't know how you can say that. Everyone knows that if a bird flies in the house that someone is going to die. It could be you, but don't take me seriously. Just don't blame me if you die, you heartless, ungrateful child!"

CLICK!

Anyway, after realizing that I really didn't want to have that conversation, I came to my senses, put the phone down, and rescued the bird. I took it to one of a few wildlife rescues in this country and the gal took him and said she could make him well.

We named him Carl.

They say he'll live, but I don't know about his friends. Right now, I have a flock of crows dive bombing my property. They travel in packs (?) of eight and all eight of them (well, seven now) are waiting for us to give up the captive bird.

I can hear them talking.

Crow #1: "Ok, so we're going in. They have Carl."

Crow #2: "Let's get the dog. That'll bring 'em to their knees."

Crow #3: "And the cat. They treat that cat like royalty."

Crow# 4, 5, 6,and 7: "Ok, on the count of three we're going in. Have no mercy."

This seige may go on for a while, so if I disappear, just think of the movie THE BIRDS.

My Book Cover Again

I had to delete my posts about my cover because the website wasn't linking. So, here is the cover. My URL is http://www.judygregerson.com But if it doesn't link, you can always link to my website from my profile page.

Someone stole my chainsaw!

I promised last night that I'd show you a picture of my blower and my chainsaw, my two favorite appliances. I call them appliances because, to me, they are as essential as any toaster or microwave oven. More so. So, anyway, here is a picture of my blower. I can't post a picture of my chainsaw because it's missing.

Ok, this is disturbing. I just cleaned out my garage and was looking forward to using that chainsaw. There's nothing I like more than whacking up a dead stump or some tree limbs. And now, I am at a loss.

Where did the chainsaw go? Did someone come into my garage and steal it? Come on! The blade was dull, it needed oil, and was out of gasoline. Why would someone want my chainsaw. It could not possibly have the sentimental value to anyone else that it does to me, and, besides, it's MINE!

I cannot believe that I spent 3 full days cleaning that garage and now I can't find my favorite appliance. I don't know what I'm going to do.

This could be a real day wrecker.

Eccentric? Don't you believe them!

No picture for tonight's post. But I promise that tomorrow I will put up a picture of my blower and my chainsaw. I made mention of that about 2 weeks ago and I did get my digital camera working again thanks to the Energizer Bunny (thank you, Bunny) and tomorrow is the day. And crap,

Oh, so here's the story. I realized today that I am wearing the same outfit that I had on four days ago. Why is this you ask? Because I'm in my writer mode. And it goes something like this. You wake up and realize you need to get to your computer RIGHT away because time is wasting away. So, you drag out of bed, which in my case is difficult since I have a bad back.

But wait, you must brush your teeth. You have a Sonosomethingorother, so you go into the bathroom and run that across your teeth for about 10 seconds, because, as I said, time is wasting away and tooth decay is no excuse for bad literature.

But wait! You need clothes. Looking through drawers, ironing, pulling out something new takes time and you have no time because time is wasting away, as I told you before, and it is quite possible that you might die before you finish the next novel, so you pick up the clothes you wore yesterday, the day before, the day before that, and the day before that, and you take a quick sniff.

If they smell a little odd, you spray some lavender and vanilla scented oil on them because, really, no one is going to notice if you stink, because, after all, you are a WRITER. You don't go anywhere. Ok, you go out for food once a week. But you certainly don't visit friends. You don't attend "social" functions where you're required to look good and I'd place bets that you don't really give a rip what you look like. In fact, you don't put on makeup, and you don't brush your hair.

These all take time. Precious minutes that are ticking away as your body slowly (or quickly) dies and you are racing the clock of death because that next novel is calling to you like you're some kind of junkie and it's your fix. Such is the life of a writer.

And they call us eccentric. Well, I'm here to tell you that we are NOT eccentric. We're just nuts. And if you look through the history of writers over the decades and perhaps centuries of modern literature (or perhaps old literature which is now rotting in some ancient library or collector's home), you will notice that most writers died of alcoholism or perhaps insanity and if they were really lucky, they just got hit by a truck.

I really don't know anyone who got hit by a truck but I often feel like I'm being hit by a truck as I write my novels because half the time I don't know what I'm doing, which is why writers drink or eat chocolate.

Ok, so, tomorrow I bring out the pictures of the blower and the chainsaw and tell their stories. I don't think they're novel worthy, but they certainly are interesting. And tomorrow I promise that I will take a shower, spend 2 minutes brushing my teeth, and I WILL change my clothes. Unless I'm in a rush.

Mutant Flies!

Ok, something is wrong around here. Very, very wrong. And I'm beginning to think that I'm being scammed.

Here's the story: I've been leaving my doors (screens) open the last few weeks and let's just say that there are a few flies in my house. Actually, more than a few and some of them are big. And they're in just about every room in the house.

But that shouldn't be a problem, right? You go to the store, you buy fly paper, you stick it up on your ceiling and the flies are history. Yeah, well, you'd think that would work, but I'm here to tell you that it doesn't.

I've had two fly papers hanging for a week. So far, they've only caught one Mayfly. If you're not from the Pacific Northwest, you may not know what a Mayfly is, but it's this big honking thing with long, long legs. Anyway, it's stuck on the fly paper, but not one stinking fly body has yet appeared.

You have to wonder. Have flies mutated over the winter? Have they become smarter? Do they know that fly paper kills? And if so, how did they find out? Why are they flying in every corner of the room but the two where the fly paper is hanging? And if fly paper worked for years and years, why doesn't it work this year? Is mine old? Past its expiration point? Does fly paper have an expiration date? Do I care? No, I don't care. I just want to catch the flies.

So, now I'm going to have to resort to a fly swatter. This is OLD technology, folks. It requires work. I hate work and if you don't believe me, read down where I go on about it, almost endlessly.

I thought of training my dog to catch the little buggers. My cat isn't much help. Heck, my cat only catches my daughter's escaped mice. When we had mice, or a small infestation of them, did he catch those? NO, he did not! Only our own personal stash of mice did he mutilate.

I could put the hubby on it. Make him chase flies. I could open all the doors and windows and blow them out with huge fans. I could move. I could spray them with insect killer.

So many options. So little time.

IDIOT OF THE WEEK!

And the award goes to Dun and Bradstreet for their efforts and making business better for everyone, everywhere.

Ok, here's how this story goes. In 1999 when I first started "selling" little pieces of my writing, I got a business license for tax purposes. I named it Dancing Word Productions, you know, a catchy little title that made me stand out. I had business cards made and handed them out at conferences or to whomever.

So, a couple of years ago, I get a call from D&B wanting more information on my "business". I told them that I wasn't in business, that I was a freelance writer and there was nothing they needed to know about me. And I hung up.

Well, today I was googling myself just to make sure my website is up there and what do I find but a company called Manta and also D&B, and they are selling reports on my "business". For $9.95 you can get basic information on me, for $139 you can get a crap load of information on me. (Not that there is any.) But wait, it gets better. I'm not a freelance author. I'm a dance studio and fine arts organization. So they say.

So, I call D&B. The Manta business has NO phone number listed (gee, how convenient). I get a D&B rep on the phone, tell him my story, ask him to remove my listing. Oh, no, they won't remove my listing. I'm a business. In fact, they are legally able to sell my listing and they are sending me the documents that prove that they can! But, they will change the listing so it shows "author" rather than dance studio.

OK, D&B, what is your problem? I don't do business with anyone. When I sell a book, I'm a private contractor. I got the freaking license for tax purposes ONLY, not to do business, not to be listed on your site, not to have my address and phone number sold to some dance catalog business. What is your problem?

So, the moral of the story is this: I have no clue! Life sucks? D&B sucks? I'm not sure.

The World Hotdog Eating Championship

Yep, you saw it first on ESPN. Remember, the E in ESPN stands for ENTERTAINMENT and this was certainly entertaining.

It was Joey Chestnut with 52 and the Japanese guy with 53. Each had their own style. Joey kind of stuffed the hotdogs in, or twisted them into his mouth like a corkscrew and the other guy, he chomped down in big bites.

These are some athletes! Apparently they train for the competition.

Ok, how do you train for a hotdog eating contest? You have trial runs? You practice at home? WHAT?

I felt bad for Joey. He constantly looked like he might puke. The other guy, though, he had focus. He could eat and eat and nary a vein popped out on his head. He showed tremendous focus.

I wonder if they have a puke bucket behind them.

Well, here's how it might have gone if I'd been reporting:

"Ok, we're in Coney Island today for the Nathan's Hotdog sponsored World Hotdog Eating Championship. Remember, Nathan's put the "N" in hotdogs. It's a beautiful day in Coney Island. The sun is out, there's a bit of a haze, and you can hear the ocean behind us. Or is it the sound? Oh, who cares?"

"It's the American, Joey Chestnut, against that Japanese guy with the yellow hair and the headband, whatever his name is. The Japanese guy beat Joey at the National Hamburger Eating Championship, so there's a lot at stake here, folks. You can see the sweat pouring down their faces."

"The crowd stands in anticipation as about twenty people stand behind the table, each with a judge in front of them, ready for today's nitrate gobbling fest. Yes, you saw it here first, and only, on ESPN, the channel for professional sports."

"And they're off!"

Yes, it was an exciting twelve minutes. True TV. It had suspense, competition, young people, a woman, a guy with a towel on his head, and one with face paint. Never have I been so thrilled to watch athletes compete at such a high level.

Well, that's what I've been doing today. Watching professional, trained athletes gorge themselves on hotdogs. What fun!

Why I Like Rodents and Here Comes Dad!

Ok, I admit it. I have this thing about rodents. I really, really like rats and mice and gerbils and hamsters and, and, and...and whatever other rodents there are that you can put in a cage. I know this is sick, but it's how I am. (And, yes, I will get to the part of this story that goes with the picture of the plane, but hold on!)

I confess that it started when my youngest, then about five, wanted to get a rat. She convinced me that they are social creatures with a heart of gold (come on!) and that she had to have one. Like any self-respecting mother, I said yes. You can have one, but you have to take care of it.

But everybody knows about Norman, the rat. (I've talked about him in other posts, so you'll have to go read that if you want the gory details.) He's the rat who is buried under the big log with the cross (made of pencils) jammed in the top in my backyard. He received the highest level burial in this family, better even than my own father who insisted that we spread his ashes over his favorite tavern.

Now that's a story. Ok, so my brother, my niece, my sister, and the pilot go up in this little two seater plane, nearly taking out a few trees on their way up, and my other sister and I wait on the shore of the bay, next to my father's favorite tavern, for the arrival of the ceremonial tossing of the ashes. Finally the plane comes along, they open the window, and then dump the ashes out of the plane. I pull up my hood and yell to my sister, "Take cover! Here comes Dad," (you'd have to understand the relationships here to get this) as the ashes land on MY head. Yes, MY head. And my sister's head. Totally missed the tavern. Hardly got any in the bay. Most of them landed on ME and in the parking lot of the restaurant next to the tavern.

I stand there with this gray stuff all over me. "Thanks, Dad," I say. "That was really nice."

Thank God there weren't a lot of ashes or I'd have been the one who was buried that day.

Which is why I say that my rat got a better burial than my dad. But it's how he would have wanted it. No muss, no fuss. He was a basic guy, with a house as austere as just about any vacant house on the block. But that's another story.

Which reminds me. When we got his ashes, they arrived in a cardboard box with a plastic liner. My sister, Charlene, really wanted some of those ashes. She wanted to put them in a glass box and keep them on her mantle. Why? I don't know. She wanted to be close to him?

But the problem was that he was in this box. I could see that it was killing her, so I went to the kitchen, got a big honking spoon and a baggie, and went back to the dining room table. I opened the box of ashes and started shoveling some into the baggie. My brother opens the door and says, "What are you..." and then he just leaves.

And my sister sits there with tears in her eyes as I shovel her some really gray, gritty ashes with a tooth or two mixed in, because she now has a part of my father and he is going to live on her mantle.

I, on the other hand, do not have a bone of sentimentality in me, except when it comes to my own kids, so I didn't need any of the ashes. I did appreciate, however, the idea of dumping them on your favorite tavern. If only they'd hit the mark.

Which is why I love rodents so much. You put them in a cage. No muss, no fuss. When they die, you toss them in the garbage, unless, of course, the rat is someone as good as Norman, in which case, he gets a burial in our family plot out back.

Rating by Depends

If a book was really funny, would you give it 5 Depends?

Here we are, wasting away again in Bunionville

When I become rich and famous as a writer, I know that people will ask me how I managed to survive while I wrote my bestseller. It wasn't easy, people! I almost starved on several occasions. The first time was when my husband refused to let me scrape the bottom of the ice cream carton. I had to hit him over the head with the ice cream scoop before I got a bite. Then there was also this time when my kids caught me stealing food off their plates and they stuck a fork in my hand. They have a lot of nerve. For God's sake, I was a starving artist. (OK, Blogspot is at it again. Now it won't let me make paragraphs. Sheesh. Bear with me, ok?) OK, so I was a starving artist. And as I starved, I took part time jobs to feed the children, lest they starve, also. Any self respecting mother would NOT let her children waste away, and I was among them. And then there's the cat who bites me if I don't feed him and after a few chomps on the leg, I wasn't going there. So, here's how I made the bucks on my way to stardom. First there was the job selling used trailers in trailer parks. That was a good one. It gave me tons of material for the novel CRACKING NORMAL that I just finished and it was while on that job that I was told the story that became the basis for bad girls club. Lots of material in those trailers. When that got old (business went dead), I moved on to working with my husband in his manufactured housing business. That had its cool moments. I got to install a new phone system. I brought the internet to every desk through a very complicated mess of telephone wire and cable which no one but me could decipher. No lack of forethought there. I knew if I ever left (which I did) that no one would be able to figure it all out. Ha! Well, that grew old. Actually, it just got really rotten, so I left. And I went back to being a staring artist until I really started to starve and had to find another job. That's when I took the job at Bunionville, the shoe store (name disguised to protect the innocent) where I learned everything there is to know about feet and then some. Feet are an interesting thing. They come in all shapes, sizes, and smells. I actually met a man one day whose feet were purple and black (dying, folks) and he was in complete denial. There was the lady who let a doctor perform 15 surgeries on her feet (and ruin them) without a blink of the eye. I saw lots of botched surgeries (names withheld to protect the innocent). The list goes on. Bunions. God, lots and lots of bunions. Big bunions, little bunions, surgeryized bunions, bunions that became mangled feet, bunions that no one could fix. Old ladies with bunions. You get it, bunions! Eighteen long months of bunions, calluses, fallen arches, bunionettes, plantar fasciitis, tendonitis, infections, amputated foot parts, amputated feet (or foot because they wouldn't be in a shoe store if they didn't have ONE foot), and then, of course, normal feet. Unfortunately, this job did not provide material for a book. There were a few characters there, useful for another book, but really, no plots jumped into my head and said, "BOO!" What the heck kind of job is that? Really... And it does make me wonder. Do I have to go back to selling trailers to continue as a writer? I'm just not sure.

Cheese Whiz as an anti-aging elixir

While driving back to Seattle the other day, I saw Mt. Rainier to the southwest as I drove toward Ellensburg. Now, I see this mountain all the time, but I've never seen it from there. It was an awesome sight as you'll notice that the Cascade Mountains in the foreground are very small compared to Rainier. We're talking BIG mountain here.

And on another note: What ever happened to Rainier Beer? Does anyone remember the beer cans running through the forest? They were second only to Ivar's clams running around the beach. Ok, so it was people in a beer or a clam suit, but they were my favorite commercials.

Oh, on another note, I decided while in a Mexican fast food restaurant that if I put their cheeze whiz on my face that I would be so well preserved that I might not age for another ten years. My husband had to leave the restaurant when I told him that because it struck him as very funny.

But picture it. Me with Cheese Whiz on my face. Not something you can wear to bed. Can't go out in public with it. But, if the preservatives in it can keep Cheese Whiz "edible" for ten years, why not my face. Apply liberally. Don't leave the house. I'll post a picture when I have completed that task.

I'm back!

I'm sure I was sorely missed. But if you didn't miss me, I forgive you.

I was gone for four days visiting my oldest daughter in Spokane. She goes to college near there and we went to celebrate her 20th birthday. What a great four days.

First, I love driving across Washington State. When I get over the mountains and hit the east side of the state, something inside me just mellows out. And the tunes are good over there, so I turn on the radio and just drive. The scenery is beautiful. Every fifty miles or so you hit new terrain, so it stays interesting. My list of words this week are: Columbia River, plateau, high desert, sage brush, marmosets, yellow corn, gorge, mountains, valleys, agriculture.

Spokane is an interesting city. It was SO hot that I didn't do a lot of exploring, but I stayed right at the Riverfront Park and I did explore the park. My kids loved the marmosets. I liked the river. The fireworks were spectacular. We were only a block or so away, but could see them from our hotel window.

It was also good to get back home. I had a novel to proofread one more time! Ugh. I'm working on marketing/promo stuff for bad girls club, and I had to send some stuff out to agents. I do love this book I'm working on now. Lots and lots of fun. There's an excerpt up on my website. I've changed the title and haven't quite figured out how, on the Authors Guild template, to change that, but I'll figure it out sooner or later.

So, it's an easy going day and things are good.

A Poem

YOU

I give you things
I never got.
Seeing myself
in your eyes.

You are not me
Or me, you.
You have your own destiny
But
I am filling your life
With the things
I missed.

And you are
One of those things.