Arrant Nonsense

I won't even call you scam artists because you're just not that good. But here's a newsflash for you: I've been on to you since way before the first time you called me. So when I get a call that hangs up on me, and google the number, and see via the helpful folks at 800notes that it's one of you? I figure you'll probably call back because you know you've got a live one. And I prepared for that, oh yes I did.

Sure enough, you did. After the usual "your computer has been sending errors to us" spiel, you asked me to turn it on. I informed you that it was on, and I was in front of it right now. And that's when it got funny.

"What's on your screen right now?" you asked.

I answered sweetly, "An article from Wired.com titled 'What happens if you play along with a Microsoft tech support scam.'"

"Oh." *click*

Hilarity ensued from my husband and son. But you, my friend, got off lightly. Because I kept the last scammer on the phone for nearly 13 minutes, wasting his time and letting him think I was falling for it. I do this for entertainment. So you might as well stop calling me.

I know you won't, though. So I'll continue to string you along every time you call, keeping you from calling some poor schlub who might actually fall for your dumb scheme.

No love,
Me

In other news, I got word the other day that they're starting audiobook production for my novel! So that is spiffy and awesome. I'm thrilled.

And I got an acceptance from Far Fetched Fables for the cow story, which will be going into audio production soon.

In other other news, the White Cat passed away a couple of weeks ago. She was nearly 16 and had chronic feline rhinotracheitis her entire life, and managed to outlive both the dog and the other cat, but it's still never easy, especially so soon after the dog passed. Before you ask, yes, we're going to get a pair of kittens, but after the holidays and all the travel that entails.

And in yet other critter news, if you haven't been following along, we went to the pet store for a guinea pig hammock and, uh, came home with another guinea pig. All three of them are still figuring out exactly what this is, and we haven't left the new one alone overnight in the cage with the other two, who are more than twice his size. But they're getting along okay, as good as guinea pigs get along, I guess, and Gandalf is little and cute and I'm pretty sure that he is also a Silky rather than an American breed. He's got the same sort of hair that Killian had when we got him. But we shall see. He's super cuddly. <3

Also, mad props to Kurt Russell, who laid a beautiful smackdown on a clueless reporter vis a vis guns. I have many thoughts about the issue myself, but that will require an entry of its own.

Anyone got a boa constrictor or python I can borrow?

So, yeah, Da Boy knocks on my bedroom door at 9am (which is an hour before I usually get up when the Hubby's off on a three-day trip, which he is now) and proceeds to tell me that "we have a rat."

Rather impatiently (because, seriously, not at my best that time of the morning), I shoo him back downstairs after informing him that he must be mistaken and that it was probably just a gopher (which we have ongoing problems with and are old hat), and what did he expect me to do about it right this minute anyway? It couldn't wait an hour?

I eventually wander downstairs to find him peering out the front window. "See?" he says triumphantly.

Why, yes. Yes, I do. You did not inform me, child, that the creature you saw was in the front yard. That was important information. I still might have dismissed it as over-active imagination (I should learn to trust my men more, because I had the same reaction to the Hubby one year when he informed me that we had a bear in the tree right over the Jeep we were sleeping in at 2am, camping--and I figured it was probably a raccoon until I saw it and realized that THERE HAD BEEN A BEAR NOT THREE FEET AWAY FROM ME WHILE I SLEPT IN A JEEP WITH AN OPEN BACK), and wondered if our mice (which are, thankfully, gone) had moved around to the front, but I wouldn't have had the immediate thought of "gopher."

This is no gopher. This is a rat, y'all. And not a little rat, or a muskrat, either. It's a rat the size of a fucking soda can. And it's apparently taken up residence under my front porch.

I just hope the damned thing didn't bring along friends and relatives, because holy shit.

The mice were tolerable. The occasional (garter) snake is freakin' awesome. I love the ducks. I don't mind the mild odor of skunk wafting over the neighborhood. The muskrats in the canal a block away are adorable. The gophers are a nuisance and I don't like them much, but I don't have a KILL IT WITH FIRE reaction.

But I draw the line at gorram rats.

And yes, I realize that, considering the mouse problem we had not that long ago, I should perhaps create a "vermin" tag.

Hey, there, you big beady-eyed bastard:

Remember Cujo? We found the rest of his family.

We trapped two adult mice last night, after the trap sat empty for about two weeks, and we'd just about given up. The Hubby turned them loose over by the canal around noon. And then, later today, he was in the basement getting packing material for shipping some eBay sales off, glanced at the window well...

OH HAI.



At least two more adult mice, and at minimum four more babies.

And, you know, if they'd stay there, eating the bird seed that falls out of the feeder (which is what attracted them), I wouldn't have a problem with them. But they won't do that--they'll go into the walls and get in the house, and I can't have that, because gross. So. We'll trap them, alive, and ship them over to the canal. Where I hope they live happy little lives away from me.

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

In other news, have a short snippet:

Angeline sat on the couch with Ben's feet in her lap. Both of them were reading, but Ben set his book down with a pained sigh. He rolled over onto his side with his back to the room, and her heart twisted. She tightened her hand on his calf. "Puppy?"

"Mmph."

"Bloody hell," she muttered, and he cringed. "Och, I'm not mad at you, Benji," she hastened to say. "More frustrated with the whole situation. I wish there was something I could do to make this easier." Her confession the day before had just made everything awkward, although he'd tried to mitigate it. She wished now that she hadn't said anything.

"You've stuck your neck out for me way more than you ought to already, Ange," he said from under his arm. "I just suck at adjusting. Probably ought to get your next wolf someplace besides Basket Cases R Us."

Ben's been rescued. He doesn't believe it. And, go:

"Shh. You're safe now. Really."

"Cage. Demon. Syringe. Pain."

She could do something about the needle, and she got up and grabbed it. "Ben. Watch." Janni threw it outside the cell, hard, when he looked up. "Okay? I'm not going to inject you with anything. Everyone was worried about you, that was just a precaution. We've got you in here because you jumped out a window into the ocean the first time you woke up."

"That's because this isn't...fuck, obviously it's real, for a certain value of real. I just--I can't. I was supposed to die. It was supposed to be over. And now--"

"It is over. You're out, and you're safe, and you're coming home with me to Los Angeles." She went back to stroking her fingers up and down his arm, scooting closer to him, and he didn't cringe away. "Come here, sweetie. Come on." He slid down the wall onto his side, until his head rested on her leg, and she said, "Smell me, Ben. Your eyes might lie to you, but your nose never has."

"Nose is broken. Friggin' wolfsbane. I'm so tired." He wasn't tired enough to relax; although he'd closed his eyes, he was still stiff as a board, and shaking. "I miss Ange. Always knew exactly where I stood with her." He sighed. "I know I'm not going to get to see Janni ever again, because I so don't deserve that, and she wouldn't want me back anyway. But if I'm really good, could you send me back to Ange? Would that be too much?"

In other news, Cujo died in the night, which...wasn't surprising, all things considered. But, woe. Yes, I know how odd that is.

We just found a live baby mouse in our basement. It's fully furred but clearly not full-grown. A mouse morsel.

And we can't bring ourselves to kill it because it's so damned cute.

So, I've got it in a little plastic critter carrier with a capful of water and a corner of bread. We've decided to see if it lives until spring and then release it. *headdesks*

We've named it "Cujo." Because Cujo had rabies.

The Gray Cat just gets weirder and weirder.

This is a cat who wraps her tail around herself and then very carefully places her front feet on it to keep it anchored. This is a cat who adores it when the (spayed, female) dog humps her. This is a cat who likes getting pet by our feet, the rougher the better, but doesn't like it when you touch her with your icky icky hands. This is a cat who likes getting brushed backwards.

This is a cat who walks like a camel.

Most mammals, when they walk, move the opposite front and back legs together. Camels are the exception to this. They move the front and back legs on the same side together.

And so, apparently, does the Gray Cat. It's one of the oddest damn things I've ever seen in a life filled with odd things.

My theory that cats are actually aliens sent to spy on us, and that some of them aren't actually very good at being cats, is thus reinforced.

The White Cat really needs to have a talk with her.

Now I just need Plot.

*pokes Bunny*

What's horrible is that I have the house to myself (Da Boy is over at a friend's house and the Hubby is at work), the internets has failed to be entertaining (although customers_suck has just introduced me to the concept of a coffee-oreo shake and I OMG WANT ONE NAO), and so I have time to sit here and write.

In market news, apparently Spacesuits and Sixguns isn't getting the sort of subs they want, and has thus delayed releasing the current issue. So, if you have anything pulp-y, in the 4000-word range, ship it to them!

In kitty news, we have a two-inch sliver of sunlight coming in through the backdoor window. The Gray Cat has appropriated it.

( Rambling about the stimulus payment, word pronunciation, the wacky wacky weather, and my horrible girly bits. )
For something completely different, I've discovered an object lesson in how a professional writer should not act under any circumstances.

Exhibit A: u have an attitude. then what the hell do you publish lip service? I don't need you.

Exhibit B: I have been published all over this world I don't need you attitude so I deleted your ass and have a good trip.

Exhibit C: Assholes like you are only amusing. And no, I don't need to watch what I say to editors. I am an editor of four publications. I have also published my poems 706 times in the last 14 months, in over 200 publications. Guidelines are important, but not to the point of exlusion for their own sake; over quality of submissions, or, even a novice such as myself to flash fiction.

These are all from the same guy, to two different publications...after he got rejected for sending them something completely out of guideline. Apex Digest doesn't publish poetry, and AlienSkin doesn't publish stories under 500 words, unless they're in the "micro" category, in which case they must be exactly 150 words.

But apparently Mr. Michael Lee Johnson thinks that he is a Very Special Snowflake, and the guidelines don't apply to him! After all, he's been published at a vanity press Lulu! You'd think that these would be the actions of a spoiled 18-year-old kid.

You'd be wrong. According to his profile on Blogger, he's sixty.

Oi.

They say that you shouldn't pet a cat backwards.

Well, what about combing one (or two?) backwards? It's winter, and the Gray Cat now deigns to sit on my lap, as long as there's a blanket on it. So I grabbed the comb and started going through her fur. She's a short-haired cat (lynx-point Siamese mix, we think), so going through it the right way didn't take long.

"Huh," thinks I, "wonder what she'll do if I start combing her backwards." Earlier, the White Cat hadn't minded this a bit (the White Cat doesn't care what you do to her as long as you're OMG TOUCHING HER NOW NOW NOW), but the Gray Cat is somewhat...quirkier with her likes and dislikes. For example, she loves being pet with feet. Hands, not so much. Hands are, apparently, icky and gross.

So, I fully expected her to jump off my lap the second I started this experiment. But she didn't. In fact, she just lay there blissfully while I combed her backwards from her nose to her butt. She didn't purr, but she hardly ever does anyway, so this wasn't a surprise.

"Wonder what she'll do if I do her tail too?" I thought.

Yeah, that got her actually purring.

And her tail looked marvelous.

Weirdo.

...is a complete and total weirdo. Not only does she seem to actually enjoy getting humped by my (spayed female, which is another issue) dog, but this is how she frequently sits:



Note the position of her front feet: Squarely on her tail. Is she afraid it'll escape if she doesn't hold it down? Only the Shadow knows.

In writing news, I've decided, at least for now, to do the cya_ficathon story in River 1st person POV. We'll see how that goes. And I sent the HNC story off to my (published) Mom to see what she thinks. *cringes*

Also, my house is halfway clean. And the Hubby's home. Yay!