Fermented Fur

Morons Abound

2009-07-15T18:17:00.003-05:00

Rant Warning, Threat Level Crimson.

Because that's the color my face gets when I see stories like the one I'm about to inflict upon you. Threat Level Crimson means you can expect there to be very firm and undiplomatically stated opinions. And swearing. Lots of swearing, in which I will probably blaspheme the name of your personal favorite deity and assorted grandmothers. Well, maybe not the grandmothers. Just the deities.

For a moment, let's consider the concept of selective breeding. Not of humans, because (unfortunately) nobody makes people take an IQ test before they reproduce, but they totally should. Morons are dumbing down our gene pool at an alarming rate. But I'm talking about dogs. The idea is to take the best representatives of a breed, the ones that are strong, healthy, intelligent, and well-tempered... and let them be the ones that produce the next generation of puppies.

Okay, let's get the cute-thing out of the way, in case you haven't clicked on the story link yet:

Yes. I get it. It is cute. It is a teeny-tiny dog, and teeny-tiny things are cute. Dogs are also cute, so this is the cute double-whammy.

I don't know why I click on these links. Really. Because I know it's only going to make my fucking head explode. And the comments made it worse. I'm afraid to go back and see if anybody has chimed in as the voice of reason, attempting to drown out the numerous asshats who had been saying things like, "Awwww, how cute! I want one!"

Let's clarify. This dog is 8 cm tall, I presume at the withers. This (thank you, Google) is slightly over 3.14 inches. He weighs 400 grams. As there are 450-odd grams in a pound, this dog weighs a fair amount less than one pound. The can of green beans in my cupboard weighs 411 grams. It weighs more than that dog. Jesus H. Fucking Roosevelt Christ on a Crutch. It is also taller.

My dogs weigh, collectively, about 285 pounds. I don't think you could get enough of those little dogs in one room to weigh as much as my (healthy) dogs.

There are so many things wrong with that story that I hardly know where to start. I'm sure there are even more than I'll discuss here, but I can't bring myself to go back and look at that shit-pile of a story again to try to identify them.

Dogs. Are. Not. Supposed. To. Be. That. Fucking. Tiny.

If. You. Want. A. Pet. That. Small. Get. A. God. Damned. Guinea. Pig.

Oh, wait. Most guinea pigs are probably bigger. And healthier. Gotta go with hamster, then.

Better yet, if you think a less-than-one-pound dog is a good idea, don't get a pet at all. Because you clearly have the intelligence of foot fungus, and should not be allowed to own any living creature. Also, you should be surgically sterilized immediately, as well as any children you may have already inflicted on the world.

How often do you imagine the tiniest dog in a litter is the healthiest? How 'bout never? Unless all the other puppies in the litter are seriously fucked up, in which case you do the best you can to find them homes that will love them and work with their special needs, then you spay Mama Dog as fast as you can get a surgery appointment.

Yet the people who breed "teacup" anythings - and there is no such thing recognized by a single national breed club - are opportunistic, greedy, manipulative, conscienceless assholes and should all be spayed, neutered, declawed, de-barked and have their ears cropped. Minus anesthesia. Using a disease-ridden spork. They take the tiniest pup-muffins out of each litter and choose them for their breeding stock. Because tiny-tiny parent-dogs mean tiny-tiny baby-dogs. Hydrocephalus? No big deal. Heart defect? Hypoglycemia? Liver shunt? As long as they live long enough to make puppies, who cares?

Do you even want to guess what this puppy would cost in the pet store? It's fucking insane.

What do you think are the odds that this puppy, who is now six months old and hasn't grown since he was two months old, is - or will ever be - neutered? Hey, he's a world record holder. Famous. Big bucks to be made from his tiny-tiny sperm.

We were just talking at work today about a particular breed of dog that has recently started showing up in "miniature" and "toy" varieties, without any endorsement of the national breed club in question. I said, hey, I'm getting old, and a toy golden retriever sure would be great. I could carry it around in my purse and everything. I was, of course, oozing sarcasm from every pore. But if you're unethical enough, and if you don't care about the health of the animals you breed, you sure can make an ass-load of money. Because there are always people stupid enough to a) shop at a pet store, and b) go, "Awwwwwwwww, isn't da widdle puppy-buppy adowable???" and then whip out the AmEx card and pay the equivalent of two months' mortgage for the privelege of having this defective, sickly status symbol.

Pet stores, whole 'nother rant. Ditto for people who breed grossly over-sized dogs, too. A Rottweiler is not supposed to be 175 pounds, for example.

Some days, I almost give up. We work so hard to expose puppy mills, over-vaccination, inferior foods, cruel training practices, and other atrocities. Sometimes I think we're making progress. Then I see stories like that, and read, "Awwww, where can I get one of those?" and I want to rip my own brain out through my nostrils.

It's not the puppy's fault. It never is.

Intermission

2009-07-13T12:28:00.007-05:00

Yeah, I know. I haven't been writing enough. (Though I bet none of you checked Writecrastination, did you?) I've been... busy. If you can call nauseous, hand-wringing impatience busy. I submitted my query to my "first-choice" agent on Thursday. According to his blog, he is currently reading submissions from the last week of June, so he has about 10 days' worth of submissions before he gets to mine. If he wanted to save himself a whole bunch of time, he'd just toss all those in the recycling bin and get to mine. Because, you know, I'm going to make the guy rich.

Other things that have been going on, and which may or may not become future blogs, once the hand-wringing is done...

Darwin tore off all of his back toenails on the July 4 weekend, launching from the concrete patio into the pool. Only two of them bled, thankfully. Didn't even slow him down.

I was attacked by a defective, homicidal toilet seat on Saturday and have a bruise on my forehead. Tom replaced the evil potty-seat this morning, so should I feel the need to barf in the future, I can do so safe from the threat of head injuries.

My little sister had a heart-related incident and ended up in the hospital having a heart catheterization. Luckily, it showed no arterial blockage, and the incident was due to angina/spasms. Still, it's got me starting the process of convincing my brain that I need to quit smoking.

At work today, the clinic cats got into a "discussion" on my desk and dumped a whole bottle of green tea into my laptop. I picked it up, tea poured out the side. Frantic opening and air-drying ensued. Then I decided the canned air was an excellent deterrant when it comes to keeping the little bastards off my desk. I am Armed and Annoying. (No cats were harmed in the writing of this blog. Yet.)

I've been obsessively proofing and editing Make or Break. I have it down from 117,000 words to 114,000 and have distributed a few reading copies. I'm also opening a small portion of my brain to start inventing the characters for my next book. Because there is going to be a next book.

For your reading enjoyment, since I suck and never write to you anymore, I recommend the following blogs. A couple of them are in my links in the right sidebar, but for ease of clickability, I'm listing them here:

Heretic Spire, A Damn Lie!
is it 5 o'clock yet?
I Will Dare
will work for shoes
Notes to self
While Walking Duncan (of course!)
Recovering Californian (author Melissa Lion)
Sir Pinky's Eye On Everything (frequent Fermented Fur visitor and commenter)
All THREE Bloggess blogs:
The Bloggess
Ask the Bloggess on PRN
The Bloggess's Sex Blog on SexIs
(That last one is a link to her most recent post there. To find the others, you have to go down the right margin.)
Mark Henry (Urban Fantasy Author and all-around hilarious guy)
Zombie Chow (Mark's humor journal. Excellent zombie pictures!)

OK, that should keep you busy for a while! I promise to write when I have something entertaining (or exciting) to report!

Another Place to Visit

2009-07-09T15:23:00.002-05:00

It's official. I have an author website. Content and layout are still very basic, and I don't have a guestbook yet... but I hope you'll all stop by and take a peek!

The Dreaded Crosspost

2009-07-01T13:46:00.004-05:00

No, this isn't tied to my Writecrastination blog, though I really should get something up there, too. This is the post I wrote today for my work blog. It's not funny, but if you have pets or children, and if you use (or are considering using) chemical lawn treatments, you might want to stop by and take a peek. I mean, what's so bad about dandelions, in the scheme of things? I sure like them better than watching my dogs die years before their time.

I'm told there's a natural product, made with corn gluten, that is beneficial in keeping some of the weeds and other undesirables from our yards. I'll have to research that and get back to you.

Honestly, when some of the lawn treatment companies will put their chemicals in their kids' baby bottles, I'll consider putting it on my yard. And then I'll decide against it anyway, because clearly they are idiots.

Better Safe Than Sorry

2009-06-30T14:20:00.003-05:00

Warning. This post is about breasts in general, and mine in particular. So if you are my son, nephew, or anybody else who doesn't want to read about my ta-tas, move on. I originally believed that gay men would also prefer not to read about breasts, but I've been informed that this is untrue. Apparently, they can be quite fascinated with breasts, and are reportedly very good with them. Which is probably extremely bad news for straight men.

For identification purposes, I've decided to give The Girls names, because I hate when women call their breasts The Girls. I'm not in favor of naming body parts as a rule, but in this case I think it will be helpful. Not that I tend to mix them up. I mean, they pretty much stay put. It's not like putting a Sharpie "X" on one of your twins' foreheads so they can't keep playing tricks on you. (I don't know anyone who's ever done that, but I think it's a really good idea.)

So, they shall be Layla (Left) and Roxie (Right). Notice the matching-letter thing. Is that a mnemonic device? I remember things better that way, and - you know - don't want to get confused.

I'm 44, and I've never had a mammogram. I'm also currently uninsured, which merely adds to the fun. About three weeks ago, Layla started complaining. She had an ouchie spot just beneath the skin on the anterior surface. (I'd insert a diagram here, but even I think that would be too much information. Ditto for photos. Times ten.) It felt almost like a burn, but in the layer of skin just under the top one. It didn't hurt most of the time, just sitting around (which I do a lot), but when moving, it was tender. And if I touched it... ow. Which I did a lot, because I'm a "picker," and can't leave things alone.

I informed Dr. Vet-Friend that if she came into the office and found me poking Layla (or Roxie), it was for medical - not recreational - purposes. I don't think she'd care either way, but I thought I should clarify.

Me: Do you still hurt? (poking at Layla)
Layla: Yes, you idiot. Stop doing that!
Me: But how will I know if you're better if I don't poke?
Layla: Stop poking, and I'll probably be fine.
Me: But how do I know you don't have cancer?
Layla: Shut up. And get your finger away from me.

Roxie was laughing quietly to herself, so I poked her just to make sure she wasn't hiding anything from me.

The tenderness wasn't going away, so I started my quest for a mammogram. Because dying of breast cancer would really piss me off. My ideas for overhauling Layla and Roxie might include removing all the post-obesity leftover skin... but not a mastectomy. Also, I would not enjoy chemotherapy. I like my hair. And not vomiting.

I had to jump through several dozen hoops this morning, as an uninsured person who had not previously visited this particular healthcare facility, but got an appointment for an exam. They required this before recommending further diagnostics such as an ultrasound or mammogram.

Did you know that when you register at a clinic, they not only ask you if you are sexually active, but if it is with male or female partners? I thought that was interesting. I wonder how many people lie. They also ask if you feel safe in all your environments, which is also interesting, but very sad. I said I did. Because the voices in my head probably don't count.

I had my exam, and the verdict is "nothing to worry about." Probably an inflamed duct. (Tom was surprised to learn that Layla and Roxie contain ducts.) I can hot-pack Layla, and take anti-inflammatories. If it doesn't get better, or if I see any redness or swelling, I call the clinic back and they'll schedule me for an ultrasound or mammogram.

Overall, I'm very relieved. Tom is formulating his own treatment plan, which probably won't do much good but is sure to be fun.

Road Trip Report: Day 3

2009-06-21T14:37:00.003-05:00

The second concert couldn't have been more different from the night before in Bloomington if it tried.

We drove the 4.5 hours to Springfield, Illinois, and got checked in at the hotel. Then we went out for lunch, drinks, and to visit the liquor store because all our supplies had been consumed in Bloomington.

Interesting note: During the course of the trip, I was in three Bloomingtons. Drove through Bloomington, Minnesota, home of the Mall of America, drove through Bloomington, Illinois, and stayed in Bloomington, Indiana.

We drove all over looking for the liquor store, only to discover that across the parking lot from our hotel was a giant "Friar Tuck's," which is - apparently - a liquor store. The name threw me. Up here, they all tend to be called Something Liquor, or in the case of my neighborhood establishment, the Liquorette. But, we were soon able to continue the pre-concert festivities.

We headed out to New Berlin to the Sangamon County Fairgrounds and parked right by the entrance to the Grandstand. Strategy is crucial. It turned out to be especially important this time, because a severe storm blew in. This gave me time to sit in the car and enjoy the merchandise from Friar Tuck's and send some more annoying text messages. Etc.

After the rain passed and we were not struck by lightning or sucked up by a tornado, it was time to go get in line. This crowd was way less stabworthy than the previous night's. We finally got in and went across the huge, grassy field to the stage. A little later, the promoter came on and announced there was another severe storm coming. The opening act would play, then there would be a break so we could seek shelter.

(Note: It's never a good thing when someone has to tell you to "seek shelter." But it's never boring.)

Yep. It was another severe storm, alright. Nasty one. We waited it out in the car. When we went back into the Grandstand area, the grassy field had turned into a super-size version of Darwin's mud bog. I had on sandals, leather with wooden beads, flip-flop style. And I was up to my ankles in mud. Literally. Squish, sploosh, squidge. We got our spot in the crowd, and at long last the show started. Then it rained some more. But I wasn't budging. Then it stopped. Then it rained some more. Then Tom decided we should move back out of the crowd, because there's something about concerts, alcohol, and mud that makes people want to fight, and he didn't want us to get caught in the middle of it.

Plus, the porta-potties and the drink tent were back there.

Then it rained some more. We stayed and watched the whole show. Oh, should mention... they started the concert with "Carney Man." This is one of their old songs, one of those quirky, gimmicky fan favorites, with lots of participation from the crowd. They don't play it often, even though there's always at least one drunk guy yelling, "Hey, dudes, play Carney Man!" But how else do you start a show at a county fair, at which 1000+ fans have just endured two severe storms and are now standing ankle-deep in mud? Gotta be Carney Man.

Trying to remember if I've ever been so muddy. I had on dark olive capri pants, and they were disgusting. Shoes may be a total loss. I was mud from the waist down, since just because you are in a quagmire doesn't mean you don't dance. Arms, face, shirt... muddy mess. But, in a way, this was one of the coolest things we've ever done. 44, at our favorite band's show, having just followed them from another state the day before, drinking, dancing, getting rained on, jumping around in the mud... one girl told me I was her hero when she heard we came from Minnesota and had also been at the show the night before. Which was nice, because most people just think I'm weird.

(There are only a few pictures from Night Two. With all the rain, the camera had to stay in the case. But here's one of Cody. I wish we'd taken some pictures of the mud.)

And that's it! Long, super-hot shower to get un-mudded, then up early in the A.M. for the 8.5 hour drive home. Awesome road trip. We hope they play the Bluebird again, because we'll go. If they play the same series as this time, we might do Evansville, IN, Bloomington, IN, and the county fair shows. Or whatever. 2-3 shows.

They do have a new CD coming out September 1, though, and I'm hoping that leads to some new fall dates... in Minnesota.

And now I'm home, and back to editing my book, going back to work, petting my dogs, and sitting on my ass. My legs are so sore! My mud-squelching muscles are in agony. I have a knot in the back of my right calf that might cripple me. My knees are bruised. I probably still have mud in hidden nooks and crannies. But I had the best time ever.

Road Trip Report: Part 2

2009-06-21T13:26:00.008-05:00

Day 2, Thursday, otherwise known as Concert Day, dawned warm and rainy. After the brief shower, Tom and I ventured out to do some shopping. Bloomington is the most awesome small city ever. You've never seen so many funky restaurants, shops, yoga studios, bars, etc. I bought a gorgeous banded onyx vase... which I can't seem to locate at the moment. Tom said he put it in the box our bottle of Jack Daniel's came in, but I can't find it. If I left it in Indiana, I shall be beyond pissed.

We had lunch at Brother's, the bar across the street from the Bluebird. And Round One of pre-concert beverages. The band bus pulled up, and there they were. I had to drive 12 hours to accomplish it, but Cross Canadian Ragweed and I were finally in the same town.

We went across the street. I sat on a ledge maybe 30 feet away from the bus. Sightings were tricky, because the night before, I had failed to get my left contact into the case and found it dried to the sink that morning. Operating with one contact meant anything over about ten feet away was significantly blurry. And I'd forgotten my glasses at home.

Grady came walking by, and we talked to him for a bit. He's always so incredibly nice.

Tom is great at spotting people. Next thing I know, he's up the sidewalk talking to Cody. He recognized how he stood. I was thrown, because Cody now has short hair (photos below). He's had long hair, slightly less-long hair, and/or longish hair the entire 7 years we've been fans. I don't handle change well. Can't deny it looks good (because, well, it would have to), but I'm still getting used to it.

After he got in a car and drove off, we went back to the room to continue the pre-concert ~~drinking~~ preparations. And a nap. Then it was time to go grab dinner. And pre-concert drinks. I went downstairs first, and as I stepped out of the Inn door, Cody was standing three feet away, talking on the phone. Which he continued to do for, oh, ever. We went back up to Brother's, and he kept strolling up and down the street right in front of the bar, back and forth, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

So, then we went to get in line. Anybody who thinks I'm a weirdo fan should stand in one of these lines someday. I think we met two normal peope. The rest? Holy cow. They all seem to know each other from other shows, but... there is a limit to what I need to know about you, your friends, your icky adventures, your sweat glands, your asthma, your drinking habits, your sex life, or any combination of the above. That limit is... zero. I do not need to know. But now I do. And I can't get some of the disturbing information - and images - out of my head. However, I was on my best behavior. I did not open my mouth. The smart-ass comments were right there - oh doG, I had a million of them - but I resisted. I now have enough material to use while writing my next dozen oddball characters for the next book. More than enough. Ick.

I did spend much of the day amusing myself by sending some of you an endless stream of annoying text messages. One I sent to Curt: "Not stabbing other fans in the head. Deserve medal." It was that kind of day.

Doors open, and there I am, at the stage. As planned. The opening act was really good, and I need to email the club and find out who they were. They might require further investigation.

The show... as always... beyond belief. These guys are the best live band in the world. Long, awesome, high-energy sets. Naturally, I did not emerge unscathed. Both knees are very sore and bruisey from leaning against and knocking into the front of the stage. I move a lot at concerts. Which is totally unlike me, usually. Elbows slightly bruisey. Plus, if I hadn't had quite so many concert-beverages (because this club is so small Tom was actually able to get to the bar a few times) I might have realized immediately after the show that I was deaf.

(Cody)

It wasn't till morning that it occurred to me that it sounded like I had ear plugs in. Everything was muffled, and I was missing some sound levels (I think bass ones) altogether. This happens to Tom at concerts, but not to me. Also, leg muscles were oh-so-hurty.

And that's the report on Day 2! Day 3 = moving on to Illinois for the show at the Sangamon County Fair. Or Woodstock. With all the mud, it's hard to tell the difference.

For your viewing pleasure... here are some shots from the show. Tom takes awesome pictures. There's one video clip, but I'm not wasting your time with it. The volume was so loud that the camera couldn't cope, so it's all jangly and jarry and ear-hurty.

Click on pictures to biggen.

(Cody playing his beloved Paul Reed Smith guitar)

(Cody)

(Grady & Cody, Jeremy visible in the back, far right)

(Grady & Cody)

(Randy)

(Cody & Jeremy)

(Cody)

Road Trip Report: Part 1

2009-06-21T12:00:00.008-05:00

I actually made it out of bed at 2AM on Wednesday, and got out of the house at 3AM. Much, much driving, during which I began compiling the imaginary soundtrack for my book... though due to my lack of musical range, this consists solely of songs by Reckless Kelly, Carbon Leaf, and (of course) Cross Canadian Ragweed. This started when I was listening to Carbon Leaf's "Life Less Ordinary" and realized it is totally Seth's song to Abby. Brilliance.

Eleven hours later I pulled into the parking lot at the Wayne branch of the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. I worked for I-MCPL for 7 years, and two of my friends now work at that branch. I figured at least one of them was probably working, and I also wanted to check my email for the ticket confirmation number I had forgotten to bring.

I was in luck, because Jen and Angie were both working... and another friend, Willie, happened to be there with her granddaughter. I was so excited to see them again! It's been a few years since my last visit. I also got to show them the copy of my manuscript... as book people, they were sufficiently appreciative.

Turns out, I had two hours to kill at the library, because Tom's flight from Chicago had to turn back (landing gear issues), and it took a while to find them another plane on which all the gear was functional. We appreciate their diligence.

At long, long last, he got to the Indianapolis airport, and I picked him up. An hour and a half later we were checking in at the worlds most charming, funky, perfect little inn. New favorite place in the world: The Walnut Street Inn, in Bloomington, Indiana.

(The three windows to the left of the corner and the four to the right - second floor, of course - were our room.)

It has only a handful of rooms and is located above a vegetarian restaurant. We stayed in the Walnut Room (but it's listed as the Brick Room on the website), which is on the corner. From my bed, I could see the sidewalk outside the club where the band's bus would be parked.

Awesome.

I loved the exposed brick, the original old hardwood floors, the high ceilings... and the location.

Bloomington is a college town, very progressive and trendy. The street went pretty much like this: Inn, bar, restaurant, bar, tattoo shop, bar, nightclub, barber, bar, restaurant, bar, bar. I'm not usually much of a people-watcher, but watching the evening bar-crawl was fun.

We went to the Bluebird that night, to check it out before Thursday's concert. And what a great little club. It's deep and narrow, and clear in the back is the sunken area for shows, with the tiny stage tucked in the corner. I got my spot all picked out.

End of Part 1. Coming up next, Thursday's sightings and concert experience. There are injuries.

The Short Version

2009-06-21T11:49:00.003-05:00

Home from the legendary road trip. I'll write about the many wonderful adventures enjoyed by Yours Truly and Tom... but I thought I'd share some bullet points. The report is going to be three posts, and will fill in the details about:

Much driving
Dropping in on some friends at the library in Indianapolis
Hanging around library for 2 hours, because Tom's plane was delayed in Chicago
The world's cutest and coolest little Inn
Three Bloomingtons
Three I-states
One fantastic little nightclub
Extensive periods of close proximity to our favorite guys in the universe
Deep concern about unexpected new haircut
Why other fans should not be permitted to speak
Total kick-ass concert at the Bluebird
Concert-related injuries
Massive hearing loss
More driving (or, in this case, now "riding")
One county fairground
Two severe storms
Three non-severe rain showers
Mud
Lots of mud
Real, whole, freakin' miles of mud
Another kick-ass concert
More concert-related injuries
More riding
Plans to do it all again next year

Big News Is Just a Click Away

2009-06-14T07:37:00.003-05:00

I don't double-post between here and Writecrastination, though it is sometimes tempting. I know there is some overlap, but each blog mainly has its own separate group of readers. But I have such monumental news that I want to make sure you all click over to yesterday's Writecrastination post and read all about it. Since that is my writing blog, I'm sure you can guess what it is, but go read it anyway.

Don't Cue the Duck: UPDATED X2

2009-06-10T17:27:00.010-05:00

Dear Aflac,

Do not bother to instruct any of your agents or representatives to call or drop by my clinic. It will be an enormous waste of your time, and it will also piss me off.

Why the hostility, you wonder? Interesting story.

Ever since we opened in 2005, representatives have dropped by from time to time. I usually smile vacantly, let them talk, agree to accept some helpful handouts and rate charts, and they go on their merry ways, able to report they'd talked to somebody. I'm sure they have some sort of quota.

Something you need to know about our practice, though. We're young, and we're a specialty clinic. In this economy, we're working our asses off trying to keep the doors open. Well, okay, some of us are working our asses off. And by "us," I don't mean "me," because lately I've been a bit distracted by trying to formulate excuses to leave early and work on my book. But work is being done. Just not by me. Bottom line is that we do not offer health benefits. Yet. No can afford-o.

But the fact that Aflac people keep showing up and calling, despite being told several dozen times that we are not interested, isn't why I'm pissed.

Today, my technician working the front desk paged me. Did I want to talk with Courtney from Aflac? No. No, I did not. Take a message. Stick it on my mailbox upstairs. Later, I will come get the message. Then I will drop it in the recycling bin on my way back to my office. But by all means, take a message.

A minute later, my tech pages again and tells me that Courtney says it is about a claim, and they need to speak with the owner. Hmm. I do have an employee on a medical leave of absence right now, but it's not work-related. (Pregnant, car accident, broken pelvis, pre-term labor, it's a nightmare) But if there's any chance it might have anything to do with that, I should find out. Fine.

Me: Thanks for holding, this is Lori. How can I help you? (Because I'm totally polite like that. I even smile when I say it so it sounds like I actually mean it. Old receptionist trick.)

Courtney: This is Courtney with Aflac. I need to speak with the business owner, please.

Me: She's not available at the moment. I'm her Practice Manager. I understand this pertains to a claim. In that case, I'd be the one who would take care of that. (Along with every other fucking thing, except when I'm sneaking away to write the book. If it has to do with insurance, I'm the go-to girl unless it involves signing the premium check. Oh, wait, I do that, too. At this point, I don't think our bank would even recognize Dr. Vet-Friend's real signature.)

Courtney: I'd still need to speak to the business owner to get her permission to discuss this matter with you.

Me: (Grrrrrr.) Well, if you can hold, I'll see if I can locate her. (She was sitting six feet away from me, playing Bookworm Deluxe on the other computer. We had already discussed Courtney-From-Aflac and determined that I should speak with her and get rid of her as soon as possible so I could help DVF devise a strategy for using up the scary flaming red tiles that were piling up on Bookworm. Plus, it was getting to be time for us to go out for a smoke break.)

I told DVF that she was going to have to talk with Courtney-From-Aflac, which she'd probably already figured out. She rolled her eyes, I transferred the call the whole six feet from my desk to where she was sitting, and their conversation went like this:

DVF: This is Dr. Vet-Friend (only she used her actual Doctor-Name).

Courtney: Are you the owner of the business?

DVF: Yes, I am.

Courtney: I need to speak with the person who handles insurance matters and makes financial decisions.

DVF: That'd be Lori.

She transferred her back to me.

Me: Oh, hi Courtney. You're back. (Dumbass. I told you I was the one you had to talk to. But did you believe me? Nooooo.)

Courtney: Are you authorized to make decisions for the business?

Me: (I thought we aready covered this. Yes!) Yes, I understand this has something to do with a claim?

Courtney: I wanted to talk to you about scheduling a time for a 15-minute presentation about...

Me: You told my front desk staff that this was about a claim. (Which is the only fucking reason I'm talking to you right now, you sneaky, lying weasel.)

Courtney: No I didn't. (Yes, I swear, she actually said that.)

Me: Well, we're not interested in having you come in and do a presentation.

Courtney: May I ask why not?

Me: No, that is not relevant.

Courtney: Surely you can spare 15 minutes to...

Me: (Yep, I interrupted her. Because I'd tried polite, and it didn't work. But I had one last semi-polite reply left in me, which I probably should have saved for someone more deserving, but I wasted it on Courtney-From-Aflac.) Please, please just accept it when I say we are not interested, okay?

Courtney: So you don't even care about your employees enough to spend 15 minutes...

Me: Okay, we're done talking now. (Click.)

DVF and I sat there, incredulous that Courtney tried such a slick stunt, then upped the sneaky-bitch factor even higher by pulling the "you don't care about your employees" bit.

No, Courtney, I hate my employees. They're all lazy and worthless, and I hope they all suffer horribly from lack of Aflac. Wouldn't our little chat have been much more interesting if I'd said that to you, even though I love my employees, especially when they don't screw up their timecards and when they bring me chocolate?

Anyway, Aflac, keep your representatives away from me, in person or by phone. Because even if I were interested in insurance options right now - which I am not - I would not deal with Aflac. Either you encourage the kind of unscrupulous and obnoxious behavior exhibited by your representative, or you foster an environment where she has to resort to such tactics in order to keep her job. Either way, I don't like it.

I will decide to like Aflac the same day I decide Cody Canada is icky, and as anybody who has ever met me can tell you, that is so totally never going to happen.

But, hey, I do want to thank Courtney for one thing. I needed something to blog about.

UPDATE 6/11: Wowzer. In less than 12 hours, an Aflac agent found this post and commented defending the company and bemoaning agents like Courtney that make them look bad. And I got an email from the company's Customer Communications Manager, direct from Aflac Worldwide Headquarters (which I picture in a hollowed-out mountain somewhere, or possibly a garage) apologizing and offering to put me on their do-not-call list. So I shall no longer be plagued by sneaky-ass Courtney or anyone like her. Which might or might not bum me out, because I've been pondering the many ways in which I might mess with her if she had sufficiently poor judgement or faulty long-term memory and called me again.

PS: In my reply to Mr. Communications Manager, I also suggested he find Courtney and smite her. Because I believe in cosmic justice, as well as swift and blinding retribution. So, we'll see.

UPDATE 6/12: Un-fucking-believable. My admin just paged. She just had to tell TWO AFLAC REPRESENTATIVES to leave. They came in (oh, pitiful, clueless potential victims of my wrath) to chat. She told them we don't deal with Aflac due to Courtney's offensive behavior. Apparently Mr. Communications Manager's memo has yet to go out. Still hoping Courtney gets smote.

Fame, But No Fortune

2009-06-03T15:16:00.003-05:00

The new Dog Writers Association of America website is now up and running. As I mentioned, I was chosen to be the very first Featured Member in recognition of my stunning win of the Maxwell Award for Best Regular Blog in the 2008 writing competition. Stop by and take a look! Maybe we'll attract a few new FFFans as a result of this feature... which means it would probably be nice if I'd post a bit more often.

PS: Curt, Duncan's picture is one of the ones they used!

Stupid Doesn't Have to Be Fatal, But Sometimes It Is

2009-06-01T17:08:00.005-05:00

I did two relatively stupid things last night. I realize that is not surprising, given my tendencies. However, the fact that neither thing involved alcohol in any way, shape, or form might be.

Yesterday was a day in which even "Sofur Slug" does not come close to describing my level of inactivity. Ass and Sofur were in constant contact. Tom said it was like I was in one of those promotional contests, like where contestants have to keep their hand on a new car, and the last one to take their hand off it is the winner. I took 30-second breaks every hour to make sure I still had circulation in my legs, check for signs of atrophy, and get more ibuprofen, because lying around like that all day makes my back hurt. But with liberal doseages of pharmaceuticals, I was able to "slug it out" without twitching in agony on the Sofur.

None of that was particularly bright, but it wasn't the stupid part. Yet.

Around mid-afternoon, realizing I had not yet even brushed my teeth - due to the bathroom sink's lack of proximity to the Sofur - I made my way the six or seven steps to where my purse was on the dining room table. In said purse, I had a 5-Hour Energy drink. I thought, perhaps, I could use a spot of energy. I worried a bit, since I'd never had one of these drinks, and my reconfigured digestive tract sometimes causes me to have odd reactions to things. Like the time a couple of doses of Delsym cough syrup left me stoned out of my gourd for three days. Totally not my fault. But the parts I can remember were pretty funny.

I read the label carefully, then swallowed the alleged energy-booster. Which failed to have any effect on me. At all. I was not one bit more mobile, and my ass did not venture one centimeter further away from the Sofur. Teeth remained unbrushed.

And that still isn't the stupid part.

Stupid Part #1 began when I decided to start work on the book-in-progress around 5:30 PM. This was stupid, because it always sucks me right into fictional Emporia, Minnesota and into Abby and Seth's world. Which meant at 11:15 PM I was still writing. And I'm usually in bed by 9:00 PM. And I had to get up for work today. At 5:00 AM. And I... am not a person who does well on very little sleep. At all.

So, that was pretty stupid. On the other paw, I did get most of chapter 16 written, including the much-anticipated (by me, anyway) hammock sex scene.

The next stupid thing was... almost disastrous. It made me realize I should really give one of you the password to my blogs so that if I die in some ridiculous, Darwin-Award-Worthy, senseless way, you can at least let people know what happened. Though it'll probably be on the news.

It was about 11:25, and I was finally ready to head to bed. Normally, Tom has the TV or the computer still on in there, but he'd turned them off hours earlier. When they are on, though, they provide me with a small amount of ambient light, enabling me to navigate the dog-strewn hallway in relative safety.

But last night, it was pitch black. I began feeling my way toward the hallway. My right hand was seeking the bookcase, a key landmark on the journey. My left hand was checking for either the newel post at the top of the stairs, or the hall closet door. Either one would have been really, really helpful.

I mentioned it was pitch dark, right? Like, I couldn't tell where there might be a door, a window, a wall, anything. Finally, my right hand touched wall. I determined that it was the far side of the kitchen doorway, meaning I needed to edge slightly to the left to line up with the hall. So I turned a wee bit, and moved forward with my right foot.

And there was nothing there. No floor under my foot. Air. I grabbed with one hand, and clutched the old baby gate that leans up there, the better to block Darwin in the hall while he's eating, and it rattled. My right foot was plunging downward, and just (JUST) caught the edge of the first step down. It slid, but didn't go further.

If my foot had gone a half inch further forward before atempting to touch down, I would have missed the first step entirely, not having realized I was anywhere near the steps in the first place. The second step would have been too low, too far out, and there's NO WAY I'd have kept my balance. I'd have fallen. And not the annoying and embarassing "oh, I bumped on my butt all the way down the stairs" kind of fall. This would have been a total end-over-end, major-injury-inducing crash. Bones would have broken. Limbs for sure, possibly neck. We already know what happens when you fall down those stairs drunk. You get a gaping bloody head wound. And that time, it was daylight and I was able to get my hands out in front of me, because at least I knew which was the floor and which was... not. Falling down those stairs onto a ceramic tile floor at 11:30 PM in total darkness... would not be good. There would have been a terrible series of thuds and crashing baby gate, and there I'd have been.

Once I identified my near-disaster, I retreated, found the proper wall, and felt my way to the bathroom. When I got there and turned on the light, I could hardly stand up. I was trembling hysterically in the aftermath of my brush with mortality.

When I finally made it (safely) to bed, I was still wound up from the work on the book, and hyper with post-adrenaline aftermath. It was nearly 1:30 AM before I got to sleep.

5:00 AM came awfully damned early.

But at least it came.

Wanna Play, Gotta Pay

2009-05-23T12:35:00.004-05:00

We're way behind schedule. Usually, we uncover the pool and begin the process of replenishing the water, vacuuming it, getting the chemical levels up, and eliminating the unpleasant green-brown sludge so that it's sparkly-clean and heated by Memorial Day weekend. This year the weather has been disgusting until the last week, so we only got started today.

I usually get all the petunias and such in the barrels and planters on the deck and around the pool area on Mother's Day. Not this year.

So, this morning was "get the back cleaned up and resembling somewhere we'd actually want to spend some time during the few brief warm months we have in this godforsaken state" day. We went out around 9:30 AM, and in three minutes I was sweating last night's Jack Daniel's out of every pore. After removing dead plant debris from one pot, I said, "I'm tired." I was. I don't enjoy tasks that require bending, squatting, pulling, or standing for extended periods of time. And definitely no lifting.

But I persevered. I pulled five quadrillion dandelions from the mulch, broke up the dirt in the pots in preparation for fresh petunias tomorrow, pulled dried gunk out of the rock waterfall, and removed fossilized dog poo from the planters. (Seriously. I have no idea how they do that, or why they'd want to. Made me wonder if it would be possible to designate one barrel planter - with a liner - as their potty barrel. I shall give further thought to that later.)

Then it was time to uncover the pool. No matter how much of the water you pump off the cover, you can never get it all. And water. Is. Heavy. We got the thing pulled clear down to the shallow end by the steps, but the remaining water was gathered in the doubled-over cover like a giant, swampy water balloon. And it. Was. Heavy. We tugged, pulled, dragged, heaved, and strained. I do not enjoy any of those activities.

Me: I want to stab it. (Because if we poked it, some of that stupid, heavy water would spurt out, and maybe it would be light enough to drag onto the cement patio. It would also put sludgy leaf debris in the pool, but I didn't really care.)

Tom: We can't stab it. (Party pooper.)

Five minutes later, the pool cover was still thwarting us. I was sweaty, and my clothes and exposed skin were covered in half-rotted pool slime. Which, as you might suspect, smells nasty.

Me: I still want to stab it.

Tom: Get me a knife.

He stabbed it, and nothing happened. So now we've assaulted a perfectly innocent - if highly annoying - pool cover for no good reason. Fail.

Me: We could tie it to the Blazer and drag it out.

Tom: No we can't. (I don't see why not.)

Me: Well, we've got to think of something, because I'm all out of strongs.

So we sat there, clutching the wadded-up cover so it didn't slip back into the depths of the pool, and pondered.

Me: I could get in there and push. (I'm envisioning scrunching the legs of my sweats as high as I can and standing crotch-deep in icky, cold green water. But it might work.)

Tom: It's cold.

Me: I know.

Tom: And dirty.

Me: I know. But do you think it would work? (Pause) Or do you just think it would be funny?

Tom: I'm weighing my options.

I was still deciding whether to find some shorts or a wetsuit or some hazmat gear and get in the pool when Tom got another idea. He took the sump pump that he'd been using to drain the cover and shoved it down inside the "pouch" to pump out some more of the water. I spent the next twenty minutes out in the yard in the horseshoe pit staring at the end of a hose.

A word about the horseshoe pit. We have two. They're bordered by railroad ties and are filled with pea gravel. They were here when we bought the house. We have no knowledge of or any interest in learning how to play horseshoes. We finally sawed off the metal pole-things that stuck up in the middle, which I suppose is where you would throw the horseshoes. We were worried that when there was snow on the ground (like, 9.5 months a year) one of the dogs might be walking along, sink down in the snow, and impale themselves on those metal poles. Because it could happen. So, the poles got sawed.

But, back to the hose. As Tom jiggled the pump in the depths of the pool cover/water balloon, I reported on whether or not water was actually coming out of the hose and draining into the pea gravel. I made astute observations such as "Water!" "Trickle!" "Stopped!" and "Bug in my hair!" This was a very important task, but it involved too much standing, so I was glad when Tom said I should come back and see if we could pull the rest of the sludge-ball out of the pool.

We did. Barely. And as always, the last little bit made the fold flip in such a way that brown sludgy water and about seven tons of rotted leaves dumped out on the patio. Then we dragged the cover out in the yard so it can be hosed off, dried, folded, and stuffed in the shed until September. Which it now is.

So now I can get a book, a drink, and a gallon of bubble bath and retreat to the tub. Since the only muscle I exercise with any sort of regularity is my brain (and yes, I know it's not technically a muscle - it's a figure of speech) I'm totally going to pay for this tomorrow. Fortunately, all I have to do is sack out on the Sofur and watch the Indianapolis 500 and Charlotte 600. We're talking at least twelve hours of continuous live racing coverage.

Oh, no, wait. Since I bailed on petunia-buying today, I guess I have to do that in the morning. And be finished by the time the 500 starts. Curses, foiled again.

But at least the pool is uncovered. In a week or so, it might not even be green.

Have A... Oh Never Mind

2009-05-22T11:09:00.008-05:00

Some things in "polite" society are so trite and insignificant that it's hard to be annoyed by them. Like when sales clerks, customers, or bank tellers say, "Have a nice day." They aren't really concerned about the quality of your day. It's merely one of those pre-programmed phrases that pop out of people's mouths because there's really no reason to say anything, but they feel (or have been made to believe) that they have to say something. Personally, I'm fine if you just hand me my credit card receipt or deposit slip and mind your own business. But that's just me.

Though I must admit that the clerk at the Holiday station failed to say "have a nice day" one morning as I was departing with my convenience store sandwiches and cigarettes, and it kind of freaked me out a little bit. It was almost as if by not saying it (as she had every other single time I'd been there, which is a lot) she was wishing that I'd have a totally shitty day. Which I thought was terribly passive-aggressive of her.

If somebody sneezes, most people are going to say "bless you." Well, fine, this one bugs me, because I am not remotely interested in anybody's blessing. I also don't say "bless you" when somebody sneezes, so they probably think I'm the rudest person on the planet, but believe me, you do not want my blessings. They'd probably turn you into something with fangs and a tendency to burst into flames in direct sunlight.

When one person says "thank you," the automatic reply is "you're welcome," which I don't mind so much because it is at least an acknowledgment of some deed which was performed. There's presumably something that precipitated it, and it's a verbal courtesy. While we're not typically a very courteous society, this one little ritual seems to be hanging in there. More or less.

If somebody says "Marco" among a group of 100 people who have ever been in a swimming pool, and who grew up in the United States (because I don't know if this game is played elsewhere), 95 of them are going to yell "Polo." They can't help themselves.

OK, I don't know for sure if that last thing is true, but I'd love it if one of you would perform a study and get back to me on that. Bonus points if they all wear smiley-face t-shirts.

But, for some reason, one slight variation of the "have a nice day" thing drives me insane. I can't stand it when people go that extra step, evaluate the calendar, and say something like "have a nice weekend," or "have a nice holiday." It's annoying and a wee bit creepy.

Why? Is it really so much different from wishing someone a nice day? I think so. Do I believe that this person actually gives a rat's ass about my weekend or my holiday? No, I do not. They don't know me, and it's not like they're going to call me on Monday and go, "So, did you have a nice weekend like I wished for you?" And if anybody ever does, I am totally moving to a remote homestead on an otherwise uninhabited island off the coast of Nova Scotia. Which I might do anyway. And install a moat, because a moat would not only be an additional barrier from other people, it would also be so cool to be able to say "Oh, I can't make it tonight. The drawbridge fell into the moat, and the electric eels zapped it to smithereens." You don't often get to work the words "drawbridge," "moat," "eels," and "smithereens" in the same sentence.

What I don't like is the very fact that these holiday and weekend well-wishers put the effort into determining if there is some particular "nice" wish they need to bestow. It also implies, since it lacks the mindless triviality of "have a nice day" that the weekend or the holiday in question should, in some way, be special. What if my weekend and/or holiday are uneventful - or even unpleasant? Holidays, in particular, bother me because so many of them are religion-based. Why should a stranger assume I'm doing anything out of the ordinary simply because their deity or other religious personage was born, died, was martyred, rose from the dead, or materialized the world out of a gob of snot on some randomly-assigned day? I'm not. Don't assume.

It kind of makes me want to call all the businesses I go to on a Friday, or a 3-day period prior to any holiday, sometime the following week and tell them - in excruciating and possibly graphic detail - exactly how my weekend or holiday was. Bet they wouldn't make the same mistake the next Friday.

So. It's Friday, May 22. The eve of Memorial Day Weekend.

Have a nice holiday.

Or not.

I don't really care.

(PS: Did you know that if you enter "have a nice day" in a Google image search and have your SafeSearch off - which I always do because life is so much more fun that way - you get some very, very... interesting image results? Heterosexual men will not find it nearly as fascinating as I did.)

And I'm Not Afraid to Use It

2009-05-19T05:54:00.006-05:00

Somewhere in the bowels of my house is a remnant of The Boy's childhood. Actually, there are lots of remnants, since the closet in his old room is crammed full of Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles, G.I. Joes, and (for some reason) numerous empty liquor bottles and a machete. I mentioned I had a largely hands-off parenting style, right? Yet somehow he morphed from Sprog to Mostly Normal Adult Human Being without any serious trouble.

These things continue to reside in his former closet, despite the fact that he now has a house of his own, which is both larger and nicer than ours, and he could totally pay off his student loans if he'd come get this junk and sell it on eBay because he was extremely anal about retaining the original boxes for his collectibles.

But it's not these allegedly priceless collectibles to which I am referring. The childhood remnant that is most on my mind these days looks a lot like this:

Buried amongst Pogs and Transformers, if only I could find it, is a six-shooter rubber band gun. And, unlike the one in the photo, mine has a double barrel, effectively giving me twelve shots of rubber-band-shooting capability.

You might wonder why I need this. Why would I risk rubber band misfires that could sting my fingers or - theoretically - put my eye out? I can answer that in one word.

Brody. (Visual Aid Below)

(You might wonder about the plant stand. It's long, long gone. Nothing with a destruction threshold below titanium can be within twenty feet of the bay window.)

I'm thrilled that spring has finally sprung and doesn't seem inclined to throw us a random blizzard for Memorial Day (because you're never entirely sure in Minnesota), but it has definite drawbacks. Such as The Neighbors, who continue to labor under the delusion that they are within their rights to venture out of doors in their own yards.

Brody disagrees. Loudly. And often.

He's a four-year-old Great Pyrenees, and as such is charged by doG to continually monitor and protect the perimeter. Which is defined, in Pyrish, as anything he can see, hear, or imagine. In the past few weeks he has annoyed everyone within hearing range (Wright and Sherburne Counties) and barked the household (me) deaf. Seriously, I can barely hear myself screaming, "Brody! Shut UP! Brody, down! Brody, it's FINE. They live there! Brody, shut the hell up or I am going to pull off your tail and stuff it in your muzzle!!!"

I might retain some hearing if I were one of those dog owners who could just leave my boys outside all day. At least then he's not fifteen feet from my ears while warning off invisible ninjas or small children on tricycles. But I'm not. I'm disgustingly responsible that way. So I go out into the yard, chase his fuzzy white butt inside, and deal with the consequences.

The other hazard of owning a hyper-vigilant Pyr and a bay window is screen damage. As previously reported, by the end of last season we had zero intact screens remaining. Tom got all do-it-yourselfy a couple of weeks ago and put fresh screen in all the frames, including the one he had to glue together because Brody had disassembled it one day when the UPS guy came. I anticipated a screen-life-expectancy of about 24 hours, but Tom devised a brilliant plan. In order to allow fresh air to enter the house and keep bugs out, he figured we really only needed one screen. So he installed one screen panel in the segment least likely to meet with destruction. Brody has knocked most of it out of the frame, but has not so far torn it.

But I'm still going deaf.

During the few minutes I've spent writing this post to the present point, I've shouted, "Brody! Knock it OFF!" no fewer than forty seven times. Forget the Dog Whisperer. I'm the Dog Yeller.

Tom's Christmas Wish List included a slingshot, a paintball gun, and a monkey, all of which were intended to assist in Brody Bark Control. I almost wish I'd gotten him the monkey. Except pretty soon the monkey would be deaf, too, and unable to hear the barking he was supposed to halt, so I'd still need the paintball gun, but I'd fill the pellets with waterless shampoo so at least Brody would be clean.

Which brings us back to the rubber band gun. I'm going to find it. And use it. Save the lectures about animal cruelty, because this is self-defense. Plus, it's probably way more humane than duct taping his muzzle closed till frigid weather returns and drives all his tormentors inside again.

I do hurl throw pillows at him to divert his attention from his window outpost. I figure whoever decided to call them "throw pillows" in the first place must have had a Great Pyrenees. And a bay window. But cushy projectiles lack a certain attention-getting quality after a while.

If you are familiar with Pyrs, you know that they have a very, very, ridiculously thick coat. They have the kind of coat that makes groomers run screaming or rub their hands together gleefully in anticipation of the astronomical fee they're going to get to charge you to deal with all that undercoat. So I could twang millions of rubber bands at Brody's tail-wagging, spinning, bouncing, hysterical butt with no fear of hurting him. But I am fairly certain it would get his attention.

Imagine your grandma wearing a gorilla suit. Or maybe a Bigfoot suit, because the hair should be longer. Personally, I don't want to think about grandmas wearing Bigfoot suits, but it's necessary as a point of illustration. You could shoot Granny in the ass with a rubber band gun all day long, provided she's wearing a Bigfoot suit (because otherwise it would be elder-abuse, and sooner or later Wilford Brimley is going to come to your house and stab you to death with a diabetes testing device) with no lasting harm. Then you could probably get her to bake you a bunch of cookies, but you might not want to eat them because they'd be all full of fake-Bigfoot hair. But if you have a Great Pyrenees, you're used to eating food with a higher hair quotient than your average 80s rock band, so you won't mind.

When I locate the double-barrel, six-shooter rubber band gun - and some rubber bands - Brody is in for a big surprise. And if it doesn't work, I have a backup plan:

(Rubber Band Howitzer, absolute genius.)

And if that doesn't work, I'm going to see what Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey is doing these days.

Still Got Nothin'

2009-05-13T10:15:00.003-05:00

Sorry, FFFans. Wherever my head is these days, it's not thinking up blog topics. The dogs' adorability and/or naughtiness has been of the customary variety, not blog-worthy. Things that are happening are either too annoying or too dull, so I haven't had anything fascinating to say.

When I do have enough sanity (or insanity?) to write, I'm working on the book. I'm in chapter 10 at the moment.

Just for fun, or to give you a reason to at least continue to check the blog, I thought I'd post an excerpt from the first chapter. This is the part where Abby and Seth meet, under less than ideal circumstances. She is actually on her way into town to give her tickets for his concert that night to a friend, as the other friend who was supposed to go with her had unexpectedly canceled. Their second encounter isn't much less hostile, but it improves rapidly from there!

And now, for your reading pleasure, here is an excerpt from Make or Break, by... ME!

(Note: Underlines indicate italics in a manuscript.)

On Buchanan Street, she spotted the tour bus parked on the left side, in front of the club. She thought she could see figures moving around through the windshield, and squinted, trying to determine who they might be.

Her attention focused on the bus, she suddenly caught something entering her frame of vision on the right, and only had an instant to register alarmingly familiar long, golden-brown hair and vivid blue eyes before slamming on her brakes. The person, who had apparently stepped from in front of the equipment trailer she had failed to notice, leaped backwards and narrowly escaped impact with her Jeep.

The guitar case he was carrying, however, was not so fortunate. Abby’s fender caught it and ripped it from its owner’s hand, and it disappeared under her right front wheel with a nauseating crunch. Stunned, Abby tried to pull to the curb behind the trailer, but after throwing the Jeep into reverse she realized the flaw in her logic. The guitar case, once again victim to her right front tire, reappeared after another small bump and oddly lyrical grinding sound.

Oh, holy shit. I just ran over Seth Caldwell’s guitar. Twice.

Abby maneuvered the Jeep into the general vicinity of the curb and got out, too shocked to know whether to throw herself to the pavement in remorse or run for her life. Seth crouched at the edge of the street, picking through the shattered remains of what had recently been an acoustic guitar.

She dropped to her knees beside him. His hair had fallen forward, blocking her view of his face, but he pushed it back and turned to look at her. The intensity of his blue eyes might as well have been laser beams, the way they bored into her. Was it possible to be thrilled and terrified at the same time? Apparently so.

“You killed it,” Seth rasped. “You fucking killed my guitar.”

There was no way she could argue with that. She’d never seen a deader guitar. “I’m so sorry! I was looking at the bus and didn’t see you. I can’t believe I almost ran over you, and pulverized your guitar. It’s just that I’m having a really lousy day, and I was irritated, so I was kind of distracted…”

“Irritated? You were irritated? So you flew down the closest thing to a main street that this town has, and ran over my 1997 Taylor Cujo, which I’ve had for not even three weeks?” Seth began scooping the remains of the instrument back into the badly mangled case, his gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. He somehow managed to maintain the full force of his glare the entire time.

Abby stretched out a hand to help pick up the mangled bits of guitar, but Seth shifted his body to block her. “Don’t. You’ve done enough,” he snapped.

This did not strike Abby as a gracious acceptance of her apology. In fact, he was being kind of an ass. She felt her Irish temper begin to kick in, which was something like the Hulk’s, but without the green skin and purple pants. “Look, it was an accident, okay? I was not out to damage you or your guitar. And what the hell are you doing just stepping out into traffic anyway?” She stood up and scowled back at the angry musician.

“Traffic? What traffic? About three cars drove by in the last twenty minutes.” Seth tried to close the lid on the case, failed, and shoved the whole thing toward the curb.

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling.”

“You are definitely yelling.” She caught a glimpse of something at his neck and did a double take. “Are those ear buds? You were listening to music? That’s why you didn’t hear me!” Her voice rose about three octaves.

“I could hear fine. And that doesn’t have anything to do with your shitty, reckless driving.” He ripped off the buds and shoved them in his pocket.

Abby shook her head, then walked to the open door of her Jeep and grabbed a business card from her purse. “Here. Get your guitar fixed…”

“Fixed? It’s fucking mulch!”

“… or replaced, and send me the bill. And for the last time, stop yelling!”

“There are only 124 more of these guitars on the planet, and it took me six months to find this one. You think I can just ‘replace’ it?” His voice, she noted, had a certain amount of anguish somewhere beneath the fury. Seth stood, and Abby tried not to flinch as he snatched the card from her hand.

“I’ve said I was sorry. It was an accident. I’ll pay for it, or not. It’s up to you. And now, I have to go.”

“Well, that’s the first thing you’ve said so far that wasn’t completely stupid. Out of my sight would be a real good place to be right now.”

Suppressing a shriek of frustration, Abby turned toward her Jeep and tossed back over her shoulder, “I can’t believe I finally meet you, and we end up squatting in a ditch yelling at each other.” She slammed the door and pulled away from the curb. Her last glimpse of Seth as she headed down the block to Monique’s vintage clothing store, was of him standing by the equipment trailer, eyes wide, and a puzzled expression on his face.

Lame Excuses For Not Blogging

2009-05-08T13:26:00.006-05:00

I know, I've been totally MIA since we got home from the Royal Wedding. I can't even claim it's because I've been writing thousands and thousands of words for the book. It's just been strange. Work sort of spontaneously combusted - not literally, but it might as well have. While I was gone and since I came back, we've "enjoyed" the following:

One technician suffered a miscarriage, having been unaware that she was pregnant.
One technician is engaged, and is going to try a 4-day/3-day commute schedule because she's moving over 2 hours away to live with her fiance. (I predict this will not work, and she'll soon find a job closer to him.)
Another staff member has been hit with wage garnishment for child support. Not that she wasn't/wouldn't pay it. Ex is just a major asshat and wants her to have to deal with the experience of having wages garnished.
Computer repairs were ongoing, and may or may not actually be resolved.
One technician, 6 months pregnant, was in a car accident and didn't tell us! She said it was a family member, and didn't mention that she actually spent the night in the hospital having her premature labor stopped.
Same technician went into premature labor at work yesterday, which is when I learned about the car accident. (Send positive thoughts that mom and baby both come out of this OK.)
Our Healing Touch for Animals practitioner/vet assistant is leaving to start her own business. She'll continue to do Healing Touch for us one day a week on a contract basis, but I'm losing about 24 staff hours a week out of my available resources, plus the mommy-to-be, whose status remains unknown.

There's a bunch of other little stuff, but them's the highlights. Or lowlights. Or no-lights. When I'm not at work, I've been 95% brain-dead. I tried to write on Tuesday, and Seth and Abby refused to cooperate, so I left them in Dash's office until tomorrow. Serves them right. Dash is a little hard to take, if well-intentioned.

The happy spot for me right now is that we did buy tickets for the 6/18 Cross Canadian Ragweed show in Bloomington, Indiana. Wooooo hoooooo!!!!!! Hotel reservations made, and other reservations pending. Tom may go on a little solo journey several days before, and then he'll fly into Indianapolis. I'll drive down from here (10 hours), pick him up, and we'll go on to Bloomington on 6/17.

Naturally, the plans are ongoing. Tom wants to get one or the other of these...

...so we can get it signed before or after the show. He's extremely good at making that sort of thing happen. Mostly, I want another picture of me with Cody, and my favorite "front and center" spot at the stage for the concert. Reports are that this is a great venue, and I'm looking forward to checking it out.

Then there's the hope that they will eventually put a Minnesota show on the summer schedule, and I'll get to see them twice!

Wish me brain wattage. If I ever get any, I'll write something funny, and get Seth and Abby out of that damned office and back to her house.

Because I Haven't Done This Lately

2009-05-04T11:36:00.001-05:00

Cross Canadian Ragweed

More CMT Music

More CMT Music Videos

By The Numbers

2009-04-30T13:07:00.002-05:00

During our three-day trip to Orlando for the wedding, here are the numbers...

Nights in Florida: 3
Beautiful, elegant weddings: 1
People in the wedding party: 9
People married when we got there: 6
People married when we left: 8 (Rachel's brother is single, ladies!)
Theme parks visited: 0 (Shopped in Downtown Disney, but wasn't ambitious enough to tackle any parks.)
Awesome meals: 3 (Lunch at Olivia's in Old Key West, Dinner at Raglan Road, Dinner at Ohana)
Things purchased: 2 (Engraved bride/groom Mickey/Minnie frame for the newlyweds, House of Blues shirt for me)
Drinks consumed: Sunday, 1.25, Monday, 3, Tuesday, I forget
Bugs seen: 3 (Or maybe 2. The two flies might have been the same one twice.)
Miles walked: 729 (half in heels)
Impressive blisters obtained: 2
Impressive blisters popped: 2 (because I can't leave things like that alone)
Disney transport buses ridden: 986
Times bus driver got lost: 2
Non-Geico geckos seen: 413
Happy squirrels living in palm tree off my balcony: 1
Cross Canadian Ragweed concerts seen: 0
Times I thought about the concert: 8266
Times I whined about missing the concert: 62 (which is proof that I did show some restraint)
Miles away from concert venue while at wedding ceremony: 3
Times stuck in an elevator: 1 (Thankfully, only for a few minutes)
Minutes until I would have had to strangle my mother-in-law if the elevator hadn't opened: About thirty seconds more
Sunburns: 0 (Pasty white Minnesota winter skin and latent vampiric tendencies made me keep to the shade whenever possible)
Makeup girls who thought I was a bridesmaid, not the mother of the groom: 1 (and I totally love her now)
Times I told total strangers that my son just got married: 47
Times in a limo: 1
Lifetime total times in a limo: 1
Times swimming: 0
Mouse ears on hats, logos, landscaping, architecture, etc.: 214 jillion
Average daily high temperature: 86
Average daily high temperature at home: 52
Times I embarrassed Ryan: at least 42
Gardenias: 916,000
Gardenias I stole for my room: 3
Times I stuck my face in the gardenia hedges while passing: Every time (They smell purrrrrrty)
Times I made Tom admire my eyelash extensions: 37
Hours I had the eyelash extensions: 18
Hours I had the eyelash extensions but was asleep: 8
Times I lost my Downtown Disney map: 6

That' about sums it up! We all had a marvelous time, the newlyweds are blissfully honeymooning till Sunday, nobody got eaten by alligators, and Rachel's mother was feeling well (she's between chemo treatments) and looked strong and healthy.

Now, I shall go and enjoy my last day off before heading back to work tomorrow!

Wedding Picture

2009-04-30T10:20:00.007-05:00

Home again, safe and sound, and the whole trip couldn't have been more perfect. I'll write more about the wedding later, but for now I just wanted to share a picture. If they aren't the world's most adorable couple, I can't imagine who is!

Farewell For Now

2009-04-24T14:33:00.003-05:00

I don't have a bunch of clever stories to tell today. I just wanted to touch base with everybody before we head out of town for the Royal Wedding. We leave at some unholy hour Sunday morning (which is probably appropriate for me), and will be back Wednesday afternoon. I guess it will be late next week before I get anything posted, but it will probably include a few wedding pictures, in which I hope to not look like a crone.

A little drama at work made my departure even more... interesting. We had been having network problems, sporradic crashes, and assorted glitches. The computer guy has been in and out of the office for a week, tracking down and fixing everything. Then, Wednesday night, our server crashed in some major and catastrophic way. This means we were essentially out of business for 24 hours. Couldn't even look up patient charts, let alone enter charges or collect fees. He got us patched up on another PC as the server while he gives the other one a lobotomy or a brain transplant, or whatever they do in these situations.

So today there was very little for me to do at work. I did it, then I left. Hey, I have a house with biohazard stickers on the doors and a trip to pack for.

However, my beloved laptop has also been experiencing problems with its fan. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have second degree burns on my wrists after using it. It started making the scary "I'm dying, and there's not anything you can do about it" sound again today, so I called Computer Guy. He's going to pick it up from the office and fix it while I'm away. My 'puter is in the hospital! However, this is good timing. Since I'll be gone till Wednesday, this is about the only time I can imagine being without it. I'm using the laptop my sister sent me last week, which is now our home computer (other one was way too blue-screen-of-death to trust).

Before I left my poor little laptop, I backed up my book on not one, but two flash drives. You know. Just in case. If I lost 156 pages of manuscript, I'd probably throw myself into the jaws of the first alligator I saw in Florida. I don't think that would take long. I hear they have a lot of them down there.

I also printed out the manuscript. I figure it's about 40-45% done. But since I won't be able to write till I get home, I thought it would be good to have the manuscript with me so I can do my re-reads and edits on the plane or whenever I'm having "social interaction overload" and need to hide out in my room.

It's kind of impressive to see how much I've written. The stack of pages is close to an inch thick. I wrote that! Me! Even if it sucks, I still wrote it!

And, really, that's it. Chores to do, and waiting for Tom to get home. Dogs to feed. My thrilling life. But I get to go to Florida for a wedding!

Maybe There's A Reason

2009-04-22T11:59:00.002-05:00

This one is multiple choice.

I am either:
A) A batshit crazy writer
B) A vampire
C) Both of the above, because all writers are, in fact, vampires

This didn't just pop into my head for no reason, though things often do that. I have several reasons for entertaining this question.

I'm always an "in bed by 9:00 PM, asleep by 10:00 PM" person. Not a night-owl, because I ~~am addicted to Benadryl~~ like my sleep. But Monday night was strange. I went in to bed at 9:30, and at 10:30 I was still wide awake. I'd missed my pre-sleep drowsy phase, and was lying there worrying about the book. I was only partially done with re-writing the billion or so words that had been rendered useless by the pesky, accurate information I got from my new best buddy with the ATF, and it was really bothering me. I had to get that sorted out, figure out how much of the stuff that came after that would also need to be changed, and change it so I could move on to new material.

So I got up. At 10:36 PM. And made a pot of coffee. I wrote until 4:00 AM before finally going to bed and sleeping till 9:15. This hasn't happened since I was in high school and used to stay on the phone till 4:00 AM.

I can only conclude that these sudden nocturnal habits are a symptom of vampirism. Or batshit-crazy writerdom. Or both.

Then there's the fact that I've discovered a fondness for Bloody Marys. They're scrumpdillyishus, and they have food-type items in them such as olives, pickles and celery, so they're actually a healthy meal in a glass. With alcohol. Which makes it perfect.

There is also the sunlight issue. As I mentioned on Monday, we had a beautiful, sunny day here on Saturday. I, however, did not set foot outside. Sure, it could have been because I was on the Sofur (tm) being a slug. But it could also have been because my inner vampire was aware that if I did go out there I would immediately burst into flames.

I must also consider my aversion to churches and all things religious. I haven't been in (or near) a church in more years than I can recall. Again, this might be my inner vampire protecting me from spontaneous vampiric combustion. It's an instinct.

Plus, I'm pretty sure a stake through my heart would kill me. Or maybe that's true for everybody. There haven't been a lot of studies conducted on the topic. But let's assume.

I do have a tendency to bite. Tom has several t-shirts with ~~fang~~ holes in them, courtesy of Yours Truly. I always thought I was just kind of annoying, but maybe it's my inner vampire trying to assert itself.

Since most of the writers I know seem to be more nocturnal than "normal" people, and they're all kind of crazy, I think there's a very good chance that "C" is the correct answer to my multiple choice question. And all I can say about that is...

Cool!

I'm sure I'll be the most awesome ~~vampire~~ writer ever!

Missed Mission: Updated

2009-04-20T11:43:00.008-05:00

I spent some time this weekend recalling last year's Letter to My Neighbors, because these people have yet to modify their behavior to meet my specifications. Yes, I know that Saturday was beautiful and sunny. Well, I know that second-hand. Tom did a lot of yard work, but I did catch glimpses of the sun through the window while lying, slug-like, on the Sofur. He assures me that it was a lovely day, though, and I believe him.

Beautiful day or not, the neighbors need to stay in portions of their yards which are completely out of sight from any portion of my yard. Brody, a Great Pyrenees (translation: Barky Guardian Dog) can't handle the pressure. And neither can my nerves or eardrums.

Last year, I was greatly worried about the condition of the four screen panels in our front bay window. I didn't fear so much for the screens as I did for Brody's health and well-being if Tom came home before I did and found the screens shredded and scattered around the house.

Yes, this happened.

No, it won't be a problem this year. We don't have any screens left.

Brody did miss one major Threat Level Red on Sunday, though. He must have been napping under his favorite tree in the back yard when our doorbell rang. Normally, he's in the house and a ringing doorbell sends him into paroxysms of frothy, drooly, barking formidability.

I've always been of the opinion that the fact that he's spraying possibly-rabid saliva all over the inside of the bay window five feet above their heads would suggest to visitors that they might want to reconsider the necessity of their presence. But, since Brody was lying down on the job, I had to check the situation out for myself.

You might recall that I do not answer my door. Ever. Unless you're seen to be in possession of a) one of my dogs, b) a pizza or other delicious food item, c) a giant box with a ribbon on it, d) Cody Canada or e) a giant cardboard check, I'm not opening the door.

To make this determination, I scrape a bit of dried dog-spit off the bay window and peer around the curtain. Then I go back and sit on the Sofur till whoever it is goes away.

However, I almost made an exception yesterday. When I stealthily put only enough eyeball around the curtain to see who was standing below me and slightly to the right at my front door, I beheld...

Missionaries.

I'm pretty sure they were Jehova's Witnesses. They were squeaky-clean young men, with perfectly-parted hair (I was looking down on them from my perch, remember. Also, no dandruff was observed.), white dress shirts, black ties, black slacks, and black backpacks. I went and sat down, waiting for them to go away.

Though I did kind of wonder what was in the backpacks.

They must have had a quota, or received a report that I was in extra-urgent need of salvation, because they rang again, and then knocked (in case the doorbell was just a decoy) before wandering off to spread the word elsewhere.

But now I'm almost wishing I'd let them in. Let's imagine the possibilities, shall we?

Me: Come in, come in, young men!
Young Men: Why thank you! We've come to share the joy of our faith with you!
Me: Well, isn't that lovely? I'd like you to meet my three dogs. Lucifer, Satan, and Beelzebub. Don't mind the horns.

(Hmm. I actually do have a pair of devil horns on a head band. Note to self: Wear that and actually answer the door the next time missionaries come to call.)

Me: What fine young gentlemen! I'm sure you and your families had a wonderful holiday last weekend. So, tell me, how did you celebrate Zombie Jesus Day?
Young Men: (looking shocked) Zombie Jesus Day? Jesus wasn't a zombie.
Me: He had to be. He died, right?
YM: Yes, ma'am, he did. (even though they are freaked out, they would remain polite)
Me: And then he came back to life, right?
YM: Yes.
Me: So, he's a zombie.
YM: No, ma'am, he is not a zombie. He could not possibly be a zombie.
Me: (Pause. I can figure this one out.) Oh, okay. I get it now! He was a vampire! That explains all the references to blood. That makes way more sense than 'zombie.'

Me: Hey, you want to go down to the family room and see my stripper pole? I just learned some awesome new moves! Three drink minimum, though!

(I do not have a stripper pole. I fall down entirely too much as it is. But it would be totally worth it to say that I did, just to see the looks on their faces.)

Me: I will absolutely convert to your religion, whatever it might happen to be. IF you will both get Cross Canadian Ragweed tattoos. On your necks.

Me: Let's play "Let's Make a Deal!" I will join your religion if you can find, in your nifty black backpacks, one of the following: 1) Porn, 2) One ounce or more of pot, or 3) Handcuffs.

Me: (you might have noticed, I've stopped allowing the Missionary Boys to speak at this point.) Hey, you can go through your whole speil, spread the word, yada yada yada. But, while doing so, you must clean my house. You stop scrubbing and I stop listening. Plus, I'll let Beezelbub out of the bedroom.

Me: Does your religion have "commandments?" Because I don't take orders very well. At all. Now, if they're more like "suggestions..."

Me: Hey, what's your religion's stance on reincarnation? Because I totally think I might have been Mary Magdalene. And possibly a vampire.

Seriously, I usually leave religions alone. I state my heathen beliefs, and let people make of them what they will. They should do whatever makes them happy, as long as it doesn't involve me. But if a couple of naive, unsuspecting boys show up at my door, they're on my turf, and all bets are off.

Now, you play! What would you suggest, should these boys come back for another try?

UPDATE: It has been pointed out to me that Jehova's Witnesses do not celebrate Zombie Jesus Day, or, in fact, most other holidays. I should have known that, because I went to elementary school with a girl from a strict JW family, and she got to miss school whenever we had any of the classroom holiday parties. (Apparently, Jehova's Witnesses have something against cupcakes.) So, in all likelihood, my clean-cut visitors were probably Mormons.

This doesn't change anything about the future plan, though. Only that I need to learn more about the various religious affiliations. Like, if they were Mormons, I probably could've offended them with coffee instead of having to bring up porn and drugs, if I am correct and Mormons still eschew caffeine. I'm fairly certain I'd have stuck with porn and drugs, though, because they are more fun.

I also realized that those two young men greatly resembled a pair of characters in Mark Henry's latest novel, Road Trip of the Living Dead. (If you haven't read it, do so. Now. But only after you read his first darkly hilarious title, Happy Hour of the Damned. Fashionista zombies? Can anyone resist that?) Upon reflection of Mark's story, I now know I should have brought my visitors inside and searched their backpacks for 'shrooms.

What If I'm Not Really A Hermit?

2009-04-17T10:22:00.004-05:00

I have long held the position that I am a hermit. I do not "do lunch," go shopping with the girls, host (or attend) dinner parties, or have spa days with my friends. I go to work, come home, then just hang out with the husband and dogs, frequently with the addition of my good buddy, Jack Daniel's. I read. I write. I occasionally fall down or set things on fire (including my hair). But I do not go out.

People squidge me out. Sure, I have fun for about ten minutes, then I am done. I want to go back to my Lair, to my Fortress of Solitude, and be alone. It's not that I don't like the people I am with. It's just so damned exhausting. I can be outrageous and amusing for ten minutes, then it starts to feel like too much work.

But I have recently (like, since last night) had to begin to reconsider the degree of my hermititude. It was the last night of our Loft writing class, and I thought it would be nice for some of us to go out afterward for a beverage.

(Two words: Mmmmmmmmango Mmmmmmargarita.)

Four of us went to an establishment near where our class was held, and I. Had. So. Much. Fun. Typically, I am not a fun-haver, unless it's at home, in the company of The Husband. I'm usually so anxious and self-conscious when I go out with other people that the fun gets sucked right the hell out of the event.

I'd noticed that writers I follow online seem to have an awful lot of fun. Usually involving alcohol, bizarre public displays, and conferences. Now I know why. It's because they're with other writers! Yes, I do occasionally have a difficult time grasping the obvious.

Since I have no social life to speak of, my only real friends are co-workers, and a few dog-people. (And, I gotta tell ya, the dog people are all as hermit-like as I am, so there ain't a whole lot of socializin' goin' on.) When I do go out with co-workers, which is almost never, I have fun for a very brief time, then I want to escape. I mean, I spend more hours at work than I want to, already. I do not need to add work-time and work-talk to my unpaid hours. I love them all dearly, but after seeing them all day, I'm ready for a break. (They probably are, too, but are too polite to say so.)

"Regular" people always seem to look at me in a way that suggests they are plotting to abduct and re-program me into something more closely resembling a sane member of society.

But, writers. Oh, writers. Writers are a breed, and possibly a phylum, apart. I've found a group of people whose eyes do not glaze over when I have been talking for 7.25 minutes about Abby, Seth, the exploding duffel bag, and whether or not they can have sex in a hammock. (I'm betting they can. Find out later.) In fact, writers ask for more details!

Normally, when other people are speaking, I'm either planning my escape or thinking about what I want to say next. Probably about Abby and Seth. If it's not about them, it will be about the dogs. But when I'm with writers, I love hearing about their characters, their plot, their Point of View issues, the problem of Show versus Tell, query letters, agents, morale-breaking critiques, and writing-related fugue states.

Writers don't think I'm psychotic when I tell them how upset I am that I had to leave Abby and Seth in that hammock, waiting for me. They get it when I tell them that I didn't intend to write this book, but the characters hijacked my brain and won't give it back until I write their story. (They're so pushy that way.) They understand the horror of discovering that 4,000 words are just wrong and have to be completely re-written.

I fear I may be in danger of becoming... social. I actually want to see these women again, and the sooner the better. The fact that Julie picked up the tab, and also owns a cabin at which she is willing to host a weekend ~~drinking~~ writing retreat has absolutely nothing to do with it. For the record, I have a kick-ass pool, and might do the same thing on a day-trip basis.

The point is, I should have been hanging out with writers all along.

They are My People.

And I totally can't wait for our first writers' conference. No photos, please.