Dear Pastor Worley…

In response to the following: http://youtu.be/d2n7vSPwhSU

First, let me say you have every right to your opinion as I have to mine. Except on this blog. This blog is mine, and your opinion doesn’t count.

So, let’s begin with your first idea, the one about the electrified fence. First off, don’t bother electrifying it. If you can round all of us up, chances are good, we’d be ok with living in a gated community filled with like-minded people. Imagine how you’d feel surrounded by a bunch of narrow-minded Christians! You’d be thrilled. Ya’ll could talk prophesy and salvation until your little ol’ eyeballs dropped out.

A community of lesbians?!? Bring it, mister! While I’m not on the prowl for another sweetheart, being able to be myself, express myself, and live my life openly and freely… holy shit, buster, that would be freaking AWESOME! Chances are good, we wouldn’t want to leave. As for the food drop, please make sure some of it is gluten free. I’m sure the “queers and homosexuals” will feel the same.

On another note, you’re all excited at the thought that after a few years, we’ll “all die out because [we] can’t reproduce.” Babe, let me tell you, we DON’T HAVE TO REPRODUCE, WE’RE BORN EVERY DAMN MINUTE TO HETEROSEXUAL COUPLES, JUST LIKE YOU!

No, seriously, out of every 100 babies born to a heterosexual couple, one of them will be gay. Really! Statistics show it. That means, as soon as that little darling shows signs of being gay, you’ll drop them in with us and we can continue in perpetuity.

In perpetuity means for a very long time, sir, just in case you didn’t know.

As for kissing a guy, well, I’ve tried it and just let me say, ya’ll just can’t kiss worth shit, so don’t bother. Kissing girls is MUCH nicer. We’re softer and our mustaches aren’t quite as bristly.

Love,

Karen and Tam. (Two women, lesbians, in fact, living together in love, raising our families. Oh, and some of those kids we have are straight. Also, we’re just as free to go where we please as you are. See you at the altar). 

Not That I’m Counting the Days…

There are fewer days left in the school calendar than I have fingers and toes. It’s a damn good thing, too, because this is the time of year when everyone has reached burn out and if we don’t get some summer break happening pretty damn quick, every single one of us will take retirement starting next week.

Run-on sentences much?

Anyway, work has been fun, with fun being on a par with forcibly having your toenails removed via your rectum. Yeah, THAT kind of fun. The kids are beyond insane, most of them are in rut and you would NOT believe some of the stuff we’re seeing when they think we’re not looking.

The weather has been giving us the treatment. It’s a lot like being chased through a Laundromat by a psycho washer woman wielding a pea shooter and plenty of frozen peas. Sun, rain, heat, rain and heat together for a miserable day in the tropics, rain, cold, SUN! rain, rain, overcast… I know, I know, we’re in Seattle! We should be used to that shit by now, but come ON! We’re only human, and to tease us with beautiful, glorious sunshine for a whole week, then to blast us with bone-chilling cold is just rude. But, like someone said, “at least we don’t have tornados.” Actually, we have had tornados, just not like the ones ya’ll grow in the Midwest. Ours are smaller and instead of mobile home parks, they like to attack the tile roofs of yuppie domiciles and cause a run on Starbucks.

Of course, around here all it takes is a duck sneezing to cause a run on Starbucks. It’s what we do, people, it’s what we do.

So, for those of us with arthritis and other creaky body things, the abrupt changes in the weather have been uncomfortable to say the least. If it doesn’t pop, creak, grind, or make an ugly squishy sound, then it’s not one of my body parts. That makes for a very cranky Karen. Tam’s in the same boat (and the woman keeps rocking the damn thing), so we’re just one rocking chair away from a nursing home.

Mother’s Day was fun. We had ALL the kids over for a yard work party. “What do you want for Mother’s Day?” they asked. “A clean yard.” They were thrilled at our answer. It’s a work in progress, but they’re not spending any money on us, so it’s all good. Plus we feed them when they come over, and since we’re both damn good cooks, they eat well.

I’ve been working on the manuscript (second book of the series) and the first is closer to publication. Right now, I’m waiting on the cover art to be finished by Tam’s daughter and I can’t wait. I saw the rough draft and let me tell you, it was amazing. I can’t wait to put it all together.

The journey to publication has been an interesting one, and I’m finally glad I decided to go the independent publishing route instead of the traditional publishing house route. I made these stories come to life, and quite frankly the thought of giving up all my rights to them didn’t sit well with me. They’re mine, and I don’t want any publisher saying some things just can’t happen because someone may not like it.

I thumb my nose at them.

So, if all goes as planned (which it rarely does, but there’s always a chance I’ll be surprised) I’ll be able to announce the debut of my very first ebook. I’m going with a pseudonym because I want to write in other genres and sometimes its hard when people are expecting fantasy/sci-fi (which boasts the moniker “alternate reality”) and end up with literary fiction. Besides, if I stay with my current name, then my former brother-in-law would have to share shelf space with me and I doubt he’d be pleased.

Plus it will confuse the hell out of my mother and give her another thing to bitch about, which she absolutely loves, and who am I to deprive her of such joy, hmm?

If you want, you can check out the blog of KT Moreis (ktmoreis(dot)blogspot(dot)com) and check out the one and only post. I’ll make my announcements from there (and here because the excitement will be an awful lot to try and contain on a single blog).

Just be glad I don’t have your phone number.

Happy Mothers Day

That’s not a typo in the title. I'd like to wish all those lovely people out there who have taken on the role of mother, either through birth, adoption, fostering, or just stepping up to the plate when they're needed...most of us have more than one woman in our life who has taken on the role of mother at one point or another.

Happy Mothers Day.

You are:
loved,
needed,
appreciated,
and occasionally sticky.

You've attended important meetings
...with spit-up on your good blazer.
You've carried hand-made tissue paper flowers to a fancy restaurant
...without a second thought.
You've kissed boo-boos
...not caring that the boo-boo might be the germiest thing on the planet.

You've held hands,
checked tears,
yelled,
cried,
worried,
grumbled,
threatened to disown,
hugged,
forgiven,
and been forgiven.

You've marveled at babies,
longed for them to talk,
encouraged them to walk,
then wished they would sit down
and be quiet for five minutes.

You've looked at your grown children,
remembering the tiny bundle you once held.
And maybe you cry a little.
Just a little,
because that person standing in front of you
is
totally
AWESOME

And it's all because of you,
Mom.
Auntie.
Grandma.
Foster mom.
Dad.
Family friend.
Guardian.

You helped mold and shape another human being
into someone who is:
Terrific.
Chaotic.
Adventurous.
Calm.
Daring.
Torch bearing.
Banner waving.
Upstanding.
Future role model
for the next generation.

Thanks. I love you.

Ah Technology

I am a fan of technology, particularly the kind of technology that allows me to write pages of manuscript, then go back and edit one word without retyping the whole damn page. Who wouldn’t love that?

However, I’m not a fan of fragile technology. You know, that kind of software that insists you do things a certain way, although they don’t always tell you what that certain way is and when you don’t do it, you get the silent treatment.

Or the “Non Responsive” treatment.

I’ve been fighting a problem with my netbook. Perhaps it stems from overuse, because to be honest, I’ve not been doing a lot of writing on “The Big Beast” mainly because Tam bought a laptop and we’ve been sitting in the living room enjoying being together while doing stuff on our computers.

The family that geeks out together, stays together, right?

Anyway, my netbook, my precious, my Baby Beast, began exhibiting some strange behavior. Glitches here and there, things not quite running as smoothly as they should, not the usual MS headache-inducing nonsense I’ve had to endure. This stuff was different. Word, my go-to word processing program, began showing a message right after I clicked “save.” It would pretend to think about it then I’d get a spinney thing. About that time, I’d look up at the top of the document only to see the words “non-responsive” in parentheses.

While this would make me crazy on regular days, it was doing it to my manuscript right during the part where I was finally having some kind of breakthrough on the editing wall I’d been butting my head against for the past three weeks. (In case you were wondering why I’ve been a bit on the absent side of the internet lately).

Seeing that message right after an hour of pushing and shoving words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs that flow and have action and move the story along in a logical and pleasing manner. An hour of this bullshit and my computer decides to become “non-responsive.”

Oh no it di’in’t. Oh, yes. Yes it did.

In what I feel is a brilliant saving move on my part, I immediately emailed the document to myself, opened it, and found that it HAD saved it and all was well. I’ve since opened it on the Big Beast and there it will reside and be edited and caressed and cuddled, and beaten into publishable submission by the bloody tips of my fingers.

WHAT?!?

Oh, sorry. It was not a good start to my day.

Now Baby Beast is visiting Dr. TechnoHero where there will be diagnosing, cleaning, backing up, and other non-shenanigans going on while I sit and worry that they’ll find out I’m using an archaic version of Word and I’ve lost the original disks and can no longer install it. I just discovered that little fly in my ointment this very afternoon. The place where the disks used to reside no longer exists. It went away when the man moved out. He assures me he does not have the disks, but they’re not here, so I fear they may have been thrown away or given to Goodwill in a box of left-overs.

Really, just kill me now. Here’s hoping Dr. TechnoHero will overlook my idiocy and show much mercy. I don’t know how, but I’ll keep hoping.