Category Archives: Splashes

Doggy Diet

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Our dogs have always been relatively healthy, Zorro’s ideopathic epilepsy aside, but when her senior dog checkup showed that Miss Cleo had some fatty cysts, and needed to lose five pounds (which is a LOT for a dog her size) I went into doggy diet-guru mode.

I didn’t buy her lipovox or anything, though from what I read about the stuff, I might try it myself. I did, however, buy her some all natural crunchy dog food, with no wheat or corn. Instead it’s made from potatoes and meat – the flavor we tried first was sweet potato and duck, and yes, I know duck is fatty, but this is actually less so than the rolled food from the same company (the Dick Van Patten stuff) they’ve been eating ever since Zorro began to refuse the raw meat diet.

Surprisingly, Zorro, who is rapidly running low on teeth, likes the crunchy stuff too – it’s a small bites blend – which pleases us, because feeding them separate stuff is really difficult.

Restful

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I woke from a nap on Friday evening with a killer earache and elevated temp both of which came and left all weekend, which meant I spend the time mainly lounging in bed. Actually, that’s not accurate. Lounging for me implies being awake.

I was almost never awake during daylight on Saturday, or Sunday. In fact, if there was addiction treatment for people who sleep too much, I’d have qualified.

I also slept most of today, due to taking allergy meds last night, because my ears were itching as well as aching. I hoped the ache would go away upon completion of the taxes, which waited til today. (This is unusual for me, usually they are done by February 2nd.)

Sadly, it’s more persistent than ever.

But at least I’m well rested.

Infected

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I had to ask one of the BBtL people who Scott Sigler was, and then, I forgot to bookmark any of the sites mentioned where I could read about the recent (by which I mean over the last couple years) of authors using podcasting to share their work, as a means of attracting an agent.

If I had the courage, and the technical skills, I’d do it. As it is, I’m serializing one of the threads of my novel over at Pink Nighties, and using one of the fragments as a jumping off point for a contribution to a friend-of-a-friends’ coffee culture book. A friend of mine who is also a writer adopted the term “prepublished,” and I like that idea a LOT.

Writing has come a long way from people using spiral notebooks and cheap pens, and spending endless hours holed up in garrets or garages a la Josephine March in Little Women. There are scary rumors of the publishing industry going to pot, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Rather, I think it’s evolving to include new media, and that’s a good thing. Anything that allows us to share stories is a plus.

But back to Scott Sigler. He’s an author who’s been podcasting his fiction. He’s amazingly cool, and pretty talented, and if you like horror and sci-fi you should check out his first hardcover work, Infected, which is available at your local bookseller, as well as Amazon.

Not sure you want to risk the money? Check out the book’s promotional trailer, below (linked from YouTube):

Cruising on Alpha Waves

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I’ve barely slept since Tuesday, until last night, but today even though I did get a full night’s rest, I couldn’t shake the sleepies. I went back to bed around 10:30 AM when Fuzzy went to work, and didn’t wake til after two. Slept again from 2:30 – 4. Ate something, had tea, talked to my mother – my throat felt tight, but not really achey.

At 7:45, knowing Fuzzy would be late, and that he’d be stopping at Jamba Juice on his way home, I went to sleep again, and dreamed that I was on a cruise, like one of those royal caribbean type things you always see advertised. I like the ocean a lot, but I’ve never been on an actual cruise. (I do want to take an Alaskan cruise someday though), so I don’t know what induced the dream. Maybe my “under the sea” light theme? Maybe the sea turtle background image?

Or maybe I’ve seen the movie Out to Sea one too many times.

In any case, since then I’ve had a peanut butter MOOD smoothie, a hot bath, and 2.5 bottles of water. I woke from that nap with a raging fever, sore throat, and swollen glands. And yes, Fuzzy, you probably WILL have to take Zorro to the vet without me in the morning.

Pynk

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“Pynk” is what I named my new Alienware laptop on our network, though not what I plan to call the computer itself. Actually, I don’t plan to call it anything except “my new laptop,” because while I do name cars, I don’t feel the need to anthropomorphize everything I own. My cello doesn’t have a name either, and I only refer to the weight machine as Marcy because that’s what’s stamped across the seat-back.

In any case, a shiny new computer meant that when I was writing an article about term life insurance earlier today for work, I wasn’t cursing because I never can remember that there’s no forward delete on the MacBook, or yelling at the poor mouse response from the touchpad on the Vaio.

Speaking of which, this machine has a touchpad that is seamless, and they also provide a cute texturized sticker to put over it, so that you can actually have better traction.

I’ve only had it since 5:00 PM CDT yesterday, but I’m already in love.

Oh, and the pink backlights and system lights? Were very pink, so right now I’m running with a combination of blue and deep green. Feels very oceanic.

If I Feel Like This, It MUST Be Thursday

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If Dick Van Dyke were to show up singing “Put on a Happy Face,” and dancing through my living room, I’d probably have to kill him today. Why? Because my head and back are so sore I feel like I’m dying of mesothelioma or something. (I’m not, of course, I’m just being melodramatic.)

I went to bed early – well, earlier than usual – with a clear schedule and every intention of making up for barely sleeping at all on Tuesday night, only to be rudely awakened around 3:45 by tornado sirens, Miss Cleo barking, and gale force winds and rain pounding at the windows, and Zorro Dog shrieking in distress.

Zorro dove under the bed, which is his version of sticking fingers in your ears and singing La La La to avoid hearing something unpleasant. Cleo, on the other hand, decided that when I went out to change the temperature (it was too cold) on the thermostat, she had to go stand at the back door and beg to go out. “It’s raining and icky,” I told her. “You don’t want to go out there.” But she did. And she DID. For all of thirty-seven seconds, which, by the way, was long enough for her to get completely soaked.

We came back in, but then I had to use the bathroom, and then, in the process of going back to bed, I caught my foot in the laptop cord, and sent it plummeting to the ground, and THEN Zorro came out from hiding and HE wanted to be soothed.

Got back in bed. Got situated, with enough room for both dogs while still having covers and not pushing Fuzzy out of bed. (Anyone who thinks chihuahuas are fragile, btw, has never slept in the same bed with one. An eight-pound chihuahua is perfectly capable of pushing a full-grown human out of bed.) Was almost asleep when the annoying ring of Fuzzy’s phone sounded.

He had a work issue. He went upstairs, I turned out the light (again) and went back to sleep, and just as I was reaching that lovely state where you feel like you’re tumbling into a lovely cotton-filled abyss, he came in the room. “Are you coming back to bed?” I mumbled.

“No. I came to put clothes on. This problem’s gonna take a while and it’s cold.”

“Oh.” I looked blearily at the clock. “Make the alarm later. It’s set to go off in half an hour.”

“Okay.”

Tried sleeping again, but head is pounding, pounding, and dogs are snoring, and pillows suddenly completely wrong shapes and degrees of softness.

And what? Me? In a mood?

Am trying to decide if I should just get up, shower, make oatmeal, and curl up with a book to wait for FedEx, or if I should re-set the alarm for 8:30 and try for a bit more rest.

2:33

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I have to be up in roughly four and a half hours and I can’t sleep. I’m not awake enough to write, but a late afternoon nap made me too tired to go to bed at midnight, which is when Fuzzy came down from his office.

So why not blog.

April has been a good month to me so far. I got into the Algonkian workshop, got a part in this season of the fan-created podcast drama Buffy: Between the Lines, and ordered a new laptop because neither my MacBook nor my Vaio are robust enough for daily use, and, except for printing postage or doing the taxes (currently in process), I pretty much just use the desktop machine to store stuff.

Actually, today (well Tuesday, as it’s no longer “today” really) was a red-letter day. Why? Because I found out my computer had shipped, and is likely to be here on Thursday, my new business cards arrived, I managed to write an article I didn’t want to write before bed so I don’t have to stress about being up to do it tomorrow, I got paid (money is always good), I received shipping confirmation on Wil Wheaton‘s latest book, and I found out a flash-fic I wrote in ten minutes a few weeks ago, and submitted to Everyday Fiction is being published, though I don’t know when.

And to make things perfect, as I write this there is gentle thunder, distant lightning and light rain. It’s the kind of weather that makes me want to stay up all night and write.

But my teacup is almost empty and I’d better go to bed, after all.

A Murderer of Crows

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A group of crows is called a murder, but my dog, Miss Cleo is now a murderer of crows. Or grackles, at any rate. I let her out earlier to do her evening business, and heard her take off after a critter. There was a yowling sound as if she’d chased a cat from the yard, and then a pitiful screeching alternating with her barking, as she chased a grackle across the ground, to the lava rocks under the living room windows.

I called her away, hoping that the bird was merely stunned, and called Fuzzy for help. I yelled at Cleo. I don’t like yelling at dogs, and I’m ashamed that I did it, especially when she’s got a mix of terrier and spaniel in her, and a pretty high prey drive for such a relatively small dog. I realize that she was acting on instinct, but I was still appalled.

Fuzzy went out to see to the bird. It had a mangled leg, and its neck was broken, he said, though it was still moving. As a point of mercy, he had no choice but to finish the job, wrap it in a cocoon of paper tie it into a bag and put the whole thing in the trash can in the garage. He also said he suspects that the cat struck the initial blow, and dropped the bird when Cleo came out.

He grew up on a farm, and was calm about it.

And me?

I told Cleo I didn’t want kisses from her tonight, and then I shed tears for a grackle, a bird most people around here think of as a nuisance, the way people in New York and San Francisco think of pigeons.

I feel like it’s my fault.

Still Not Productive

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But that’s actually okay, because Sundays should be lazy whenever possible. We lounged around this morning, cuddling the dogs and talking, and now Fuzzy’s out getting a hair cut, and when he returns we’ll go get a few groceries, pet food, and maybe hit Jamba and/or Starbucks.

I spent a few hours today surfing San Francisco hotels and Tuscany villa rentals. The former I need for August. (OMG four months!) the latter, was just for fun. Maybe next year we’ll spend a month in Italy. Or I will. Fuzzy’s job doesn’t allow him the luxury of long rambling vacations.

Last night I had fresh strawberries for the first time in years. I’ve been going through a phase where I couldn’t eat them, I thought it was a true allergy, but I think it was a reaction to the summer of 2004, when I practically lived on strawberries, and then one day my body decided it had had enough of them.

They’re such a cheery fruit, and set so erotic as well.

We went out for sushi last night, to Hanasho, to celebrate me getting into the concert. Hanasho does great bento boxes, but Sushi Zone, despite their silly name and slightly disreputable location in the back of a fading strip mall in Arlington, does better sashimi plates.

I should go shower, but I’m enjoying my lazy mood too much to break it.

Oh, well.