Category Archives: doggy diarrhea


In my defense, I had already valiantly marshalled through five whole days of a devastatingly brutal head cold.

I had stoically stood up to my constantly running nose, my unbearably itchy eyes, and my life-changing, 24-hour-a-day, stuffiness and pressure gradient headache. I felt that I had bravely accepted my fate as manfully as I could.

I had toughed it out, enduring the barely endurable, but could endure no more.

Every man has his limits, his breaking point, and by Friday I’d reached the very zenith of my suffering. I had climbed my mountain of misery and stood on the pinnacle of my pain.

I had to do something.

I could stand it no more.

So I waited until Miss Carol went up to bed. And then I waited until I heard her snoring quietly. And then I waited a little bit longer, just to be sure.

And then I crept up the stairs to our bedroom, stripped down and slid sniffling and mucousy into our bed next to her. I laid awake a long time thinking about what I was thinking about doing.

And then I leaned over and gave the gently sleeping Miss Carol a long, slobbery, cold-virus-transferring, soul kiss.


I sure hope there are air-conditioned seats in hell.

Warm. With feeling.

My little brother and I and his little cupcake were driving home after working on The Little House of Horrors and my little brother was telling his little cupcake to check out the various little houses and how homey they looked and I stared out the passenger side window thinking how maybe my little brother’s little cupcake might not want to look at the dispirited, tired little homes.

But then we passed a trailer with a tiny little deck haphazardly attached and I saw this young, overweight, (dare I say, white trashy?) woman sitting (maybe overfilling?) her plastic chair with her little boy standing pressed hard into her shoulder.

He was just standing there and holding his mom, his little arms wrapped around her neck.

And the look on her face was so euphorically amazing I was caught up in the moment. I wanted that happiness. I wanted to feel that burst of simple love.

It was a moment and it made my whole day and then we slid by.

NaNoWriMo-the halftime edition

So yeah.

I’ve made it halfway. If I was running a marathon I’d be sucking down juices and wolfing energy bars and wondering why the hell I’d ever started this in the first place.

Oh wait.

I am and I am, except the juices are coldies and the energy bars are, well, more coldies.

I was going great guns and then on Friday I had a drunken energy bar moment and somehow forgot to save like 1200 words. Then, on Saturday, Miss Carol and me joined some friends on a boat ride to a pig-pickin’ and when I got home I tried to write and it looked like this-

thijeuuo, wnnoeihrfla;, owoowhiiok

So I gave up.

When I awoke on Sunday, I was facing a 4000 word day just to catch up with the ever relentless word count that is NaNoWriMoandMo.

I honestly didn’t think I could do it, I was painting the big L on my forehead when Miss Carol said, buck up little buckeroo. Man up, you can do it, she said, waving her pompoms.

So I sat down.

And I did it.

I wouldn’t wanna do it again, but I DID it, I caught up.

So, yeah, I’m feeling pretty awesome.


I just completed day nine of my NaNoWriMo, which means my word count is somewhere in the 14000 range.

My fingertips are uber-sensitive after typing that many words and the keys on my keyboard are shiny with use and hot to the touch.

And I wonder if it would be too chick-like to say that I’m plumbing depths never plumbed, that I love peeling away these layers of me and applying new lipstick to what remains.

It wouldn’t, would it?

Be too chick-like, I mean.


What a ride. I wouldn’t suggest everyone throw themselves up against this NaNoWriMoShit, but it sure is working it’s magic on me.

NaNoWriMo day uno.

It started today.

My personal marathon of words. Somehow, some kinda way, I’ve got to average 1700 words every day for the next month and write a 50,000 word, 175 page novel.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitching. I’m as excited as a Clyde when some girl finally sticks her hand down his pants.

I just don’t know how I’m gonna pull this one off.


One of these days, I’m gonna sit down and write a long letter- Neil Young

Folks, I’m goin’ on an adventure.

National Novel Writing Month is the birthchild of somebody or a group of somebodies somewhere and it’s something that I’ve thought about tossing myself up against for years. And every year I found lots and loads of reasons not to do it, mostly ’cause not doin’s easy, right?

NaNoWriMo is a marathon writing event. It’s a solo sail around the world, solitary climb of Mt. Everest, grueling triathlon event for those of us who don’t do those things. A sedentary marathon, if such a thing exists. Think running a 10K EVERY DAMN DAY for  a month, with nobody watching or caring. WHO does that?

Julicoolio, stop waving your hands.

The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. For the mathematically challenged, that’s 1666.66666666 words each and every day and it’s something that scares me not just a little bit. (Put in perspective-my crappy posts average 250-500 words and take me 2-3 hours to spew.) And even though there are no winners or losers, only finishers, once entered, I’m gonna have to finish, so, yeah, there are big parts of me wondering why I even want to attempt NaNoWriMo. So.

Big breath.

Truth is, I’m stuck. I’m mired in my me-ness. I write this stuff a couple a three times a week but not much else. Every night, if it’s not too late when I’m done, I’ll open up other stories I’ve been pretending to work on and I’ll stare at them bleary and beery-eyed and blankfaced and promise myself I’ll work on ’em TOMORROW.

And the tomorrows keep rolling relentlessly in ’til the string stretches out and you find yourself thinking, yeah, I need this jolting forcefeed. So that’s why I’m doin’ it- even though it might sound a death knell for my little blog, or, worse, that it’ll pound a stake into my heart of dreams I’ve held dearly dear forever.

As far as my goofy blog goes, I’m gonna try and post as often as I can while I slog through the daily 26 mile run and 110 mile bike ride and the ascent above the clouds, but I just don’t know how much gas I’ll have left.

Stick with me.

See you in December.


I’ve got a problem. Or maybe, probably, more realistically, problems.

Like with this, I mean, these.

And, yeah, these are my problems too.

And, hooboy, I definitely have tons of problems with these, I mean this. (see what I did there?)

But, honestly? my biggest problem is with these.


I love books. I love their feel and their smell. I love their fonts and their paper and their content, and I love how their authors’ open up their hearts and souls and let me revel in ’em and roll around in it.

I love them books so much that every Sunday I live to prowl the New York Times bestseller list and reviews hunting down new books that’ll bring home to me.

Which is normally OK, ’cause I normally kinda keep up with what I buy.

But lately, what with everything swirling around me, not the least of which, did I mention, I’m a trucker now?


Well I am. So, yeah, I’m falling behind.

And I’m watching the slowly cresting wave of soft and hardcover bound pages of words rising up ever higher in my Me Only Room and I’m wondering how and if ever I’ll catch it.

But I know I gotta, ’cause there’s more comin’ where they came from, and I love them.

So, yeah, it’s a problem.