All Hail, Her Majesty

If all writers are nuts, I'm the Queen of InsaneIstan.

About five minutes after I sent it out, I hate every story I write. Even if some kind editor actually wants to pay me money for my words.

Case in point: The editor for Modern Magic anthology just sent me comments for my short story. My first reaction was to cringe and think, "I wrote that two years ago. I don't even want to look at it." The correct reaction should have been, "Cool. Now I can get PAID."

Until a couple of years ago, I couldn't stand the idea of anyone reading my fiction. So I didn't write any. Ever. Nowadays, I claim that neurosis has been beaten into submission.

Actually, it's just taken a new form. I send things out and perversely hope they'll just go away. "Go ahead. Read it. Just don't tell me you read it."

On the upside, I take rejection well. "Yeah. You're right. It's horrible." OTOH, the attitude isn't conducive to sales. Recently, one market rejected a story, but suggested changes and asked to see it if I made the changes. Have I made the changes? Nooo. My excuse. I'm waiting till that market reopens for submissions. Or perhaps I'm waiting for Christmas or pigs to fly or...

Right. Meanwhile, I could be submitting a new improved version to other markets. But no, I have to be Ms. NeuroticPants.

So the goal for today is to make changes to the [sold] story and get it back to the MM editor. And revise the "near miss story." And send a third story out to submission land.

And hope it goes away.

What Would Rat Dog Do?

Christmas barrettes for dogs. PetSmart has several styles and colours, as well as a host of cute costumes.

For dogs.

Rat Dog and I are standing in front of a display of stupid consumerism. I pick up a Santa costume and note that it's made in China. Ever wonder what the Chinese laborers think of the crap they make? To some segments of the Chinese population, dogs are entrées.

Barrette for dog? Like putting dress on chicken.

I cut a look at the Rat Dog. She frowns through her crusty beard. Don't even think about it.

Meanwhile, a young woman in low-rise jeans and a scoop front knit top walks over. She's carrying a little tan Chihuahua dog. Apparently small dogs are now a fashion accessory. I scoop up Rat Dog and head for the dog food isle aisle. The Rat goes stiff as a board.

Nuh-uh. You're not Paris Hilton and I'm not a prop. Put me down!

Back on the floor she goes. We fill the cart with meals for her and The Greyhound. The Greyhound doesn't go to PetSmart because he's afraid of the shiny floor. The Rat Dog fears nothing except soap and water.

We make it through the checkout where I actually remember my pin number for the debit card. I have dyscalculia and forget the number every other time.

It's a nice sunny day and I'm feeling spiffy because I'm wearing my new black turtleneck top and clean jeans. The Rat Dog and I march toward the car.

My euphoria bubble is burst by an old woman who flags me down. She's standing by the handicap parking. Plastic tubing from an oxygen tank snakes around her face. The oxygen tank sits in an otherwise empty shopping cart. One hand clutches the handle on a retractable leash and the other end is attached to a mop dog. Moppy has wandered several feet away to sniff a stunted tree in the median. Grandma's face is round, friendly and full of hope.

"Can you tell me how to get to Del Norte?"

Eh? I look around, thinking she can't be asking me.

I can't give directions to save my life. Hold a gun to my head and demand directions to Wal-Mart. My answer would be, "If the first shot doesn't kill me, shoot again. None of this Terry Schiavo feeding tube bullshit, 'K?"

I'm poised to run like hell. The Rat Dog, my furry conscience, stands fast, tail wagging and chirping a greeting at Grandma.

"Uh, erm, if you go down this street..."

"Which street?"

"Um. That one. I don't know its name." Wild hand gestures follow.

After a while, she either gets it or realizes I'm a moron and gives up. She gestures at the cart and says something about helping her "with this."

Double eh?

More hand gestures--bloody hell, it's like the Pilgrims trying to communicate with the Indians at Thanksgiving--and I realize she wants me to put her cart away. About that time, her little mop dog wraps itself around the spindly tree. The elderly shouldn't be allowed to drive or own retractable dog leashes.

"Your dog's tangled," I say.

"Oh." She heads for Moppy and her oxygen tubes tangle with the cart. Moppy rushes back to her, spots Rat Dog and darts around the other side of the cart. Oblivious of the chaos, Moppy and Rat Dog do the butt-sniff thing.

Grandma is now attached to her cart via Moppy's lead and the plastic tubing: she looks like a fly caught in a thick web.

At this point, someone might think I was calm and collected. Truth: My brain, like Elvis, has left the building.

I watch her flail for a minute before I haul the brain back from a beach in Hawaii. I reload all the software, get systems online and pick up the oxygen tank, which fortunately, is light. I hand her the tank and bend down to Moppy.

I'm leery of mop dogs, since most would just as soon bite your nose off than be pleasant. "Cutesy, whootsey, widdle doggie woggie," I say in baby voice.

Rat Dog glares. You never talk to me like that.

Moppy doesn't take my face off and I get him back to Grandma. I get the cart away from her, quick. "Have a nice day."

See. That wasn't so difficult, the Rat Dog seems to say, tail curled over her back, marching over the asphalt in a jaunty stride.

"Last time I'm taking you shopping," I answer.

I load the dog food and dog in the car. Driving away, I keep a careful eye out for Grandma.

The two of us on the same roadway would be a disaster.

Have a mah-velous Sunday.
P.K.

A Sunday Morning In Fall

For the last three weeks, the Rio Grande Valley has been ablaze with color. The cottonwoods of the bosque were draped with buttery bright Fall leaves.

With the dropping night temperatures, the tree pictured and most of the others have faded to a brittle golden brown. It's twenty-five degrees when I finally get up at seven-thirty and stagger out to feed Nikster. Nikster, annoyed by the late meal, throws a tantrum, bucking up and down by the gate. When I get close enough he neighs, a blast of hay breath hits my face.

I feed the horse and head for the house. The air is noisy with the gobbling calls of sandhill cranes who have spent the night in nearby fields before heading south to Bosque Del Apache Refuge. Nice fall morning, but too cool for my taste. I return to bed and the J-man.

Propane, the only heating fuel for many rural residents and trailer trash, is also the most expensive, so J-man has decided that the thermostat will be set on "polar" this winter. Around nine, the dogs decide it must be warmer outside. The Rat Dog stomps on us, an intrepid little soldier marching over the bodies of the dead. The Greyhound whips his long tail against the bed. J-man wobbles out of bed and kicks them outside and the day begins.

After breakfast, he heads out to work on a gate commission. I wash dishes, all the while aware of the fidgeting, twitching dogs. Because there'll be no rest for this wicked writer, I take them for a walk.

We troop along the irrigation ditch bank. Another sure sign of the end of summer, the ditch is now dry. It has been transformed into a highway, the sandy, rippled bottom speckled with footprints--coyote and dog probably.

We pass a tree farm, the infant trees bare-limbed like their larger counterparts. Then there's a yard with two shaggy Icelandic horses. In the summer, those coats look miserable, but now they are enviable. The Nikster never gets very shaggy. (But since attempts to blanket him are met with a hunger strike, he must make due with what nature gave him.)

It's warmed up to the high forties and we see other dog walkers and bicyclists. A chain saw buzzes somewhere and a lazy dust devil tangles with a stand of cottonwoods. The dust devil grabs leaves and then sends them spiraling upward, bronze confetti against a crisp blue sky.

We return home and stop to watch the J-man polish a steel gate panel: the metal winks blue-silver in the bright sun. We go in the house. I take off the dogs' leads and they head for the water bowls. As I hang up the leads, the Greyhound hears the distinctive jingle.

He rushes over and whines: "A walk? Are we going for a walk? Oh boy, let's go for a walk."

Have a happy Sunday.

Join The Revolution

Because I've been admonished for "dissing" my greyhound.



Greyhounds have owned important American military and political figures such as George Washington, Rutherford B. Hayes, Cleopatra and George A. Custer, and have shaped modern global politics. Now you can support the Greyhound breed's conquest for World Domination with official "Obey the Greyhound!" propaganda.

Displaying "Obey the Greyhound!" propaganda shows your obedience of the Greyhound breed, and quickly convinces family, friends, and co-workers to prepare for the Greyhound Revolution.

The Greyhounds might at times appear lazy, but the Department of Homeland Security has reason to believe that they are simply storing energy, so that when the time comes, they will be ready to launch their world domination plot.

When the Greyhounds take over the world, will you be spared as one of "the lucky ones?"

Site also has other breed revolution propaganda for sale.

Ratbeard the Filthy

You know the house is a disaster when the dog picks up rubbish in its fur.

Saturday, the Rat Dog's beard picked up a dryer sheet. Perhaps she wanted to be Downy fresh.

It's no wonder, really, since her little beard and mustache were crusted with dog food and fish hooks had formed at the tips. On Sunday, her face snagged a herd of dust bunnies.

Ultimately, I had no choice. I washed the dog. As long as she isn't scooping up garbage, I can ignore the house.

Other Stuff...
I need to get loads of writing and a critique done today. Also, on the agenda: worm Nikster the Wonder Horse. On the plus side, he won't speak to me for a day after worming, so I'm absolved of horse training for the day.

I'm staying off the Internet, lest politics get my blood boiling and evaporate all my creative juices.

If you're looking for a time waster, here's a link to a Fat Girl dolly maker.

Have a terrif Tuesday.
Pat K.

Can We Send Him To A Special School?

One supposed test of a dog's intelligence is the towel test.

Toss a towel over his/her head. The quicker the dog removes the towel, the smarter the dog. When we tried this with the Greyhound, he walked around the house crashing into furniture. He's not bright.

But he knows where he doesn't want to go--the vet.

A couple weeks ago we gave the vet our Greyhound. She returned him but kept his teeth and some of his jaw. We gave her our credit card number* and took our mutilated dog home. (*I would have preferred paying with a first born. Cheaper. Eliminates all that college fund nonsense.)

This week The Greyhound had a follow-up visit. The vet said she wanted to make sure he was healing. Right. I think her kid needed braces.

I load The Hound into my tiny Korean Piece of Shit car. All the other people in the retired racing greyhound community have big dog hauling vans and SUVs. We have a tiny car that's about the size of a kennel crate. We're the token rednecks in the animal rights crowd. (You know you're a redneck if your dog runs faster than your car.)

Not concerned about where he's going, the Hound jumps in the back seat.

Tiny problem. I drive like a maniac. I love speed. I love taking corners a bit too fast, centrifugal force tugging at car and driver.

But centrifugal force hurls the Greyhound face first into the door. Hit the brakes too hard and he's wrapped around my neck like a stole. Greyhounds are not graceful. They do one thing gracefully--run. Otherwise they're like an adolescent boy who's hit a growth spurt and lost all control of his long limbs.

We've dropped fifteen hundred bucks on his mouth, so I'm driving slow like somebody's abuelita. Next problem: His Lordship thinks the backseat is hot. So the air conditioning is on high, sucking gas and power (because the little POS can't cool and propel simultaneously), and freezing me. I'm so cold my nipples can cut glass. I can't shorten my time in the Arctic because...I have to drive slow.

"The Greyhound is happy," I say, over and over. "Happy, happy, happy."

Except about halfway there his pea brain puts together what's happening. "I'm going to the vet!" He leans over the seat and pants on me. "I can't go back there. I can't. Drive faster. Point this baby at that telephone pole." He uses his wet nose to scrawl "Help Me" on the car windows.

We arrive and The Hound, a victim of his amenable nature, slinks into the vet's office without much protest. I sign in and sit down. A young couple, who look barely old enough to vote, wait with a tiny puppy. The puppy is obviously a pit bull, but cute nevertheless. It sits quietly at its masters' feet, dreaming of maulings to come. A minute later, a man arrives with an enormous cat in his arms. He sits; the puppy takes a few steps toward him and the cat lets out a dignified hiss. The puppy sits again and the cat stares imperiously at the room, ignoring The Hound.

The Hound is shaking so hard I fear pieces will start to fall off. Pieces I paid money to get healed. Tiny puppy is calm; cat is calm. My large, black dog is approaching heart failure. Something starts whining, everyone looks at me, and I realize it's The Hound.

I try shut him up by saying cute things. "Where's your hedgehog? Where's Mr. Hog? Hoggie-Woggie." The young couple is looking at me the way the cool kids in school look at the geek. I'm way too familiar with that look. Fuck it; I shut up and let him whine.

After all this, the vet spent about two minutes with us. Huh. A lot like human doctors. At least they didn't charge us for the visit; veterinary vampires do have souls.

Flee vet's office. Load dog in the car.

About halfway home, he sticks his head over the seat, gives a toothless grin, and seems to ask, "Where we going? Someplace fun, right? That's why I'm in the car, right? We're not just going to drive around all day, are we?"

Do they make Stupid Helmets for dogs?

[Disclaimer: We love the Hound and have only the profoundest respect for vampires, erm, veterinarians.]

Define Scrub

Cursed scrubbing bubbles, ye lied.

Anyone remember those old commercials for the Scrubbing Bubble cleanser? One spray would unleash a battalion of cheerful bubbles, each coasting on tiny scrub brushes. They'd swarm over a bathroom's soiled surfaces with the aplomb of an Olympic figure skater. In their wake, they'd leave a brilliant shine. The kind of animated shine that flared like a star and made a champagne glass ping.

When I was a child, the idea of super-smart bubbles was fascinating--playmates in a pressurized can. As an adult, my interest is derived from one of the seven sins--sloth. I mean, it's not like I really think that useful intelligence can be found in the collusion of detergent and surface tension. But by definition, "scrubbing" bubbles implies "not-scrubbing" Pat.

Cleaning isn't a priority in my life, but sometimes the pride of homeownership kicks in, especially when the impact of sentient soap scum on resale value is considered:

"The perfect home for a single or the home bound. Enjoy scintillating conversation with the soap scum on those lonely evenings."

I've sent all the usual chemical heroes into that retched hive of villainy and soap scum, The Shower. The only cleaners that make a dent also give off fumes that kill brain cells. So, on a recent shopping trip, when I saw the can of Scrubbing Bubbles, festooned with a smiling bubble, I chucked it in the cart.

At home, I apply the merry maids in a bottle to the shower.

The spray tip is partially clogged. The cleaner spurts from the can with the sound of wet fart. The clog dam bursts and a foamy mist covers the shower surface. The bubbles hit the soap scum and hiss ferociously, but otherwise, not much happens.

The can says to allow the cleaner to penetrate dirt and soap scum. Huh. Perhaps the bubbles are shy. I wander off.

I return several minutes later, sponge in hand. The instructions say to wipe clean. I wipe. The soap scum is soft...like gum. The sponge sinks into the softened filth. I am now smearing scum into artful designs. I work at it a little longer, putting muscle into the effort and some of the dirt departs the shower.

Before I realize it, I'm scrubbing. Scrubbing. I pick up the can and curse. Sure they loosened the scum and the bathroom doesn't smell like a Super Fund site, but "Thar be no scrub in them thar bubbles." I am pirate-y peeved.

In the absence of happy bubbles, there should be hard-working, scrubbing bubbles. Surly bubbles? No problem, so long as they scrub. But I shouldn't be swabbing the deck.

At this point, I decide to play the feminist card. Scrubbing Bubbles are just a right-wing ploy to keep me on my knees, cleaning, too stupified to do any thinking. Striking a blow against The Man, I walk away, leaving the half-clean shower.

(*Unfortunately, The Man in this case is my poor husband, the great guy who cooks dinner every night. He studies the artistically smeared soap scum and discarded sponge and wonders what the hell distracted his nutty wife this time. )