tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11801194054317124082024-03-08T13:49:27.004-08:00Inklizard's Random RamblingsInklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-34737084352560547082016-08-10T00:10:00.000-07:002016-08-10T00:10:05.733-07:00Bath is a 4-letter Word<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been 11 days since “the Incident”. I wasn’t allowed to
talk about it before because 1) I couldn’t get the laptop away from Mom
undetected and 2) my attorney, Frank T. Pug advised me not to say anything
until the settlement came through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, the settlement came through. I’ll be dining on the
finest cuts of chicken and steak for the foreseeable future. And the choicest
of vegetables. Basically, no more dog food… ever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re probably wondering what Mom did that required Frank
T. Pug to file a dogsuit on my behalf. (That’s like a lawsuit, but filed by
dogs. It can happen, so you better make sure your dog well taken care of!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all started a week ago Friday night. The parents were
out, again, leaving me home to babysit their stupid puppy because Bella refuses
to babysit him. And there was a storm and the puppy is afraid of his own shadow
(haha, see what I did there?). So he’s
crying “Where’s Mom? Is Mom coming back? I want Mom” and I’m like, shut up or
I’ll make you watch that Puppy Monkey Baby video.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FINALLY, the parents come home and I want out. I’ve done my
duty and now I demand a walk. With Dad this time. So Dad and I go out to the
park. It’s after the rain, so the cool wet grass feels awesome on my paws. I’m
exploring, checking out my usual spots, and of course I had to poop in the
park. I walked down to my pond, to gather intel on troop movements from the
Geese. I still report to Oscar as often as I can. He cuts me some slack because
I’m an old geezer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pond was the problem. It was booby trapped by the Geese
and I didn’t see it in time because of the cataracts. They flooded the pond! I
was just supposed to go in up to my belly, but the water was too deep and I ended
up doing an unplanned underwater investigation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time Dad fished me out, I was completely soaked,
filthy, and my paws had zero traction on the rocks. I fell a few times. It
really hurt, too, but I’m tough, and this is war with the Geese! But Dad said
it was time to get home so I could get cleaned up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Silly me, I ASSUMED that by “cleaned up” he meant Mom would
dry me off and I’d just rub up against the walls until the dirt came off. I
should have known.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Mom goes in the back and grabs a big towel. But instead
of rubbing me dry, she PICKS ME UP AND PUTS ME IN A BATHTUB! Oh, the indognity of it all! She actually had
a nice warm shower for me, which kind of felt good on my sore back, but then
she had to ruin it by putting dog shampoo ALL OVER MY FUR! And then she
scrubbed me. TWICE! And of course, she had to rinse out my fur. I’m standing
there, my back hurts, I’m WET and she’s still putting water on me?! At this
rate the walls will fall apart before I can use them to dry off. And she’s
still at it! Rinsing off the suds, she said… she even picked up my paws and
washed and rinsed them. This was like, the longest year of my life! I’m a dog;
5 human minutes is a year in dog time. By the time Mom turned off the water and
carried me out of the tub, I wanted revenge. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went straight for my phone and called Frank. My own human
WATERBOARDED me. I’m convinced she’s in league with the Geese. I spent days on
the phone on conference calls with Frank, the ASPCA, my grandma, and Oscar for
moral support. I even called my new pal Xambies (more on her later). She
suggested I take a tramadol and relax. I don’t need to see imaginary penguins.
I need justice! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just want you all to know about the horror that has been
my life for the last week and a half. I was traumatized, and that’s just not
good for an old dog in my condition. But Frank really came through for me this
time. Mom settled out of dog-court and agreed to my meal requests rather than
have me press charges of 3<sup>rd</sup> Degree Cruelty to Dingoes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now that it’s all resolved, I’m waiting for my agent to
get back to me on the book deal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s all for now. Remember, Dogs Are Awesome and the word
“bath” is profanity! <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love, <br />
Shadow.<o:p></o:p></div>
Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-7047957893802229922016-07-27T15:40:00.000-07:002016-07-27T17:04:23.917-07:00Imaginary Penguin Pills<div class="MsoNormal">
A Memo from the desk of Shadowpup:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m tired of the human taking over my posts. I’m a dog with
limited time left and a LOT to say about my almost 15 years of doghood. So I’m
just going to start posting stuff to her blog and see how long it takes her to
figure it out. Hehehe… I’m such a smart dog!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suspect the human has been spiking my food with drugs.
Now, I know I’m on medicine to help me breathe, and whatever it is that’s in the
needle she pokes me with twice a day. But the past week or so, I can’t help but
feel like there’s drugs in my food. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I like ‘em. Kids, never take drugs. They’re bad for you.
But I’m a dog with a prescription, apparently. I confronted the human about
this after my walk this morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: HUMAN! What was in
that handful of treats you gave me this morning?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mom: Your meds. You
have a few new ones since we saw the doctor a week and a half ago. We’ve talked
about this.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Yeah, I know, but
what’s IN the meds? Something’s weird.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mom: You have tramadol
now. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: WAIT A MINUTE….
Isn’t that the stuff you gave Bella when she hurt her back?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mom: Wow, I’m
surprised you remember that, but yes. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: I FORGET NOTHING.
I KNOW ALL. I AM SHADOWPUP! But seriously, she was seeing purple penguins
lurking in the corner when she was on that stuff. Imaginary penguins. You’re
giving me imaginary penguin pills?!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mom: Yes, Shadow. Your
doctor says they will help with your pain from the arthritis. Does your back
hurt less?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Yeah, kinda. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mom: You’ve been
taking more walks now. Is that because you feel better?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Well, no, I have
reports to file, things to investigate, people to sniff, and I have to poop in
the park. But I have been able to do all that a little more comfortably.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mom: That’s a good
thing. Your dad and I just want you to feel better and be happy.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: I’d feel happier
if I had steak for dinner. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And here I sit, knowing she’s not going to give me steak for
dinner. Could be worse. I could be forced to eat kibble like Captain and Bella.
Haha! Suckers!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But anyway, I solved the mystery. Mom really did get me some
medicine to help me feel better. I’m not feeling as spry as I did in my Dog
Ball days. But it’s a definite improvement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Uh-oh! I hear Mom coming. She’ll ground me for sure if she
finds me on her laptop. Stay tuned for my next post!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadowpup<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-70509633532726480572016-07-26T13:52:00.000-07:002016-07-26T13:52:53.750-07:00Conversations With Shadowpup, Part 1<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve mentioned my dogs before. In fact, if you know me at
all, you know I never really stop talking about my dogs, the way the parents of
human children never really stop talking about their kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our special needs dog, Lucky, passed away from heart failure
in June, 2014. We miss him every day. We weren’t going to get another dog after
we lost him. I just wasn’t ready. But 10 months after Lucky died, we found a
little boxer/pit mix who desperately needed a home. He was being discriminated
against because of his face shape. He was labeled a dangerous breed and his
family’s HOA gave them 10 days to rehome him or they would send Animal Control
to arrest him. I couldn’t let that happen. We decided to arrange a meet &
greet between this pup and our two living children, Shadow and Bella. If all
went well, the pup was coming home with us and we would be his forever family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dogs got along, we fell in love with the pup, whose name
is Captain, and we brought him home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shortly after we got him home, Shadow realized something was
amiss. He became very vocal about the fact that he was NOT consulted about this
addition to the family. He’s always been vocal in his opinions, but he’s
getting crankier in his old age. And funnier. I’ve been relaying conversations
we’ve had via Facebook, and although friends and family laugh and think he’s
just the cutest thing ever, they’re only getting a small soundbite of this dog’s
personality.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In January, 2016, we came very close to losing Shadow.
Instead, he was diagnosed with diabetes and arthritis, in addition to his
chronic obstructive lung disease. He’s also developed cataracts. So, he went
from a young, very active dog to a cranky old dog very quickly. And given what
he’s dealing with, his wit and humor has held fast throughout. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know we won’t have Shadow with us for long. He’s going to
be 15 next month which is extremely old for his breed (Carolina Dog). I want to
publish some of his musings to entertain others, and help me remember how
awesome this very rare and precious dog has been for our family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first of many conversations Shadow and I had after his
diagnosis in January concerned his legacy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: Mom, I want to write my memoir, but you need to do
all the typing. I have no thumbs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I didn’t know you were working on a memoir. What brought
this on?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: I’m getting old, Mom. I can’t play Dog Ball anymore.
And everyone knows that when you get too old to play your sport, you write a
memoir about how awesome you were.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Or they become coaches. You could coach Captain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: No way. The kid is hopeless. He doesn’t even lift
his leg to pee! He’s afraid of the couch pillows. How am I going to teach him
to be an awesome Dog Ball player? I’m not even convinced he’s a real dog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: He’s just a baby. He grew up in an apartment. He could
learn so much about being a dog if you’d just teach him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: OK, fine, I’ll teach him how to lift his leg to pee
as soon as you get started on my memoir. Start it with, “Ever since I was a
puppy, I knew I was destined for greatness. My Dad brought me home and gave me
a ball. For years I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just chewed them up as
soon as I got them. After my Mom moved in, I finally got the hang of it. Dad
would throw the ball for miles, and I’d go catch it. I was FAST too! I was the
fastest Dog Ball player in the Northwest. And I had fans everywhere. Mom would
take me for walks and the humans would gush over me, my talents, my
handsomeness. I had to sign autographs…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Shadow…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: Yeah?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: *raises eyebrows*<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: Too much?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: You sound like the Kanye West of dogs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: Ouch. OK, scratch that part about the fans and the
autographs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Is that all?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: Yeah, for now. Type that up and I’ll let you know if
there are revisions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Aren’t you forgetting something?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: What?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Your brother?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: What about him? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: You promised to teach him something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow: Right. OK, get me the pages to revise; I’ll take
Captain out back and show him how to pee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
**Stay tuned for the next edition of Conversations with
Shadow**<o:p></o:p></div>
Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-81252312571131753052013-05-08T11:02:00.000-07:002013-05-08T11:02:40.999-07:00The Joys of MovingThe joys of moving.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
First of all, whoever coined that phrase was a master of sarcasm. There is no joy in moving. There's packing, cleaning, and more packing. By the time you've filled up the 10th box of nothing but books, you begin to question the wisdom of relocating in the first place. Then there's the massive purge of half your belongings because, let's face it, they aren't valuable enough for you to schlep them across the state lines. Again. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, as you can tell, I moved. To the desert. I never thought I'd live in a place like this. It's hot, dry and absolutely beautiful. It's like I was transported to an alien world. I've never seen landscape like this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The total dork in me described moving from Seattle to Texas to Arizona as going from Caladan to Arrakis in stages. I'm just waiting to see when they'll start distributing Stillsuits in the greater Phoenix area. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As hot as it has been since I arrived, I've still made the effort to get out of the house and explore my new surroundings. At least the air conditioning in my car works. I've explored my own neighborhood and know how to find several grocery stores, the bike shop, various Goodwill locations and of course, Starbucks. I'm hoping to be employed very soon, so I'm getting my exploration done now. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So that's the update. I packed all my crap into the back of my Toyota Corolla and 1169 miles later, here I am. New home. New surroundings. New life. Same dogs. Wish me luck with the job hunt and tune in again for more random ramblings. Hopefully I'll be employed before the philosophical conversations with The Dog start to happen. </div>
Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-42674733942401537952011-12-01T21:33:00.000-08:002011-12-01T21:33:40.902-08:00And the winner is...<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hello, all!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The insanity that is National Novel Writing Month has come to a close and I am very pleased to report that I WON!! I set out to write FIFTY THOUSAND words in 30 days and I did it. Final word count at the end was 50, 478 words. I now have a complete first draft of a story that has been lurking in my head since 1997. It feels good to finally have it out. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is, by no means, a complete story. There are holes in the plot you could drive a truck through, but it's only a first draft. Edits and rewrites will make the story complete, polished and publishable. Someday. In the meantime, I'm still riding the high of setting a very ambitious goal and achieving it on the first try. This exercise (NaNoWriMo) has been the kick in the pants I needed to get back on track with my writing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My next project will be finishing the Urban Fantasy piece I've been working on since 2009. The first draft of that story took 10 weeks to complete. And, like every first draft I've ever written, it was complete crap. The second draft is proving to be a much better story, with cleaner writing, more interesting characters and a more plausible plot. I promise, there are no smegging vampires in it. But the Ducati-riding werewolf is quite a delicious creature. I can't wait for you to meet him.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been asked about the final installment of The Ouija Board story. That'll be up by the weekend. It's not the time of year for that sort of story, but I hate to leave a tale untold. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until then, Happy Reading.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-83537048036001228102011-11-04T14:57:00.000-07:002011-11-04T14:57:48.562-07:00NaNoWriMo- Let the Crazy begin...I know, I promised to wrap up the Ouija Board story. And I will. Eventually. It's a spine-tingling ending. I meant to have it all done for Halloween, but illness reared its ugly head yet again. More on that next month.<br />
<br />
November is National Novel Writing Month (<a href="http://nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">NaNoWriMo</a>) The object of the exercise is to write 50,000 words in 30 days.<br />
<br />
And guess who decided to give it a try. Yup. You guessed it.<br />
<br />
So for the next month, I will be banging away on the keyboard, trying to get the story out of my head and into Google Docs for eventual editing and someday, publication. Hopefully by that time, Stephenie Meyer will not have ruined the Ghost Story genre.<br />
<br />
Updates to follow, as the insanity waxes and wanes.<br />
<br />
Happy reading, everyone.Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-22607815266419411292011-10-27T12:38:00.000-07:002011-10-27T12:38:48.222-07:00The Ouija Board, Part 2<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Marissa was on her way back to her dorm room after an evening tutoring remedial biology students. Science was Marissa's passion. She scoffed at superstition. Her roommate, Nikki, believed in everything from aliens building the Pyramids to the boogeyman. Marissa made a hobby out of proving to Nikki why such beliefs were a waste of energy. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Just off the walkway leading from the library to her dorm, was a piece of cardboard with handwritten letters and numbers on it. A shot glass was next to it. Marissa saw an opportunity to prove another of Nikki's myths to be false. She picked up the makeshift Ouija board, stuffed the shot glass in her backpack and walked home.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The room was empty. Nikki was probably at one of her ghost hunter meetings, Marissa mused. She put the board and the shot glass on the shelf in her closet. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A few days later, Nikki asked if she could borrow one of Marissa's shirts. When Nikki opened the closet door, the Board slipped off the shelf and into her hands.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Where did this come from?” she asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I found it the other night on the quad,” Marissa said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You want to try it out?” Nikki asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Yeah, but not tonight. Let's ask Kate and Sasha to come over tomorrow night.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The next night, Nikki, Marissa and their friends brought out the Board. The girls sat in a circle in the middle of the room, placing the board on the floor between them. Nikki and Sasha were first up to hold the shot glass/Planchette. Kate hovered by the door, uneasy. The first “spirit” to make contact was that of an 8 year old boy. He told them he died in the 1940's and was looking for his mother. Sasha had lost her grandmother the year before and couldn't wait to ask the boy what happens after death. Was there really a white light? Did he know her grandmother and could he relay messages? When the boy started answering questions, Marissa and Kate each noticed the other's eye roll. Kate motioned Marissa to step outside the room with her.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “This is crap. One of them is moving the shot glass,” Marissa said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No, it isn't crap, but if that's an 8 year old boy they're talking to, I'm the Queen of England,” Kate said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The two analyzed some of the messages the boy was giving Nikki and Sasha. The vocabulary he was using was too advanced for a child. And if he died at 8 years old, it's not like he was going to continue his education at Purgatory Junior High, High School and University. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “It's weird, but somehow this all sounds familiar. I just can't place why,” Kate said. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The two girls went back in the room, and immediately noticed a change in the temperature. Nikki and Sasha were so entranced in their conversation with The Boy, they were unaware that they had been talking to The Boy for three hours. Marissa pointed it out to them when she looked at her watch and both Nikki and Sasha looked down at their hands on the shot glass.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You're moving it!” Sasha accused.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No I'm not! It's bouncing my fingers off it,” Nikki said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> That's when Kate remembered where she'd heard this story before. She ducked back out of the room and pulled out her cell phone.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Zoe? Hi, it's Kate. I really need you to come over to Marissa and Nikki's room right now. I don't want to explain over the phone. Just get here.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Fifteen minutes later, Zoe walked into Marissa's room, and screamed. Four girls were standing huddled in the corner of the room, terrified. On the floor, the shot glass skittered across the handwritten Board spelling out messages.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Where did you find this?” Zoe asked. “How did THIS board get in your room?”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “It was just on the ground near the library. I found it on my way home a few nights ago,” Marissa said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “What difference does it make?” Kate asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Because this is the board my friends and I made a few months ago. It spooked us, so we got rid of it. It disappeared. The next day, our friend Kara was supposed to pack up and move out of the apartment where we used it. We never saw her again, either.”</div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-51924313545409739932011-10-14T15:09:00.000-07:002011-10-14T15:09:18.936-07:0031 Days of Halloween ~ The Ouija Board, Part 1<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>How could a Sharpie and a shot glass turn a box into something malevolent? When you turn them into a Ouija Board, it becomes a Door to the unknown and all hell breaks loose. You don't know who or what is on the other side. And once it comes in, you'll have a devil of a time trying to get it to leave.</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Kara needed a place to live and didn't have the time or money to be particular. She didn't know her new roommates well, but they weren't home much and the rent was cheap. She was home alone (again) one evening and pleasantly surprised when three of her friends dropped by for a visit. Kara mentioned that her roommates were a little odd, and seemed to be “into weird stuff”. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “What kind of 'weird stuff'?” Emily asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I don't know for sure, but I just feel creeped out even when they're home,” Kara said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You didn't get the creepy feeling before you agreed to move in here?” Zoe asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Kara ducked her head, embarrassed. She hadn't thought to have these roommates checked out. She just needed a cheap place to crash that was close to work. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Maybe it's not the roommates,” James suggested. “Maybe the place is just haunted, and that's why you're creeped out.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The three girls' eyes lit up. A haunted apartment! How cool would that be in a few months when it was time to host a Halloween party. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “We could use a Ouija Board and try to make contact,” Kara suggested.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> James left right away at the mention of the Board. The idea of it spooked him and he refused to take part in it. The girls tried to convince him that Ouija was just a bit of fun and teased him as he walked out the door. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Do you have a board?” Zoe asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I don't, but we could make one. They're not that complicated. We'll use one of my moving boxes,” Kara replied.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She grabbed a marker from a kitchen drawer while Emily and Zoe cut the side of an empty book box. Kara grabbed a novelty shot glass from the bookshelf to use as a Planchette. They finished drawing the letters, numbers and the Yes/No on the board.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Kara turned off the lights and placed lit votive candles on the coffee table. Zoe and Emily sat on the living room floor, facing each other. The board rested on their knees and Kara placed the shot glass/Planchette on it. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “How will we know one of us isn't moving the glass to answer our own question?”Zoe asked.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I'll ask the questions while you and Emily hold the glass.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She only asked one question: “Is anyone here who wants to talk to us?”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Something answered. At first, the ghost said it was an 8 year old boy. The girls felt sympathy for the poor lost little boy who couldn't find his mommy. But then, he started to get angry with the girls. The glass flew around the board, spelling out words no 8 year old should know. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “It's bouncing me off the glass!” Emily cried.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “It's doing the same thing to me,” Zoe said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> In seconds, the glass was repelling the girls' hands, as if they were magnets facing the wrong way. It was moving of it's own accord and the girls felt a chill they shouldn't have on a warm June evening. A breeze blew over the girls, blowing out the candles and leaving them in complete darkness. Fear left the girls breathless and the only sound in the apartment was the scratching of the glass against the cardboard, spelling messages they couldn't see. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “We have to stop. This was a bad idea,” Emily said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Kara flicked her lighter on to make her way to the light switch. As soon as she flipped the lights on, the bulb popped and they were in the dark again. She lit the candles again. Emily took the board and tried to tear it in half, but the cardboard wouldn't tear.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Give me your lighter,” Zoe said, holding her hand out to Kara. Zoe held the lighter to a corner of the board, but it wouldn't ignite. It wouldn't even smolder or char. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Kara ripped the board from Zoe's hands and flung the board off the balcony.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The girls shuddered as they heard it scream on its way to the ground. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> They left five minutes later, but there was no sign of the board on the ground on their way out.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The next day, Kara came back to the apartment to pack her things. As usual, her roommates weren't home. When she opened the door, she found their Ouija Board on the coffee table, the shot glass gliding around the letters on it's own, spelling messages she didn't want to see.</div></span><br />
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</i></span></div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-60012241985698872602011-10-05T23:42:00.000-07:002011-10-05T23:42:40.448-07:00Inky Presents: the Bigfoot Story<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">I'm continuing the 31 days of Halloween theme by telling you a spooky story. And it's up to you do decide a) if you believe I'm telling you a true story or b) if I'm a complete crackpot. Here goes....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><b>Inky Presents: The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bigfoot">Bigfoot</a> Myth</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a warm November evening in 2001. My then-husband Dan and I were relaxing in the hot tub at my parents' house after dinner. When we were relaxed and pruney, we shut off the jets and climbed out of the tub. There was no other sound outside, which was odd. There should have been something. Then, piercing the silence, was the most blood-curdling wail I've ever heard. No human vocal chords could have made this sound, and yet it was not an animal's cry either. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the wail ended, every dog in the area began barking and howling as if they were scared to be outside. We hurried into the house and told my parents what we heard, but they didn't hear anything inside the house. Dad is so hard of hearing he has the television turned up almost to its maximum. A car bomb could have gone off under the living room window and Dad wouldn't have heard it. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In January, 2002, Dan and I packed up our meager belongings and prepared to move back to our most recent hometown of Billings, Mt. With my back injury, I was completely useless for helping to load the truck. We got very creative. Dan would pick up one end of a table and hand it to me, then go get the other end of the table and we walked it out to the truck. In the process of cartwheeling the couch out to the truck, we once again experienced the complete uncharacteristic silence of the neighborhood. No birds chirping. Not even the wind rustling through the evergreen boughs. This time, the silence was broken by footsteps. They weren't particularly heavy footsteps, but they were definitely made by a biped. No dog or deer or rabbit made this noise on the grass. It started on the north end of the grass and sounded as if it disappeared into the back yard. We hurried after the sound, but found nothing and no one.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The house in question is still there, and the neighborhood hasn't changed much. No more land has been cleared and no new houses have been built. So whatever was living in the woods, howling in the night and sneaking around by day, hasn't been pushed out by development. Begs the questions: what was it?... Is it still there? </span></span></div></div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-41728945932441367152011-09-29T18:22:00.000-07:002011-09-29T18:22:56.151-07:0031 Days of HalloweenOctober is almost here!! It's my favorite month of the year. Sometime this month, I'll do a brief Samhain 101 for the Halloween enthusiast who aren't sure what this holiday is all about. Hint: more than just costume parties and candy.<br />
Speaking of Halloween, this is the time of year to indulge in our favorite spooky pastimes. Check out a haunted corn maze, watch Ghost Hunters marathons, read scary books or rent scary movies.<br />
Since most scary flicks are written about haunted people/houses, I'm sure I'm not the only one who has ever asked: Now why the hell did that fool move into a haunted house? Didn't he know it was haunted? Well, maybe they didn't know, because they didn't have....(drum roll please)<br />
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INKY'S TOP 10 SIGNS YOU'RE MOVING INTO A HAUNTED HOUSE<br />
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10. It's a huge palace, and yet your broke ass can afford it, including the extensive renovations it will need.<br />
9. The developer "forgot" to tell you about the cemetery he bulldozed to put in your attached garage.<br />
8. Your "dream house" was ever shown on the news in any story related to dead people.<br />
7. You get a creepy feeling in certain rooms, and sometimes feel "watched" even when you're alone.<br />
6. Your "dream house" used to be a mortuary or an asylum. (And hey, nobody hides that fact, so WTH is wrong with you for putting a deposit and/or down payment on a freakin' mortuary or asylum?!)<br />
5. You hear things that aren't really there, like heavy footsteps walking toward you and no one is there.<br />
4. The walls are bleeding.<br />
3. The dog(s) are having a growling contest with the walls... and the walls are winning.<br />
2. High turnover in the house. Nobody manages to live there more than a few months. Sometimes less. And make sure the previous owner didn't die in the living room.<br />
1. You or some other complete freakin' moron used a OUIJA BOARD in your home. (If you or any other complete freakin' moron has used one and your house ISN'T haunted, trust me. You and it soon will be. Make friends with a priest(ess) now.)<br />
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OK, now that you're scared out of your mind (Mom) go watch a comedy and sleep with the lights on until our next post.Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-46327108460743903692011-09-08T14:16:00.000-07:002011-09-08T14:16:11.991-07:00Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Unless we're talking about Abigail Williams, Betty Parris or Ann Putnam, Jr., and their cohorts. Then children should be Bitch-slapped. And not heard.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I've been studying the Salem Witch Trials. This is one of the more tragic periods in our nation's history, and should serve as a warning of what can go wrong when a nation is ruled by Theocracy.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's difficult to pinpoint a single cause of the witch hysteria. This was a time when only members of the Puritan church were allowed to make and enforce laws. And Massachusetts Bay Colony was in crisis because their Charter was declared null with the dismissal of the former Governor. Prominent Church member and Harvard President Increase Mather was in England pleading with the King to send a new governor and reinstate their theocratic Charter. This was a time when women and children had no credibility, yet the ramblings of undisciplined children directly led to the deaths of 20 people and the imprisonment of hundreds. Why? What do these things have to do with each other?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I've made some assumptions based on what I've read. First, I assume that these little girls, the daughter and ward of Rev. Samuel Parris and his wife, were caught doing something they shouldn't have been doing. And to take the heat off, they had these “fits” and swore it was witches. Sure. The Devil made them do it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fits such as the ones the girls were pretending to have must have truly been shocking to the adults in the household. Not knowing what to make of it, the good reverend called for back-up by consulting with other prominent church elders. I think this is where the problems really started. The children were blaming “witchcraft” and the adults saw opportunity. Soon, more and more young girls were having “fits” and accusing their neighbors of witchcraft.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Soon the girls held celebrity-like status. But townsfolk had to be very careful not to anger one of them. Regardless of their piety, good people were sent to prison and/or the gallows because these little monsters SWORE they were being tormented by them. Think of it: prominent, well-respected and in some cases well-educated men were tossing people in jail based on evidence they could not see for themselves. “Spectral Evidence” as it was called was all that was needed to get a conviction. How could they be so easily duped?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And here's the rub: once you were in prison, accused of witchcraft, your property became forfeit. What a perfect way to settle property-line disputes more expediently than through the courts: accuse your neighbor of witchcraft. Better yet, have your child writhe around on the floor and swear that your neighbor is tormenting them. The neighbor gets hauled out in the middle of the night and you get to increase your land holding. A perfect scheme indeed.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Word of the crisis spread to other towns. The people of Andover were convinced there was a plague upon them. Thinking the girls were truly able to spot devils among them, the people of Andover sent for the girls. The girls were at a loss. They saw specters everywhere, but being from out of town, they weren't up on the local gossip and had no idea who to accuse. So they accused pretty much everyone. The arrest warrants went out in such high numbers that before long the sheriff simply refused to write out anymore. Most of his town was accused of witchcraft. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This first attempt to take their show on the road only bolstered the girls' feeling of power. They must have enjoyed it, but their popularity back home in Salem was waning. People were beginning to question the crisis. How was it possible that the devil had been in their midst all this time and nobody knew it until these young children started flopping like fish and pointing fingers. Some started to become suspicious about that finger pointing. But they dare not speak out against the girls lest they be accused themselves. Though their status as celebrities was waning, the girls still held some power.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The girls still didn't fully understand that they were mere pawns. It wasn't until they tried to take their show on the road a second time that they started to see the truth. On the road to Ipswich the girls came across an old woman and immediately fell to the ground and began their fits and swore this old woman was tormenting them. They were largely ignored. Those who didn't ignore them admonished them for being troublemakers. The girls got up, dusted off their clothes and retreated. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">To make a long story even longer, the new governor called for consultations from ministers and lawmakers in Connecticut and New York and it was determined that “Spectral Evidence” could not, in good conscience, be considered sufficient proof of guilt. These men were not all members of the Puritan church. Such was the new way of things, as the new Charter brought an end to theocratic rule in the New World and brought the end of the witch hunts. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So by now, you're asking why I care about this and why you should care. I care about this because I am a practicing Witch. My religion is grossly misunderstood by fundamentalist Christians who would like to see me and my kind swing from the nearest tree even now, in the 21<sup>st</sup></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">You should care about this because I see the same sort of “witch hunt” happening in our country. Politicians vowing to “investigate the LGBT agenda” or signing a “marriage pledge” that marriage should only legally exist between one man and one woman, are out to take away the rights of those who are different from them. People, wake up. When politicians are OK with taking away the rights of entire communities of AMERICAN CITIZENS there is a problem! </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Thus ends my one and only political rant. The moral of the story is “Those who do not understand their history are doomed to repeat it.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-77787067797886537502011-06-28T09:43:00.001-07:002021-07-30T15:10:39.183-07:00William Shakespeare, Rock Star Feminist<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know what you're thinking: The Twitter withdrawals have her mind all wonky. How is Shakespeare a feminist? Well, he's not exactly. But then again, have you read Much Ado About Nothing? If you haven't, allow me to introduce you to one of my favorite figments of The Bard's imagination: Beatrice.</div>
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Beatrice is a bit past her prime as far as marriageable women go. So given the time, she was probably around 18. Spinsterhood by all accounts. She wasn't ugly. She just had opinions, they differed from those of the men around her, and yet she expressed them anyway. Her uncle Leonato tried to encourage her to see reason and someday get married. Her response:</div>
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“Not til God make men of some other metal than Earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust! To make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?”</div>
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What she's saying is that she's not willing to settle for a man who is beneath her intellect and emotional maturity. Until God creates a man who is her equal, all men can sod off.</div>
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The Bard's work is among the works that should be held as a literary standard in our language. If you've not read these works, you've been wasting your library card and/or Barnes & Noble Membership. I own a copy of the leather-bound, gold-trimmed pages of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. I study this not just because the plays are entertaining, but I learn things about character development and dialog that cannot be learned from the standard fare occupying the YA or even Adult Fiction sections of the bookstore. It's as if it's a dying art to create characters and interactions that require the reader to think without having EVERYTHING spelled out for them. And it impresses the hell out of people when I can quote Shakespeare from memory. </div>
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Why is Shakespeare so intimidating for modern audiences? Partially because he wrote using Iambic Pentameter. The rhythm of his work is carefully constructed into a masterpiece of the written word. He didn't just find words he liked and string them together free-form and hope for the best. </div>
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Another problem for the Shakespeare-illiterate is word usage. Over time, slang changes and unless you're well versed in the history of your language, the subtle nuances will escape you. Take this exchange, again from Much Ado About Nothing:</div>
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Beatrice: The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well. But civil, count; civil as an orange and something of that jealous complexion. </div>
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Here, Beatrice is trying to convey that Count Claudio is in a foul mood because he thinks his pal Don Pedro poached his girlfriend, Hero. Beatrice explains that Claudio is jealous of Pedro. We miss that because of the orange thing. Nowadays, people are “green with envy”. Not so then, apparently. </div>
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Before anyone gets it in their heads that all of Shakespeare's women were these fiercely independent, sharp-tongued she-devils, meet Hero.</div>
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This chick does not live up to her name. She falls hopelessly in love with Claudio, and he with her, yet they hardly speak two words to each other. Claudio even has to have his wing man, Pedro, do the proposing for him. And then, in a case of mistaken identity, Claudio calls Hero a slut and leaves her at the altar. I don't know about any of you, but if some little piss ant called ME a whore ON MY WEDDING DAY, you better believe I'm knocking his lights out. But not Hero. She just cries and passes out. Not so Beatrice. She gets angry! She swears that were she a man, she would “eat his heart in the marketplace!” My kind of chick. Sadly, back then, women weren't allowed to duel. So she suckers Benedick into challenging Claudio for Hero's honor. </div>
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For those who have read this or (shudder, gasp) seen the movie, yes, I am completely discounting the fact that Shakespeare treats both Beatrice and Benedick as gullible fools who fall in love with each other based on he-said/she-said conspiracies cooked up by their family and friends to while away the time before Claudio and Hero's ill-fated wedding. That's not the point of this blog! The point is, Beatrice was a strong-willed, outspoken woman in a time when such was not tolerated, appreciated or encouraged. Go Shakespeare!</div>
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You would think he would have set a trend. If the literary genius that was William Shakespeare could create the kind of women with whom I would go have drinks, why would authors then take a step backward in the feminist movement? I can cite two FEMALE authors who make me ashamed of my gender with the way they've chosen to portray us.</div>
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Jane Austen. Love her or hate her, she's an important part of literary history. She wrote in the early 19<sup>th</sup> century when women were still treated as property. But look at Sense and Sensibility. The Dashwood sisters drive me absolutely crazy! Their only concern in life was finding a man. It reminds me of high school, when the only thoughts that consumed a girl's mind was what to wear and who to date. Granted, in Austen's time, who you married determined your fate. But Marianne and Eleanor were just so.. simpering. Weak. Defeated. Shallow. They fell in love after exchanging two or three words with a handsome fellow. And then were shocked when things didn't work out like the fairy tales.</div>
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Fast forward a few hundred years, you see characters like Margrit Knight or Joanne Walker (C.E. Murphy) and even Stephanie Plum (Janet Evanovich), and wonder why would anyone want to go back to reading about weak, pointless women? Then the unthinkable happened. Emerging from the Young Adult section, we have that clumsy teenage girl who moved to Washington and fell in love with the sparkly, emo Pansy-Vampire and suddenly all she needed to make her life complete was a husband and a baby. Never mind an education, a job, a home of her own, or some sense of accomplishment in this life. No, just the husband and baby for her. The author is a genre-ruining hack, but I'm not allowed to say her name or the series I'm complaining about because it's bad form for an unpublished author to find fault with a published author. Screw it. Her little dream sequence set to paper shouldn't have been published the way it was. And she had ample opportunity, as the offers from the publisher came in, to straighten up her main character and give her something to do besides fall down a lot, get hurt and get in the way. She had a responsibility to her young female audience and she blew it. The role model she created is, in my unpublished author opinion, a prime example of what not to do as an author and who not to be as a woman.</div>
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The feminist movement outside of literature has come so far since the days when women were sold or traded as slaves or brood mares to the highest bidder. We're enjoying more equality in the workplace, even though there is still some room for improvement. I'm all about equal pay for equal work, but I still want to be seen as a lady. There is nothing wrong with Chivalry. Hold a door open for me. Buy my dinner. Treat me with respect as the fairer sex, not the weaker sex. It is possible to be seen as feminine and still be respected.</div>
Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-16818090655850766582011-05-04T16:26:00.001-07:002021-07-30T15:00:15.256-07:00Rodent's RevengeAt 4:28 a.m, I heard the snap. It woke me from a sound sleep, and I knew.<br />
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Somewhere in my kitchen, the mouse was dead.<br />
<br />
I didn't feel relieved. Somehow, I knew that there would be more than one. Much to my dismay, I was right. Earlier this afternoon, I heard another snap. This time, under the kitchen sink. Just now, more rodenty scuffling. I think the invasion is in full swing.<br />
<br />
Not that I'm not getting my catnip's worth out of Vitto, but I was really hoping he could have this taken care of quickly. Just had a meeting with him and... well...<br />
<br />
Me: Vitto, I thought you were going to take care of my little problem.<br />
Vitto: You think you got problems? Last week my old lady dropped a litter... looked like the freakin' Tabby down the street, but I'M the one that's gotta take a little trip to vet.<br />
Me: Um. Sorry to hear that but back to the mouse infestation?<br />
Vitto: Yeah, about that. See, I can finish the job for you, but it's gonna cost you, see.<br />
Me: I already paid you.<br />
Vitto: You paid me for one mouse. I took care of that mouse. Now you tell me there are more mouses. More mouses means more payment.<br />
Me: It's "mice" actually,<br />
(Vitto sharpens his claws and looks at me.)<br />
Me: (gulps) How much are we talking? More catnip?<br />
Vitto: Catnip Shmatnip. Sounds like you got a nest. Could be rats even. We're talking some more catnip, some kitty treats, and if there's a rat, I want fish. I like a good salmon, you know what I mean?<br />
<br />
Yeah, Vitto I know what you mean. But I want my house back, so I guess I'm going down to the Market to get Vitto the freshest Salmon I can find. But only after he shows me the death certificates.<br />
<br />
The saga continues....Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-84472269045966263082011-05-01T22:50:00.001-07:002021-07-30T14:54:40.208-07:00The War of the Rodents<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">One mouse does not an infestation make. However, THIS house is not big enough for me AND The Mouse.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The Mouse has to go. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I know, he's only a little field mouse. If he were in a FIELD instead of my HOUSE, I wouldn't have a problem with him. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The Dog used to be good at keeping critters out of the house. Once he caught a rat before it could nest in my laundry room. The down side was that he had the dead rat on his doggy bed. Daddy removed the rat, and Mommy burned the doggy bed. I can't have dead rat cooties near my dogs. What kind of conscientious pet parent would I be?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> But back to the mouse... at first, I just wanted him gone. Relocated safely back to the field, government check in paw. I also thought The Dog would take care of this little problem quickly. Then, I didn't just hear the mouse, I SAW the mouse. And of course, screamed like a little girl. I'm not afraid of the mouse, I'm just completely grossed out by his presence in my home. He's tracking in dirt and disease after all.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> After screaming the walls down, I would have thought that The Dog would have cut short his mid-morning nap to see what the hell his human was up to. I was wrong. So I stopped screaming, ran to the living room to get The Dog, brought him to where the mouse had been spotted, and proceeded to start screaming again. Because it made me feel better, that's why. It's what housewives in America do, it's what Mom would have done, and that's worked pretty well so far.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The Dog was unable to spot the mouse. Apparently, it's a sneaky mouse.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Fast forward a few days, and I'm in the living room working when I see something out of the corner of my eye. It's just a bit too small to be Bella, the mini-Dachshund. I looked down and saw The Mouse, checking out the titles on my lowest bookshelf. He's an intelligent mouse. A well-read mouse. A cheeky mouse.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Again, The Dog proves worthless as rodent deterrent. As I'm watching the mouse scurrying along the floor, The Dog has his nose firmly planted in a book instead of chasing the mouse. I'm struck with a sudden memory of a book I read as a child called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mouse-Motorcycle-Beverly-Cleary/dp/0380709244">The Mouse and the Motorcycle</a>. This mouse is no Ralph, but maybe I should get him a little toy motorcycle. If he can ride it, he can stay and I'LL relocate. To the field, government check in hand. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> This mouse caper has raged for a week now. This morning I pulled out of the driveway to get coffee and saw the neighbor's cat sitting next to our truck. I rolled down the window and asked, “Hey, are you a Mouser? Can I borrow you for a few hours?” I'm starting to feel my Italian roots showing, as I realize this cat conversation could be construed as contracting a hit. Fortunately, the cat declined. Apparently her occupation is keeping windowsills warm. She doesn't diversify. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The Hubs suggested getting a snake. Anybody know a snake named Guido who works cheap, fast and brings his own ice pick? The snake was vetoed. I explained to The Hubs that yes, a snake <b>could</b> get rid of a mouse but it would also <b>definitely</b> get rid of The Wife. Also, contracting a hit on a mouse would probably bring the wrath of PETA down upon us. Or worse, the Field Mouse Relocation Rights Association. I'm not looking for more trouble, I just want my house back.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> As of this posting, the mouse is still in the house, The Dog is so fired and I'm negotiating with a nice cat from a good Italian family, named Vitto. He sounds like Dom de Louise in Robin Hood, Men In Tights.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Me: Can you catch this mouse and relocate him?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Vitto: Relocate, sure, we can call it that.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Me: Seriously, I don't want to kill the mouse, I just want him out of the house.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Vitto: Details, details. Forget about it. You ask Vitto for help, Vitto helps. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Me: Vitto, are you gonna whack the mouse?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Vitto: You don't need to know. All you need to know is you come to Vitto with a problem, Vitto takes care of it, and you don't got a problem no more, Capisci?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Me: (plunks down dime bag of cat nip and walks away)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And now we wait, while my Sicilian great-grandmother spins in her grave, somewhere in New York at the cultural blasphemy I just committed. </div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-41361463907970186452011-04-29T15:01:00.001-07:002011-04-29T15:01:56.273-07:00Things I learned from The Shining<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Things I've learned from The Shining</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The other day I was in such a bad mood that the violence of a horror movie seemed like the perfect balm to soothe my angry soul. I popped in Stanley Kubrick's vision of Stephen King's The Shining. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I learned a few things from this movie, and thought it prudent to share with you all. They are as follows, in no particular order. <b>SPOILER ALERT</b> If you haven't seen this movie, there be spoilers here.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><ol><ol><ol><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Never drive a VW Bug in Colorado in the dead of winter. </div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Kids are creepy.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">EVERYTHING is built on an Indian burial ground. </div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Never take the creepy kid on a tour of the kitchen, then leave him alone to eat ice cream with the creepier cook.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The 1970's were just as bad a decade for interior design as it was for clothing. </div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">If your creepy kid has imaginary friends in his mouth, it's time for medication. For everybody.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Riding a tricycle on a hardwood floor would get your ass killed in my house.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There's ALWAYS something bad in Room 237.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Daddy drinks because Mama's a bat short of a full cave. </div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Its not a horror movie without bleeding walls and naked chicks in a tub.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">If said naked chick climbs out of the aforementioned tub to make out with you, yes, it IS too good to be true.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Ghostly residue smells like burned toast. Possibly tastes like chicken.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Is Jack Nicholson really acting? Or is he bat-shit crazy in real life, too?</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Only the really lucky alcoholics get to stay in abandoned hotels with ghost bartenders who don't charge for cocktails. </div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I didn't mean it; I was drunk” is a complete BS line, in movies and in real life.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Never take marital/parenting advice from a dead British butler.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">All work and no play makes Jack a freakin' psychopath</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We'll have to explain to the next generation what a freakin' typewriter is. </div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Frozen, Jack Nicholson looks a lot like Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein.</div></li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">You just can't find good help these days. Er..those days. </div></li>
</ol></ol></ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So, now that I've completely ruined this classic for you, feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you've learned from movies.</div>Inklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1180119405431712408.post-47576201623287512212011-02-21T13:00:00.000-08:002011-02-21T13:00:47.149-08:00It was Col. Mustard in the Library with the Beef LogAs an unpublished author with only one manuscript out of 11 to have actually made it to "Complete First Draft" status, I try not to read too much about how to get published. I feel it's a bit of putting the cart before the horse to immerse myself in the politics of publishing, getting an agent, etc. I don't have anything to show them. So my first priority has been and will remain, finishing projects. Getting them to that coveted "Complete First Draft" stage so I can get to editing, polishing, and preparing a draft to be reviewed by an editor. I'll worry about query letters etc then. Other aspiring or published authors may disagree with my process. Please feel free to tell me why you think I should do things your way. I may or may not take your advice, but I promise I'll be nice about it.<br />
<br />
Speaking of being nice, that's one of the things I read about "What to do to become an author". It was more of a what NOT to do, and that is: Do not ever bash another author. Basically, this article said not to give scathing reviews of another author's work. Really? Why not? If I genuinely did not like the book, I can't say WHY I didn't like it? I'm not saying I think it's OK to say horrific things about an author because that's just mean-spirited and juvenile. I wouldn't want someone to do that to me. But to be told I can't express my opinion about their work? What the hell is literary CRITICISM for if not to point out what we don't like about a story and WHY we don't like it? Why are there even guidelines by which to judge a manuscript's quality?<br />
<br />
As a book-buying member of our society, I think it's perfectly within my rights to complain when a book I purchase with my husband's hard-earned money disappoints me thoroughly. Movie critics do it all the time. In fact, Roger Ebert just<a href="http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20110216/REVIEWS/110219991"> labeled</a> I Am Number Four as "shameless and unnecessary." Obviously, Mr. Ebert isn't afraid of hurting Michael Bay's feelings. And I noticed Mr. Bay doesn't file lawsuits against everyone who dislikes his work. But we have to walk on eggshells about other authors or else we won't get our own work published? Hmmm. Where's my Dislike button?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.yafantasyguide.com/for-writers/the-responsibility-of-young-adult-writers.htm">Here's</a> a blog post my Twitter Turncoat pal <a href="http://jodilhenry.blogspot.com/">Jodi</a> sent me today. Here's an example of criticizing a dangerous piece of YA literature, without personally attacking the author. And I could not agree more with Maria Goodson's assessment. So read the critique and let me know your thoughts on this Don't Insult Anyone's Work Or Else conspiracy. And for the record, if I ever wrote a vampire story and Stephen King read it and called me a hack who should have her fingers broken before being allowed to write again, I would still be excited. I'd be thinking, "Stephen King read my work! Sure he hated it and determined it wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, but still. THE Stephen King read it!" <br />
<br />
As to the title of this post... well... Let's just say I find humor in the oddest places, including the top of Jodi's refrigerator. I'll explain later.<br />
Happy ReadingInklizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09330649171330303999noreply@blogger.com0