The morning of the day before Bouchercon. The old me would be in full on freak mode, afraid of forgetting something, packing and re-packing as I go over lists again and again with pathetic redundancy.

This morning finds me rather relaxed and bemused. Two cats in heat perpetuating dueling butt songs kept me up. To counter-act this, I've partaken in a rare cup of coffee that I took with my B-complex. May I recommend that others do not follow suit. I have a lovely deep red, burning niacin flush that makes me look as if I've stuck my face on a skillet. I've also had to remove three layers of garish nail polish I applied under a sleeping pill stupor that really brought out the stupid in me.

After a year of chaos, this harvest time event really is a chance for me to see people I adore and to tell them as much. Going on the heels of a day of idiocy just seems right.

So, if you see me, say hi. I'll be the confused one with the long burgandy hair and the soon to wear off (I hope!) inner and outer glow courtesy of B to the max.

Safe journey.

Great Baby Shower Gift

Baby toupees. Including "The Donald" and "Lil Kim."



Rumors of His Sobriety are not Exaggerated.

Keef Richards has announced that due to the crappy quality of today's drugs (and not because drugs can be bad for you, which we know to be true, don't we boys and girls?), he has decided to quit taking them. He shall face every day a sober, richer, better Keef.


I'm not making this shit up!

Read about it here. If it's on the interweb it must be true....

Damn, he's gonna live forever, isn't he?


A Conroe Tour Stop for Savior

Jesus has "dropped" in at the home of Anna Glover for some three years now.

"We’ve been here about three years, three years in November and it was shortly after we moved in and you'd walk by and say, ‘wow what is that*,’ you know," said Glover. "Every time we had people over we'd say you have to see this."

And, if you're interested, the house is for sale.

*Personally, I think it looks a bit like Rob Zombie...

Face Falls Flat

The famous image of the "face" on Mars explained by NASA as bit map errors.

"The speckled appearance of the image is due to missing data, called bit errors, caused by problems in transmission of the photographic data from Mars to Earth. Bit errors comprise part of one of the 'eyes' and 'nostrils' on the eroded rock that resembles a human face near the center of the image. Shadows in the rock formation give the illusion of a nose and mouth. Planetary geologists attribute the origin of the formation to purely natural processes."

The newest images depict a lovely hill formation that resembles... a hill.

Cuteness Freebie


Willie and Bobbie and the Bongs

Lord, I love Willie Nelson. Touring in Louisiana, the tour bus gets pulled over and, " troopers smelled a strong odor of marijuana when the driver opened the bus door." Ya gotta figure, you see a tour bus, ya know Willie's in town, yer gonna find weed.

Troopers found a pound a half of marijuana and 2/10 of a pound of shrooms. Damn! Just about a days worth for the boys!

Says the copy on the story:

"73-year-old Nelson of Spicewood, Texas; 59-year-old Tony Sizemore of Saint Cloud, Fla.; 75-year-old Bobbie Nelson of Briarcliff, Texas; 54-year-old Gates Moore of Austin, Texas; and 50-year-old David Anderson of Dallas, Texas were issued citations for possession of mushrooms and possession of marijuana and released."

Maybe they were just exploring another gasoline alternative????

Me, Today


Taking a Shower

They Like to Watch

The Sorting Cone

A Pile Grows as I Contemplate Life

My parents house has produced a little over two tons of garbage since the process of clearing it out of unneeded "stuff" has begun. After sorting through everything in the basement and garage, and assessing how big a dumpster we'll have to rent, I think that number will more than double before this is all over.

I am amazed by how much two people can accumulate over forty years. I turned to my own things in the last year and begun a clearing process that has me even giving up (gasp!) books, music and shoes. Having worked the Renaissance Faires for a good number of years, the desire to be able to pack up everything I own and leave in a day still exists but it is somewhat thwarted by life "off the road."

After living in a trailer for a few months, actually using a camp fire to stay warm (which meant gathering wood every day from the surrounding forest), using pit toilets or port-o-lets so often that using a flush toilet was a source of great amusement and having a social life that revolved around men that wear tights and women that wear bustles every weekend who spend the week swimming in waterfalls and watching meteor showers whilst stoned, civilization seemed more than a little strange and pointless when I came back to it.

And now I hate to be without my computer. I'm horrified by pit toilets. I haven't worn a corset in years and I shudder to think of sleeping in the back of a car.

What the hell happened?

What happened to the person that ate out of breads bowls and drank out of glazed ceramic goblets almost exclusively? What happened to the chick cwho ould sleep soundly on a foam mattress in a shitty tent in the middle of a field overwhelmed with tree frogs who woke up Monday mornings to the sound of couples all around loudly fornicating? What happened to the girl that read by flashlight and danced under the moon?

She went home and got a job that would give her insurance and that would allow her to buy stuff.

I suspect my parents got an early start. And with four rowdy kids, they didn't have much chance to question it. But I seriously wonder whether the trade off was worth it.


Jen Fights the Evil Dr. Dirt!

It began as a simple need to clean. To tidy up. To put things right.

It quickly became a cleaning rampage.

No room in the house was held sacrosanct as sweeping, the ever popular picking things up from one room in order to set them pack in the room from hence they came, washing dishes, etc. Then I entered my room.

I intended to change the air dispersal vent to a new, clean white one from the old, rusted, mid-century monstrosity that I've stared at with hatred for so long. But this, my friends, began a new journey; a journey that wouldn't end until I was bruised and abraded and the room naked except for a layer of decade old dust.

Once I unscrewed, prodded, cro-barred and ripped the old vents from the wall, the true horror of what lay beneath became apparent. Dust and oddities from the time of black and white television and the realization that because the old vent was huge and the new vent(s) were cute and small, I would have to change the flooring.

A daunting task on many levels. But one my OCD and vitamin B fueled self was up to as, before a conscious decision was made, I found myself ripping at the light brown, rather ka-ka colored carpeting with my bare hands. And encountering a hellish tack strip with my knuckles.

Knowing now what lay ahead of me, I equipped myself with some of my favorite tools:

1.) A hammer. Oh, the joy of release this simple tool can bring a girl!
2.) A mini-cro bar. Cutest damn tool you'll ever see and damn handy in tight spots where prying needs to take place. When I lost this in the midst of the project I was nearly in tears I was so distraught.
3.) Various screwdrivers. Never be without them.
4.) An extra sharp boning knife. Fuck utility knives. Boning knives are easier to use, more manoeuvrable and freakishly sharp. My Dad had quite a large collection that he would keep sharp enough to split atoms.
5.) Sharpening stone. Even the best boning knife needs a good honing every other square foot of twenty year old carpet.

I set to work. A fit of fore-thought over took me (rare, but handy when it happens) and I decided to cut the carpeting and padding (which I found out was at least forty years old - ew) into bite size chews that I could haul down to the curb this Wednesday.

Eight hours later and my room was down to sub-floor and I saw things in minutiae that no sane human would want to see. Or smell. Especially smell. Nails and staples were removed, the original color of the walls (an insipid rose/salmon amalgamation) was demonstrated by a splat and I'd removed seven bags of garbage. Um... I also hit myself in the knee with the hammer, taken the skin off a few knuckles and unintentionally done about a thousand squats and lunges. My legs are a wee bit sore today.

This weekend I will "clean" the kitchen. God knows what will happen in there (though the floor is pretty damn old and ugly...).


By the Hand of High School Students...

...the Worst Analogies Ever!

They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7 p.m. instead of 7:30.

Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.

Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like "Second Tall Man."

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.