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.

When Life Hands You Shit, Plant a Fucking Garden

 I’ve been away for a little while…gardening.

 Let me rephrase that, I’ve been “gardening.”

Life’s been busy doling out the shit piles and I’ve been busy making sure it doesn’t go higher than my knees hips waist armpits eyeballs.

 Sigh.

 I’ll try to keep the woes to a minimum, because to be honest with you, there haven’t been all that many lately, it’s just that they’ve all been doozies. Doo-zies. The rest of the crap is just that: crap. Daily obnoxiousness of job and family keeping me standing at the ready with the shovel. I’m starting to think I should invest in a large fan and just start dishing the shit right back.

 I know a lot of the problems are not helped by me being a bit of an overprotective mother enabler. I’ve been busy helping Spawn get moved. They lived in that tiny apartment for eight years, and in that time, things kind of get embedded in places. There’s a lot of clean up to do and it all has to be done by this weekend.

That apartment has those cupboards that you only open twice: once when you move in and fill it with crap, and again when you move out and rediscover your treasures. Tiny apartment crammed with two people and all their pre-apartment stuff and then all the stuff that accumulates via gifts, and a hoarder complex, and three cats…

Soon-To-Be-Ex-Spawn-In-Law is of the opinion that picking up after himself was something he preferred to not do. Spawn is also not the greatest in that department, so things were a little…uhhh… it was crowded in that tiny abode. Then came the split and S.T.B.E.S.I.L. took what he wanted and left the rest. All the rest of EVERYTHING for Spawn to manage. Including the clean up. It’s been overwhelming because we can’t go over there as often as we’d like because we’re too damn tired after work. (The “we” I’m referring to is Tam and I, Spawn goes over there every day after work).

This coming weekend is the last one we have to make the place shine and I’m thinking fuck the shine, we’ll be lucky if we can make it not sticky and covered in cat fur. Spawn’s been good about cutting her losses and moving on, but I look at the things being thrown away and my first thought is of waste. But I can no longer step in and try to salvage her life. I must allow her to turn the pages of that chapter. It’s really, REALLY hard folks. Really. I love my son-in-law very much, and my heart aches at what he and Spawn are going through. I’m also very sad for his parents because I have an idea of what they’re going through. This is hard. It’s all hard, but I'm learning to handle it.

 My sons have been amazing throughout this upheaval, helping at the apartment when they can, pitching in and just supporting. I’ll be glad when this weekend is over and I can start focusing on my own home once again. Things are starting to pile up around here.

 I talked to my mother recently, filling her in on most of the gory details of the big move. When I alluded to the fact that I believe Spawn would benefit from therapy for her housekeeping issues, my mother asked if I thought the same about her. I said yes.

 Because I’m an idiot, that’s why, so if you were wondering what all that screaming and wailing and gnashing of teeth was this past week, now you know. It was my mother being faced with my un-sugarcoated opinion.

 We have what feels like a shit ton of cats (there are 4), and thankfully they are all adjusting to the new living arrangements. Tam was sure it would be a nightmare, but they settled in a lot faster than we expected. The old lady cat is feeling much better now that she has room to run, and she’s become quite the matriarch. The young thing is still pretty skittish, but she’s decided I’m ok and will frequently grace me with her presence. I’m still going to take her to the vet and get her fixed though.

I have a manuscript I'm trying to edit. I’m only on the second run through with it, but I’ve already hit a large section of wall that would not allow me to pass. I’ve managed to push my way into that particular section, and I have a good idea where to go with the rest of it, but it’s such a large chunk, and it’s going to change a great deal of how the story reads, that it feels overwhelming and I’m constantly tempted to just pitch the entire mess into the fireplace and become a reclusive…recluse, and I’d totally do that, except for the job that I need in order to pay the bills...BREATHE!

The job is still there, and we’ve all reached that time of year when we’re just more than a little bit burned out and must decide if we want to come back to it for the next year. I’m thinking about it. Actually, I said I would, but I also did a little research into other job possibilities within the district and I’m keeping my options open. Whenever I begin to doubt that decision, I look at the scars on my arm and know those doubts are good for me to have. Spring has sprung with all the zaniness of bizarre weather, weird behavior, and a plethora of allergies that have made us all want to crawl under the house and hum with the feral cats living down there. (They’re not really humming, they’re growling at each other, but it sounds like humming to us.)

Now Google went and changed Blogger so I have no fucking clue how I’m going to post this thing. (P.S. I HATE the "new" blogger layout for posting. It really pisses me off.)

I think it’s time to plug in that fan.

Friday Night Life

It's Friday.

Tam and I are spending it at home, with Most Minor Minion. They're playing Plants vs. Zombies, I'm dinking around online, and we're all listening to David Bowie.

Fame! Golden Years! Ziggy Stardust!

It's like being in high school all over again, only the cats are the ones with the weed while Tam and I are drinking wine while I embarrass myself by admitting I never knew Major Tom was about a heroin overdose.

Yup. Just like high school. Hanging around with my best girl, getting a buzz, and being a dork when it comes to understanding songs.

Wham, bam, thank you Ma'am!

Friday's are awesome.

A Not-So-Brief Recap

I was informed that I needed to do a new blog post. The one about my hair is boring. Hey, I have a good excuse for not posting. Several good excuses and none of them are unblogworthy. At least, that’s how I want my tombstone to read: “It was all blogworthy.” Either that, or “I need to put this on my blog.”

Not that I’m planning on dying any time soon, so all that could change. Of course, for a while there, I wasn’t sure…

One Flu Over the Nut House.

The last week of March I came down with a swell case of the flu. Not the 24 hour stomach virus that everyone calls the flu, oh no, this was the real McCoy: three days of high fever, sore throat, coughing, and misery. I missed four days of work that week. Of course, it was the week when none of the kids were coming because they were also all sick. Why can’t I be sick when they’re all there being their usual wonderful selves?

Ugh. Anyway, I’m all better now, but there was a point when I thought I was going to end up in the hospital. Remember kids, when you’re sick and running a fever, DRINK YOUR LIQUIDS! That was when things finally started turning around for me.

Then came Friday, the last working day of the month and the start of spring break.

But Wait, This Is Where Things Get Weird

Spring break started nothing like we’d planned. Before I got sick, we were planning on heading south to visit my folks for a few days, then swinging up to the beach to round out the week with a couple relaxing days at the cabin. When we realized I wasn’t going to be up to the seven hour ride to the Southern Kingdom, we scuttled those plans and just headed to the beach mid-week.

Of course, before all that could happen, we needed to get our schedules synchronized with Spawn because once again, we were being called upon to rescue some pets that could no longer share her domicile. Then she came down with the flu and we decided to just go to the beach and we’d deal with the critters later.

Most Minor Minion joined us on our trip, as it had been several years since he was last at the cabin. We all had a great time, relaxing, playing video games, reading (have I got a book to share! Woo-hoo! But that’s later…) and sleeping. We cruised the town, walked the beach, and flew a kite. We watched the weather go from one extreme to another and loved every moment of it. None of us wanted to leave, but the week was winding down and there were preparations we needed to make at home.

The Really Weird Part

After seven years Spawn and The Butcher have decided to call it quits. It’s been coming for a while. Mistakes and choices were made, and that was it. I’m very sad about it, because The Butcher is still my son-in-law and I will always have a soft spot in my heart for him. Some day, I hope Spawn will feel the same and they’ll stop throwing stones at each other. Being on “this side” of a divorce is very different and I’m doing my best to remain calm, level-headed, and supportive to both parties.

It’s hard, yo! I want to shake the shit out of both of them. At first, they were just separating until they could find a better place to live, one without a kajillion stairs so The Butcher could get around easier. His MS is progressing and he can’t quite manage things like he used to. He moved in with his folks, and Spawn landed with friends in a near by city. Then shit happened, hit the fan, and took no prisoners.

Remember when we took in the Winged Menace? Well, now we’ve opened our doors to two of their three cats. Spawn is a rescuer, but does not have the experience to know when to say “NO!” which is how she ended up with three cats. Three. In a very tiny, one-bedroom apartment. Anyway, with the living situation getting all crazy and shit, Spawn called and asked if we could take in two cats. She is living with people who are very allergic to the beasties and The Butcher’s folks said they couldn’t handle it.

The one we’re not taking is not a nice cat. She needs to be an only in a family with no children, no birds, no dogs, maybe fish, maybe not. She is slightly evil, and has been known to summon demons in her sleep. At least that’s what her siblings said, but they’ve been known to exaggerate a bit. She’s a lovely gray, with long legs. She leaps like a ballerina and lands like a linebacker. For such a little bit of a thing, she sure packs a wallop!

She also hates other cats. It took her a long time to warm up to the others when she was brought into the nest. Integrating her into OUR nest was not something we were up to, so we had to say no. All things considered, it was a wise choice, even if it was a bit heartbreaking.

We brought the other girls into our home and set them up in the futility room. One took up residence under the sink, while the other staked out the space behind the dryer. Crash and Burn were NOT thrilled and made their displeasure known by hissing, humming, and barfing.

The new girls were unimpressed and for a while neither of them would consider relinquishing their hiding spots, but finally the old cat, Miss Crone, ventured forth and endured the glad tidings of joy thrown their way by the resident evils. The Spook, however, will only come out when carried, and then only if you can convince her to get within arms’ reach. Not easy, when she’s ensconced under the utility sink.

Miss Crone has claimed an old pillow and a relatively high spot that keeps her safe. She’s a special needs kitty who is allergic to a lot of things put in cat food. It got so bad for a while, she lost a lot of weight and part of her lip from all the throwing up she was doing. They almost lost her and she has a permanent sneer from the ordeal. She’s a survivor and a total love. She’s mostly white with some brindle-type markings on her. It also looks like she got a bit carried away with the eyeliner.

The Spook is almost solid black, which is why she’s kind of hard to see under the sink or behind the dryer. She’s also young and unfixed, which will be the next order of havoc I’m going to wreak on that poor feline (and my budget). She’s also very loving but extremely jumpy. That combination can result in some serious pain when she’s climbing over you in order to escape whatever horror is coming her way, especially when that horror is anything that moves or makes noise. Tam opened the shower doors and I nearly had a face-ectomy. Ok, I was a little distracted myself, so I’ll take part of that blame, but come ON, naked woman! Bewbs! Other bits! Crazed cat!

Good times, folks, good times.

Well, vacation is over and we start the long haul to summer break. The next 10 weeks will be long and grumpifying, but oh, so worth it.